Seen It All and Done the Rest

by Pearl Cleage

  He grinned apologetically, kissed the hand I offered with a flourish instead of shaking it, and hurried off to regale his friends with tales of my magnificent Medea. They would probably think he was talking about the old lady in those Tyler Perry plays, except she would never kill a kid. She might smack one for bad behavior, but nothing terminal. Ms. Woodruff nodded at the receptionist who hit the buzzer so fast she must have already had her finger on it.

  “Ms. Evans?” she said with a smile. “Won’t you come in? Let’s see if we can do some business.”

  SEVENTEEN

  Ms. Woodruff’s office wasn’t large, but it had enough windows to avoid being claustrophobic. Her antique desk was tiny and tasteful, just like in the photograph. I took one of the chairs provided for visitors and tried to collect my thoughts. She closed the door behind us, sat down, scanned her desk for something she didn’t seem to find, picked up the phone, and touched a button.

  “Clarissa? Can you bring me that file we talked about this morning? I didn’t see it.” She moved a few things on the desk around officiously. “Oh! Yes, here it is. Thank you, Clarissa. Tell Marie to hold my calls, would you?”

  She hung up the phone and clasped her hands in front of her. “I had no idea you were an actress,” she said, smiling with everything but her eyes.

  I brushed that off immediately and cut to the chase. “Why didn’t you tell me about the house?”

  Her smile faded. “I hope we haven’t gotten off on the wrong foot.”

  “I’m afraid we have,” I said. “Have you seen it?”

  “No, I haven’t been—”

  “It’s a wreck,” I interrupted her. “The yard is overgrown and full of trash, the windows are broken, and there are squatters and criminals living there.”

  “I see.”

  I waited for her to offer some kind of explanation, perhaps even a plan of repair and recovery, but neither one seemed to be forthcoming.

  “Well, what are you going to do about it?”

  She raised her eyebrows. “I think, Ms. Evans, that you have the wrong idea about my role in all this.”

  “I thought your role was to manage the tenants, keep the property in good repair, collect the rent, and deposit it in an account as per my instructions.”

  She nodded like what I had just said confirmed her belief in the existence of an unfortunate misunderstanding. “That was the job of your old management company,” she said. “But they are no longer in business. Responsibility for your property and several others nearby in equally poor condition was acquired by my firm late last year as part of a larger financial settlement, but that is not really what we do.”

  “What do you mean, not really what you do?”

  “We are a real estate development and consulting firm,” she said. “We deal primarily with commercial acquisitions and inner-city development. These houses”—she said the word as if the structures to which she was referring were barely worthy of the name—“are in no way related to what we do.”

  “Then why did you take them on?”

  She sat back and looked at me like she was trying to determine how much of the sad story she was prepared to share. “Most of the owners, including yourself, are absentee. We’ve been trying to reach them, but we haven’t always been successful. Your old company’s records were often incomplete.”

  “I’ve been living at the same place for the past twenty years, and as your friend made quite clear, I am in a highly visible profession. I’m not hard to find.”

  We looked at each other across her desk for a minute and then she sighed like somebody who’s getting ready to give you the bad news.

  “Ms. Evans, let me state my position as clearly as I can. We are a three-million-dollar-a-year operation. Managing run-down rentals in bad neighborhoods is of no interest to me whatsoever.”

  “That’s abundantly clear from the look of the place.” She wasn’t the only one who knew how to adopt a snotty tone of voice and condescending attitude.

  “I’m a businesswoman, Ms. Evans, just like you’re an artist. I don’t have a political agenda. I don’t have a social agenda. The only agenda I have is economic.”

  She opened the folder that I assumed contained the details of the duplex’s demise. Her eyes quickly scanned the few papers inside, then she looked back at me. “Unfortunately, your property is in an area that is not slated for any commercial or residential development at this time. The value of the parcel you hold has actually declined in the past few years, and even though your old company sunk quite a bit of money into repairs and renovations—”

  “How much money?”

  She ran her finger down a line of numbers that I couldn’t read upside down. From what I had just seen, they couldn’t have spent much.

  “According to these figures, close to twenty-five thousand just two years ago.”

  “Twenty-five thousand? Dollars?”

  She plucked out the sheet and slid it across the desk in my direction. “See for yourself.”

  Electrical repairs, $3,500, it said. New plumbing fixtures, $2,500. Paint, $1,500. Screens and outdoor refurbishing, $2,200. Lawn repair and landscaping, $4,000. The list went on and on, but I had seen enough.

  “This is absurd,” I said. “The place is a complete disaster. There is no way they could have done all this.”

  She nodded sympathetically and replaced the sheet in the folder. “The truth is, they probably didn’t do any of it.”

  “That’s what I’m saying.”

  “Ms. Evans, the reason they are no longer in business is because of this kind of scam. They would spend the funds on hand for maintenance and repairs and leave the properties to fend for themselves.”

  “That’s stealing!” I said, stating the obvious.

