by Pearl Cleage
“Welcome to the neighborhood,” he said, handing them across the table.
“Thank you,” I said, but I didn't move to pick them up, a little flustered at how fast everything was moving. “But you haven't even told me what the rent is yet.”
“A hundred dollars a month,” he said casually. “No deposit, no advance.”
“You can get a lot more than a hundred dollars a month for that apartment,” I said, instantly wary. “Why are you willing to let me have it so cheap?”
“I'm not in it for the money.”
“What are you in it for?”
Before he could answer, the tall man returned with a steaming cappuccino for me and another espresso for his boss. Mr. Hamilton waited until he glided back out before responding to my question.
“I'm a businessman, Ms. Burns. I own a lot of real estate, but the building you saw today is my home. It's the first place I bought when I came off the road for good, so it means a lot to me. I usually don't rent it out at all.”
“Then why make an exception for me?” I pressed him a little. The universe said I can't be ungrateful. It didn't say I'm not supposed to be careful.
“Would you be more comfortable if I said a thousand dollars a month?”
A thousand dollars a month? That wouldn't leave me enough to pay the weasel! “I can't pay a thousand dollars a month!”
He grinned at me. “So have we agreed you're going to take the place and now we're just haggling about the rent?”
Why was I trying to talk him out of renting me the place I wanted? Whether or not he had been searching the winds of time for me like Aunt Abbie seemed to think, this was no time to look a gift horse in the mouth.
“You're right.” I smiled. “The place is perfect for me. Can we start again?”
“Of course.”
He extended his hand. “Ms. Burns, I'm Blue Hamilton. I understand you're interested in one of my properties over on Lawton Street. Is that right?”
He fell so easily into the charade that I couldn't help grinning.
“I'm not paying over three hundred,” I said, pulling a figure out of the air, but knowing that a hundred dollars a month would make me feel beholden, and I didn't know him well enough yet to want to owe him.
“You're in luck,” he said. “That unit rents for two fifty.”
“You've got a deal.”
“Do you want it in writing?”
“Your handshake's good enough for me,” I said.
“I want to assure you,” he said as we shook hands again, “that you will be completely safe coming and going at your convenience.”
“You have that kind of control over crime in this neighborhood, do you?” I said, smiling pleasantly so he wouldn't take it the wrong way.
He smiled back. “I would never offer space to someone whose safety I couldn't guarantee.”
This was truly a scene out of The Godfather. All this brother needed was a consigliere waiting outside the door with a list of people requesting an audience, I thought, as the tall man's shadow appeared in the window of the frosted-glass door. He knocked softly and stuck his head in. Mr. Hamilton nodded almost imperceptibly, and the man withdrew without speaking.
“Is tomorrow too soon to move in?” I asked, conscious ofnot keeping him from his duties, whatever they might be.
“Tomorrow is fine.”
He didn't seem to be worried about time, but we had finished our business and our coffees. It was time for me to head back to my hotel. This had been a long day, and I was meeting Beth at her house for breakfast at seven thirty in the morning. I stood up.
“I don't want to keep you,” I said, getting up to go. “How hard is it to get a cab out front?”
Blue stood up immediately. “Not impossible, but I'm on my way downtown. Can I drop you somewhere?”
“I'm staying at Paschal's over on Northside Drive,” I said.
Paschal's Motel is an Atlanta institution, legendary for their famous fried chicken and for their frequent feeding ofbroke civil rights workers during the sixties as a way to support the movement without ruffling anybody's feathers. They had recently moved to an expanded facility and I wondered suddenly if Paschal's was in the no men acting a fool zone that Aretha had been talking about.
“Paschal's is right on the way,” he said, reaching for his coat on a hook near the door.
We climbed into the back of the black Lincoln for the ten-minute ride, and, in the dim confines of the car, his eyes glowed like sapphires. I wonder how long it takes to get used to having a friend with eyes like that. Not that we're friends, but if we were, could I sit beside him and not notice those eyes? I mean, don't Shaquille O'Neal's friends eventually get used to how tall he is?
“You're quite a negotiator,” he said. “You're not a lawyer, are you?”
“I'm a journalist.”
He raised his eyebrows slightly like he might want to reconsider renting me a place after all.
“I'm working as a consultant to a project at Morehouse,” I said quickly. “They're naming a building after Son Davis, and they need some help pulling it all together.”
“He deserves it.”
“Did you know him?”
“I respected his work.”
“That's nice to hear,” I said. “We were friends.”
“Then he's lucky.”
“Why is that?”
“Because you can be sure they tell his story the way he'd want it to be told.”
Spoken like a man who didn't know Beth Davis. The way she wants it to be told.
“That's my job,” I said.
Paschal's was coming up on the right. I congratulated myself for not commenting on his eyes, or falling into them, during the brief ride.
“I do appreciate the lift, Mr. Hamilton,” I said.
“My pleasure, and please call me Blue.” He smiled.
I smiled back. “Blue.”
The Lincoln glided to a stop in front of the hotel, and the driver stepped out to get the door.
