Blanche laughed. “If that don’t sound like the same kind of bull hockey reasoning white people used to keep us out of everything they wanted for themselves! Next you gonna tell me the Outsiders like it this way.”
Blanche wasn’t sure whether it was her words or her laughter, or both that got Mattie’s back up, but the older woman’s face went quite unfriendly for half a second before she could get her polite mask in place.
Mattie sniffed. “Really, Blanche, it’s not the same thing at all. It’s not as though we hold ourselves aloof from Out…other guests. It’s just that those of us who have places here have been coming here for ages. We know each other. We’re comfortable together.”
Blanche missed the rest of Mattie’s explanation. She got caught up in Mattie’s use of “we.” Hadn’t she just declared herself not an Insider? It was interesting to see where Mattie’s Diva-hood broke down. The Divas Blanche knew would answer differently—maybe tell her it was none of her damned business, or that things were arranged just the way they liked them, thank you very much. If they were determined to discriminate against the Outsiders, they wouldn’t try to make excuses or to make their behavior seem reasonable and fair. She hoped Mattie’s silence was due to sheer cussedness, and not the belief that the Insiders were right. Hank and Carol rose to leave. They waved on their way out. Mattie dabbed at her lips and laid her napkin on the table. “I think I’ll have a bit of lie down before the dance.” She picked up her walking stick and rose from her chair. She gave Blanche the frosty smile of someone not accustomed to being declared wrong. Blanche gave her a long, appraising look. That Old Queen Somebody or Another shit could be carried too far.
Blanche lingered over her coffee. Her thoughts turned from Mattie’s behavior to what Mattie had said about Faith’s putting people’s business in the street. Had Faith been planning an exposé for tonight? Would it have been about Carol and/or Hank? She was still amazed that a bunch of people would let one person screw them around, secrets or no secrets. It reminded her of WCP—White folks’ Curdled Passion—a kind of lumpy roiling stew on which the lid was always kept, until the pot exploded. At which point, the kind of people Blanche worked for usually had a migraine; visited their therapist; went off to Aspen for R&R; or retired into a whiskey bottle or a coke spoon. She wasn’t accustomed to black people who let things fester and go unsaid. In her world, people got in each other’s faces and talked loud about each other’s bad behavior. But it looked like she’d been wrong about the White folks part of WCP. Maybe Curdled Passion had more to do with believing in a white bread world than being white—in believing that emotions were nasty habits that needed to be hidden, if not destroyed.
She left her table and went to her room. She undressed and watched herself part and repart her hair five times before she got it the way she wanted it. She could pretend her excitement was all about looking forward to an evening of interesting talk and music but she knew it was mostly about that man. She liked the way he looked in her eyes and not at her breasts, even though he was clearly making moves on her. She liked that something soft in his eyes. And she was curious about him. He was a partly blurred photograph. She could make out the outlines, but felt sure she was missing some important detail. That was part of what made him interesting. That and those lean hips, broad shoulders, and soft strong hands.
She lifted her arms, aware of her breasts, heavy and tender. When Leo married, she’d decided to be celibate. That way, her lack of a sex life wasn’t about the loss of Leo, it was about choice. Even if she hadn’t decided to just say no, despite her horniness, she wouldn’t have sex with a man she’d just met. Long before AIDS there’d been enough VD around for her to practically want to know the names of every person a potential sex partner had been with before she decided to get it on. If ever there was a time for a strictly monogamous relationship, this was it. If that’s what a person wanted. She still thought there were too many complications, with the kids, and her irregular work hours. And your attitude, she heard Leo say in her mind. She wished she’d taken a little more advantage of Leo. Memories of orgasms past didn't satisfy, which was why she'd made sure to bring her vibrator along.
She slipped the pale-blue halter dress over her head and turned to the mirror. She’d always liked her big, broad shoulders, now they gleamed against the blue halter. She decided against any jewelry. She looked fine. Just her and the dress. Go, girl! she told her reflection in the mirror.
The music reached out for her when she stepped outside. She made herself walk slowly toward the terrace. A night like this was not to be rushed by. She stepped off the path and walked across the grass. Mother Water was wearing her silver party outfit and whispering something slow and sexy to the moon. Blanche was glad she’d come to Amber Cove, if only to stand right here, right now.