  She nodded again. “Not to mention stupid, unethical, and easily traced. When they finally declared bankruptcy there was nothing left for creditors or property owners to claim to recoup their losses. We bought the whole thing, lock, stock, and barrel, for some apartments they own over near West End that have some potential, but as far as the individual properties…”

  Her voice trailed off and she closed the folder firmly. “There’s really nothing to be done.”

  “Nothing to be done?” I was echoing again, but what else was I supposed to do? I had no idea, so I just sat there, hoping something would come to me, but nothing did. This was bad, and the longer I thought about it, the worse it seemed. I had gone from being a well-paid actress with a nest egg to being a slumlord on hiatus in the space of just a few days. My head was spinning.

  “I know this is a shock, Ms. Evans,” Greer Woodruff said, not unkindly. “And being an artist, business probably isn’t your favorite thing, am I right?”

  I nodded, hoping she could see a light at the end of the long tunnel suddenly stretching out in front of me.

  “I also know that for most of the absentee owners, these properties represented a significant part of their post-retirement planning.”

  There was no need to tell her that I had done no post-retirement planning since I never figured on retiring. My plan was to keep acting until they carried me off the stage and buried me, preferably in full makeup. I nodded again.

  “So, even though all this predates my involvement, I am prepared to do the best I can to set things right.”

  “What do you have in mind?” I said, hating that I sounded so needy. I cleared my throat.

  “I’m prepared to make you an immediate offer for your place. It’s not worth much now, but in ten or fifteen years, I might be able to put a package together that—”

  “Ten or fifteen years?” Damn that echo!

  “Even then, there’s no guarantee that anyone will be interested,” she said. “I just felt that perhaps I’m in a somewhat better position than you are to speculate.”

  “How much is it worth?” I said. If she made me a decent offer, maybe I could reinvest the money in something more secure and still get my nest egg together. I wasn’t r
etired yet. I still had time to regroup, but I needed some seed money in the worst kind of way.

  “As is?” she said.

  “As is.” No way I was going to throw good money after bad by trying to repair it. My mother had paid forty thousand for it twenty-five years ago. It had to be worth twice that now, if only for the land.

  “Fifteen thousand,” Greer Woodruff said without blinking.

  Before I could stop it, that damn echo leaped out one more time. “Fifteen thousand?”

  “I can write you a check today,” she said calmly.

  “It’s got to be worth more than that,” I said, shocked.

  “Considering location, the condition of the property, and current market values, I think it’s more than fair,” she said. “It is, of course, your property and you’re welcome to do whatever you choose with it. But I would like to be clear about something.”

  “Yes?”

  “My offer is not open-ended.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means, Ms. Evans, that when it comes to that particular property, it is a buyer’s market.”

  I could tell she was a great businesswoman because that’s what she was giving me: the business. I don’t know why, but I didn’t trust Greer Woodruff as far as I could throw her. There was something else going on and until I knew what it was, I wasn’t going to agree to a damn thing. I stood up. “This is a lot to think about. I should go.”

  She stood up, too, and walked with me as I headed for the door. “I’m sorry we’ve met under such trying circumstances,” she said as we passed through her lobby and out into the hall.

  The elevator doors opened as if on cue. I stepped in and punched the DOWN button. “I’ll be in touch.”

  “I’ll look forward to it,” she said, and gave me that smile again as the doors closed between us.

  When I stepped outside, it was still a beautiful day, but I hardly noticed. I knew exactly where I was, but I don’t think I ever felt so far from home.

  EIGHTEEN

  When I walked into the house, I was surprised to find Zora sitting on the couch cradling a drink in both hands and watching The Wizard of Oz.

  “Hey, darlin’,” I said. “You’re home early. I’m so glad!”

  That was the truth. I needed somebody to help me sort through the events of a very bad day. I kissed the top of her head since she was slumped down so far I couldn’t get to her cheek without major contortions.

  “Hey, Mafeenie,” she said, without taking her eyes off the screen. “How was the house?”

  “It’s a mess,” I said. “They really just let it fall apart at the…you okay?” She didn’t look okay.

  “Isn’t it better to be right?” she said as Dorothy’s three newly emboldened friends searched for her frantically in the bowels of the Wicked Witch’s castle. “Okay is such a subjective thing. It can change up on you in a heartbeat.”

  That sounded like vodka insight to me. “What are you talking about?”

  She turned her head without lifting it from the sofa and looked at me for the first time since I’d walked into the house.

  “My boss told me he doesn’t want me to participate in the conference after all.”

  “What about your presentation?” I knew how hard she’d been working on it and how disappointed she must be.

  “Nope. He said it was nothing personal, he just didn’t want the kind of publicity I generate to be associated with the program, so maybe it would be better if I stayed away this weekend.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I said, pushing my own troubles out of my mind for a minute.

  “You know what else?”

  “What?”

  “A guy came in today and asked me if I was the chick in the magazine.” She turned back to watch the friends first liberate, then embrace Dorothy, then head for the nearest exit as fast as they could run. “When I told him I was, he told me that if I liked vets, he was willing to help me get that booty back in shape with some special push-ups.”

  Her voice shook a little when she said it and she took another sip of her drink. I wanted to say I hope your boss threw him out into the middle of Peters Street, but I didn’t.

