Hidden Hearts
Page 12
“You look lovely,” Mr. Rubenstein said to her. “What’s the occasion?”
“Oh, my sewing circle’s coming over, but I thought I’d get the rest of these cookies out of the way. I can always count on Mac.” She giggled and glanced at Mac, who remained at the foot of the stairs, his hat in his hand. The giggle died in her throat. “Is something wrong? Mac, don’t you want some cookies?”
He looked up slowly and something passed between them, a look written in a special adult code that she understood—and maybe Mr. Rubenstein.
“No, thank you, ma’am,” he said quietly.
She took a step but Mr. Rubenstein gripped her arm. She glanced at Kiah, still watching her father walk away.
“Why is Daddy mad?”
“He’s not mad, Kiah,” Mr. Rubenstein said. “He’s just not hungry.” And he muttered in a low voice that only Mama was supposed to hear, “At least for cookies.”
The four other sewing circle members arrived just as Mr. Rubenstein was saying his goodbyes. Mama stiffened as they got out of their cars and greeted him. Only Agnes McNulty flinched when his hand grasped hers. The rest of them acted as if it wasn’t a big deal to touch a Jew, and Clara Drew, the youngest member, actually smiled and asked a few questions about his business. Then Agnes insisted they were wasting precious circle time so he took his leave.
Mama directed Kiah and me to the kitchen while the ladies assembled in the dining room. We served the tea and set out the cookies, listening to the idle chatter of the four women who knew each others’ private lives intimately. Kiah and I excused ourselves with a stupid curtsy that Mama had insisted upon, and we went outside to climb the trellis and tiptoe back to the landing to listen.
“So who are all these ladies other than Ila?” she whispered. “Who’s the lady at the head of the table with the bad wig?”
I almost laughed and gave us away. Agnes McNulty’s wig, a clump of wavy brown hair, looked like a little dog lived on top of her head. She was an incredibly large woman today wearing a flowered dress that was definitely a size too small. The roses on her dress disappeared into the folds of fat like they were being pressed.
“That’s Agnes. She’s the head of the circle. She’s the top lady at the church and in charge of a bunch of committees. When we moved here Pops told Mama she had to get to know her. She was very important to our orange business.”
“Why?”
I shrugged. “Don’t know. The one across from Ila is Mary Rose. Don’t get mad, but that’s Billy Smith’s mama.”
She leaned forward and stared sharply at her. Mary Rose wore a skirt and a long-sleeved white blouse that looked too hot for summer. “I see the resemblance,” she murmured.
“And that’s Clara next to her. She’s actually really nice. She always says hi to us at church. I think she’s just trying to fit in.”
She was younger than Mama but not as pretty. Her blonde hair was in a bun, and she wore a silk dress so I knew she had money. But she kept her head down, focused on her needlework.
“I know I’ve told you this before, Lois,” Agnes announced loudly, “but I do believe this is one of the most beautiful dining rooms I’ve ever seen.”
“I agree,” Ila said. “I told Lois that very fact just yesterday when I brought her the loveliest thimble.” She searched Mama’s hand. “Where is it, Lois? Certainly another tornado didn’t strike last night,” she said and all the ladies laughed.
Mama gathered her thoughts. I remembered the toe of her shoe smashing the porcelain to dust and smiled. But what could she say to Ila?
“Ila, I meant to tell you before we sat down that I loaned it to that very nice black girl you saw yesterday. Do you remember her?”
“Oh, the one that Vivian is tutoring?”
Kiah snorted and I punched her in the arm.
“Yes. She’s a dear girl. Lost her mother, and she does all the sewing for her father. She asked to borrow it for a project and I didn’t feel right saying no.”
“Of course not,” Clara said. “How kind of you, Lois.”
“Absolutely,” Agnes agreed, but Ila still looked upset.
