call Creoles. Is it a small world or what?"
I shook my head yes. It was a very small world.
"You live alone?" he asked.
My mother's constant suspicion prodded me and I quickly said, "No." Just in case he was thinking of coming over tonight to kill me. This was New York, after all. You could not trust anybody.
"I live with my mother."
"I have seen her," he said.
"She works."
"Nights?"
"Sometimes."
"Did you two just move here?"
"Yes, we did."
"I thought so," he said. "Whenever I'm in New York, I sublet in the neighborhood and I have never seen you walking around before."
"We moved about a year ago."
"That's about the last time I was in Brooklyn."
"Where are you the rest of the year?"
"In Providence."
I was immediately fascinated by the name. Providence. Fate! A town named for the Creator, the Almighty. Who would not want to live there?
"I am away from my house about six months out of the year," he said. "I travel to different places with my band and then after a while I go back for some peace and quiet."
"What is it like in Providence?" I asked.
"It is calm. I can drive to the river and watch the sun set. I think you would like it there. You seem like a deep, thoughtful kind of person."
I am.
"I like that in people. I like that very much."
He glanced down at his feet as though he couldn't think of anything else to say.
I wanted to ask him to stay, but my mother would be home soon.
"I work at home," he finally said, "in case you ever want to drop by."
I spent the whole week with my ear pressed against the wall, listening to him rehearse. He rehearsed day and night, sometimes twelve to ten hours without stopping. Sometimes at night, the saxophone was like a soothing lullaby.
One afternoon, he came by with a ham-and-cheese sandwich to thank me for letting him use the phone. He sat across from me in the living room while I ate very slowly.
"What are you going to study in college?" he asked.
"I think I am going to be a doctor."
"You think? Is this something you like?"
"I suppose so," I said.
"You have to have a passion for what you do."
"My mother says it's important for us to have a doctor in the family."
"What if you don't want to be a doctor?"
"There's a difference between what a person wants and what's good for them."
"You sound like you are quoting someone," he said.
"My mother."
"What would Sophie like to do?" he asked.
That was the problem. Sophie really wasn't sure. I had never really dared to dream on my own.
"You're not sure, are you?"
He even understood my silences.
"It is okay not to have your future on a map," he said. "That way you can flow wherever life takes you."
"That is not Haitian," I said. "That's very American."
"What is?"
"Being a wanderer. The very idea."
"I am not American," he said. "I am African-American."
"What is the difference?"
"The African. It means that you and I, we are already part of each other."
I think I blushed. At least I nearly choked on my sandwich. He walked over and tapped my back.
"Are you all right?"
"I am fine," I said, still short of breath.
"I think you are a fine woman," he said.
I started choking again.
I knew what my mother would think of my going over there during the day. A good girl would never be alone with a man, an older one at that. I wasn't thinking straight. It was nice waking up in the morning knowing I had someone to talk to.
I started going next door every day. The living room was bare except for a couch and a few boxes packed in a corner near his synthesizer and loud speakers.
At first I would sit on the linoleum and listen to him play. Then slowly, I moved closer until sometimes he would let me touch the keyboard, guiding my fingers with his hand on top of mine.
Between strokes, I learned the story of his life. He was from a middle-class New Orleans family. His parents died when he was young. He was on his own by the time he was fifteen. He went to college in Providence but by his sophomore year left school and
I shook my head yes. It was a very small world.
"You live alone?" he asked.
My mother's constant suspicion prodded me and I quickly said, "No." Just in case he was thinking of coming over tonight to kill me. This was New York, after all. You could not trust anybody.
"I live with my mother."
"I have seen her," he said.
"She works."
"Nights?"
"Sometimes."
"Did you two just move here?"
"Yes, we did."
"I thought so," he said. "Whenever I'm in New York, I sublet in the neighborhood and I have never seen you walking around before."
"We moved about a year ago."
"That's about the last time I was in Brooklyn."
"Where are you the rest of the year?"
"In Providence."
I was immediately fascinated by the name. Providence. Fate! A town named for the Creator, the Almighty. Who would not want to live there?
"I am away from my house about six months out of the year," he said. "I travel to different places with my band and then after a while I go back for some peace and quiet."
"What is it like in Providence?" I asked.
"It is calm. I can drive to the river and watch the sun set. I think you would like it there. You seem like a deep, thoughtful kind of person."
I am.
"I like that in people. I like that very much."
He glanced down at his feet as though he couldn't think of anything else to say.
I wanted to ask him to stay, but my mother would be home soon.
"I work at home," he finally said, "in case you ever want to drop by."
I spent the whole week with my ear pressed against the wall, listening to him rehearse. He rehearsed day and night, sometimes twelve to ten hours without stopping. Sometimes at night, the saxophone was like a soothing lullaby.
One afternoon, he came by with a ham-and-cheese sandwich to thank me for letting him use the phone. He sat across from me in the living room while I ate very slowly.
"What are you going to study in college?" he asked.
"I think I am going to be a doctor."
"You think? Is this something you like?"
"I suppose so," I said.
"You have to have a passion for what you do."
"My mother says it's important for us to have a doctor in the family."
"What if you don't want to be a doctor?"
"There's a difference between what a person wants and what's good for them."
"You sound like you are quoting someone," he said.
"My mother."
"What would Sophie like to do?" he asked.
That was the problem. Sophie really wasn't sure. I had never really dared to dream on my own.
"You're not sure, are you?"
He even understood my silences.
"It is okay not to have your future on a map," he said. "That way you can flow wherever life takes you."
"That is not Haitian," I said. "That's very American."
"What is?"
"Being a wanderer. The very idea."
"I am not American," he said. "I am African-American."
"What is the difference?"
"The African. It means that you and I, we are already part of each other."
I think I blushed. At least I nearly choked on my sandwich. He walked over and tapped my back.
"Are you all right?"
"I am fine," I said, still short of breath.
"I think you are a fine woman," he said.
I started choking again.
I knew what my mother would think of my going over there during the day. A good girl would never be alone with a man, an older one at that. I wasn't thinking straight. It was nice waking up in the morning knowing I had someone to talk to.
I started going next door every day. The living room was bare except for a couch and a few boxes packed in a corner near his synthesizer and loud speakers.
At first I would sit on the linoleum and listen to him play. Then slowly, I moved closer until sometimes he would let me touch the keyboard, guiding my fingers with his hand on top of mine.
Between strokes, I learned the story of his life. He was from a middle-class New Orleans family. His parents died when he was young. He was on his own by the time he was fifteen. He went to college in Providence but by his sophomore year left school and
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