Plenty Good Room

by Cheri Paris Edwards

  “This chicken Kiev is dry,” remarked Lynn with her lips turned up. “These events never serve good food, do they? The best thing is always the bread and the sweets, which nobody needs to eat much of, right, girl?” She took a swallow of iced water from the crystal goblet in front of her, “I tell you what, though, girl, that Sienna got a voice on her! Uh! Uh! Uh! That child can saaang!”

  “She’s right,” said Jayson. “Your little Miss Sienna can blow! What’s that girl gonna do with all that talent, Tamara?”

  “I don’t know,” said Tamara. She took a drink of her own water. “I suppose I’ve never even thought about it like that, and she’s never really talked to me about any future in singing, either. Right now she just really seems to enjoy singing in church.”

  Lynn turned her wide-eyed gaze on Tamara. “Seriously, Tamara, the girl gots mad talent. You might as well get ready for some pressure from folks about her singing future. And y’all need to start talking about it, so that you got a plan.”

  “Pass the salt and pepper, Lynn,” said Jayson. “She’s telling you right, Tam. When word gets out about that little girl’s powerful voice, she’s gonna explode!”

  Joan Erickson stopped talking. Evidently, part of their conversation had captured her attention, and she asked, “What’s this about talent and exploding?”

  The three of them exchanged glances.

  “Sienna’s got some singing talent,” explained Jayson. “Right now she’s singing in church.”

  The woman smiled and commented dryly, “Well, that’s probably the only place she can sing right now. She is a ward of the state, after all, and she can’t do anything without the state’s approval.”

  Flatly Lynnette responded, “We all know that, Joan.”

  Jayson cleared his throat loudly and wiped his mouth with the napkin.

  “Excuse me for a minute,” said Lynnette, rolling her eyes meaningfully toward Joan while her lips curved upward derisively. “Don’t you need to go to the ladies’ room, too?” she asked Tamara pointedly.

  Her hint for Tamara to accompany her so that they could vent further on Joan’s intrusive remarks missed the mark, though, and the uncomprehending Tamara shook her head no.

  As soon as Lynnette exited for the bathroom, Jayson smoothly slid over into her seat by Tamara and, with the napkin in front of his mouth, whispered to her, “She always got to tell us something she think we don’t know. We all know little Miss Thang—excuse me—Sienna is a ward of the state.”

  Tamara’s own voice was low as she replied, “I know. It does get frustrating, Jay, because it’s as if she believes we would do something illegal or against the rules to try and promote Sienna into a singing career or something. I don’t really understand why she would think that.”

  “I do,” said Jayson. With his eyes locked on Tamara’s, he purposefully rubbed the back of his deep-brown hand, demonstrating to her his thought that Joan was again being racist.

  “Oh, Jayson, I certainly hope not. Just cause we’re black doesn’t mean we’re stupid.”

  Quietly, he added then, “I have been stupid, though, Tamara.”

  She turned to him with a quizzical look on her face. “What do you mean, you’ve been stupid?”

  His stare deepened, and he stroked his goatee while watching her intently. “Stupid to not have told you long before now how I feel about you.”

  Thankfully, before Tamara could respond, Lynnette returned, tapped him playfully on the shoulder with her purse, and said, “Jay, get out of my seat!” After sliding into her now vacant chair, she added with her usual sauciness, “Now, c’mon, y’all, let’s get this party started!” Then, stacking Tamara’s plate on her own, she handed both to the young waiter and asked loudly, “It’s about time for the show to get on the road, isn’t it?”

  It was as if those in charge of the event had heard the girl’s remarks; no sooner had she finished her comment than the emcee tapped the microphone, saying, “Welcome, all, to the annual Foster Parent Dinner and Award Ceremony.”

  Tamara was grateful for the reprieve from Jayson’s unexpected advances moments before. Clearly Jayson seemed intent on keeping up his uncomfortable pursuit of her, but at least for now she did not have to think about it. Throughout the ceremony her thoughts were unfocused, though, floating and whirling about as she thought about all the changes happening every day in her life. Her newly changing relationship with Jayson was just one more thing to add to the list.