Multicolored Chinese lanterns ringed the terrace. The band was against the glass wall separating the terrace from the dining room. The terrace was magically turned into a dance floor with a rim of small tables and chairs. The band of middle-aged white men with a black drummer wore shiny, royal-blue satin pants with matching bow ties and white ruffled shirts. They were playing “Moon River” and sounded as hokey as they looked. But like all live music, the making of it on the spot somehow lessened its faults, that and the sound of the sea that snaked through it. She only recognized a few of the couples on the dance floor. The jogging couple laughed as they danced by; the woman who dead Faith had dissed was dancing with her partner. They were both dressed as they’d been at dinner. He moved with the light, easy grace of a good dancer enjoying himself. She danced as though her feet hurt. Judging from her three-inch heels, they probably did. The hot couple who’d been fondling each other in the bar had shifted their activities to an upright position on the dance floor.
Blanche crossed the terrace and went inside. Carol’s husband, Hank, was sitting at the end of bar, the only other customer. He sat with his head bowed over an old-fashioned glass that he was using to make interlocking wet rings on the bar. Blanche took a seat one over from him and stared at him until he turned his eyes away from his glass and glanced at her.
“Hey, how you doin’, Hank?”
He snorted and returned his gaze back to his glass. He lifted it and sipped. He put the glass down and began moving it around again. “How’m I doing? Now that’s a good question.” He chuckled low and deep in his throat. “How’m I doing? How am I doing?” He laughed again.
Uh-oh. What had she walked in on? She started easing down from her stool.
Hank held up his hand. “No, no, please. Don’t go. Please.” He looked in her eyes for the first time. Blanche almost raised her arm to ward off the haint that stared out at her. The term “living dead” floated across her mind.
“Would you like a drink?” He signaled the bartender—a white male in his thirties that Blanche hadn’t seen before.
“So how are you finding your stay at old AC? You like it here, Blanche?” he asked after her gin and tonic arrived.
“It sure is beautiful.”
“That’s not what I mean.” He turned his ghostified eyes on her again. He finished his drink and told the bartender to fetch him another. “What I mean is, are you having a good time. Are you getting along? Are you…”
“You can’t get this many people together without somebody being nasty.”
“That’s true,” he agreed. “But there is nasty and then there is nasty. Some people are eternal world champions. Even after death that make your life hell. Now that’s what you call a real, first-class, a-number-one…well, you know what I mean. And there are plenty more like her in the world. Although, I’m sure my other nemeses would take umbrage, on the basis of gender, at being referred to as first-class, A-number-one, et ceteras.” When he turned toward her this time, he looked as though he really saw her. “Of course, life is an a-number-one bitch, so what can you expect from people?”
Blanche only looked at
him. A part of her wanted to ask why it was a man’s world until things went bad, then life became a bitch, but she was more interested in the haint.
“Whose world are we talking about exactly?”
Hank snorted again. “Life, Blanche. Life. All of it. Every damned bit of it from the water we can’t drink to drive-by shootings.”
The haint had more substance than she’d assumed. She tested her drink and ordered another slice of lemon before she responded to Hank:
“I think life is more like that coat I bought from a second hand store last year,” she told him. “I thought I knew what it was. Just a plain old poplin raincoat with pockets on each side. Good enough to keep out the rain but so dowdy, I almost ignored it. But when I looked on the inside, there were seven pockets on each side of the lining. Each pocket a different size, like they're meant to hold just the right thing when it came along. Then I put my hand in the left outside pocket and there was another pocket hidden inside of it. This one has a zipper to keep safe the things meant to be kept. I'm so glad I took the time to examine that coat instead of just acting like I knew what it was just by looking at it! Course, it cost more than I’d planned to pay. But that’s why they call it life, ain’t it?”
Hank laughed his first real laugh since they’d begun talking. “Did Carol send you in here?” He seemed both genuinely suspicious and truly amused.
“Why? You need a keeper or something? You want a refill on that glass?”
