“So, whaddaya think about the interviews, Moms? Aminata’s gonna do ’em tomorrow.” Anyone who didn’t know him would have thought from his tone that he didn’t care one way or another about going with Aminata.
“You can go, sweetie.” Blanche paused to make room for his huge grin. “But you gotta be prepared to interrupt her.”
Malik frowned at Blanche as though it were her fault Aminata was slightly off. But he listened closely to what she told him Miz Barker had said about how to stop Aminata’s gentle-son speech.
“Have fun and don’t get pregnant!” Blanche had whispered to Taifa as she was leaving the house. It was a standing joke with them—something Blanche always said when Taifa was on her way to some hormone-laden activity. With Shaquita in the house, it wasn’t really funny, but seemed even more important to say than ever—like lighting a blue candle for protection.
When they’d all gone, Blanche made herself a gin-and-tonic and carried it to her favorite armchair. She sat sipping her drink and listening to the silence. Suddenly loneliness slithered up her legs and wound round her body like a boa constrictor. Lately, it attacked her more and more often. She was still looking forward to being her own woman again, with the kids grown and gone, but the closer she got to that, the more clearly she remembered that life alone wasn’t all joy. She’d gotten used to being needed. She didn’t always like it, but it was now so much a part of who she was, she couldn’t quite see herself without it—like trying to imagine herself with a different face. She fought off thoughts of Leo that flooded her mind as they always did when she was feeling like she wanted to be attached to someone for a while.
How long had he been married? Two years? Three? Sometimes she forgot he now had a wife and thought of him down in Farleigh still waiting for her to come back to him, like he’d always done. It was time to get over being hurt about it. If she’d wanted the man, she could have had him. He had been really clear on that. She was the one who hadn’t been clear. She still wasn’t. Would she have felt differently if she and Leo hadn’t known each other since grade school? If he hadn’t been her first boyfriend and the man everyone down home expected her to marry? She hoped she hadn’t let a good thing get away from her just to prove she was her own woman. But she’d hated the idea of being matched and labeled, and she’d never been keen on marriage. Yet, for the hundredth time, she wondered exactly when Leo had given up on her—if there’d been a way she could have stopped him, short of becoming Mrs. Leo.
Well, it was too late now. He’d decided to take second best. Blanche moved her shoulders as if to throw off an itchy sweater. She didn’t need all this will-I-be-a-lonely-old-lady bullshit.
Yes, she was likely to be alone and, if she was lucky, old, but she didn’t see herself talking to strangers just to hear her own voice, or buying younger men just to have a warm body in the bed. Leo or no Leo. Wasn’t everybody alone inside their own mind? Anyway, she and Ardell had talked about getting a place together once the kids were grown. They’d be fine together, just fine.
She leaned over and picked up her copy of Working Writer from the floor beside her chair. It had become one of her favorite books. Joanie, who worked as a dietician at Boston Medical Center, had given it to her. The poems and stories by hospital laundry workers who’d recently gotten their GED and improved their English skills through the Worker Education Project were about people like her—people who worked with their hands at jobs that could murder your back and didn’t provide a livable pension. They wrote about things she understood too well—like hardly ever having enough but deciding to love life anyway. Reading the book, she wondered what would happen if she and everybody like her decided to take the same week off and let their employers scrub the floors and empty the garbage while the workers got massages and sailed around the harbor on the old yacht.
She was still reading when Malik came in at nine, as instructed. At ten-twenty, she walked over to Dale Street to meet Taifa, who knew to leave the party at ten-thirty.
“Why I always got to be home so early? Other girls my age can stay until midnight, and I’m the only one whose mother…”
Blanche yawned. If she had a nickel for every time this child complained about what she wasn’t allowed to do, she’d be richer than a Republican congressman.
On the way to the bathroom at two in the morning, something moved Blanche to look into Taifa’s room. When she opened the door, Shaquita ducked her head under the covers. Taifa was sound asleep.
“Shaquita, are you sick, honey? You feel all right?” Blanche whispered, thinking miscarriage and ectopic pregnancy.
