by Pearl Cleage
The story was that many years ago when West End was the far frontier of what was Atlanta, and beyond which there was only woods, the wealthy white men who built these houses had engaged in a friendly competition. Each one wanted his mansion to feature something that would suitably impress his neighbors with the owner’s wealth and status in the world. Of course, it probably never occurred to them that black people would ever live in these homes. If it had, perhaps the original owner of Amelia’s house never would have built that pool. It is doubtful that our house’s original owner would have one-upped that pool by building a four-room playhouse in his yard, now my yard, for his daughter, then my daughter, to dress and undress their dolls and invite their friends for tea.
Amelia and I hadn’t had a chance to talk since she came over yesterday to check on Phoebe, so I headed outside to bring her up to date. Our backyards were separated by a low stone wall and a wooden gate that was always open. By the time I walked through it, she had finished her workout and was drying herself with a fluffy white towel. At forty-two, Amelia looked ten years younger, and she intended to keep it that way. Tall and slender in a sleek black Speedo, she wore her hair in a short natural that didn’t interfere with her swimming or her sense of style. She had one son, Jason, who was a freshman at Yale Law School and fully intended to go into practice with his mother once he passed the bar.
Her ex-husband, Jason’s father, also a lawyer, was an arrogant, overbearing man, with whom she shared cordial relations for the sake of her son. She was always urging me to use the pool, but I was usually too busy to take her up on it. Tonight, the water looked so clear and inviting I almost jumped in with my clothes on.
“Hey, you!” I said, coming through the gate. “Finished already?”
She looked up and laughed. “Hey, yourself! That was fifty laps, for your information. How’s Phoebe?”
“She’s certifiably insane, but I think she’ll live,” I said, kicking off my flip-flops and dangling my feet in the cool water.
She wrapped the towel around her waist like a sarong and flopped down on one of the striped canvas deck chairs. The mermaid’s hair seemed to be rippling gently.
“Still in mourning?”
“Sort of. She’s decided it’s all my fault because she hasn’t had a chance to observe her father, in order to better understand herself, and therefore make better romantic choices.”
Amelia rolled her eyes. “Tell her not to worry. I saw my father every day of my life and men are still a mystery to me.”
“I tried to explain that to her, but she’s really pissed.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Amelia said, sounding sympathetic. “I remember when Jason first got his little heart broken. Some girl he was crazy about told him she just wanted to be friends because he was too nice. He told me I had ruined his life by not raising him to be a typical male asshole—my description, of course, not his!”
“Did you apologize for being such a bad mother?” I said, laughing.
She raised her eyebrows. “Did you?”
“Not in this life!”
“So you know I didn’t! I told him I had raised him to be a peaceful presence on this earth and that any girl who couldn’t see that was a waste of his time. He didn’t speak to me for two weeks, and then he met a girl who thought he was the cat’s pajamas and all was forgiven.”
The old-fashioned expression made me smile. I remember my mother bestowing that one as a high compliment, too, although why feline night wear should be considered something wonderful was still beyond me.
“So there’s hope for me and Phoebe?”
“Of course there is. Look at Jason. Butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth now, but I swear he’s responsible for every gray hair I’ve got.”
“You haven’t got any gray hair!”
“I owe it all to my stylist,” she said. “The reality is a much grimmer picture.”
“Your secret is safe with me.”
“Speaking of secrets,” she said, “can I ask you something?”
“Sure.” The sky was clear and there was the barest sliver of a new moon. Phoebe used to have a book that showed the stars at different times of the year. When she was little, we spent hours on the back porch trying to identify the constellations. “Ask away.”
“Why don’t you just tell her about her father and let her figure out how to deal with it the best she can?”
Amelia didn’t know his identity, but I had shared the rest of the story with her. I was surprised by her question. “How long do you think it would take for her to track him down?”
“So? What if she does? Kids do it all the time.”
“So what if he’s less than thrilled to discover that he has a seventeen-year-old daughter?”
“What if he’s not?”
“Not what?”
“Not ‘less than thrilled.’ What if he’s delighted to find her after all these years?”
Sometimes Amelia annoyed me by playing the devil’s advocate. Maybe that was what she was doing now. It was probably an occupational hazard for lawyers, but I always found it counterproductive. Not to mention the fact that the devil has plenty of advocates already on the job. One more is just overkill.
“You make it sound like he’s been searching for her or something,” I said. “Trust me. This isn’t that story. The last thing he wants is to take on the responsibility of a teenage daughter. When I told him I was going to have an abortion, he couldn’t get on that plane to Ghana fast enough.”
“Sometimes men change when they see forty staring them in the face,” she said. “It’s a mortality thing.”
Amelia seemed to be suddenly on the side of complete disclosure, although she had never before expressed an opinion on the matter, other than to show mild surprise when I explained that my solution had been to falsely claim multiple partners as a way of throwing Phoebe off the track. She suggested that simply refusing to reveal the name might have been a better way to go, but she respected the creativity and thoroughness of my approach.
As we sat there, a thought occurred to me. “Has Phoebe been lobbying you about this?”