  Earlier Lynn had advised her that she might be basking in the afterglow of the highly emotional experience she’d had the other Sunday at church. Quite possibly that was true, since inwardly she felt incredibly light and free, and yet at the same time she felt connected, grounded—as if she were part of something bigger and more important than herself.

  “Look at Ms. Joan up there,” said Lynn in her ear. “Girrl, Joan might get on my nerves, but she know she can dress, though.”

  Tamara pulled herself from her musings to look up approvingly at Joan Erickson’s deep-emerald, softly tailored one-

  button pantsuit. The woman wore dyed-to-match strappy high-heeled sandals and had a buttery-yellow raw silk print scarf thrown casually across one shoulder. Her huge diamond sparkled in the spotlight on the stage.

  “Why’s she up there, anyway?” asked Tamara, fully attentive now. “I didn’t realize Joan was presenting anything tonight.”

  Joan Erickson’s voice interrupted her, and as the woman spoke through the microphone, she answered Tamara’s question. “I’m up here to introduce someone very, very special tonight. This woman and her husband have probably housed more kids in their home as foster and adoptive parents than anyone in the state of Illinois. Most of us don’t want to open our homes to our own relatives, but these wonderful, caring people have fostered over two hundred kids and adopted thirty-five.”

  She paused several moments for the enthusiastic applause from the audience to subside.

  Dramatically the spotlight illuminated the side of the stage, and Denise Jackson appeared in the light. Joan smiled and said, “Mrs. Jackson, please join me, if you will.”

  Tamara clapped hard, thrilled to see her friend standing there in the spotlight. She thought how typical it was of the woman’s humble nature not even to have told her that she was going to receive an award tonight, and yet she was glad to be here to see her accept the honor.

  The large woman was regally resplendent tonight in a deep-purple skirt suit with high taupe pumps. A matching large hat sat jauntily on the side of her head as well.

  Accepting the microphone from Joan, Mrs. Jackson said, “Thank you, Ms. Erickson. I am honored to be here tonight.” She chuckled deep in her throat and said, “Y’all can see I’m glad to be here—I’m dressed in my Sunday best!”

  “Wonder where Mr. Jackson is . . . funny he’s not up there with her, isn’t it?” asked Tamara. Lynnette seemed not to have heard her, since she did not reply, so Tamara turned her attention back to the stage.

  The woman continued in her throaty voice, “Only a few weeks ago, Mrs. Erickson came to me and told me that she wanted me to present this special award tonight, and I was so very honored that she asked me to do it. You see, y’all, in this world we live in today, it is rare that we meet a genuinely good person, and the recipient of this award is just that. She’s good, sweet, kind, and gentle in spirit. These are traits that aren’t often appreciated in this world we live in today, where most folks are out for themselves.”

  Many in the audience nodded their approval of her statement.

  “Anyway, I know that we are all tired, and this is the last presentation of the night, and I’ll make it short. As a foster parent I can attest to the difficulty of the task. It is hard taking in any child and especially difficult to take in a teenager. Shoot, y’all know these teenagers are already hormonal, and then with the hardships life has often handed many of these young folks in the system . . . they got other issues as well, believe me!

  “The sad truth
is that there are never enough foster homes to take in all the young people who need a place to live. And there are some young people that are so hard to place, there is literally no one who will take them in—and even though they may be hard to manage, they are still children who need a home of their own. Care Agency had a young lady like that earlier this year, and when push came to shove, the only person who would accept her into her home was one of their own employees.

  “Now, mind you, this young woman is an excellent employee, rarely misses a day, and rates high among foster parents and birth parents for her empathic nature and professional way of delivering services to them. But she accepted this girl into her home . . . and this child is a handful, too, feisty and smart-mouthed, but this young, single working woman has hung in there with her.

  “Yes, the two of them still struggle, and I know it is difficult for her sometimes, but the point is, she cared enough to give the girl a chance. The fact is, we don’t know where this teen would’ve gone had Tamara Britton not opened up her home to her.”

