In Sheep's Clothing

by Mary Monroe

  Mrs. Rydell was an obese, loud, terrifying blond battle-ax with a face only a mother could love. She had tight suspicious green eyes and a nose like a fist. But she had enough style to dress like she was somebody’s queen. She stormed the office at least twice a week to meet her miserable husband for lunch. She seemed nice enough to me and the other clerical employees, but she treated the reps like field hands. It was no wonder they all despised her. They would all run and hide in their offices with the doors locked during her entire visit. All except Ann. Mrs. Rydell spent as much time grinning in Ann’s face as Mr. Rydell did. Just like Mr. Rydell had a strange appeal, so did Ann to some people. Wendy was right about Ann’s butt getting kissed more than the Pope’s ring. Mrs. Rydell acted like a groupie toward Ann.

  The same woman who fawned over Ann Oliver was a totally different person with her husband. From what I’d heard and witnessed, she was positively fierce. Each time Mr. Rydell returned to the office after spending time with that big woman, he looked like he had been mauled. It was always just my luck to run into him in the break room soon after his difficult lunch with that big woman of his. Crumbs and red wine decorated his shirt and tie.

  It had rained that day. Like a lot of men, Mr. Rydell was too vain to carry an umbrella. His hair, which was seriously askew, was still wet and plastered against the sides of his damp face. His nose looked like a glowing red ball. I didn’t know what it was about White people and their noses. It seemed to be the first visible part on their body that showed signs of stress. “Trudy, as you grow older, always remember that the aroma of life is never as good as the actuality,” Mr. Rydell told me in his smooth voice that afternoon. He swiped his shiny wet face and hair with his handkerchief and a paper towel. Even though he had just eaten lunch he snatched open the refrigerator and fished out a chunk of the sorry-looking coffee cake that Pam had brought in that morning. “Let that be your thought for today,” he said, talking with his mouth full.

  I had no idea what he was talking about. To me, Mr. Rydell’s comments were usually nothing more than overstated gibberish. “My daddy tells me that all the time,” I lied, hoping I could escape within a reasonable amount of time. The man held me hostage for twenty minutes, boring me with a convoluted conversation about his wife wanting a new car. Dennis Klein rescued me when he entered the break room and immediately started complaining about his wife. Compared to Mrs. Rydell, Mrs. Klein looked like she’d come from another planet. She was a soft-spoken, charming woman with long black hair, a figure to die for, and the face of a movie star. What she saw in Dennis was a mystery to me. And why he was having an affair with the wife of one of his friends was an even bigger mystery.

  I had learned more about human nature in the few short weeks that I’d been at Bon Voyage than I had in the last ten years. Not just about my strange coworkers, but myself as well. It was like I was going through some kind of transformation. Like I’d told James, I was no longer the woman I used to be. I didn’t know if the change in my personality was permanent or not, but I was curious enough to see where it would lead me.

  One thing I did enjoy was the fact that I liked spending more time alone. I was amazed at how much I learned about myself during some of my more intense solitary moments. I looked forward to going shopping solo as opposed to dragging along James or a posse of two or three girlfriends. At home Daddy was always lurking around a corner, even roaming into my bedroom unannounced. If it wasn’t him, it was James and his mama.

  Everybody invaded my space at work. Even in the ladies’ room. It was not unusual for Lupe or Joy to ambush me coming out of a stall and start up a lengthy conversation.

  Freddie and I rode the bus together to and from work almost every day and we always had a lot of things and people to discuss. As much as I enjoyed Freddie’s company and our colorful conversations, there were times when all I wanted to do was read the newspaper or sleep through the twenty-five-minute commute. So when Freddie wasn’t available to have lunch with me, it didn’t matter. I got used to eating lunch alone and I liked it. And the location of my solo lunches played a big role in whether or not I enjoyed myself.

  To some people bringing a brown paper bag lunch to work—unless you worked in a factory—was the height of tackiness. That was the way the folks at Bon Voyage looked at it.

