Strike.
Coco and her son, Reginald, were regular bowlers. They’d go as far as Vallejo to join weekend leagues. Coco was proud to tell us she keeps his room exactly as it was; it’s still filled with all of his bowling trophies and ribbons. She hasn’t bowled since his death and says her game is off, but Clem and I sure as hell can’t tell.
After another game, we go to the pizzeria next door. It’s spring break, and I’ve done nothing much except sleep, read, and hang out with Clem. Mostly we watch the bad movies she picks and eat ourselves silly at restaurants we’ve never tried before. Yesterday we went to a day spa in the Claremont Hotel—her treat. She says I’m too pretty not to keep myself up, and she talked me into a pedicure, manicure, and even getting my eyebrows shaped. And now here I am sitting in a booth with my two perfectly arched brows and two new friends, laughing and eating pizza. Who would have thought?
Before we left the bowling alley, George repeatedly asked Clem for her number, and now Coco and I tease her.
“You should have given him your number,” says Coco. “When a man has a puppy-dog crush, you know he’ll treat you right.”
“Pishaw! Did you see that gut? Looked nine months pregnant and ready to deliver any second.”
“Pishaw?” I say. “Did you just say pishaw?”
Coco says, “I’d rather have a man with some meat on his bones than somebody I fear I’ll break soon as I get on top of him. Ain’t nothin’ sexy about going to bed with a man you think you might crush. You know what I’m sayin’? I like a man who can bring it! I like a man who makes me feeeeel like a woman.” Clem and I watch, eyebrows raised, as she runs her hands over her body while rolling out her chest and undulating her hips.
“I’ll say.” Clem nods.
“You should get back on the horse, Clem,” Coco tells her. “We are all sad women at this here table, but the body has needs, plain and simple. Nobody is saying you have to marry the man, but if he’s willing and you’re in a dry spell, you gotta make it happen. I’m just sayin’. Coco don’t go too long without a little somethin’ somethin’. I don’t think it’s good for a woman’s overall attitude.”
Clem says, “And I don’t think it’s good for a woman to sleep with men with big guts. I don’t like ’em skinny; I ain’t sayin’ that. But you know Frank was active, and I’m used to a man who likes to get outdoors and who’s in good shape. Frank and I played tennis and golf. We sailed. There were trips to wineries. Oh we had a good ol’ time.”
Coco stares at Clem as if she’s just described trips to Neptune with layovers on Mercury. I gather that she can’t fathom living the kind of life Clem shared with Frank, who made a huge profit off stocks and flew his own plane. Coco and I live a mere ten minutes from Clem, but I doubt Coco has ever been to Elmwood, and to Coco, Clem’s life is probably more like what she sees on TV. But that’s the point Deacon Morris always makes: If we allow it, loss can bring us together, break down our walls, and make us more caring—if we have the courage to let it happen.
“You should see this one here’s ex-husband, Coco,” says Clem, motioning to me. “He showed up one night at the meeting I used to go to, as handsome as hell. I wasn’t surprised at all when this young thing snatched him right up.”
“A young thing, huh?” Coco says, ready for a story.
I help myself to another slice of pizza and tell her the entire Spence-once-loved-Piper-then-dumped-her-for-a-nitwit story, start to finish. I end circling back to the beginning of our conversation. “I guess you could say Spencer is my type. Smart. Tall. That’s what I like.”
“Well, he can’t be too smart, dumping you the way he did,” Clem says.
“Thanks.”
“I always hoped that Reginald would be honest with whoever he ended up with. I hate men who lie to you. Why they think we can’t tell they lyin’, I’ll never understand. I brought him up in the church and on the Bible and taught him from day one, respect women and show respect to whoever you’re dating.”
“I told my Tommy not to bring any mousy women home,” Coco says. “I have no time for women who don’t have a spine.”
“Were you ever married, Coco?” I ask.
“Twice. By the time I found out I was pregnant with Reginald, I was finished with men.” She shakes her head. “They some strange, you know what I’m sayin’?”
