by Pearl Cleage
He rolled right over her objection. “I got some stories for you. How about a guy getting blown up on the day before he was scheduled to go home to his wife and kid? How about a guy getting shot in the head the first time he ever went out on patrol? How about guys dying over there every day, scared to death, crying like little bitches, shitting their pants? Ain’t no heroes when you ridin’ in a convoy and you see the truck right beside you blown to kingdom come and your buddy’s brains all over the road and somebody holdin’ what’s left of their leg in their hand, screamin’ for their mama, and the Iraqi kids standin’ around, laughin’, hopin’ we all die so they can take what’s left of what we got. And you know what else? That ain’t even nothin’ special. That’s just an ordinary day, every day.”
She was watching him intently. She didn’t say anything, but her eyes were round as silver dollars. He leaned over then and grabbed her hands and she let him. It was as if they were alone in the midst of the early-morning commuters and camera-laden tourists from around the world. Suddenly he felt nineteen, young and vulnerable and stupid for getting himself in this position in the first place.
“I’m not goin’ out like that,” he whispered between tightly clenched teeth. “If I’m goin’ down, I’m goin’ down for something I believe in.”
“What do you believe in?” she said softly.
Baby Brother sat back slowly. “I believe in saving my own ass. Period.”
The chirp of Zora’s cellphone startled them both. She fumbled in her coat pocket.
“Hello?… Yeah, I’m still here. Where are you?… Out front where?… Okay. I’m on my way.”
She flipped the phone closed and looked at Baby Brother. “I’ve got to go. My girlfriend’s here to pick me up.”
He didn’t say anything as she slipped her arms into her coat and picked up her bag. He could have gone to college. His father was always on him about it, but he never cared about the future. Not until he didn’t see one. When she stood up to go, he did, too.
“It was good to meet you,” Zora said, extending her hand again. “I hope I didn’t upset you.”
He took her hand and held it. “What do you believe in?”
“I believe in you,” she said. “A lot of us do. If you decide not to go back. There are people who can help you.”
“Help me how?”
“Legally, financially, whatever you need.”
That sounded promising. “Oh yeah? So where are all these people who want to help me?”
“We’re everywhere,” she said. “I’m up here for a conference of other students from all over the country who are working for peace and I volunteer with a program in Atlanta that works with veterans.”
“Do they work with deserters?”
Her cellphone chirped again. “Listen, I gotta go, but take this.”
She fumbled in her backpack for a pen and a scrap of notebook paper, scribbled down a name and a telephone number, and handed it to him. Assuming it was her number, he took it gladly, but when he took a look, he frowned.
“Samson Epps?”
“He’s in charge of the vet program I was telling you about. If New York doesn’t work out, think about Atlanta.”
“Is that where you’ll be?” This woman was getting ready to walk out of his life and she was much too fine to let her go that easy. He needed more information fast.
“I’m in school at Spelman,” she said. “I’ve got another year before I graduate.”
“So I can’t get your number?”
“If you get to Atlanta, call Dr. Epps. He’ll know where to find me.”
“So I gotta go through Samson to get to you?”
She smiled. “I have to go.”
“Don’t you trust me?”
“I don’t know you.”
“But don’t I have an honest face?”
“You have a baby face. That’s not the same thing.”
Her cellphone chirp was getting more frequent and more insistent. “I really gotta go.”
“I’ll walk with you,” he said, picking up her bag and tossing twenty dollars on the table to cover the check and tip the waitress whose inviting smile had faded from his mind the minute Zora had sat down across from him.
“Okay,” she said, giving him another great smile.
They were about the same height, and as he allowed her to pass out of the restaurant before him, he glanced down at her behind to see if it was as exemplary as her breasts. It was.
“So when is this meeting you’re going to?”
“This afternoon,” she said. “Three o’clock at Ira Aldridge Theater on the Howard campus.”
“Do I need a ticket to get in?”
Her hair bounced when she walked just like her behind.
“Tell them I invited you. I’ll be there early since I’m on the program. If you have any trouble, tell anybody with an AASAW badge to come get me.” She pronounced the acronym like it was a word.
“Aasaw?”
“African American Students Against the War.”
“Right, right,” he said as they stepped out into the fall sunshine. It was warm enough in the daytime. The hawk only seemed to come out at night. “Slipped my mind for a minute.”
“There’s my friend,” Zora said, pointing to a young woman waving wildly in their direction. Homeland security in the nation’s capital required cars around the station to keep moving and a frowning D.C. police officer was heading in her direction. They hurried over and Zora’s friend popped the trunk so Baby Brother could toss the bag in.
“Hey, my sister!” said her friend, giving Zora a quick hug and eyeballing the young soldier who was accompanying her.
“Hey, Rita,” Zora said. “This is my friend Wes.”
“The more the merrier,” Rita said. “Hop in.”
“He’s not coming with us,” Zora said quickly. “We just had coffee.”
“Maybe I’ll see you later,” Baby Brother said, wondering if it would be acceptable for him to kiss her in a friendly sort of promissory way.