  Pam, who brought in one of her baked concoctions almost every day, wouldn’t be caught dead with a homemade lunch. Now, this was a woman so common she used Scotch tape to repair a loose hem in her skirt one day and staples to replace a button that had popped off the front of her too-tight blouse. Even Wendy, who was one generation away from poor White trash, looked down on folks who brought lunch from home.

  The first time I brought lunch from home was a bad experience for me. Ann walked into the break room and immediately started to cough and fan her face. She didn’t have to say one word, but she let out a gasp that could have spooked a ghost. And of all the days for me to have brought in a Tupperware bowl full of smelly turnip greens and hot-water cornbread!

  The look that she gave me, and the greasy paper bag I’d left on the counter, said it all. But she had to say something, too. “What in the world is that I smell?” She stood next to me, rubbing her nose and still fanning her face. Then she reached around me and opened the refrigerator where Wendy had stacked a huge supply of Slim-Fast.

  “Just some turnip greens and cornbread,” I mumbled, my face burning with shame. I didn’t know why I was so embarrassed about having a meal that most of the African Americans I knew enjoyed on a regular basis.

  “You’re going to eat all of that?” she wailed, fanning her horrified face.

  “I have more than enough if you want to share,” I mumbled.

  Ann’s mouth dropped open and she moved back a few steps. “What . . . you . . . you can’t be serious,” she stammered. Then she looked amused. “My grandparents used to cook that mess when I was growing up. Do people still eat that stuff?”

  “Oh, I eat it all the time,” I said proudly.

  Pam walked in, fiddling with a loose thread on her sleeve. She looked around the room and sniffed. “Something sure smells good in here,” she squealed, eyeing the bowl in my hands. “Can I have a taste?”

  Ann let out an exasperated sigh and shook her head. Giggling like a child, she left with just a can of Slim-Fast.

  I never ate my homemade lunches anywhere near the office again. All because of the way Ann had reacted.

  Down the street from our office, about four blocks, was a small park. It was nothing fancy. It contained just a few benches, a lot of well-cared-for trees, a wishing well, and a Jacuzzi-size pond in the center with a few loud-ass ducks floating around in it. The only fly in the ointment was the half dozen homeless people always present. Each time when I arrived around noon hoping to enjoy my meal in peace, a few could still be found curled up on pallets made out of cardboard boxes and drab blankets.

  Even as breezy as San Jose was throughout the year, you could still smell the cheap alcohol and body funk when you got too close to any one of the unfortunate folks who occupied the park on any given day or hour. But it was a nice place to sit on a quiet bench and read during lunch, which was what I usually did when I brought a bag lunch from home. As much as I enjoyed feasting on a T-bone steak or gobbling up lasagna at one of the many restaurants I went to, I still enjoyed an occasional bologna sandwich from home.

  Anyway, there I was, sitting on a bench munching on my bologna sandwich that Monday afternoon. It was a few days after my romp with James in the backseat of his car. With my eyes on a page in the latest edition of Today’s Black Woman, I sensed the presence of unwanted company. Before I even looked up, I was assaulted by an odor so foul it made my eyes water.

  “Lady, I ain’t had nothin’ to eat since I don’t know when,” a gruff-voiced man whined, standing over me waving a plastic cup with a few coins in the bottom.

  “You like bologna?” I asked, already handing him what was left of my lunch.

  He l
ooked at me like I’d offered him a mud pie. “Uh, it’ll do, I guess,” the man said, not even trying to hide his lack of interest. “I like them pizzas from across the street better, see.” He sniffed and gave me a dry look.

  “Well, I don’t have any pizza today. It’s bologna or nothing,” I snapped, pulling my hand with the sandwich back. I had enough strange people in my life to deal with. The last thing I needed was attitude from a homeless man with high-maintenance expectations.

  “I’ll take bologna, then. Tell you the truth, I’d eat anything ain’t movin’ today, ma’am.”

  I gave up the sandwich and a stern look.