  Tamara’s jaw dropped then. She’d began to notice that the story sounded quite similar to her and Sienna’s as Denise Jackson delved deeper into her narrative, but she was absolutely shocked to find it was Tamara herself that the woman was speaking of so highly. Questioningly she glanced at Lynn and Jayson, and with one look at the wide smiles they wore, she immediately realized everyone had known about this but her.

  “Tamara? Tamara, baby girl, where are you?” asked Denise Jackson while squinting into the packed ballroom.

  As if in slow motion, the spotlight turned its brilliant light to where Tamara sat with her friends and coworkers.

  Denise Jackson’s smile was dazzling then, and she said ebulliently, “Come on up here, Tamara. C’mon, now, baby girl!”

  In a daze Tamara rose from her seat and made the long procession to the stage as she prepared to face a crowd again for the second time in just a few weeks.

  After hugging her hard, Mrs. Jackson kept her arm around her tightly as she said loudly into the microphone, “For being a consummate professional every day that you perform your job, and for not only opening your home to a difficult young woman, but for being brave enough to open your heart as well, we salute you Tamara Britton, with this special Child Welfare Employee of the Year Award.”

  Denise Jackson had tears brimming in her eyes as she handed her the award. “Here, baby . . . I love you.”

  “I love you, too, Mrs. Jackson,” the young woman said as her own eyes grew watery and she faced the crowd, saying simply, “Thank you.” Later, when she replayed the evening’s events in her mind, it wasn’t the applauding crowd or even the award itself that stood out most. Instead, it was the three words from Mrs. Jackson that made the night so special. “I love you,” she’d said to her.

  I love you!

  42.

  Reminiscing

  Where is the house? Tamara asked herself, slowing down her Toyota to a lower speed while straining to see the addresses on the houses as she drove by.

  “There’s 1128, 1130, 1142—here it is . . . 1148 North Dexter Drive,” she read aloud.

  Critically she glanced at her reflection in the rearview mirror, ran her fingers through her hair, and then grabbed her briefcase from the passenger seat before closing the car door behind her.

  Her confident stride disguised the anxiety she was feeling at that moment. This stop might really be the end of the road. Tamara sighed, and her heart was heavy at the possibility of this being a dead end. If there was no luck here, this would mean no more stones to turn over and nothing left to uncover. She’d been searching so long, it was difficult for her to fathom that one way or another, the search was about to end . . . but if Lillian Lewis could offer her no information about her brother’s whereabouts, it really would be over. She would just give up in that case.

  Only a few weeks had passed since she’d visited Sissie Bailey for the second time, and Tamara felt an odd déjà vu as she again knocked at the door of a stranger. Looking around, she noted that the older home’s exterior was well kept. Even the painted wooden floor of the porch was immaculate, and there was a lovely old-fashioned swing hanging in front of the shiny plate-glass window there.

  When she opened the screen to knock again, this time she saw a small doorbell blending inconspicuously into the doorjamb. Pressing it lightly, Tamara immediately heard the corresponding melodic chime of bells inside the home.

  The door was opened by a deep-brown-complexioned, tall and regal gray-haired woman wearing a blue cotton flowered shirtdress topped by a matching cardigan sweater. Around her neck was gold cross on a chain, and in her hand she held a pair of steel-blue wire-framed reading glasses.

  “Hi,” said Tamara as she extended her hand to the woman. “I’m Tamara Bailey; I spoke with you yesterday by telephone about Maurice Lewis the Third—or do you call him Three?”

  The woman placed her glasses on her nose and took Tamara’s small hand into her own long thin one for a quick moment. Her dark eyes were magnified by the glasses and appeared distorted as she stared at her closely for a moment before she responded in a dry voice, “Hmph, I do not . . . call him that— ‘Three,’ that is; that’s some of that street talk, and Maurice was not raised in the streets. He just chose to wallow out there for some reason that I cannot fathom.”

