Save the Best for Last

by Bettye Griffin

  Her life was still far from perfect. Barry’s absence left an undeniable hole in her life, devoid of face-to-face human contact. She talked to him on the telephone daily, often twice, but hearing his voice wasn’t quite the same as seeing his amiable face, or even of knowing he was nearby, since it wasn’t as if she saw him every day. Genevieve’s workload had slowed down a bit with so many people away on vacation, so sometimes she merely sat in front of her large flat screen computer monitor or at the drafting table in her room and worked without venturing outside, wishing there was someone she could chat with just to help keep her sanity.

  She had kept in semi-contact with her two closest friends in high school, but neither of them currently lived in New York. Francesca Perry moved to Atlanta a few years back, and Olivia Oliveira was a star performer in a cruise ship revue and traveled all over the world. Genevieve felt certain that both of them would want to help her if they knew of her dilemma, but she also knew that the INS required more than friendship to sponsor someone for legal residency. Even with relaxed regulations, neither would be a candidate for reasons of geography. Cesca lived a thousand miles away, and Livvy spent most of her time in foreign ports.

  Genevieve hadn’t even been certain that Sy Rubin, a semi-retired attorney, would have fit the bill, since employers were considered the most appropriate candidates for sponsorship of non-citizens. But at least she could have gone to Sy to talk to or share a meal with. His wife of many years had died several years before, and the devoted couple had no children. She suspected that Sy had felt as lonesome as she did right now.

  Genevieve told herself it was just as well that Cesca and Livvy lived far away from New York. She didn’t want to put them at risk by making them privy to her secret.

  But she was desperately lonely, even in a brownstone full of people. Stan and Brenda worked during daytime hours, their college student children were rarely around, and, worst of all, she never saw Dexter anymore.

  She hadn’t seen him except in passing since the night they dined and danced at the Caribbean café. He seemed to have forgotten their goodnight kiss that night, as easily as he’d forgotten the awkward circumstances of their first meeting. She, on the other hand, thought about it often, even when she didn’t want to...like when she lay in bed alone at night.

  Genevieve had little contact with her landlords or their family, but Dexter had become a constant in her life in the time since she’d been hiding out at the Smith brownstone. Their shared kitchen and bathroom often showed signs of a quick cleanup on his part, which she’d learned meant that everything was left gleaming wet. Apparently he believed in air drying...or maybe he just didn’t have much time for the little extras.

  On the rare times Dexter was around at mealtimes, they always shared the kitchen table. With Barry gone, those mealtimes she and Dexter shared—which he usually had to rush through—were sometimes the only human contact Genevieve had in an entire day. She found herself looking forward to seeing him and feeling disappointed if she didn’t.

  But now he’d all but disappeared. She glanced at the contents of the refrigerator as she’d just given a thorough cleaning to in a fit of nervous energy. Dexter’s shelf was empty.

  She’d caught quick glimpses of him here and there since their dinner together, usually rushing out to one of his jobs and barely having time for more than a quick hello. The man must be a chronic oversleeper; he ran late more often than United Airlines. But the exhaustion of working sixty-five hours a week showed on his face, and now she hadn’t seen him at all in over a week. The counters were all dry, and the kitchen trash held not one empty Sprite bottle or Twinkies wrapping. When Genevieve saw Brenda during the week she’d asked about him, and Brenda did say he was still in residence. Maybe he’d taken to sleeping in the lounge at the hospital to save time of coming all the way uptown to rest. Genevieve hoped so.

  She couldn’t bear the thought of him having moved out without saying goodbye to her. The thought of not seeing him again filled her with a hollowness she couldn’t define.

  Barry had been gone a week when on Friday, all caught up with her projects and facing an empty weekend, Genevieve found herself wondering with increasing curiosity about what was happening at home on Eighty-Fourth Street. She considered going down in the middle of the night and slipping into her unit, reasoning that she could give it a thorough cleaning without anyone seeing her, but then she changed her mind. If she went before midnight she could find out what she needed to know from a person she implicitly trusted.