Mary Rose shook her head and said, “It was a Christian thing to do, Lois, but I doubt you’ll ever see that thimble again. Negroes are just so careless. I loaned a book to my Mabel, after she got on her high horse about learning to read, and she didn’t return it for nearly a month.”
“Maybe she wasn’t finished yet,” Mama said.
“Perhaps,” Mary Rose said. “But I didn’t make that mistake again. A month to return a loaned item is incredibly rude. I figured even the Negroes knew that,” she added acidly.
“Lois, dear, you could take a lesson from Mary Rose,” Ila said. “I think your Christian charity is admirable but perhaps misplaced. I wasn’t going to mention what I saw yesterday, but since Mary Rose has brought up the shortcomings of the Negroes, perhaps you should reflect on her wisdom.”
She set down her sewing and faced her. “What do you mean?”
She didn’t bother to look up as she explained. “Just that there are limits. There’s a point where charity becomes foolishness.”
“Absolutely,” Mary Rose agreed. “Have you heard that the school down the street is talking about letting those little Mexican children go to classes with white children?”
Ila gasped. “You mean they’d let them out of the basement?” She shook her head. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about. Lois, you need to hear all of this. Having Vivi tutor that girl is one thing, but allowing a black man to eat at your table—”
“What?” Agnes recoiled, pulling her fabric into her lap. Mary Rose seemed equally mortified.
“It wasn’t the table in this room,” Ila clarified.
“I would certainly hope not,” Mary Rose said.
Mama looked like she was facing a death squad. The pleasantness and charm she’d shown when they arrived was gone. “There is nothing wrong with being hospitable,” she said quietly.
Agnes sighed. “We certainly agree, Lois, but Ila is right about limits. Besides, I think you have other matters that need your attention.”
“And they are?”
The women glanced at each other before returning to their sewing. There was something they knew that Mama didn’t, and because Agnes was the head gossip she got to dish the dirt.
“Perhaps you need to attend to your own menfolk.”
“Why?”
“Clara, why don’t you explain?” Agnes directed.
She shot a dagger at Agnes before she touched Mama’s arm. “There are stories going around. Will and his friends got in a fight with some boys from the other high school.”
She looked shocked. We’d not heard anything about this. We barely saw Will.
“When?”
“About a week ago. Marvin said Chet came and got him from the police station.”
I knew Marvin was Clara’s brother—a police officer—so the story had to be true.
“Marvin agreed to let Will go with a warning, and Chet promised him it would never happen again.”
“Chet never mentioned it,” she said. She gazed at the table, avoiding Clara’s stare.
“When do you see Chet?” Mary Rose asked.
“Every evening at supper,” she lied.
“I was just wondering,” Mary Rose said calmly as she searched through her sewing kit. “Since I see the nursery truck over at Shirley West’s place most nights.”
The comment silenced them all and no one looked at Mama. Pops made deliveries all over Phoenix for Harper’s Nursery, and everyone knew he was the one driving the truck.
“And some mornings,” Mary Rose added, dropping the bombshell and a spool of blue thread at the same time.
“And she certainly is preening about in all of her new dresses,” Ila said. “Talks about them constantly at the beauty shop.”
“I didn’t know she could afford visits to the parlor, seeing as she’s only a cashier at the nursery,” Mary Rose said.
She chuckled proudly and launched into a long explanation of her captivating lesson. She’d been the Sunday school teacher for years and she was a good storyteller. She’d been my teacher a few years, before and we’d all sit on the edge of our seats while she recounted a story from the Bible. In the end she always reminded us that we were just inches from going to hell if we didn’t do what God or Jesus wanted. I remembered her directing those comments in my direction a lot.
I stared at Mama, who’d thrown her sewing onto the table. It wasn’t really anything special. She’d been working on a dress shirt for Will since last summer. Sewing circle was the only time she ever brought it out, and I guessed that by the time she finished it Will wouldn’t be able to get his arms through the sleeves.