Clem and I nod.
“But when Reginald was born, you know how you do, I fell in love with him.”
“I wanted a boy,” Clem says. “I love how they dote on their mommas. My Tommy always doted on me. And I loved being the lady of the house looking after my boys.”
We all fall silent as if her comment has induced us to go back to those days when we were mothers and caregivers. The moment doesn’t last very long, though, because in walks George just then, belly and all. I nudge Clem with my elbow and gesture toward the entrance. When they make eye contact, George doesn’t have sense enough to leave her alone and struts right up to our table.
Clem glowers. “You stalkin’ me?”
“Naw, I ain’t stalkin’ you. This is America, and I have an inalienable right to eat. Free country, last I heard.”
Clem glances at his belly, currently hovering above our table, round as Jupiter. “Looks to me like you’re taking good advantage of your inalienable right to eat. What happened to your friend? Annoy him to death?”
“You sure don’t hold nothin’ back.” He glances at Coco and me while chucking his thumb. “She always so sharp-tongued?”
“Yes,” we say together.
“Leonard’s gone on to his family. I’m here by myself.” His demeanor changes as he runs a hand over his hair. When Clem doesn’t say anything, he tips an imaginary hat. “I don’t mean to bother you ladies. You all have a good day now.”
He starts toward a table in the back. I glance over at Coco, and we fix our eyes on Clem.
She gives her head a firm shake. “No.”
Coco says, “It’s just pizza. He means no harm.”
“Look at him, Clem,” I add. “He’s all alone.”
She looks over. George sits in a wide booth all by his lonesome self while he studies the menu. He wears long tube socks and corduroy shorts, and he has tucked his napkin in the top of his shirt. Clem shivers dramatically.
“What does Deacon Morris say?” I ask.
“Gotta pass on kindness; otherwise it doesn’t get passed around,” Coco replies.
“Oh, you two,” Clem gripes. “You all want the company of a fool, so who am I to stop you?” She tosses her napkin on the table and struts over to George. From the back, in her tight pants and top, tennis shoes, and bouncing ponytail, she looks like a young woman from the 1950s.
Coco and I grin as we watch the silent film they put on: George’s face lighting up when he sees her; Clem thrusting her hand toward our table and practically scowling as she invites him over; George clapping his hands and rising from his table before she can say, Come join us.
To make room, I move next to Coco. George squishes in next to Clem, who scoots as far away from him as she can. “Happy?” she says in a huff.
Coco and I smile. “Welcome, George,” I say brightly. “Pizza?”
fifteen
“I am tired of all your complainin’, woman. Like I said, the past is the past. Let it go!” Detrane is standing in front of my desk, pointing at Sharayray, who flutters her hands this way and that. She wears a blond wig and an old shawl I bought at Goodwill.
“But I miss what I had! I was, like, so beautiful when I was a girl. I was, like, all virginal and sweet.”
Laughter.
It’s early May, and now that my students have finished reading Long Day’s Journey into Night, I’ve asked them to contemporize a scene and act it out. We have roughly fifteen minutes left until the end of the school day, but no one watches the clock because everyone is focused
on Detrane and Sharayray’s performance.
Detrane falls to his knee and clutches his hand to his heart. “Baby, of course I remember how beautiful you were. I wanna be there for you, but you got to give up the crack! I can’t stand . . .”
Sharayray flutters her hands and waits for him to continue, but he starts gazing out the window as if he’s become dreamy-eyed, drug-addicted Mary Tyrone. Sharayray half whispers, half barks, “Finish your line!”
Detrane points his finger and leans toward the window. “Is that . . . Isn’t that . . . ?”
We all turn to see. The class is silent for a second before Tranica lets out a full-throttle squeal, “It’s Curtis Randolph!”
The entire class stampedes toward the windows.