Over Hank’s shoulder, Blanche watched Stu walk up the stairs onto the terrace. Too old to be led around by my hormones, she told herself and tried to return her attention to Hank, but her consciousness of Stu was like a small cool breeze whisking Hank’s words away and raising goose bumps on her arms. Damn! Be careful, girl, she cautioned herself once again. She watched him looking slowly around, as though searching for someone and felt a thump of satisfaction knowing she was likely that someone. She fought the urge to wave. Maybe I should have had a cold shower, she chided herself.
Hank interpreted her sudden interest in the terrace in another way. “Would you care to dance?” Said in just the tone he’d probably learned in Jack and Jill.
Blanche wanted to say no. She wanted to tell Hank that whatever it was that was eating his ass up, he could handle it. Life was generally not larger than the liver. She was positive of that. But it was too late. They were already out the door.
Stu grinned and waved to Blanche. His smile disappeared when he looked at Hank. Hank’s response was no more friendly.
“Friend of yours?” He held Blanche like a man who knew his duty was to lead, but didn’t care for it much.
“You likely know him better than I do. I met him this afternoon.”
Hank turned Blanche around so that he was no longer facing Stu. “His father was my godfather.”
Blanche was conscious that Hank had skipped right over Stu to his father. “Don’t sound like you two were childhood friends.”
Hank shrugged. “You know how it is with kids. I guess he was jealous. Maybe I would have been, too, if my Dad always wanted some other kid hanging around. Of course, I didn’t understand that back then. And now…”
Stu was beside them on the dance floor almost before the music stopped. “You’re here.” He grinned, then turned to Hank. The grin disappeared. “Hank. Long time.” Stu offered his hand. Hank professed it was good to see him, too, but Blanche wasn’t convinced.
“My dance,” Stu announced to Hank as the music began again.
Hank turned to Blanche. The haint was clearer now, more in control. “You take care of yourself, Blanche. Don’t lose that coat. Mine’s feeling a bit too big for me.”
“It can be altered, you know,” she called after him. He didn’t turn around.
“What’s that all about?” Stu stood with his arms in dance position, waiting for her to join him. Blanche didn’t move. Stu stepped back.
“I’m sorry. I forget myself. It’s just that I…” He broke into a sheepish grin and shook his head, as though either at a loss for words, or too embarrassed to say them. He looked both appealing and sincere. “May I please have this dance?”
Trainable. She held out her arms to him. He took her hand and slid his other arm around her waist. His body eased into the music. He held her like a man who knew what to do on the dance floor, and elsewhere. The band was playing “Since I Fell for You.” Neither of them spoke. Blanche could feel the heat building between them and decided it needed a bit of banking.
“So, Hank was a part of your growing up?” Lame, but it was all she could think to say; and she was interested in that bad vibe she’d picked up between Stu and Hank.
“Yeah, but not Carol. I met her for the first time when Hank married her.”
When she’d asked Hank about Stu, he’d talked about Stu’s dad instead. Now Stu was telling her about Carol instead of Hank.
“He told me he was close to your dad. His godson did he say?”
Stu’s spine stiffened slightly. “My dad liked him a lot. So, are you enjoying yourself here?” he added.
Blanche wondered if he really thought she could be so easily turned away from a subject, unless, as in this case, she was prepared to let him pretend to lead. She learned an awful lot about men that way. She’d learned to steer clear of the real lead junkies—the ones who always had to make the decisions, as well as those so accustomed to having the women do the hard parts, they expected her to carry the whole relationship, let alone the conversation.
“I never thought I’d hear myself saying this about someplace so far north, but this is a truly beautiful place. And the guests sure are interesting.”
Stu leaned away from her and raised an eyebrow. “Interesting? This bunch?”
“The whole Insider business for one thing,” Blanche said.
“Oh yes, a closed tribe. Which Insiders are here now?” Stu looked around the room. “Let me see, there’s Veronica and Martin Tatterson, Hank and Carol, and the Crowleys. That’s everyone but Mattie Harris and the Carsons. I hear they're selling out. Oh, and Al J.” Stu said. “His wife died recently.”
Blanche nodded. She'd suddenly lost interest in all the other Insiders. Stu held her closer than Hank had. She was aware of every point of contact between the two of them. They danced in silence for a few moments, as though they’d both forgotten what they were talking about, or agreed it wasn’t what they said that mattered.
