by Pearl Cleage
Sandra Hunter greeted me with a smile when I dinged the bell above the door that alerted her to customers. “Come in, come in!” she said. “Algernon is going to hate that he missed you.”
“Me, too,” I said. “Is this his weekend in Biloxi?”
She laughed and shook her head. “Two old fools. He and Charlie go down there once a month like clockwork, lose a hundred dollars apiece like clockwork, and come on back.”
“Don’t they ever win?”
She shook her head. “Never. The best they ever do is break even, but you know what? It keeps them out of trouble and makes them feel a little dangerous, so I can’t complain.”
“Give him my love when he gets back,” I said, keeping to myself the fact that Miss Iona said Mr. Charles was always lucky and routinely came back from the casino with a handful of money.
“You know I will,” she said. “Now what can I do for you?”
“I need to send some flowers to Baby Doll,” I said. “She got accepted at Smith College.”
“Oh, my goodness,” Miss Sandra said, coming from behind the counter to hug me. “Congratulations! You must be so proud.”
I took the card with Louis’s handwriting on it out of my purse and reached for my credit card. “That’s exactly what I want the card to say. That I am too proud!”
She handed me a pen and a small pad and reached for the phone. “Write it down. I’ll make sure they get it right and send her out the prettiest birds in the state of Massachusetts!” She patted my hand, still smiling proudly. She had known Phoebe all of her life.
Congratulations, Baby Doll, I wrote, then stopped and started again. She was about to go to college. She might not feel like Baby Doll anymore. I started again: Dear Phoebe . . . That was even worse. All I really wanted to say was, I love you. I miss you. I’m so proud of you. . . . Love, Mom.
So that’s what I wrote, and I told Miss Sandra to get them to underline love twice. Just to make sure she didn’t miss it.
26
Amelia had agreed to loan me an evening dress, since my meager wardrobe offerings do not include a suitable gown for the AABJ dinner, especially since I was accompanying the son of the evening’s honoree. I’m shorter than Amelia by a few inches, and thicker by a few inches, but we’re close enough that she pulled six possibilities from her closet, all of which would do the job with no alterations or major pinning. I rejected out of hand anything that required extreme high heels (for me, that’s anything over three inches), control-top panty hose, or taping of body parts to ensure that they didn’t pop out inappropriately over dinner.
“I can’t believe you have all those dress-up clothes.”
“ ‘Dress-up clothes’?” she mocked me gently.
“You know what I mean,” I said, sitting on her bed amidst the slippery, silken pile. “Where do you go to wear these clothes?”
“Diplomatic functions still tend to be formal,” she said. “I’m getting ready to do some serious international business. These are just some of my costumes.”
“That’s a good way to think of it,” I said. “So are we picking out my costume for the award dinner?”
“Absolutely. Something simple and classy,” she said, pulling out an emerald green sheath that would have been at home in Jackie Kennedy’s White House.
I shook my head. “Too green.”
She nodded and picked up an orange A-line taffeta skirt and a bright pink jacket. It was beautiful, but I didn’t have enough pizzazz to carry off orange and pink at the same time. I shook my head.
She frowned slightly, thinking, and I reconsidered the green number. Maybe I could work a kente-cloth shawl draped over one shoulder.
“Hold it!” Amelia said. “I have the perfect thing for you.”
That sounded promising. Maybe Amelia had held back on one amazing piece that would look great, feel great, and be comfortable. She reached into her closet and pulled out a wine-colored piece of fabric that looked vaguely like a dress with what I think was a scoop neck, extremely long sleeves, and a hemline that seemed to dip lower in the back for some reason I couldn’t determine. On the hanger, it looked a mess.
“This is it?” I said, not even trying to keep the disappointment out of my voice.
“Oh, ye of little faith,” Amelia said. “Go into the bathroom, take everything off, and put it on.”
“Everything?”
“You know that old-time brassiere and big old granny drawers are not going to work with this dress,” she said, pushing me toward the tiny bathroom off her bedroom.
“I don’t wear granny drawers,” I said.
“Yeah, you do, but that’s a topic for another day. Right now, put this on and come out so I can help you drape it.”
I let her push me into the bathroom and close the door behind me. “I can’t even tell which end of this thing is up,” I said, although I had to admit the jumble of fabric felt soft and weightless in my hands. It might not look like much, but it felt terrific.
“Just do it,” Amelia said. “We’ve got to wrap this fashion moment up so you can tell me how you’re going to handle seeing your ex after all this time.”
“He’s not my ex,” I snapped, stepping out of my sweats. “We were never married.”
“I can see you’re handling it beautifully,” she said. “Don’t forget to take off your bra.”
“I’m handling it.”
“You need to just relax and go with the flow,” she said.
I groaned. “That’s exactly what he kept saying on the phone. ‘Go with the flow.’ ”
“I like him already,” Amelia said. “Great minds run in the same channels.”