She’d pulled out a cigarette and turned away from the table, facing the kitchen doorway. She sat and smoked while the four of them chatted about church and gossiped about other people. Nobody else spoke to her, not even Clara, although she kept stealing glances at her, like she wanted to make sure she was okay. She looked as if she was sitting on the sun porch, and I wondered if that’s where she imagined she was.
I turned to Kiah. Tears were streaming down her cheeks. “I thought white people were nasty to us, but y’all save the worst of it for each other.”
Re: Definitely Friends First! – 27 (Central Phoenix)
Date: 2010-06-13, 5:39AM MST
DFF,
I like your tone, baby, but who are u kidding? You want action. I’m interested in an NSA (that’s no string attached since u sound like u r new to the game.) I m here 4 a week at the Holiday Inn by the Airport. Im a fine looking woman with a bald kitty who likes to eat pussy. Be honest with urself and text me.
Posted by: WorldTraveler
Reply
Re: Definitely Friends First! – 27 (Central Phoenix)
Date: 2010-06-14, 4:22AM MST
You should meet me. I have a nice car. A REALLY nice car.
Posted by: MustangMama
Reply
Re: Definitely Friends First! – 27 (Central Phoenix)
Date: 2010-06-15, 7:03PM MST
DFF! This is the SECOND time I’ve replied to your posting. I’m starting to get pissed. I was nice and friendly in my first reply so you should’ve ansered back. It’s the polite thing to do! Or are you to high and mighty for us non-college educated girls. If you were so with it you’d already have a girlfriend!!!!!!!!
Posted by: BrooklynBornBaby
Reply
Chapter Eight
June, 2010
When six thirty rolled around most of the office staff were headed home grateful that Monday was over.
Her cell phone vibrated—Alicia. She hesitated for a second before dismissing the call.
She’d never seen this side of her—the daring risk-taker who screwed in public places. They’d always been rather traditional, and she imagined this brazen and bold approach to sex was due to Nadia’s influence. And while she’d never forget her ride on the ancient trolley car, she couldn’t fathom ending the first day of the work week fornicating in a movie theater or a bar restroom. As a girl from the Midwest she had her limits.
She stared at the files on her desk. For several more hours she could easily plod through the trivial cases Blanca kept dropping in her lap, but the files would be there in the morning. Since the Morgan debacle Blanca had only assigned her to grunt work either as punishment or a sign of her complete lack of trust in CC’s abilities.
Ding!
She sighed and checked the alert—another reply from BrooklynBornBaby, who was quickly moving to stalker status. Reply or else! Not exactly a specific threat but definitely annoying.
She’d debated whether to delete the ad but if she did, she’d never be able to respond to the handful of promising women whose responses she’d saved. She decided to go home and send at least two e-mails.
But when she got to her car and saw her old portfolio in the passenger’s seat, guilt overtook her as she recounted yesterday morning’s conversation she’d had with her mother.
“You’ll never believe what happened! We were at bingo last night and someone broke into the house!”
CC had nearly dropped the phone. “You’re kidding. Did they catch him?”
“No, Mrs. Cox saw a young man go through the basement window. He was only there a minute, and then he was gone carrying a book or something. She said it was the oddest thing. We called the police, but nothing was missing.”
CC’s heart pounded. “Wow, that is odd, Mom. Maybe he’d stashed something there and was getting it back. Did they ever catch him?”
“No, CC, I already said that.”
Fortunately her mother had drifted into her usual litany of praise about CC’s work as a lawyer and the basement theft was forgotten. And better still, the teenage neighbor CC had hired to steal her portfolio and ship it to Phoenix hadn’t been identified by old Mrs. Cox, who spent her days sitting at her front window, despite her limited vision.
She’d stolen from her parents. She couldn’t think about what it meant in the scope of her life. It was too depressing.
Her cell phone rang and she nearly dismissed it thinking it was Alicia, but Penn’s name popped up. “Hello?”