“I'll be out of town on a fishing trip for the next couple of days,” he said, “but Aretha always knows where to reach me. I hope you will feel free to contact me if I can be of any assistance.”
“You're going fishing dressed like that?” I said, sliding toward the open door.
“Always,” he said, with another slow smile. “Let's the fish know I mean business.”
8
BETH'S HOUSE WAS AT THE END of a leafy cul-de-sac in an Atlanta suburb whose distinguishing characteristic is the presence of Stone Mountain, a granite monolith bearing the carved images of four Confederate generals on horseback. They were presumably riding off in defense of slavery and Scarlett O'Hara, but they now preside over an integrated community of working people who want to be close to the city, but not too close.
The formerly all-white community had flexed enough to accommodate the initial incursions of black folks and several waves of immigrants and the place was certainly more diverse than it used to be. The only thing that hadn't changed was the economic status of the residents. Polls show middle-class people tend to want the same things regardless of race: safe streets, good schools, city services. Poor people want those things, too, but nobody ever asks them about it, since they rarely vote, and opinion polls tend to be tied to who's running for something other than the border.
Son andBethboughtthishouse withher first roundof royalties from Son Shine. They ran the business out ofa well-equipped home office and still had space for staff. I lived in this house for almost five years while I was working for them. Turning up into the driveway still made my stomach clench just a little. I took a deep breath and reminded myself that I wasn't going hat in hand. She called me.
Her new assistant, a young woman who identified herself as Jade, showed me in, offered coffee, which I declined, and said Beth would be down in just a minute. The room hadn't changed much. There was still the oil portrait of Son and Beth over the mantel. There were still the framed honorary degrees and
overposed photographs of Beth with sponsors and celebrities. There were still Son's degrees and awards from first grade on, all neatly framed and arranged in a sort of mini-shrine. There were still the green velvet sofa and chairs where we used to sit and talk for hours, sometimes the three of us, sometimes in twos. It felt like home, except it wasn't. Not anymore.
From the beginning, Son had insisted that we hide our relationship from Beth, elope, and present our marriage as a fait accompli. I begged him to let me tell her, but he couldn't face her disapproval. I kept asking him why she would disapprove. I knew she liked me as an employee, so why not as a daughter-in-law? After I kept badgering him, one day he finally told me that when he had broached the subject with her, she had immediately dismissed the possibilities of a romantic connection between us by reminding him that I was “hired help” and not worthy of being his wife.
That hurt my feelings, but I never blamed Son, and we kept sneaking. Somehow she found out, and she went berserk. When she confronted him and he blurted out his plan to start up his own company based on developing a complementary male constituency, she accused me of planting the idea as a means to my own selfish ends, and him of being a cruel, ungrateful son who didn't seem to care that he was going to break his mother's heart and undo all the good work they'd done in the last ten years.
Then she cried. He was no match for all that, so he apologized profusely and decided to break my heart instead.
Beth entered the room like she always does, walking fast like she's got somewhere more important to go as soon as she dispenses with you. As usual, she was simply dressed in full-cut pants and a dark tunic, her salt-and-pepper hair brushed smooth and twisted back severely in a style that served to focus your attention on her face. She was as striking as I remembered her, with those big dark eyes and that wide, surprisingly sensual mouth, but she seemed to have aged ten years in the last two. The loss ofher son had clearly taken its toll, and I felt a pang of sympathy for her.
She must have seen it in my face because she relaxed a little and greeted me warmly.
“Gina!” She looked undecided about whether to hug me, so I stuck out my hand.
“Hello, Beth. It's been a long time.”
“Too long.” She looked at me like she really meant it.
“I'm sorry it took such a terrible thing to bring us together,” I said.
Her bottom lip trembled slightly, and her eyes filled up with tears. “I am, too,” she whispered, then cleared her throat as if to regain control of her emotions. “And thank you for coming. I know the circumstances might make these first few moments a little awkward, but for Son's sake, I hope that we can rise above all that.”
“I hope we can, too,” I said. For thirty thousand dollars, I'm sure we can.
This kinder, gentler Beth was not fooling me for a second. In the dictionary under hidden agenda, there should be her picture.
“I wanted to invite you to the memorial service at Morehouse in October,” she said, “but I didn't get any answer at your house and I didn't have another number.”
Of course, I was in rehab in October, but there was no reason to tell her that, just like there was no reason to believe she ever called me.
“That was thoughtful of you. Did you get the flowers I sent?”
I had sent a small bouquet, all I could afford at that point, to express my condolences. She offered me a sad, apologetic smile.
“There were so many flowers, but I know Son would have appreciated it.”
Jade came in with coffee service for two on a silver tray, smiled at me apologetically as if to say, You ain't got to drink it, but she told me to bring it, and left without a word. Beth poured us both a cup.
“Do you still take it black?”
I nodded. We each took a sip, then she set down her cup, walked over to the mantel, and turned slowly back to me. Beth is so theatrical, even in a small setting like her living room, every scene is played for maximum drama.
“Shall we put our cards on the table, Gina?”
“And what cards would those be?”
“I know where you were in October.”