“I’m okay,” Shaquita said tearfully. The blankets shuddered from her sobs. Right, Blanche thought.
“I’ll be back.” Blanche went to pee, then pried Shaquita out of bed and tugged her down the hall.
“What’s wrong, Quita?” Blanche demanded, back in her own room.
“It’s Pookie,” Shaquita said, snuffling and sniffling. “He was supposed to meet me in Dudley Square so we could talk about…about things. But he never showed.” Welling tears turned her large, dark eyes to liquid. “I called his house when I got home, and some girl answered and hung up when I asked for him.” She was crying again in earnest now.
“Maybe his family had company or something; maybe the person didn’t understand—”
“When I called back,” Shaquita interrupted, “whoever answered the phone laughed in my ear, then laid the receiver down and left it off the hook. I could hear Pookie talking and laughing.”
The little shit! Blanche put her arms around Shaquita and rocked her. “Shaquita, this is all the more reason for you to think seriously about whether having a baby right now is a good idea. If you can’t get Pookie’s attention before you tell him you’re pregnant, what do you think it’s going to be like when your belly is poked out and you’re puking all over the place?”
Shaquita pulled away from Blanche. “You just don’t understand!” She stomped out of the room.
Blanche lay back on her bed. Maybe Shaquita was right. Maybe she didn’t understand. But Shaquita didn’t understand either. Blanche saw her a year from now: one more too-young mother, like a half-finished building trying to provide shelter and safety when she was still only the shell of the woman she might become. Blanche fell off to sleep, hoping to be around when Shaquita was old enough to recognize Pookie-itis as a childhood disease.
FIVE
DAY FOUR—SUNDAY
It was one of those sunny mornings that almost made Blanche believe Boston was going to have something she’d recognize as a spring day. Almost. It wasn’t one of those down home days when the varieties of new green and the smell of honeysuckle made spring air a thing you could almost hold in your hand. Most of what made such a day did show up in Boston, but in trickles—one week buds, then weeks of cold followed by some flowers, after which the scents of coming summer might meander in on the back of a chill breeze. The full effect was lost—it was like eating the strawberries, then the cream, and then the cake.
She got off the bus and fast-walked as far as Jamaica Pond. The trees had that gauzy look, as though their new buds were bashful—hiding behind a fine veil until they were ready to be seen. Blanche slowed down and watched the sun glinting on water like poured silver. She never stopped being amazed at how beautiful the natural world could be, even when it was surrounded by whizzing cars and gray concrete.
The Brindle house was quiet this morning. Today was Carrie’s day off and Allister was away. Blanche was finishing up her tea when Felicia called down to say she’d have her juice and coffee in her room. Blanche collected the newspapers from the stoop and took them upstairs along with the tray.
“Morning, ma’am.”
“I’m expecting someone,” Felicia said. She looked like she was running for Miss Rainbow: blue eyelids, burnt-orange cheeks, and beige powder that didn’t hide the purple half circles under her red eyes. S
he was pacing around and up and down the room like a power walker on a very small track. She made a pit stop at her writing table to pick up a business card and look at it. “A Mr. Cleason, Charles Cleason,” she said. “Please show him into the library when he gets here.”
“And a good morning to you, too, ma’am,” Blanche said as she turned to leave.
“I’m sorry, Blanche. I didn’t mean to be rude.”
Blanche paused in the doorway. “Still worrying about your son, ma’am?” Blanche was immediately sorry she’d asked. Felicia’s face crumbled like dried clay.
“I’m sure he’s fine,” Blanche said, eager to leave for fear that Felicia might reach out for support Blanche wasn’t prepared to provide.
She put Felicia’s misery out of her mind and made herself a lovely vegetable omelet and cheddar biscuits for breakfast.
Damn! The doorbell would ring in the middle of her meal. She tore off a small chunk of biscuit, popped it in her mouth, and quickly chewed it. She wiped her fingers on her apron and adjusted her panties on the way to the door.
“Morning.” The man tipped his hat.