“Or are caught in the same time warp,” I said, emerging from the bathroom with the wine-colored thing hanging on me with no more grace than it did the hanger. Part of the skirt was dragging the floor, and I shuffled over to the full-length mirror near her dresser and presented myself for our mutual inspection. “Tell me this isn’t the way it’s supposed to look.”
“Of course not,” Amelia said, coming over to loop and tie and button and tuck until the thing began to re-form itself around my body in the most amazing way. The neckline flowed into the bodice, which draped itself over my bare breasts like it had known them all their lives. The strangely cut skirt ended up as a softly wrapped cocoon that clung where it was most flattering to cling and skimmed the rest like a skate bug on the surface of a pond. By the time Amelia completed her ministrations, I looked like I had just stepped out of the pages of Essence magazine and was on my way someplace fabulous. The best part was, it was comfortable as a pair of flannel pajamas and seemingly weightless.
“It’s perfect,” I said, turning around slowly to admire my artfully covered behind.
“I told you,” Amelia said. “It’s all in the drape.”
I turned away from the mirror. “So who’s going to drape it? You’ll be in Chicago. Does Louis know how to do it?”
She laughed. “Please! Louis can barely tie his own tie, much less drape anything. But it’s not hard. I’ll show you how.”
“Show me now,” I said. “Then if I can’t do it, we still have time to pick something else.”
“Relax,” she said. “I’ll talk you through it.”
She started taking the dress apart carefully while I watched her like a hawk. A half an hour later, I had mastered the technique and learned not only the formal drape that I’d be wearing to the AABJ dinner, but a more casual, just-below-the-knee/a-little-higher-in-the-neckline version that Amelia suggested I wear when I had my first face-to-face with B.J.
“I don’t think so,” I said, once I had changed back into my sweats. “All I need is to pull the wrong thing and who knows what could happen?”
“What do you want to happen?” she said, hanging up my new favorite dress on a padded hanger, where it immediately camouflaged itself by becoming a shapeless mess again.
“I have no idea,” I confessed, reaching for another hanger for the also-ran green dress
while Amelia zipped a garment bag over the pink-and-orange two-piece.
She looked surprised. “You have to have an idea. How are you going to control the situation if you don’t even have an outcome in mind?”
“This from the woman who just told me to go with the flow?”
“I’m serious. When you think of seeing him after all these years, what comes to mind?”
“Other than the fact that I hope he’ll be a broken-down old wreck with a scraggly beard and rheumy eyes and his best days behind him?”
She looked at me. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Sort of,” I said, hedging a little, since it sounded awful when I actually said out loud what I’d been thinking.
“How about some tea?” she said, closing the closet door.
“Was that the wrong answer?” I followed her downstairs to the kitchen and took a seat at the counter.
“That’s one way to look at it,” she said, filling the teakettle, “but the thing is, who wants to waste time having dinner with a guy like that?”
“You got that right.” I laughed at the way she came at it. “Sounds like the reunion from hell.”
“Exactly.” She turned on the flame and got down two cups. “So why not consider the best case?”
“And what would that be?”
She put a tea bag in each cup and I could smell the cinnamon. “That would be, he’s as fine as ever, his career’s going great guns, and the only thing he’s ever regretted in his whole charmed life is leaving you without a proper good-bye.”
She said it so simply that its directness almost brought tears to my eyes, a reaction that was not lost on Amelia.
“It’s too late to expect him to explain,” I said.
“Then don’t. Pick a restaurant you like, make sure they give you a good table, put on your beautiful dress, and leave your expectations behind.”
“Along with my granny panties?”
She smiled at me sympathetically. “Did you ever think maybe this is the universe’s way of trying to help you answer Phoebe’s question?”
“I don’t think the universe spends a significant amount of time trying to answer my daughter’s questions.”
“That will be a real surprise to her.”
“One among many,” I said. “Just one among many.”
27
One of the first things I asked Miriam to do was to make me a copy of her sister’s picture from the locket so I could show it around. So far, nobody had seen or heard anything, but I had pinned her photograph to the bulletin board in my office to remind me that this search was about a real person who needed some real help immediately. The sympathetic police detective I spoke to said it was like looking for a needle in a haystack, but he’d do the best he could. That didn’t sound very promising, and the more information I gathered about the ways young women refugees were being exploited, the more frightened I was for Etienne. Children as young as seven and eight, boys and girls, were being snatched or lured away from relatives and forced to live in filthy, overcrowded quarters like the one where Miriam had been stashed, with no way to contact anyone they knew once they disappeared. Every kind of intimidation was being used, but the most effective weapons these modern-day slavers had was the fact that so many illegal immigrants didn’t speak or read English, and they were terrified of being reported to the INS. Nobody wanted to be identified as a troublemaker, so witnesses to any crime were hard to find.
What wasn’t hard to find was the coverage of Busy Boy Baker’s partnership with Mandeville Maids. It led all three nightly newscasts locally and was featured on the front of the Living section of the Atlanta Journal-Constitution with a photo of Busy Boy in the middle of the women in white. They were clustered around him, grinning like somebody had just said, “Say money.” He had one arm around his sister and the other around a woman who looked like she was in the midst of a moment that would last a lifetime. That picture also made its way into Jet magazine as a photo of the week, and into the Sentinel as community news. I clipped it out and pinned it to my bulletin board next to Etienne.