Amelia grinned at me. “I wouldn’t describe it as lobbying, but she definitely mentioned it when I saw her yesterday.”
“Well, you can tell her for me it won’t work.” I sat up and wrapped my arms around my knees. “The potential for her to really get her feelings hurt is too great. Why risk it?”
“Her feelings or yours?”
I raised my eyebrows and looked at her.
Amelia looked back at me. “You realize I know this is none of my business, right?”
“I’m the one who brought it up,” I said. “Go ahead.”
“Phoebe is a very strong young woman. You can’t always see it because you’re her mother, and to you she’s always going to be your baby girl.”
“Only until she graduates,” I said, knowing she was right. “Then I’m cutting her little ass loose.”
“Too late,” Amelia smiled. “They already did that. In the delivery room, remember?”
A wispy little cloud moved across the moon and disappeared behind the giant pines at the edge of Amelia’s yard. She was a good friend trying to pull my coat, and I appreciated it, as always.
“How could I forget?”
“Then stop worrying! She can handle it. If you tell her or you don’t tell her, she’s going to be fine.” Amelia sat up and looked at me. “You’re the one I’m worried about.”
“Me?”
She hesitated. “You know I know this is—”
“—none of your business,” I said with her. “So why are you worried about me?”
“Because you’re such a terrible liar.”
“What do you mean?” I couldn’t decide if that was a compliment or a criticism.
“Good liars keep it simple. The fewer details the better. You, on the other hand, have concocted a big, complicated mess of a story that never sounded very convincing and gets weaker every time you tell
it.”
“Do you think she knows I’m lying?”
“I think she’s confused. She doesn’t know what to think.”
“She’s not the only one,” I said, kicking my feet in the water to watch the mermaid’s tail ripple.
“Don’t beat yourself up too bad,” Amelia said. “It made perfect sense at the time, right?”
I nodded. “Most of it still does.”
“Then all you have to do is work on that little part that doesn’t.”
We had been friends for a decade because Amelia was honest without being judgmental. She always told me exactly what she thought, as only a lawyer can, but she never required me to agree or make a move based on her point of view. She had no timetable. Once she had her say, she left you to your own devices and moved on to other things. Which was what she did now.
“So, did you talk to Sam Hall yet?”
I was glad for the change of subject. “He called me tonight.”
“Thank God! He was driving me crazy.”
“Where do you know him from?”
“I represented a client in a case that involved Ezola Mandeville. She sent him to talk to me. How about that voice?”
“Makes it hard to keep your mind on business, doesn’t it?”
“You got that right, but how about her aversion to the word Ms.? What’s that about?”
“I’ll ask her. We’re having lunch next week.”
“Really?”
“They’re probably planning a project he says is right up my alley.”
“You think you could work for her?”
“I’ve got to go to work for somebody, and you won’t hire me.”
“I can’t afford you!”
“He said I was the answer to their prayers. How about that?”
“Better not get too cocky until you know what they were praying for!”
From Amelia’s yard, I could see the light come on in my kitchen window, signaling Phoebe’s return from her godfather’s house around the corner. She was probably rummaging around in the fridge looking for something to eat. Three days of herb tea and saltines had probably taken their toll. Baby Doll needed dinner.
“Well, I know what I’m praying for,” I said, standing up and hoping my daughter’s visit to Louis had improved her disposition.
“What’s that?”
I leaned down and gave Amelia a quick kiss on the cheek before heading home. “Wisdom, patience, and tuition money, not necessarily in that order.”
“Just be yourself!” Amelia called after me, and I knew she was right. Flawed or fabulous, I’m the only mom she’s got. All I have to do is love her and be myself. Everything else is extra.
6
When I opened the back door, at first I thought I had gone to the wrong house. The kitchen table was set with two places and a vase full of sunflowers I recognized from Louis’s front yard. Phoebe was at the counter cracking eggs in a bowl, and while Sade’s Lovers Rock is not exactly upbeat, it was music, and the vibe in the room was definitely not hostile.
“What’s all this for?”
“For you.” She shrugged her shoulders and managed a crooked smile. “For us.”
“It’s beautiful,” I said, and walked over to hug her and kiss her newly nontearstained cheeks. “I was coming in to cook something for you.”
“I’m making an omelet. Is that enough?”
“If you throw some cheese in there it is,” I said, opening the refrigerator and reaching for the block of sharp cheddar I knew was in the cheese drawer.
I got the grater and stood next to her at the counter, enjoying the familiarity of the routine. We had been cooking together since she was old enough to handle a whisk, and we knew each other’s kitchen rhythms the way longtime partners in a ballroom dance competition know when to glide and when to dip. At five-eight, Phoebe has a good three inches on me, although she’d like to be taller so she could slam-dunk a basketball. She doesn’t want to actually play the game. She just wants to be able to leap into the air and slam the ball through the net, alone and unopposed.