“This is my first and last dance of the summer,” Stu said, “Unless you’re planning to stay around.”
For once, Blanche had nothing to say. Or at least nothing she wanted to say out loud. No need to scare the man off with a list of all she'd like to do with him beside dance. She looked around for a distraction.
Mattie was coming up the terrace stairs. Arthur Hill rushed down to offer her his arm. He managed to turn an act of courteousness into bowing and scraping. Mattie pushed Arthur’s arm away and handed him her walking stick. She used the wooden bannister. When she reached the terrace, she thrust out her hand for her stick. Blanche couldn’t tell whether Mattie thanked Arthur, but she didn’t look at him or join him at his table, as he gestured her to do. Blanche smiled to herself. Mattie was not likely ever to be mistaken for a nice little old lady. She gave Blanche and Stu an imperious nod as she passed the dancing couple on her way to the bar.
“In case this is the last time I ever see you, may I please be your designated dance partner for the evening?” Stu asked her.
There was something about his slow speech and low-keyed flirting that reminded her of home.
“Where you from? Your people, I mean.”
She was surprised to learn his folks had been right there, in the village of Amber Cove, for generations. She still thought of up-south blacks as having all been born in and around the big cities. She rarely met a Northern black with a Northern small town background.
“What
was it like?”
He stood up straighter and stared toward the sea. “I spent my summers at Amber Cove Inn. My dad was the pharmacist in the village. So was my granddad. The first black pharmacist in the state, if not the country. I played with most of the people here, or their children.”
Blanche told him about her kids staying with the Crowleys. She didn’t mention how long she would be around, but she didn’t have to.
“Oh, yes, I remember now. They mentioned you were coming. Ten days? Is that how long Dave said he and Chrissy would be out on the boat?” Stu was really grinning now. “Lucky me!” He swung them around full circle as the song came to a close.
Blanche felt like she was in a car with a slightly drunken driver going a little too fast down a steep hill.
“Would you like to go back inside, or…?”
“I think I’ll take a walk.”
“May I come along?”
“I don’t think so. Maybe I’ll come back later.”
“Maybe?!” He sounded deeply disappointed.
Blanche waved and walked quickly away before he could protest further. She couldn’t avoid the fact that she was on the run. She’d suddenly felt as though Stu had put her in a headlock. Why didn’t she just tell him to back off, not to hold her as though he knew her body, not look at her as though she were his favorite dessert? She wasn’t totally unaccustomed to being hit on. She knew she was attractive to the kind of black men whose African memory was strong enough for them to associate a big butt black woman with abundance and a smooth comfortable ride, men who liked women who ate hearty and laughed out loud. Mostly they were men who worked with their hands at jobs not designed to be enjoyed. So they let their cars and clothes and personal styles describe who they were instead of their job in the sanitation department, or as a bag handler at the airport, or hotel doorman. They put their passion in their love affairs and their favorite sports teams instead of working for a promotion or to expand their stock portfolio. Stu wasn’t that kind of man. He didn’t act like one and he certainly didn’t live like one. He was a member of one of those First Black Families. He probably went to private schools and had never seen a cockroach—unless he went south during the civil rights movement. And then there were his looks. He wouldn’t be the first light-skinned man who’d thought her blackness meant an automatic trip to paradise in gratitude for his willingness to screw someone as black as her. If Stu was among those men, he hadn’t showed his hand yet and she would cut it off at the shoulder the minute he did. No, it wasn’t who or what Stu was that really concerned her. She didn’t like leading with her loins. Or rather, she liked the feeling of doing it without going too far. There for a minute, she hadn’t been sure there was such a thing as too far where this man was concerned. But even while her nipples continued to tingle at the thought of him, there was something about him, beyond sex appeal and charm that she couldn’t identify; something she felt he wanted from her besides the obvious. She didn’t know what it was, so she couldn’t say whether it was good or bad. She just knew it was there, like a door that needed opening before she could go much further. Maybe that was what had her on the run. Maybe it had nothing to do with Leo.
Blanche Among the Talented Tenth (Blanche White series Book 2) Page 6