by Smith, Julie
If Russell were doing the damage, it might make some sort of twisted sense, but so far, no one had indicated any instability, or even oddity on his part. Perhaps, she thought, she’d try again to talk to Edward Favret.
***
She caught him about to go to lunch, but this time she wasn’t about to leave the office till he’d talked. She sat herself down and ignored his frequent glances at his watch, his anxious looks at the door. She didn’t like Favret, and this gave her a certain perverse pleasure—a sort of validation of her prejudice against white male privilege.
No, that wasn’t it.
Somebody had to be white, male, and privileged. Some men carried it off just fine. It was smug, self-satisfied white male privilege that rubbed her the wrong way.
She said, taking her time, “I understand you’re Mrs. Fortier’s cousin.”
He smiled, trying to look pleasant. “That I am.”
“Have you heard from Russell, by any chance?”
“Why, no.” He seemed taken aback. “Why do you ask?”
“You must have known him at least as long as he’s been married.”
“Oh, much longer than that. We went to Holy Name together, and then Jesuit. But then he went off to Harvard and I went to Tulane.”
“Not Loyola?” That was often the university of choice after Jesuit.
“We were rebels.” He shook his head, smiling in a way that she couldn’t quite identify. Perhaps it was the smile of an older and wiser man, at his own youthful indiscretions. “I introduced him and Bebe—in fact, I was their best man.”
“And you’ve remained good friends?”
He looked slightly uncomfortable. “Yes.”
“You sound as if you’re not sure.”
He shrugged. “People grow apart.”
“Bebe says the two of you go hunting and sailing together. And play golf.”
“Yes. Or the four of us do—Russell and I go with Douglas and Beau. Maybe we’ve known each other so long we just don’t have much to say anymore.”
She sensed something that might be hostility, or might be hurt feelings. She said, “There’s been a change in your relationship.”
“We used to be…pals.” He spoke the last word contemptuously. “Still own a boat together, matter of fact.” He paused, bringing himself back to the present. “There’s been a change in Russell. Ever since that sailing accident.”
“I think Bebe mentioned it. As I recall, it was a few days before he was rescued.”
“He spent five days alone in a capsized boat. The guy’s a hero.”
“How did it change him?”
He opened his hands in the wit’s-end gesture. “I don’t know; it just did.”
She was silent, hoping he’d blather on to fill the void.
“He just got kind of … serious.”
“Withdrawn?” Skip asked, and was instantly sorry—she was probably feeding him false information.
“I guess so. I don’t know, maybe it broke his spirit. He just hasn’t been the old Russell lately.”
“What do you think has happened to him?”
“How would I know?” He sounded openly hostile.
“He must leave a big hole in the company.”
Favret nodded, evidently trying to close the subject.
“You know, you just don’t seem worried about him.”
What had been smoldering hostility flashed into anger. “What do you know about whether I’m worried about him? You don’t see me pacing at night, grabbing Tylenol PMs with one hand and Rolaids with the other—nobody sees that but my wife. You want to talk to her? Sure, I’m worried about him. We’re all worried about him.”
Skip smiled. “Tell me something—that boat in its slip?”
“Is that a serious question?”
“You bet it is.”
“Of course it’s there—my wife and I went sailing over the weekend.”
“You made Russell sound kind of depressed. I wonder if he might have committed suicide.”
“Suicide?” His eyebrows went up. He repeated the question. “Suicide?” He shook his head. “I kind of don’t think so.”
“But you did consider it. Do you know of anything that’s been bothering him?”
“No. Nothing.” His chin jerked slightly, and Skip wondered if this was a nervous tic, something he did when he lied.
Eleven
TALBA THOUGHT, I need to write a poem about this. Whole books have been written about being Jewish and getting a doctor in the family. People like us work for people like them. Does anybody realize exactly how large a pain in the ass it is for one sibling in an African-American family if another goes to medical school?
She was setting the table with a white tablecloth and her mother’s Chantilly pattern silver that someone she worked for had been about to discard and had given to her instead—a woman from Texas, who had also given Miz Clara a worn-out fur coat.
Special ceremony and ritual were required because Talba’s brother and his wife were coming to dinner. Never mind that the wife, Michelle, was like one of those Uptown parakeets—such a pretty little tiny thing no one would dream of asking her to work for a living. A kind of woman Miz Clara had absolutely zip use for in either its white or its black form, though, truth to tell, you didn’t see it in black form that much, which should have made Miz Clara just that much more contemptuous of her.
But Dr. Corey Wallis, Talba’s big brother, could commit infanticide in front of City Hall and his mama wouldn’t notice he’d fucked up. Because Corey could not do a damn thing wrong in Miz Clara’s eyes, no matter how hard he tried.
Becoming a doctor was what Miz Clara did send her children to college for, or at least that was one of the top three options. The others were becoming president or Speaker of the House.
Talba could have killed him for doing it, but she was so damn proud of Corey she couldn’t really hold it against him. On the other hand, he did have an attitude, for which his butt needed beating, but Talba satisfied that urge by mouthing off at him.