I put down my cup. “Why doesn't that surprise me?”
“Is there any particular reason why you didn't mention it?”
Her tone was hovering somewhere between reproach and reprimand, and it pissed me off.
“I didn't mention it because it wasn't any of your business. You called me because you need my help. That's the only reason I'm here.”
“I thought you were here because you're about to lose your mother's house.”
Now that surprised me. Beth knew as much about the history of the house as the weasel did. When I considered her a friend as well as an employer, we talked a lot about growing up, and all my girlhood stories begin and end right in that house. How did she know I had almost lost it? Beth had an impressive network of professional and political contacts in Washington, especially since she had gradually intensified her flirtation with the Republican Party, to Son's chagrin, but I never expected this level of inside information.
“Have you been spying on me?”
Her smile was a study in insincerity. “Is it spying to be concerned about an old friend?”
“It isn't necessary,” I said. “I'm not hiding anything. I had a cocaine problem and I made some really stupid choices. I've been to rehab and I'm in the process of rebuilding my life.”
I sounded like a bad movie on the Lifetime channel, but I plowed on. “I'm doing this contract for the money and for Son. Anything else you'd like to know?”
“That about covers it,” she said, gliding back to the couch with a much more genuine-looking smile.
I had the feeling I had just passed one of her tests. She wanted to see if I would lie. She could have saved herself the trouble. Lying is as toxic as cocaine. When I gave up one, I gave up the other one, too.
“Good,” I said, “because now I have a question for you.”
She raised her eyebrows slightly.
“When are you going to tell me what I'm really doing here so I can get going on it or tell you to find somebody else to do your dirty work?”
The eyebrows stayed elevated. “Why do you assume it's dirty work?”
That question didn't require an answer, so I didn't dignify it with one. Her face relaxed a little, but she was still watching me.
“When Son died,” she said, “we were in the last stages of negotiations with a sponsor who was prepared to underwrite the kind of national tour we've always talked about. It was our dream, but when he was taken the way he was, I couldn't even think about touring, or anything else. …”
Her voice trailed off, and even I couldn't deny the pain on her face. She took a deep breath. “Then a few months ago, our sponsor reached out to me and said they were still very interested. When I suggested a national legacy tour, dedicated to Son's memory, they couldn't have been more enthusiastic.”
“Who's the sponsor?”
Her eyes flickered away from mine and then back, but veiled. “I'm sorry. I can't say right now.”
“No cigarettes or alcohol?” There are some things that can't be justified, even in dire economic straits.
She shook her head vehemently. “Of course not. I wouldn't cheapen Son's memory that way.”
“Good. Go on.”
“We're going to announce the tour in May when Morehouse dedicates the new communications center in Son's name, but …”
Again with the eye flickering. “But what?”
She stood up again, but this time out of nervousness, I think. “I can't afford to have anything go wrong.”
Now we were getting somewhere. “What could go wrong?”
She didn't say anything, so I took another sip of my coffee and waited. When she finally spoke, she chose her words carefully.
“I've had some phone calls. A few letters.”
“What kind of phone calls?”
“About Son.”
“What about Son?”
/> “He went a little crazy after you left him, Gina. He wasn't always as discreet as a man in his position should be.”
The idea that Son's equilibrium was thrown off by the way we parted was news to me. I was so surprised, I let her blatant misrepresentation of who left whom go unchallenged.
“He had a string of brief relationships with women he never would have considered his equals if he had been in his right mind—”
“And now they're calling you?” I said, cutting her off. The kinds of women Son might have had sex with on the rebound was of no interest to me.
She cringed at my directness. “Several of them have, yes.”
“Blackmail?”
She nodded, her disappointment in this posthumous manifestation of her son's imperfection written across her face. “It's nerve-wracking, especially with the dedication and the tour coming up. Lord knows, black folks don't need another hero with feet of clay. Jesse Jackson ought to be the last!”
Under the circumstances, Beth's indignation didn't quite ring true. “Your sponsors probably wouldn't like it either.”
Her eyes hardened along with her smile. “I'm sure they wouldn't.”
It all made sense to me now. “So you want me to go through his papers and make sure Son didn't leave any incriminating evidence lying around to mess up your deal?”
I was being cruel, but I didn't care. She had been cruel to me, and now we were even.
“You're as sharp as you ever were,” she said evenly. “I'm glad you haven't lost your edge.”
“Why don't you do it yourself?”
Then her face seemed to crumple in on itself. The tears that had been a promise earlier now came splashing down across her cheeks. She made no move to wipe them away, and I had to resist the impulse to offer her a tissue.
“Because I can't bear it,” she whispered. “I just can't bear to touch his things.”
I felt sorry for her. However she had treated me, Son had been her life, and now he was gone. All of sudden, she was just one more grieving mother who had lost a son and wanted him remembered a little better than he actually was. That wasn't a crime. I swallowed hard and resisted the urge to embrace her. You have to understand that Beth was not only my employer for five years. She had been my mentor, my teacher, my friend, my shero. She was trying to shape and activate a constituency that had never felt or experienced its real power, and I had wanted so much to be a part of that.