  Just before eleven-thirty she tucked her hair inside a baseball cap and went outside to hail a cab. She asked the driver to stop in front of the building next door, hoping to be as inconspicuous as possible. The street was quiet for a Friday night, for many residents of the area either owned weekend homes or had been invited as guests to someone else’s retreat. Genevieve waited, wanting to make sure she approached Z.L. during a lull in foot traffic.

  She asked the driver to wait and got out of the taxi. Z.L. looked at her curiously as she walked toward him, not recognizing her with her hair covered.

  “Hi, Z.L.,” she said softly when she was within two feet of him. “It’s me.”

  “Jeniskha?” He broke out into a grin, his curly white hair and round cheeks reminding Genevieve of Santa Claus without the beard. He held his arms outstretched. “Finally you come home!”

  She gave him a quick hug. “Yes. Z.L., I hate to ask you this, but it’s very important that you don’t tell anyone you saw me. I can’t tell you what’s going on, but it’s for your own protection.”

  “Jenishka, are you in trouble? Does this have to do with the people who are looking for you?”

  “Someone’s been looking for me?”

  “The same man as before. This time he had a lady with him. They came one time, about a month ago. Joe tells me they came once during his shift before that.” Z.L. referred to his colleague who manned the door between noon and six p.m. “Are you in trouble, Jenishka?” he repeated. “Is there something I can do to help?”

  She breathed deeply. It was just as she feared. The INS had never stopped looking for her, even though she was supposed to be out of town. “I’m okay, Z.L. And thank you very much for offering, but there’s nothing you can do except not let anyone know I’m in the city.”

  He covered his eyes with his palm for a few seconds. “I see nothing.”

  “Thanks, Z.L. I’ve got to go now. You take care, huh?”

  “Don’t you even want to go upstairs and see your place, even for a minute?”

  “Unfortunately, I can’t,” she said wistfully. “I might run into one of the neighbors. It’s better this way. There’s probably cobwebs growing in there after all this time, and I won’t want to leave until I clean it all up.”

  He walked with her to the waiting taxi and opened the door for her, closing it when she was seated in the rear. “No, no. Helen, she’s keeping the place nice and clean for you. She told me she dusts every week and vacuums every couple of weeks. So don’t worry about that. You just work to solve your problem so you can come home.”

  As Genevieve waved goodbye to Z.L., she made a note to send the super’s wife a check for cleaning her apartment.

  Then she sat back, staring unseeingly straight ahead. How long did she really have until the INS caught up with her in Harlem, she wondered. Were her days as a free woman of means about to come to an end?

  For months now she’d been trying to come up with another option to stay in the country legally besides entering into what would be a disastrous marriage, but to no avail. From the looks of things, she needed to think of something like her life depended on it.

  Because it did.

  Genevieve slept uneasily that night. Because it was Saturday she got up later than usual. After showering and straightening up her room, she went to the kitchen to prepare breakfast, although it was nearly noon.

  She froze. Was that a door opening? Could it be...“Dexter?” she said tentatively.r />
  His tall frame filled the doorway. “Hey, Gen.”

  Genevieve’s smile quickly faded. He looked awful. His gray scrubs looked rumpled, as if he’d literally fallen into bed last night without undressing. The eyes of his handsome face had dark circles underneath them, he looked even thinner than he had the first time she met him, and his curly hair was all matted. If he’d gotten his hair cut since the last time they saw each other he now needed another one. His facial hair had grown thicker and fuller, masking a painfully thin face.

  “How are you, Dexter?” she asked, hoping she sounded casual rather than fearful for the state of his health.

  “I’ve been better.”

  I can see that. “Are you rushing off somewhere, as usual?”

  “Not today. I’m off, from both jobs.”

  “I was just about to fix some lunch. Um...I haven’t seen any of your stuff in the fridge lately. Are you eating out?”