Lamar had said Noooo-thank-you to this little family party, so it was just going to be the four of them eating Miz Clara’s fried chicken, which she insisted on making despite the fact that she now had a doctor in the family and knew better.
Michelle came in, smelling entirely too much like slightly crushed petals—probably some hip new perfume. If you shopped a lot, you were up on these things.
Corey was right behind her, light glinting off his shaved head and his glasses.
Miz Clara gave Michelle a kiss.
“Baby, you pregnant yet?” She did think if you were going to freeload, you ought to at least drop babies.
Michelle showed pearly teeth in a face several shades lighter than a paper bag (damn Corey for that one!). “Now, Miz Clara.”
That was the extent of her wit. Talba didn’t exactly loathe her, but she didn’t consider her a member of the family. She rolled her eyes at Corey. “Hey, big brother. How do you stand this crap?”
“Now, you shut up, Ms. Sandra Baroness de Pontalba Wallis,” said Miz Clara, and Corey kissed her, which left Michelle and Talba to say something to each other.
Michelle smiled. “Sorry we missed the reading. How’d it go?”
“To tell you the truth, it was incredible.”
“Really?”
“You sound surprised.”
“I guess I didn’t think that many people were into poetry. What kind of people were there?”
To Talba’s surprise, Miz Clara stepped in. “You wouldn’t believe who was there. Black folks, white folks, old, young—everybody there to see my baby.”
Talba felt a warm, sticky glow. However mean she was when no one was around, her mother stood up for her in front of outsiders, even those who were family.
“There was even a newspaper reporter,” she finished.
Corey said, “You gonna be famous, Sandra?”
“I am The Baroness de Pontalba.” She said it with such exagger
ated pomposity that even Michelle laughed, and she was renowned for humor impairment.
Miz Clara said, “Y’all come sit down now.”
And things went well for a while. They had some beer and then some wine, and they ate the chicken along with some fresh vegetables Miz Clara had fixed, and then Miz Clara went to get the pie she’d sort of made—though the crust had come from Schwegmann’s—and Corey said, “How’s that Rastafarian boyfriend of yours?”
“You like his hair, huh?”
“I just hate to see you throwing yourself away on somebody like that.”
“Somebody like what? Somebody with dreads? Lamar’s a grad student at Xavier.”
“You know what I mean.”
Their mother came in with the pie. Michelle took care to look at her lap.
“Mama, is this why we’re having this party?” Talba asked.
“When I tol’ you you could stay here, I didn’t mean with that deadbeat.”
“Well, why didn’t you just ask me to move?”
“I promise you, that’s why. I promise you a little time befo’ you have to go to work again. But when I see that poetry meetin’—”
“Reading.”
“When I see that poetry meetin’, I figure it be time to talk to ya brother.”
Talba felt as if the top of her head were going to come off. She turned toward Corey and watched him almost visibly withdraw from her—when she got a smokestack of anger up, you could feel it across a room.
“Sandra, we’re worried about you. Don’t you understand that?”
“I don’t get this. I have a nice professional boyfriend. I just had a successful professional performance, and some very nice recognition. I even have an outside chance of getting a story in the paper. I’m doing great. How many poets do you know who’re doing so great?”
“I have a good friend who’s just done his residency in psychiatry. I was thinking—”
“Psychiatry?” She stood up and hollered, “Psychiatry? You think I’m crazy, big bro’? In case you’ve forgotten, I worked my butt off to get through school, and I’ve been nothing but a credit to this family even if I’m not a doctor. Mama and I had a deal here. What’s wrong with y’all?”
Corey patted air like a conductor: Not so damn loud, please. “Take it easy, Sandra. This is not about your poetry, and it isn’t even about your no-good boyfriend.”
“What in God’s name is wrong with Lamar?”
All three of the others looked at each other. Finally, Corey said, “You really want to know?”
“Yes, goddammit. Let’s get it out, once and for all.”
He shrugged and spoke conversationally. “He’s an asshole.”
He said it so casually, Talba had to laugh. “Oh, is that all?”
And then they were laughing. Finally, she said, “Y’all really have to back off. The thing about it is, he’s my asshole. Let me just have him awhile, okay?”
“Just don’t marry him, you hear me? Otherwise, Mama might disinherit you.”
They all had to laugh again. And then Talba said, “Mama, really; why do you hate Lamar so much? It’s like you never even give him a chance.”
“I don’t like the way he treat you, girl. I had my share o’ that. You too smart fo’ it.”
Now Talba looked at the table. “I know, Mama,” she said, and the phone rang.
Her mother answered and came back, smiling. “It’s for you, Sandra. And it ain’t Lamar.”
Thinking, It must be the damn client, Talba hoped they wouldn’t decide to eavesdrop.
“Talba? Darryl Boucree.”
“Who?” She couldn’t quite place the name, yet she felt a vague excitement.
“I met you at your reading. The English teacher.”
“Oh, the English teacher.” The fine-looking English teacher. She found she remembered him well, and with so much warmth it surprised her.
“Following up on our conversation.”
“Our—oh, your class. You want me to speak to your class.”