Blanche nearly jumped, his voice was so much bigger than the short, slight, olive-skinned white man the voice belonged to. He followed her down the hall so silently, she looked over her shoulder to make sure he hadn’t slipped away.
Felicia was down the stairs before Blanche could fetch her. Blanche held the library door open.
“Thank you, Blanche.”
Blanche smiled and practiced her knack for closing a door in a way that made it seem tightly shut but left just enough room between door and jamb for a sensitive ear to hear what was going on inside.
“I’ve called all of his friends; no one’s seen him or talked to him in days,” she heard Felicia tell Cleason. “I’d rather not involve the police.”
Private detective, Blanche figured.
“You said something about the death of someone close to him?” Cleason asked.
“I don’t even know if he knows about Sa—his friend.” Felicia’s voice went up and up like a singer’s reaching for a high note. “Of course, it’s been all over the news and…”
“Is there anything else you can tell me?” Cleason asked.
Felicia cleared her throat. “Well, he was my personal trainer.”
“Your son?” Cleason sounded surprised.
“Oh no. Of course not. I meant his…his friend who…” Felicia paused again. “Forgive me, Mr. Cleason, I’m a bit upset, as you might imagine. I…Here’s the picture you requested.”
“No need to apologize, Mrs. Brindle. I understand completely.”
I’m glad you do, Blanche said to herself. This was the first she’d heard about Marc and Saxe being friends. What was that funny catch in Felicia’s voice when she’d mentioned the friendship? Did Marc know about his mother and his friend? Was that it? Blanche tiptoed away as Cleason assured Felicia that he would get right on it. He promised she’d hear from him in a few days.
Blanche scraped the cold remains of her breakfast into the garbage disposal and washed the few dishes by hand while her mind went elsewhere: It was like one of those Bill-loves-Mary-but-she-loves-Bob-who-loves-Susie kind of things. Felicia wanted to talk to Marc, who wanted to talk to Ray-Ray, who left word for Allister, who told his boy, Sadowski, to get Samuelson. But Felicia hadn’t shown any interest in locating her son before Saxe died. And why was Ray-Ray looking for Marc? Did he want to show Marc the tape? From what Ray-Ray had said about doing something good for everybody in the state, she had a feeling he wanted to put that tape on national TV, if he could. Why? Ray-Ray admitted he’d been tight with the family; then he’d had a big fight with Allister. Did Ray-Ray want to ruin Allister because of that fight? But how serious could their fight have been? After all, Inez was still working for Allister.
While Felicia was still in the library, Blanche went upstairs for Felicia’s tray. She made the bed and looked around. She appreciated the room: a queen-size spindle canopy bed without a canopy, a slipper chair and matching footstool, a writing alcove with bookshelves and a desk. She checked the bathroom for towels. There was a Jacuzzi and a shower lined with jets and showerheads. It even had a built-in seat. The shower was totally enclosed, so it was probably a steam cabinet, too. But it was the big cedar box with a door in it that stood next to the shower stall that made Blanche want to strip immediately: a sauna. Imagine! Your own sauna in your own bathroom! As much as she enjoyed the community sauna at the Y, she would have loved the privilege of a private sauna when the blues made her feel like crying over something she either couldn’t or didn’t want to name.
An hour later, Felicia came to the kitchen to say she was leaving for lunch and would be out for dinner as well. She had on a dark skirt, a beige sweater, no jewelry, and flat shoes, which made Blanche wonder if she was off to the shelter where she volunteered. Felicia told Blanche she could leave early if she liked but to double-check to make sure the answering machine was turned on.
No wonder Inez was so fond of this job. So far, there’d been very little of anything like hard work.
The phone rang before Felicia left the house. Blanche picked it up at the same moment Felicia did, even though it was the house line. It was Malik.
“Oh, sorry. I thought it might…” Felicia hung up the phone.