“I’d like that,” Zora said, leaning up to brush her lips lightly across his cheek before she jumped in the car beside Rita. “Take care of yourself.”
Baby Brother grinned, and ran his fingers across his face where her lips had touched him. “Count on it.”
19
Abbie was a fast walker. In excellent shape, she liked to move quickly enough to get her heart pumping merrily along like it belonged to a woman twenty years younger, although she didn’t care anything about looking like she was twenty years younger. She wanted to look like who she was—a healthy, vigorous, sexually vibrant woman of almost sixty who was on the verge of taking a lover. Well, she thought, maybe a little further along than on the verge. In the midst of was probably a better description.
Being a man, Peachy had assumed that when Abbie suggested it might be time for them to have sex, she meant sometime within the next few hours. Over dinner, she had explained to him that she thought it would be better if they waited until she came back in two months for the harvest moon. The disappointment on his face at this suggestion was so comically tragic that for a moment, she almost reconsidered and led him upstairs to bed for a night of spontaneity and improvisation. But that would have been careless. It was trusting spontaneity that had gotten her into trouble the last time she had sex.
At this point in her life, Abbie knew miscommunication was a recipe for sexual disaster, but only if she didn’t speak to Peachy honestly. Only if she didn’t introduce him to her body with the loving care it deserved and then meet his with the same tenderness and willingness to laugh at the changes age always brings. After fifty, she knew, a sense of humor was as vital to good sex as privacy and a good mattress.
One of the things Abbie liked most of Peachy was his laugh. It was big and loud and rowdy enough to draw the startled gaze of those who heard it break out in restaurants where most people contented themselves with a discreet chuckle or two. She wanted to hear Peachy laugh naked. Just
the thought made her smile. She was glad she had invited him back for breakfast.
The sun had broken through the morning clouds as she walked and the sky had gone from gray to brilliant blue. Abbie stopped to watch a tardy shrimp boat chugging up from the Savannah River channel and out to where the early risers were already hauling in the first catch of the day. The swoop and cry of the gulls over the gentle breaking of the waves made her heart almost ache at the beauty of the scene. She considered days like this gifts from a universe so bountiful with blessings that it could create these moments without requiring anything at all in return.
“Thank you,” Abbie was saying out loud to whatever spirits might be listening. “Thank you.”
“Well, you’re welcome,” Peachy’s voice said behind her, “but I haven’t done anything yet.”
Turning to find him standing there with a smile on his face and a piece of driftwood in his hand like a walking stick, she laughed. “Good morning! I didn’t hear you come up.”
“I’m surprised you couldn’t hear me huffing and puffing for the last half mile.”
“Your knee again?”
He grimaced slightly. “I guess I can cancel the NBA as a second career option.”
She smiled. “Were they under consideration?”
“The only thing under consideration is you, sweet thing,” he said, smiling back. “Why else would I be walking my half-crippled ass this far down the beach?”
“You ready to head back?”
“I’m not sure I can keep up with your pace.”
“I’ll slow down for you,” she said, linking her arm through his.
“Sure you don’t mind?”
“Not a bit.”
They fell into an unhurried stroll that didn’t tax Peachy’s knee. The sun on Abbie’s face felt wonderful and she squeezed his arm a little tighter.
His elbow pressed gently against her breast. “You smell good.”
“Patchouli.”
He nodded. “I know. The other day, I stopped into a candle shop in town and they were burning some patchouli incense. The place was full of the smell of it and I had to leave or risk having a physical reaction that a gentleman tries to control in public so as not to frighten women and children.”
“You mean you—?”
He nodded, grinning at her blush.
How long had it been, Abbie wondered, that just the memory of her smell had given a man an inappropriate erection?
“You better be careful.” She laughed. “You’ll be banned from the island for lewd behavior.”
“I’ve got a head full of lewd behavior,” he said, “but don’t worry. I’m saving it all for you!”
“Promise me something.”
“Anything.”
“When we…” She suddenly felt shy as a schoolgirl. “When we make love, don’t do anything that doesn’t feel good. If your knee hurts, just tell me and we’ll work around it.”
He was so happy that she had said “make love” he forgot the throbbing in his knee for a second. “It’s a deal.”
“And I’ll do the same,” she said. “If it doesn’t feel good, I’ll let you know.”
“I do have some experience with that,” he said, a look she couldn’t identify flickering across his face. “When Lillie was sick, sometimes she still wanted us to be… close.”
Peachy was searching for the right words.
“Tell me,” Abbie said softly. “It’s okay.”
“I wanted her so much, but I was afraid I might hurt her,” Peachy said, looking out at the whitecapped waves sparkling in the sunshine. “So I didn’t want to, but she told me she’d let me know if it didn’t feel good, so I didn’t need to worry about it.” He turned back to Abbie. “Is that what you mean?”
She nodded. “Yes, that’s what I mean, but you know what?”
“What?”
She leaned over and kissed him lightly on the mouth. “I’m not sick. I’m just sixty, and that’s another thing all together.”