  Within minutes, two other displaced individuals were in front of me, staring at me with pleading, teary, fish-like eyes. With more than thirty minutes left to go on my lunch hour, I ran to an ATM across the street and withdrew sixty dollars. I purchased sandwiches from a deli across from the park. I returned to the park with a bag of assorted sandwiches and distributed them. The way those poor people formed a tight circle of hope around me, wailing and praising me with their trembling hands reaching for food, I felt like I was Mother Teresa passing out rice on the streets of Calcutta.

  I felt light-headed and proud of myself. I felt empowered. Nothing pleased me more than to know that I had brought somebody some joy. A sharp pain shot through my chest when I reminded myself of how I was able to be so charitable these days. I ignored the pain because it seemed like such a small price to pay.

  So far, using Ann’s credit card had done nothing but good.

  CHAPTER 24

  The homeless crowd didn’t even notice when I slipped out of the park and walked to a bench near the ATM. I figured that I had enough time to finish reading my magazine. And I would have if I had not been interrupted again.

  “Hey, wassup?”

  I looked up into the face of one of the best-looking young Black men I’d seen in a long time. He had smooth caramel-colored skin and tight, shiny black eyes. Before I could respond, he plopped down on the bench so close to me our knees touched. “You work around here?” he asked.

  I nodded. “Do you?”

  “Uh, I’m between jobs right now,” he said with a sheepish grin, which was just what I expected to hear. He sniffed, his eyes roving from my face to my breasts and back. “What about your man? He work around here?”

  I shook my head. “Why do you ask?”

  “Well, I thought maybe me and you could hook up sometime. I like what I see. Knowwhatumsayin’? Me havin’ me a fine”—my admirer paused and looked me up and down, smiling when his eyes reached my legs—“me havin’ a big-legged lady friend like you . . . that would be cool with me. Knowwhatumsayin’?”

  One of the main things I noticed about the “new” Trudy was that I didn’t feel I had to look at James as my only hope for a husband. It seemed like everywhere I went now, I had to practically beat the men off with a stick. Especially the type like the one sitting next to me now. I was streetwise enough to know a player when I saw one. But his loud red silk shirt, removable front gold tooth, earrings, ponytail that was obviously fake because it didn’t match his real hair, and attitude were playing him more than he would ever know.

  I let out a disgusted sigh and gave my admirer one of the sternest looks I could come up with. “You mean to tell me a fine brother like you don’t already have a lady friend?”

  He sucked his gold tooth and nodded, and gave his synthetic hair a quick pat. “I got me this old funky White girl, but . . . knowwhatumsayin’? Makin’ love to her is like ridin’ a mule. Knowwhatumsayin’? Them bitches ain’t happenin’ no more.” He didn’t wait for me to comment. “My White woman, she got her a good job and she real generous. But you look like you a smart lady, so I know you know how it is with them pale-faced skanks. They will do anything to hold onto a man.” He clapped his hands and laughed. “Brothers and White girls, it ain’t about nothin’ but economics. Shee-yit!” He sniffed and wiped his nose, but not in time. I noticed the traces of white powder stuck to the ends of his nostrils. I had never done hard drugs, but I occasionally shared a joint with Freddie in the privacy of her apartment. Cocaine, other hard drugs, and the people who used them terrified me. I gripped my purse and moved it to the side, hoping that this coke fiend would get the message.

  “Does your lady friend know what you really think about White women?” I asked, gearing up to make my getaway.

  “Aw, heeeel no!” he shouted, waving his hands, which were both shaking so hard he could barely control them. “That bitch is so ignorant, she don’t know if she comin’ or goin’. She can’t screw worth a damn, neither.”

  “Maybe you need a new lady, brother,” I muttered. That put a smile on his face.

  “Thank you. That’s what I came over here to rap with you about. As soon as I seen you, I knew you was fly. When do you think me and you can hook up?”

  “It won’t be today,” I snapped, shaking my head. I was not used to moving my head without having my brittle ponytail slap my neck. Getting a smart new haircut was one of the best decisions I’d ever made.

  “Well, when then?”

  I sighed and looked at my new watch. My admirer looked at it, too. “You got somewhere to go?” he asked, wide-eyed and anxious. He started tapping his foot as he swiped his nose again.