Malik ignored Felicia. “Mom, we finished the interviews and guess what? Three of the four guys in jail for killing people had lead poisoning when they were little. But listen to this, Moms, listen to this! One of them had a little sister who maybe died from lead poisoning when she was a baby. The building where they lived is still there, but it’s boarded up. Aminata says we should check to see who owns the building and…”
So, who cares what Aminata said? Blanche mouthed at the receiver. Just because three of those kids had been poisoned by lead didn’t mean lead poisoning had anything to do with their growing up to kill people. As for the child who’d died…All right, Blanche, get a grip, she told herself. She knew her attitude had nothing to do with lead poisoning and teen violence and everything to do with “Aminata says.” Malik said it the way members of the Nation of Islam used to say, “The Honorable Elijah Muhammad says.”
“…check at City Hall. Can I go with her? Moms? Are you listening?”
“Sorry, honey. Where does Miz Aminata want to take you?”
“She said to just call her Aminata.” Malik had that religious-experience tone in his voice again. “She’s going to City Hall to find out who owns the boarded-up building. Aminata says we should make an example of the owner if the building still has lead in it.”
Blanche didn’t miss the “we.”
“The buildings where the other kids lived have been de-leaded.” Malik had barely paused for breath.
Environmental Man. My junior expert, Miz, excuse me, Aminata’s boy sidekick. She managed to tell Malik she was glad the interviews had gone well, and even sounded like she meant it. “Let’s talk about City Hall when I get home,” she told him. She sighed and leaned her head against the wall after they hung up.
How was she going to act when the boy got a girlfriend? But that would be different. His girlfriend would be his age, not some woman old enough to be his mother. Malik looked up to Aminata in a way he could never look up to her. He didn’t see Aminata when she woke up evil. Aminata would never be the one who told him he couldn’t see that movie or hang out on the corner with his buddies. She watched herself trying to work with her feelings, understanding for the first time what jealousy was. It tasted of sour milk. She vowed to be extra nice to Aminata. If Malik was going to have a hero, at least Aminata was better than some woman-dissing rapper.
Blanche stopped by Miz Barker’s on her way home. She wanted to put their Ray-Ray tiff to rest. Like Mama always said, it didn’t make any more sense to let a man come between you and your women friends than it made to trade meat
for a bone.
Pam came out from behind the counter and gave Blanche a hug. Miz Barker wasn’t there.
“Don’t tell me your grandmother actually left you in the store on your own without her supervision!”
Pam’s face was solemn when she pulled away from Blanche.
“She was so upset about Ray-Ray, she had to go home.”
“What about Ray-Ray?”
“You haven’t heard? Mr. Porter who works at the morgue told us. Ray-Ray drowned last night in the public pool around the corner on M. L. K. Boulevard.”
Blanche could feel her mouth gaping open but couldn’t give her brain instructions to close it. Ray-Ray’s larger-than-life grin flashed across her mind. The last time she’d seen him, life had spilled out of him like wine from a too-full glass. Her knees felt funny. She leaned against the counter, glad she hadn’t had an opportunity to lay Ray-Ray out for stealing Allister’s tape while she was around, glad that Ray-Ray had had the last word. Allister can relax now, she thought. Her stomach lurched.
“You okay, Blanche?”
“Hunh? Oh, yeah. Just shocked, I guess. I’m working his mother’s job while she’s away, and I just saw him…” Oh shit. Would she have to break the news to poor Miz Inez? At the very least, she had to call Cousin Charlotte.
“Gran is taking it real hard. Ray-Ray was a favorite of hers. Ever since he was a little kid. She just broke down when she heard.”
“You say he drowned? At the city pool?”
“People around here have been sneaking into that pool after it’s closed since I was a kid. I guess Ray-Ray was one of them. The fence has been broken forever. Ray-Ray’s not the only person to drown there either. It seems like every other summer some child sneaks in and…Mr. Porter said he heard there was blood on the edge of the diving board, like Ray-Ray tried to do some kind of fancy dive, hit his head, and knocked himself out, then fell in the pool and drowned.”
Blanche Cleans Up: A Blanche White Mystery (Blanche White Mystery Series Book 3) Page 11