As if to prove it, she stepped away from him, gave herself a running start, and did a perfectly executed cartwheel right there at the edge of the ocean. She ended with a big grin and outstretched arms like she was captain of the cheerleading squad and her team had just scored the winning touchdown. He was so surprised and delighted, all he could do was throw back his head and laugh in that loud, rowdy way that always made her laugh, too.
On the upper balcony of his beach house, Blue Hamilton lowered his binoculars and looked at his wife, who was staring in the same direction. “Did Miss Abbie just do a cartwheel?”
“Yes, I think she did,” Regina said, amazed. They had just arrived from Atlanta to surprise Abbie and Peachy with their baby news. Finding the house empty, they had gone outside to scan the beach.
“You don’t think she read our minds, do you?”
It was an ability Abbie shared with Blue, but Regina shook her head and grinned at her husband. “No, sweetie,” she said, waving as Abbie and Peachy headed in their direction, walking arm in arm. “I don’t think that cartwheel had a thing to do with us.”
20
Precious Hargrove and Lee Kilgore were two of a kind. Smart and ambitious, they radiated the kind of confidence that comes with being at the top of your game and having enough sense to know it. Sitting in her large, light-filled office at Mandeville Maids, where she had served for the last two years as president and CEO, Precious was listening closely to Captain Kilgore. The two women knew each other only slightly, and this was the longest conversation they’d ever had.
Precious Hargrove’s political ambitions were no secret to Lee or to anyone else in Atlanta who had been paying any attention at all. Precious had entered the arena as a young single mother, passionately indignant about the deterioration of her West End neighborhood. With no political experience but an abundance of energy, sincerity, and intelligence, she was able to handily defeat the incumbent and take a seat in the state legislature the day before her twenty-fifth birthday. At the swearing in, her son, Kwame, only seven years old, was proudly wearing his first dark suit and a tie he had learned to knot all by himself in honor of the occasion.
Since that first victory, Precious had worked tirelessly on behalf of her constituents. She had spearheaded efforts around the state on behalf of women and children and cosponsored a statewide voter registration drive with SonShine Enterprises that had signed up and energized over one hundred thousand new voters. Just two years earlier, speculation was high that when the popular Democratic governor finished his second term, Precious would run with his blessings and the full support of the party and its formidable statewide machine.
But then the national political winds changed and blew through Georgia with enough force to blow the Democrats out of control at the statehouse for the first time since Reconstruction and Precious had to be realistic. Her statewide plans were definitely over. She knew she was standing at a crossroads. Was being a state senator from West End as far as she could go politically? It was time to regroup and weigh her options. The opportunity to step in and run Mandeville Maids after its founder was sent to jail for her involvement in a multistate prostitution ring came at the perfect time. When Blue Hamilton joined the chorus of voices asking her to take the job for two years until the company could find a new chief operating officer, she agreed to do it.
Although his complicated position in the community often required that Blue play a less than public role in her political life, she considered him not only a friend but an adviser who had never steered her wrong. Of course, she knew the stories about Blue Hamilton having inhabited previous lives before he showed up this time around in Atlanta. One tale made him the leader of a far-flung empire who’d ruled with a just but unwavering hand. Another made him a Roaring Twenties gangster who’d been shot dead in the streets of Harlem. Another said he’d been a pirate, and the stories went on and on.
Even after almost twenty years of friendship, she still didn’t know whether she believed any of the s
tories about Blue, and she still didn’t have the nerve to ask him to explain. All she knew was that his political instincts were impeccable. She trusted him absolutely. Based on his advice, she’d stopped worrying about being the governor, and thrown herself into the daunting task of rebuilding Mandeville Maids.
She carefully reassured the company’s regular customers that their high level of service wouldn’t change and expanded employee benefits to include free, on-site day care. She instituted a package deal for busy young professionals that included cooking and cleaning at one low price and organized her workers into teams that allowed them more independence and greater productivity. It was an ambitious plan of attack, but Precious knew she had to make immediate changes that everyone could see if the business was going to survive. If it didn’t, a thousand women would be out of work.
Precious had never worked harder. In fact, she barely had time to respond to the barrage of calls she got when Councilman Buford Long, the ambitious front-runner in the upcoming mayor’s race, was named in a federal indictment for influence peddling and money laundering. The news did not take her by surprise. She had received a call from Blue the night before it hit the papers. He already knew about the indictment, although he didn’t say how and she didn’t ask him. When he inquired about her plans in the face of this latest development, she didn’t hesitate.
“I intend to run,” she said immediately.
“I hoped you’d say that,” Blue said. “If you need my help, let me know.”
“I always need your help. This doesn’t change that.”
“Just remember that when you get to city hall.”
“Do you really think I can win?”
“If I didn’t, I’d be talking to whoever I thought could beat you.”
She laughed, but she knew he wasn’t kidding. “Then I count myself lucky.”
“Me, too,” Blue said. “We’ve been working together a long time.”
“Ever since I asked you to contribute to the uniforms for Kwame’s baseball team.”