  “I do.” I flinched when I noticed how bloodshot his eyes were.

  One thing I knew about individuals such as this one was that it was not smart to provoke one. It could mean the difference between escaping unharmed or ending up in a ditch, naked and dead. “It was nice talking to you,” I said with a smirk, rising.

  His handsome face turned into an ugly mask of anger. “See there! Y’all Black bitches ain’t never got no time for a brother. White girls always got time for us.”

  His outburst frightened me, but I refused to let him know that. Somehow I managed to keep a straight face. “I’m glad to hear that,” I said in a humble voice.

  “Be gone then, bitch! I was just tryin’ to be nice. I didn’t really want your black ass no how!” he bellowed, waving both hands in the air.

  I got back to the office a few minutes before my lunch break was over. Wendy met me at the door with an anxious look on her pale face. Pam was on the telephone, but her attention was on me, too.

  “Trudy! You missed all the excitement,” Wendy roared, rotating her thin arms like a windmill.

  “What happened?” I asked, brushing past her to get behind my desk. I could see the message-waiting light blinking on my telephone, which meant I’d spend the next hour retrieving messages for the reps.

  “Where have you been! The cops were just here!” Wendy yelled.

  My face and eyes froze. The rest of my body froze. Somehow I managed to move my mouth. “Oh, God. For what?” The words seemed to hang in the air as my eyes started to itch and burn. My heart was already racing so hard I was dizzy. Within two seconds I saw a vision of myself sitting on a hard, lumpy, naked mattress in a cell in a women’s prison. “Were they looking for me?” I wailed, looking toward the door, wondering how fast I could run and where I could hide.

  “Why would the cops be looking for you?” Pam hollered, rising from her seat.

  “What were the cops here for? What’s going on?” I asked, frantically looking from Pam to Wendy.

  Wendy took a deep breath before she spoke again. “It’s Ann!” she screamed.

  “Ann?” I asked, breathing a sigh of relief. My legs were like Jell-O and my mind swirled with so much confusion I felt like I was in a whirlpool. “What did Ann do?” I whispered. Ann was a complete bitch. There was no doubt about that. But I couldn’t imagine her doing something that would involve the police.

  “Somebody attacked Ann with a baseball bat,” Wendy said.

  CHAPTER 25

  As much as Ann Oliver irritated me, I immediately became concerned about her well-being. Even though I often fantasized about slapping her face off myself. “Where is she?” As relieved as I was that the cops had not come for
me, I still had to hop and squeeze my legs together to keep from wetting on myself like I’d done during the incident with the robbers in the liquor store.

  Pam joined Wendy in front of my desk. “They took her to the hospital,” Pam replied, her nose as red as a strawberry. “I can’t believe it,” she sobbed, blowing her nose on a sheet of typing paper. Pam had some odd habits. She filed her nails with a letter opener, chewed on rubber bands, and watered the plants on her desk with leftover Slim-Fast. Her using a sheet of paper to blow her nose didn’t surprise me. Her crying over Ann’s misfortune did, though.

  “What happened?” I asked, rubbing my chest. I felt bad for Ann, but not bad enough to cry.

  “She got jumped over on Leadly Street,” Wendy revealed with a squeal.

  “What was she doing over there?” Leadly was on the other side of town in one of the roughest, most druginfested areas of San Jose. A stylish woman like Ann would stick out like a lighthouse.

  “She claims she was visiting an old school friend. But if you ask me, I’d say she was over there to cop some blow. Just like everybody else that goes over there,” Wendy decided, giving me a knowing look.

  Lupe Gonzalez appeared out of nowhere with a wild-eyed look on her face. Even without the bags under her eyes, she still looked rather haggard and every minute of her forty years. She had on a long blue flannel skirt with a matching jacket. When it came to style, she was almost as chic as Ann. And why she’d recently dyed her jet-black hair blond was beyond me. When she stepped into some bad light, her hair looked green.

  “Trudy, did the girls tell you about Ann?” Lupe asked in a voice that sounded like she was under water.

  “Yes, Lupe. Is she going to be all right?” I asked.