  “Every chance I get.” He grinned, for the first time looking like the handsome and personable man she remembered.

  But she didn’t buy it. He was eating very little, probably just enough to be functional. No wonder he had lost weight. He’d probably cut back on his food allowance so he could put every cent he could toward his college tuition, desperate to return to class for the fall semester. She knew the frustration he must feel. With just one semester to go, he was so close to earning his degree, but blocked by circumstances beyond his control that postponed completion indefinitely. But if Dexter continued not eating he’d end up as one of those hospital patients he despised, diagnosed with malnutrition and exhaustion. Surely there was something she could do to help him.

  “Tell you what,” she said brightly. “You’ve got a day off, and I’d love some company. Why don’t I take you to lunch? My treat.” At least that way he’d get a good meal. It hurt Genevieve to see anyone not getting enough to eat. Barry chided her about always giving to panhandlers on the street, saying that the plight of the homeless and hungry was too big a problem for her to take on single-handedly. Genevieve liked to think she’d inherited her giving ways from her father. He’d died because he couldn’t bear seeing his fellow citizens live in such abysmal conditions when the influx of foreign dollars meant that every person on that island should have medical and dental care, and more than enough to eat.

  She didn’t want to upset Dexter’s pride, but nor would she be able to continually invite him out to lunch without him catching on to what she was trying to do. She really didn’t see him often enough to invite him out regularly, but there were other ways to make sure he ate. She could do a little cooking and make more than she needed, then leave some for him in the fridge with a note.

  He shrugged. “That’s awfully nice of you, Gen, but it really isn’t necessary.”

  “I’d like to. I haven’t seen you in ages. C’mon.”

  He hedged for a moment before finally consenting.

  “Whenever you’re ready, but try to remember that I’m awfully hungry, so don’t take too long, huh?” The sooner he got a good meal into his stomach, the better, she felt.

  “I’ll shower in record time.”

  They leisurely walked down One-Twenty-Fifth Street, which bustled with shoppers, children holding tight to their mothers’ hands, and street vendors on this sunny summer afternoon. Music from the vendors’ portable radios filled the air with hip hop, Latin, and everything in between. Dexter looked much better once he’d changed into a fresh short-sleeved polo shirt in light blue, and crisply pressed jeans. But he still looked too thin.

  “Ouch!”

  “You all right?” Dexter quickly asked.

  “Yeah. I stubbed my toe. I didn’t see the rise in the sidewalk.”

  “Maybe you should take off your sunglasses,” he suggested. “You really don’t need them. It’s kind of overcast today.”

  She shook her head. “No, I’m fine.” Barry had been right about her being much less conspicuous in this neighborhood, surrounded by hundreds of brown-complexioned people, but she still covered up whenever she set foot outside the Smith brownstone. She usually tucked her hair inside a baseball cap and wore large sunglasses to cover her eyes, and today was no exception.

  Dexter took her arm and linked it through his. “At least hold on to me. I’ll feel better if you’re not at risk of falling.”

  Genevieve held on to his arm as they walked down the street. Her lenses weren’t so dark that she didn’t recognize the envious looks the women they passed threw her way. She almost wished she could assure them that she and Dexter were just friends, despite her arm being linked through his...and despite the thrill she got from having any contact with him.

  Still, she’d better watch where she was walking. It would be just her luck to fall on her face and end up in an emergency room, making it easier for the INS to catch up to her.

  She sighed heavily. Would she be able to think of something to save herself? Or would someone tap her on the shoulder, flash a badge and tell her she needed to go with them?

  Her stomach began doing the familiar somersaults, and she doubted she’d be able to eat a thing, despite telling Dexter she was starved. Disaster could be just a few steps behind her.

  There was only way to rid herself of that thought. She looked over her shoulder and glanced at the faces of the pedestrians behind her. She felt better at seeing no one who looked out of place on One Hundred Twenty-Fifth Street.