When she told me that was one of her recurring dreams, I couldn’t have been more surprised. I never had any kind of sports dream. The idea that Phoebe produced her own fantasies, apart from any we might share, was a revelation to me. It seemed such a completely separate act, kind of like the first time your kid tells you no, and means it. It’s a moment of such unequivocal otherness that it sends a shiver down the spine of an overprotective mother such as I know myself to be. You mean this is not attached to me like my arm? you think, amazed. This is not just an extension of me?
“Mom?” Phoebe said, keeping her eyes on the eggs starting to foam under her expert strokes.
“Yeah?”
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?” I said, still grating. “Wearing that blanket around for three days?”
She poked me in the side with her elbow. “Don’t make fun of me!”
I put down the cheese. “I’m not making fun of you. I’m just glad we’re going to have a nice meal together.”
“That’s just what Louis said.” She smiled a little. Not one hundred percent, but a smile.
“He did?”
She nodded and condensed their conversation into Louis’s gentle suggestions as to how we could make peace.
“He said you would probably appreciate having dinner with me tonight. Especially if I cooked it.”
I laughed and hugged her again, being careful not to tip the bowl. “Your godfather is a living saint.”
“Yes, I know,” she said, turning back to the eggs, adding a pinch of salt and a dash of pepper. “He said that, too.”
She poured the eggs into the pan with a buttery little sizzle. I had grated more than enough cheese, so I popped in two pieces of whole wheat bread for toast and watched her tend her omelet with the practiced eye of a cook who’s comfortable in the kitchen. Either the storm had passed or we were dancing around in the eye of it. At this point I didn’t really care. I was just happy to have her back. When people say tough love, they’re usually talking about the kid, but I think it’s harder on the mother. It’s infinitely easier to defy authority than to be authority.
When we sat down, Sade was still crooning about how somebody had already broken her heart, but across the table from me, Phoebe was serving up a perfect omelet as her peace offering in the same way I had offered up those fashion magazines. We still knew each other better than anybody else did, and maybe the things we didn’t know just weren’t worth knowing.
“To us,” I said, raising my orange juice in a toast.
“To us,” Phoebe said, and we clinked our glasses and agreed to disagree on who owed who what explanation of things that cannot always be explained. At least for the moment, a peaceful meal was all we required.
7
Sunday passed too fast. Phoebe packed up, cleaned up, and chose a pair of low-slung jeans, a tiny little top, and a brand-new bright pink jacket to return to campus looking rested, gorgeous, and unconcerned, no matter what story was making the rounds. I spent the day poking my head in to offer suggestions and answering e-mail to get a jump on Monday morning. There was no way to prepare for the meeting with Sam Hall and Miss Mandeville. They had sent for me. All I had to do was show up and let them make me an offer.
Phoebe and I shared a dinner of lemon roast chicken, a tossed salad, and fresh strawberries with Louis; then we all went over to Amelia’s for a good-bye toast of sparkling apple juice and headed for the airport. It was sunset. The sky over the freeway was as beautiful as a beach postcard, and suddenly I started feeling sentimental. The summer had spoiled me. I wasn’t going to see my baby again until Thanksgiving, and that was three months from now. Who knew what adventures Baby Doll would have between now and then, or how much time she’d have to share them?
“Mom?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m going to miss you.”
“I’m going to miss you, too,” I said. “You’re go
ing to have a great year. I can feel it.”
“You know I’d never do anything to hurt you, don’t you, Mom?”
“Of course I do,” I said, watching a big Delta jumbo jet coming in for a landing above our heads as we neared the airport. “What made you say that?”
“Nothing,” she said. “I don’t know. Nothing.”
Interesting answer, but the passenger drop-off lanes at Atlanta’s Hartsfield-Jackson airport are no place to pursue such complicated questions, so I didn’t try. A big SUV swung out and I swooped in behind it and pulled up next to the curb. Phoebe was gathering her things.
“You okay?”
She leaned over and kissed me good-bye, waving at the skycap nearby for assistance. “I’m fine! I’ll call you when I get there!”
“You’d better! I love you!”
“Love you, too!”
And she was gone. Checking her bags, stamping her ticket, boarding the airplane, ready to confront her demons, romantic and otherwise, and handling her business the way a third-generation free woman is supposed to do. My baby was growing up. Now all I had to do was figure out how to pay for the next four years and she was on her own. If I do my job right, she’ll be ready, and so will I.
8
When I pulled up in front of Mandeville Maid Services per Sam’s instructions, at just before noon, a young woman in dark blue pants and a white shirt with Valet stitched above the left breast pocket took my keys, handed me a ticket, and directed me inside. I was wearing my corporate clothes: gray suit, white blouse, black pumps. If there was a job to be had, I intended to leave here with it. When I identified myself to the female security guard, she told me politely that Miss Mandeville’s office was on the fifth floor and pointed me to the elevator on the far side of a bright, plant-filled atrium that ran from the hardwood floor of the lobby to the stained-glass windows in the ceiling. A small sign pointed to a clinic on the building’s lower level, and another arrow directed visitors to the office of the social services coordinator with a question and an answer: Got a problem? We’ve got an answer!