Looking at the women’s excited faces, I wondered how they would feel if they knew how little faith their benefactors really had in them, but they didn’t have a clue and probably didn’t care. They all agreed it was a great opportunity. Whether they chose to take advantage of it was another question altogether.
B.J. called to give me his date and time of arrival. I took Amelia’s advice and told him to meet me at the Pleasant Peasant downtown at six thirty. That would give him enough time to get checked into his hotel and take a breath before dinner. He was staying at the Hyatt Regency, which was only a few blocks from the restaurant, so we wouldn’t have any traffic to deal with. Atlanta’s legendary freeway snarls are always the wrench in the best laid plans, and I avoid them if I can. Life is too short to contend with other people’s bad driving and road rage on the way to catch up with an old friend.
I still had a couple of days before his arrival, which was fine with me. I was busy trying to reprogram myself. Amelia’s decidedly more upbeat projections for the evening had grown on me, and gradually I realized I was looking forward to it. Several successful practice sessions had convinced me I could drape the strange dress appropriately for the occasion, so I gave myself the option to wear it if I was feeling particularly bold at the moment when I had to decide.
B.J. had been my friend for almost two years before we became lovers. He knew Louis because they were both journalism majors and the three of us started hanging around together. They were always arguing about whether we needed more local news or more focus on international affairs. I never understood why the two had to be in conflict. They acted like they had never seen that bumper sticker that says, Think Globally/Act Locally. Maybe it’s just the way men communicate.
When I’d get bored with that discussion, I’d make them go to the movies or listen to some music or talk about my chosen career as a diplomat. It was a good three-way friendship, and B.J. fit into my ongoing life with Louis in a way that we all enjoyed, and then . . . what does the song say? I fooled around and fell in love. I didn’t mean to, did not have it in mind, but Louis got an internship in Chicago the summer after our junior year, and B.J. had a project that kept him in Atlanta, where I was working in former ambassador Andrew Young’s office and starting to apply for grad school. Our three became two, and left alone, B.J. and I fell into each other’s arms like we’d just been waiting for Louis to leave the room.
It was heaven. A friend I could talk to who also made me woozy with the pleasure of our lovemaking. A comrade who would travel the world with me and share my bed and my brain with equal pleasure. It was a dream come true, and sometimes when I’d watch him sleeping or we’d slide into the bath he’d run for us to share, I’d know it was just that: a dream. A temporary and highly transitory state that would have to come to an end. I accepted that, I think, but what I had always hoped was that even if this amazing sexual bubble couldn’t last, we could still be friends. It sounds like a classic kiss-off line, I know, but that’s only if you’ve never really had a good friend. B.J. was my friend first, and I missed that part of him as much as anything else.
The doorbell startled me out of my daydream and I glanced at the clock. It was six thirty and the sky was turning pink outside my window. I wasn’t expecting anybody, but I was definitely up for an interesting drop-in. If I was lucky, it might even be a hungry friend with an idea for dinner. Not exactly. I opened the door to find Sam Hall standing there in yet another dark blue suit and tasteful tie, smiling apologetically.
“Catherine,” he crooned my name like a Quiet Storm deejay. “Is this a bad time?”
I’m glad I always dress for work. Doing business in your sweats is a slippery slope that leads to a day spent in your bathrobe and slippers. Plus, it leaves you at a distinct disadvantage when confronted with impeccably dressed drop-ins. I had on a good pair of pants and a blue silk tunic Phoebe gave me last Christmas.
> “I’m not sure,” I said. “A bad time for what?”
The smile got a little wider and he held up a bottle of wine. “An apology, an explanation, and a glass of my favorite cabernet.”
That made me smile. I’d been thinking about dinner, but this was an infinitely more interesting proposition.
“Come in,” I said, stepping aside to let him.
He stopped in the small foyer just inside the front door and looked around. This house was one of the original Victorians that once defined Peeples Street, and it still has all the original wood inside. My mother always took pride in this house and used it as evidence that my father’s unconventional and peripatetic lifestyle did not mean he wasn’t a good provider. When the property passed to me, I felt honor bound to hold up that same standard, especially since I also do business here. The place looks good, if I do say so myself, and Sam was clearly impressed.
“This is a lovely place,” he said, following me into the living room.
“Thank you,” I said. “Why don’t you have a seat and I’ll get some glasses?”
He put the wine on the coffee table and sat down on the couch, still taking in his surroundings with the practiced eye of a professional. I brought back an opener and two red-wine glasses with impossibly slender stems and big, round bowls. They had been a set of six, but I had broken them all, except these two. Louis gives me a set of wineglasses every Christmas, and they rarely make it through New Year’s Eve. It’s a running joke between us, but these were survivors.
I picked up the wine and started to open it. I could tell Sam was surprised, but if he brought wine and opened it, it was too much like a date and this ain’t that. Not by a long shot.