  The next thing Genevieve knew, she was up close and personal with the sidewalk.

  “Gen! What the heck happened?” Dexter bent over to help her to her feet.

  “I’m not sure. I was looking at something that caught my eye...I guess I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going.” She brushed invisible city dirt off of her sleeveless blouse, then adjusted her sunglasses, which sat askew on her nose. She’d skinned her knee in the fall, but there was minimal blood, although it did sting a little.

  “You really need to take those things off,” Dexter repeated. “The brim of your hat will keep what little sun there is out of your eyes.”

  “I’m all right,” she said stubbornly, but inside she wanted to weep. How could she think through all this trepidation?

  Somewhere between the store featuring Black Liberation t-shirts and the one that sold both fresh and cooked fish, the idea popped into Genevieve’s head with such ease and simplicity that she wondered why she hadn’t thought of it before now. It came to her with a rush similar to the one she got when she suddenly figured out the pivotal plot twist of a movie.

  But a movie was one thing. This was real life, her life. She needed more than an analytical mind to make this work, she needed cooperation. This was insane. She barely knew Dexter. How could she ask him to help her? She needed more time to think this out, to even put it on paper so she could weigh the pros and cons.

  But she didn’t have time for that. With Dexter’s breakneck schedule, it might be another four or five weeks before she even saw him again. She dismissed the idea as far too outrageous, but it wouldn’t go away. And why not, she reasoned. It solved everything. She would get what she needed, Dexter would get what he needed, and it would put Barry on the path toward getting what he needed...a wife who loved him passionately.

  Before they reached the end of the block she decided it was a perfect plan, and to go ahead and ask Dexter. All he could do was refuse. She just had to stress that it would be purely a business arrangement, something from which they could both benefit, with no feelings involved other than mutual respect. She’d already experienced that awful hemmed-in feeling when Barry talked about the great life and family they would have together. No way was she going through that again. Keeping it remote was the best way to go.

  She’d just have to trust her instincts...plus cross her fingers that she could trust Dexter not to betray her to the government. He was, after all, an attorney in training. At least she knew he didn’t plan to work in a government capacity; that would automatically make him ineligible.
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br />   There was one other thing she had to do, something she knew might not be so easy. She had to forget about that kiss they shared, that same kiss that had filled her thoughts just about every night, even if most times she successfully chased it away.

  At her suggestion, they stopped in at a small luncheonette on Lenox Avenue. The furnishings consisted of a long counter and five booths against the wall. They took the booth furthest in the back. The restaurant was so small they didn’t even have printed menus. The waitress set up a blackboard on a stand for them to look at. When she came back five minutes later to take their order, Genevieve requested the fried whiting sandwich, praying she’d be able to eat it.

  “I’ll have a fudge brownie a lá mode for now,” Dexter said. “I’ll let you know later what kind of sandwich I want.”

  Genevieve stared at him in disbelief. “You’re starting with dessert?”

  “Why save the best for last? When I eat I usually skip ahead to the good stuff.”

  She smiled. “You’re just too much, you know that?”

  “That’s what the last woman I went out with said.”

  She choked on her iced tea. She hadn’t expected him to reply with a double entendre. It amazed her that, given his financial difficulties, he managed to have a sense of humor at all. He must really love sweets, if the mere anticipation of a fudge brownie a lá mode could put him in such a good mood. She could hardly believe he’d ordered that. The man looked like he hadn’t had a decent meal in weeks. He needed meat, potatoes, vegetables, not chocolate, ice cream, whipped cream, and hot fudge.

  “Don’t look so worried. I promise I’ll eat something solid as well.”

  “I’m going to hold you to that.”

  “It’s nice to know you care,” he said quietly.

  Her reply was equally simple. “Yes, I do.” She wanted to tell him it always troubled her to see people struggling, but it wasn’t her intention to come off sounding like Mother Teresa. Besides, the way Dexter spoke made this much more personal, like a matter just between the two of them.