  “What are you going to do?”

  She looked at me and raised her eyebrows. “You mean other than lie around the house watching The Wizard of Oz and drinking vodka?”

  “Well, I was wondering if you were open to other options,” I said, refusing to be drawn into an argument about alcohol.

  “Like what?”

  “Oh, nothing major. A walk around the block. Dinner up at that new Mexican place. We can order shrimp fajitas and I’ll tell you about the house.”

  “Actually,” she said, “I can’t. I’m going to Birmingham for the weekend. A friend of mine’s brother is getting married and since I don’t have to work…” She glanced down at her watch and frowned. Drunk people are always surprised by the passage of time. “In fact, he should be here in a minute.”

  “Who?”

  “My friend. The one whose brother is getting married. The one who’s going to Alabama with me.”

  She was making no sense and I could hardly hear her. I leaned over to turn down the sound.

  “Don’t turn it down!” she said. “They’re just about to melt the witch. It’s my favorite part.”

  “Mine, too,” I said, taking a seat beside her on the couch. “That witch has one of the best exit lines in movie history.” And I quoted it, with an appropriately witchy voice. “‘Who would have thought that all my beautiful wickedness could be defeated by one little girl?’”

  Zora laughed at that without taking her eyes off the screen. Maybe that’s why we both found this scene so satisfying. In spite of the best efforts of the thoroughly intimidating, undeniably powerful, absolutely evil, inexplicably green wicked witch, she was defeated by a girl in a blue gingham dress and a pair of red ruby slippers. Once Dorothy melted the witch and was hailed by the faithless guards and flying monkeys as their new queen, Zora put down her now-empty glass and stood up.

  “It’s better that I’m going away this weekend, Mafeenie,” she said. “I wouldn’t be fit company with the conference going on a few blocks away.”

  “You keep telling me you’re not fit company,” I said. “Why don’t you light somewhere long enough for me to decide for myself?”

  “I will,” she said, moving toward the stairs. “But I’ve already promised Jabari, so it’s too late to cancel.”

  “Who’s Jabari?”

  “He’s the one who’s coming to pick me up, and he’s already late,” she said. “But then again, so am I! Just tell him to come in. I won’t be a minute.”

  She took the stairs two at a time and left me to witness the wrap-up of the movie where the Scarecrow, the Tin Man, and the Lion get their rewards from the wizard: brains, a heart, and some courage, respectively. It was funny when you thought about it. All the guys wanted something that would change them, make them better, more able to survive and thrive in Oz, or wherever they decided to settle down. Dorothy didn’t want to change anything about herself. She just wanted to get back home. She was already endowed with the qualities that her traveling companions desired. She was smart as well as resourceful. She felt things deeply, loved her friends, family, and adorable dog, and was fearless when it came to defending them from nasty neighbors, green witches, and even the wizard himself. She was complete when we met her, except for one thing: She was mystified by the presence of cruelty and meanness. Her encounter with evil in the form of Elvira Gulch, who was fully prepared to euthanize the adorable Toto for digging in her garden, left Dorothy so confused that she ran away and ended up in Oz, looking for answers all up and down that yellow brick road. Maybe that was what Zora was looking for, too. Some explanation for the bad things that happened to well-meaning women and soldiers who found themselves at war.

  Just as Dorothy got ready to click the heels of those famous ruby slippers, somebody out front blew a long blast on a very loud hor
n. When I went to the front window to see what was going on, I saw a dirty green car with one young man in the front seat and another in the back. They were playing Kanye West loud enough for me to hear it clearly even though all the windows were closed up tight.

  I ain’t sayin’ she a gold digga,

  But she ain’t messin’ wit’ no broke nigga…

  The one in the front laid on the horn again and leaned over to peer at the house. The one in the back peered out, too, bobbing his head in time to the music. Seeing no one coming down the walk, the driver gave the horn another blast, this one even longer and more insistent. Please tell me she’s not riding to Birmingham with these fools, I thought, as Zora came down the stairs with her backpack and grabbed her coat from the closet.

  “He’s just trying to be funny,” she said, sounding annoyed. “I told him to come up and ring the bell!”

  I didn’t say anything.

  She gave my cheek a quick peck as she headed out the door. “I’ll be back Monday. Don’t worry. We’ll hang out next week, I promise, and you can tell me all about the house.”

  “Be careful,” I said, but I didn’t think she heard me.

  Zora opened the car door, increasing the volume of the music to a decibel level that made me concerned for her eardrums, tossed in her backpack, and hopped into the front seat without a backward glance. I’m not a religious woman, but I still said a little prayer. Something told me Zora’s eardrums weren’t the only things I needed to be concerned about this weekend.

  NINETEEN

  There are advantages to living in a house with a heated pool. It’s even better if that pool has an amazing brown mermaid on the bottom with flowing curls and a mysterious smile to remind you that there’s always more to the story than meets the eye. I had packed a bathing suit as soon as Zora told me about this particular perk of her house-sitting assignment, but this was the first time I’d actually had a chance to use it.