  If there was one thing that Tamara knew right away, it was that Lillian Lewis was no woman of the streets. The woman’s diction was perfect, each word spoken crisply and enunciated precisely in a low, throaty tone.

  “Come on in, Ms. Britton.”

  “Oh, you can call me Tamara,” she responded as she followed the woman inside.

  “Okay, then, Tamara, and you can call me Miss Lillian,” she added, giving the young woman a wry smile of her own.

  “Your house is beautiful, Miss Lillian,” commented the younger woman as she looked around the room filled with dark antique mahogany furniture. The smell of lavender permeated the air, and she noted that against the far wall sat a butterfly-armed sofa; its pale cream color matched the shades of the brass-base antique lights that sat on the end tables. A huge ornately framed mirror hung above the couch, and other artworks hung on the walls around the room.

  Especially eye-catching was the arrangement in the corner of the hallway. There, under a massive painting of a scenic view of Paris, sat an antique table balanced precariously on ornately cut curved wooden legs; and on its shiny top, decoratively placed, were several photos encased in various types of frames.

  “May I?” she said, turning to look at the woman as she gestured toward the table.

  “Yes, of course,” the woman replied as she led her over to the photos.

  Tamara gingerly picked up one of the black-and-white photos from the table and gazed at it inquisitively. Pictured was a young couple who looked shyly into the camera from where they sat side-by-side on the step of a house.

  “That is our mother and father,” said Lillian Lewis proudly. “You know, back then in the 1950s, photos were in black-and-white.”

  Tamara gently stroked the ornate metal frame with her thumb while staring raptly at the smiling pair. “It’s beautiful. The two of them look like they were very happy.”

  “They were in love, and they were sitting in front of their very first house. Back then black people—Negroes is what we were called then—did not often get a chance to own a home. They were proud to have been one of the first Negro families to have purchased one in our town.”

  “What town is that?”

  “Glasgow, Kentucky, that’s where they both came from . . . old coal-mining town. My granddaddy Maurice Lewis is from there, and then of course Daddy, Maurice Lewis Jr., was born there, too. He met Mother, Maylene Stuart, all the way back when they were in grade school, and then the two of them went to high school together. After they graduated, my daddy went away to the Air Force, and then he came home and got married to Mother.”

  The woman’s eyes began to glaze over
as she stared straight ahead, recounting the events of her parents’ past. “Daddy tried to work in a factory for a while, but it just didn’t suit his personality, and so he decided to go finish his education. Mother worked while Daddy went to college.”

  “College?” She was shocked to know that Maurice Lewis III’s father had gone to college, especially way back then, when that sort of education was almost unheard of for African-Americans.

  “Oh, yes. My daddy graduated from college,” the woman said proudly. “He even had his master’s degree.”

  “What did he do?”

  “First he was a school teacher for fifteen years, and then he was a principal of an elementary school downtown, until he passed. Mother went to school after he got finished, and she became a nurse. Nursed folks at a hospital and then in their homes, till she passed on.”

  “I can tell you are quite proud of them.”

  “I was—rather, I am. I am proud of both of them. Mother and Daddy had honorable jobs . . . Being a nurse is honorable . . . helping people when they are sick and cannot help themselves. Every person does not have the capability to do that. It takes a special gift.”

  “I agree.”

  The woman held her glasses in her hand as she stared into the younger woman’s eyes. “But to me, being a teacher is the most important job in the world. I was so proud of my father, in fact, that I went to college and became a teacher myself, and I’ve been teaching for over twenty-five years now.”

  Tamara said admiringly, “That’s quite an accomplishment. Nowadays kids can be a real handful at times.” She thought of her problems with Sienna and added, “In fact, I know now just how difficult they can be from my own personal experience, but I am finding that the rewards many times outweigh the difficulties that are involved.”

  Lillian Lewis replaced her glasses on her nose and said fervently, “You are exactly right, young lady. The work is often hard, but the rewards are immense. I’ve found that it is this way with much of life, though. Whenever the work is difficult, the bounty is large when the job is done. So, do you have children?”