“You weren’t just leading me on, were you?”
“No. No, of course I ’ll speak to your class. When? “
“Tomorrow?”
She repeated, “Tomorrow?”
“Unless you’re all booked up.”
Well, she might be soon. “Sure. Tomorrow.” She hung up.
“And that,” she told her family, “was an English teacher who wants me to speak to his class. I happen to be a role model for young people and I don’t want to hear any more of your shit—excuse me, Mama.”
“Well, that’s wonderful, baby.”
Corey said, “Listen, could we talk privately?”
“Don’t you ever give up, Doctor Wallis? What you got on your mind you can’t say in front of Mama and your wife?”
“You’re right. We should all talk together about it. We’re worried about this obsession of yours.”
“Obsession? You mean Lamar? Lamar’s no obsession, he’s just a boyfriend.”
“Not Lamar. Your name.”
“Oh. Urethra.”
“That’s not your name and you know it.”
“It’s the name I was born with. It was on my birth certificate till Mama got it legally changed. How would you like to be named Urethra?”
“Sandra, that’s not the point. You’ve got to let it go. You can’t go your whole life letting that eat you alive.”
“I don’t plan to, Doctor Wallis. I don’t even see how you can stand to be in the same profession with the vermin who did that to your mama.”
He threw his napkin on the table. “Well, maybe I’d like to bring a little dignity to the profession. You’re not helping with all this.”
“Are you worried about your reputation, Corey Wallis? Is that what this is about? Your sister bringing down a member of your oh-so-honored profession?”
“Sandra, you know better than that. It’s you we’re worried about. What if you get interviewed by that reporter? What if that poem of yours gets famous? Then you really are going to be famous as the girl named Urethra.”
“You don’t get it. You just don’t get it, do you? I am The Baroness de Pontalba.”
This time no one laughed.
“Y’all don’t believe me, but I’m gonna get him.”
“Gonna get who?”
“Gonna get the Pill Man. Stay tuned to this channel.”
Michelle looked like she’d just gotten a bad oyster.
Until that moment, Talba had thought seriously about returning the client’s money, or maybe just keeping it, and not going back to work. But doubling it would buy her some time.
The sooner she got the Pill Man the sooner they’d get off her back. She could go back to CompTemps tomorrow, before Darryl’s class.
What the client didn’t know, of course, was that Allred had had special ways of getting his operatives hired. But Talba didn’t know if his connection would work for her. She called him first thing in the morning. “Mr. Currie? Talba Wallis.” She waited, but he gave her no sign of recognition. “Gene Allred sent me over there. To work for United Oil Company.”
“Yes?” His voice was frosty.
“I need another job. That was a great company—I wonder if they have any more openings.”
“Come on in, Miss Wallis. I’ll see what I can do.” His voice was so tired it sounded like he might take a nap, right on the phone.
Talba came on in, a folded fifty-dollar bill in her right hand for Currie to palm when they greeted each other. She had no earthly idea if that was the right amount, but it was as much as she was willing to pay—if it took more, she could go over to United and apply directly, or call her ex-boss over there and see what he could do. She’d done a good job and probably didn’t even need the damn agency.
But Currie didn’t even look at the bill, just put it in his pocket as if a dollar would have been enough—and she cordially wished that was what she’d offered. He gave her a name. “Report to this guy first thing in the morning. They l
iked you last time.”
She gave him a smile that was almost flirtatious. “I’m good at what I do.”
And then she went off to talk to a high-school class, feeling on top of the world. The Baroness de Pontalba, she thought, poet and detective. What if these kids knew what I do for a day job?
Sure enough, the first thing they asked her was how much money she made.
And that was after she had hit them with the name poem, which hadn’t seemed to affect them at all.
“How much money do I make? Is that all y’all care about? Tell me the truth, is there a single person in this room who’s interested in anything else?”
No one raised their hand.
“You want to get out of school and just make money, you don’t care how? Well, I’ve got a poem for you. Listen up, now.” She gave it full-tilt histrionics.
Money, money, money,
That runs all coppery through your fingers;
Sparkles all silvery
In other people’s cash registers.
Crinkles all green and wrinkly in your wallet—
And in your dreams.
What can you do with that shit?
Why, you can buy yourself a house and a maid to clean it—
You can buy a boat and a man to sail it—
You can buy clothes and cars and fifty-three pairs of
Reebok running shoes.
And then what? You gonna run in fifty-three races all at the same time?
Now, I love money and I want some so bad
I want it so bad my nose hurts and my teeth hurt and
the bottoms of my feet hurt.
But the best thing I ever did was make this poem—
Well, maybe not this poem—
But any poem at all—any way at all of wiggling two
words and jiggering two sounds,
Any way at all to get that glow-all-over feeling—
That dreamy old warm kind of head-reeling—
It’s better than sex—
Y’all know that?
She stopped and bowed deeply, as if they were The Baroness and she were the commoners, and looked at a sea of absolutely befuddled faces.
Finally a fat boy stood up, a boy in a baseball cap and a pair of the maligned Reeboks. “Hey, I want to ax you somethin’—you ever had sex?”