“Everybody, back to your seats! Back to your seats!” But I’m ignored, and giving in, look out the window to see for myself. Sure enough. In a linen suit and loafers, Curtis stands next to a long, black limo. He’s talking on the phone while Tru makes his way around the car and opens the door for Margot, who’s also talking on the phone, clad in a barely-there minidress. The TV crew from her reality show hustles for the best shot of the school.
My students start shouting Curtis’s name. I can hear the classes on either side of us clamoring for his attention as well. I shout over the din of excitement and misplaced celebrity obsession as best I can. “Sit down this instant! I mean it!”
“But, Miss Nelson, it’s Curtis Randolph!”
“Ohhhh, he’s so fine!”
“Girl, I can’t believe this!”
I threaten to keep them after school if they don’t sit down, and reluctantly they go back to their seats, looking pitiful and pouty. I tap my hand nervously on my desk, wondering if something has happened to the girls or even Mom. Why else would they show up like this? Did something so horrible happen that they couldn’t phone? Then again, why the cameras? And if there was something serious to deal with, wouldn’t Margot have had the decency to wear something that reached midthigh at least? Eh, probably not. At any rate, it’s still my intention to keep my relationship with the football player a secret, and I figure I should stop them at the pass—so to speak.
I go to the classroom door and peek out the window. “Everybody, stay put. I’ll be right back.”
There’s already a commotion outside. Next door, Mr. Kirsner has lost control of his class, and his students are now rushing Curtis with torn pieces of paper and notebooks, anything he might sign. Mr. Kirsner yells at everyone to get back inside the classroom while Curtis laughs and signs his autograph. Margot stands to the side, the phone still pressed to her ear. The cameramen and the guy with the enormous mic, or what I’ve learned is called a “boom,” try to film the chaos while Tru does his best to push students back so Curtis can have some space. Then, John Jones, part of the school’s security team and always called by his full name, rushes past. “What the hell is going on in here?!” But when he sees what the commotion is about, he only goes for his walkie-talkie. “Gonzo, man, get over here right now! You won’t believe who I’m looking at! Stat, man! You gotta see this!” He then raises his phone in the air and starts snapping pictures.
Hearing all the noise, my students beg to be excused, but I stay put in front of the door. “Hold on a second!”
The director of the shoot asks John Jones something, and John Jones points to my classroom. The director then says something to Tru, who leads Curtis through the crowd and right to—“Sis!”
Curtis takes me by the neck and pulls me into his massive chest. He grips me so tightly I can’t see what’s going on and can only hear the hysteria breaking out. “Miss Nelson is Curtis Randolph’s sister!” “Oh my God, it’s Curtis Randolph! I’m going to faint!” He finally releases me, and I see all of my students on their feet and the boom above my head.
Margot makes her entrance next. “Surprise!”
Tru blocks the classroom door so no one can get in or out.
I pat my now-messed-up hair down and straighten the collar of my blouse. “What are you guys doing here?”
Curtis turns and faces his audience with a canned smile. “I am here to support MacDowell High. Thank you, youth of today!” He puts his arm around my shoulder and finds the camera guy, who’s made his way to the back of the room, and grins. “I believe in our youth! I believe in our schools!”
The director begins to clap, and the students follow suit.
Meanwhile, I try to push Curtis off, but he holds on tight. “I don’t want to be filmed,” I say through gritted teeth.
“This will only take a second,” he whispers back.
Margot takes my hand. She’s so close, several strands of her hair stray into my face, and the director has to motion for her to stand aside a little. She does and delivers her line: “It is my good fortune to be engaged to such a generous man.” She pauses and sends Curtis an air kiss. Strands of her hair land on my mouth, and I have to blow them off. She continues. “Curtis and I talked, and we both knew we wanted to give back to the schools. We want to help in whatever way we can.”
The director holds up an actual cue card, and Curtis begins to read robotically: “That’s right, Margot. Children, I want to tell you to stay in school. You want to be like me? You have to study hard. You are our future, and I am counting on you!” He and Margot let me go, and I step out of the frame. Curtis then starts shaking students’ hands and signing autographs. Several students take his picture. Jessica and Maddie try to yuk it up in front of the camera until Tru asks them to step aside.