“Well, hello. What are you doing right now?”
“I’m going home,” she said warily.
“Come over. We’re having a barbecue and you’re invited.”
“I can’t,” she said instantly. “I’m not allowed—”
“We won’t talk about the case, at least not directly. You can bring your maybe or maybe not girlfriend if you want.”
“She’s not my girlfriend, really,” she said with exasperation.
“Then don’t bring her. But come. Please.”
The please got her. “I’ll be there in ten.”
The Honda easily found the enclave again, and she realized she wanted to know more about Jacob Rubenstein. There had to be a reason he’d kept the note, and still another reason why he’d never asked Viv’s family to leave. She wondered if he’d ever intended for anyone to know about it. And there was something very important that had happened at the enclave, of this she was sure.
She’d just turned off the motor when Penn popped the lock of the passenger door and joined her in the car, grabbing her portfolio as she sat down. CC immediately felt her nearness. She was a tall woman who didn’t naturally fit into an economy car, and her knees practically touched her chin as she contorted herself into the small bucket seat. She still wore the same cargo shorts but today her powder blue T-shirt read If You Choke a Smurf, What Color Does He Turn?
She flipped through the pages and stopped at one of CC’s early attempts at landscapes—a meadow not far from her Bloomington home. She studied several drawings until she landed on CC’s own version of a children’s book hero, Danny the Dachshund, who was looking out a window, waiting for his next adventure. She couldn’t remember exactly, but she was rather certain she’d picked a dachshund because it was the one dog she could draw well in ninth grade.
She waited for a sarcastic comment, but Penn eyed her with that look of interest she’d seen the day before. Suddenly the Honda seemed to be the size of a shoebox.
“You surprise me, Miss Carlson.”
“You can call me CC,” she offered, wondering what it would take for her to drop her suspiciousness. “Why did you invite me here? Are you trying to get me disbarred?”
Penn grinned. “Why would I do that? They’d just turn the case over to someone with more experience.”
CC’s temper rose. “And what are you implying?”
Penn ignored the question and jumped out of the Honda still carrying the portfolio. CC jogged to catch up with her. When she reached for it, Penn pulled it away.
“No
, no. I think we need to show this to Viv.”
“That’s not your decision,” she insisted, stepping in front of her. “Give me that back.”
She clutched it to her chest. “I’ll give it back, and I won’t say anything to Viv if you answer three questions.”
She thrust out her hand. “This isn’t a negotiation.”
Penn looked entirely unfazed, and CC made a mental note to practice the same expression in the mirror.
“Three questions.”
She heard laughter in the common area behind them. She imagined if the other tenants learned who she was, they’d want to barbecue her.
She glanced over her shoulder. “Okay,” she said. “What do you want to know?”
“First, what does CC stand for?”
She sighed, exasperated. “I’m not telling you that.”
Penn grinned and held up the portfolio while CC glowered.
“Cleopatra Cinquain.”
Penn’s jaw dropped. “What?”
“I’m not repeating it!” she spat.
Penn bit her lip to stifle a laugh. “How did your parents ever come up with that?”
“My father was a huge fan of Egyptian history, and my mother is a poet of sorts.” She reached for the portfolio, but Penn pulled it away.
“Not yet. Second question. Why did you quit drawing?”
She sputtered an incomprehensible response. She’d wondered the same thing many times, but no one else had ever asked since she left for college.
“Never mind,” Penn said. “I get it.”
The noise from the common area increased and she suddenly realized she’d made a mistake in coming here. She just wanted to leave. “What’s your third question?”
Penn glided past her, still holding the portfolio tightly under her arm. “I haven’t decided. I’ll let you know.”
“What?” she cried.
She hurried to catch up before she rounded the corner and faced the other residents, but her Bandolino pumps and Penn’s long stride made it impossible. Suddenly her right heel caught in a pothole and her ankle twisted as she dropped to the ground.