“What the hell is going on?” I ask Margot. “Why are you guys here?”
She’s texting by now and hardly pays attention. “We’re here to help your school.”
“Right. Sure you are. What’s the real reason?”
“Can you give me a second?”
“Margot!” I’m ready to grab her phone, but then the director shouts, “Cut!” and Tru begins moving everyone back. “Time’s up! Give the man some space!”
Detrane comes over, jumping straight up in the air like a spawning salmon. “I got his autograph and his picture!” He then hugs me. “Why didn’t you tell us you know Curtis Randolph? That’s mad respect, Miss Nelson.”
Margot pauses her texting long enough to look at him. “She didn’t tell you?”
“You his girlfriend?” Detrane asks.
“Fiancée. I’m going to have my own TV show. My name’s Margot. The show is called Margot and Me. Tell your friends.” She offers a hand as though expecting Detrane to bow. They shake just as the bell rings.
I throw my head back in relief. Saved by the bell. “Out! Everybody out! Class is over! Go home!” Tru and I work together as we force them out of the classroom.
Once they’re all gone, the director closes the door. “Good work, Bart,” he says to the cameraman. “Now how about standing next to her desk for a wide-angle.”
“No, Bart,” I say. “Let’s not. Put me on film and I’ll sue. And you can’t show the kids either. Isn’t that illegal?”
“Their faces will be blurred. We’re here for Curtis and Margot. Actually, it would help us out if we could get a little more interaction between you and your sister. How about a hug?”
“Please, P?”
“I don’t think so.”
There’s a loud slapping sound at the window. Gladys is practically smashing her face in the pane as she peers inside. “Hello!” She waves. “Miss Nelson?”
“Tru, will you let her in, please?”
There are so many people outside the door by now that even Gladys has trouble making her way into the room. “Get back,” Tru tells the onlookers. “Stay back.”
“John Jones told me what was going on,” Gladys says, her eyes locked on Curtis. She walks toward him while straightening her suit and running her hands over her stiffly coifed hair. “Hello,” she chirps.
“Curtis, t
his is Mrs. Edwards, our principal.”
“How do you do, Mr. Randolph. It is such an honor. And thank you so much for your donation. We are so grateful.”
“You’re welcome.” Curtis takes her hand, and she does something I never would have guessed her capable of doing—Gladys giggles! She stands there and giggles as gaily as a schoolgirl. “It’s such a pleasure, Mr. Randolph. Heeheehee!”
“Call me Curtis.”
“Heeheehee!”
I tap her on the shoulder to get her attention. “Mrs. Edwards?”
“Oh yes,” she says, taking note of Margot.
“This is my sister, Margot.”
“How do you do.”
Margot finishes a text long enough to look up. “Fine, thank you. All of this is for my TV show, Margot and Me. It starts next fall.”
“Oh, how exciting!”
Margot turns to the director. “Should we go to her office to finish shooting?”
“Let’s do it here. We should capture how sorely in need of funds this place is. Bart, get that water stain up there.” Bart aims the camera toward the stain in the back of the room, then pans to the row of blackened windows in the back and down to the corner of the floor where the tile is coming up.
I suddenly see my room in a new light, through the eyes of strangers. Coming here day in and day out, I forget how much repair my room needs. “Hey, Bart, why don’t you at least get a shot of the artwork on the wall. There’s more here than dilapidation.” I point toward the pictures my students drew for last week’s unit. To appease me, Bart reluctantly holds the camera on a poster or two.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
Margot goes back to texting. “We need footage for the show.”
“Don’t worry, Sis. It’s all good.” Curtis turns back to Gladys and brings her hand to his chest.
“Heeheehee!”
“Mrs. Edwards—,” he begins.
“Gladys. Heehee!”
“Gladys. I’m here today to award your school some more money. I believe in student success, and I know this school needs some money. I want to give you money for scholarships and books.” He turns toward the camera and smiles.
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