The Crossroads Cafe

by Deborah Smith

  “Yes, fine, but . . . we’ve got to address the current problem. She’s defensive, belligerent, foul-mouthed and violent.”

  “Well, so am I, on occasion.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Come on, she’s a walking target for the other kids. Do you have any other mixed-race children in this school? I mean black-white, like Ivy.”

  “Contrary to what you may think, people around here are not mouth-breathing Ku Klux Klanners, all right? We’ve got students with Native American backgrounds, East Indian backgrounds, Asian backgrounds and Hispanic backgrounds. Ivy’s problems aren’t racial, they’re personal.”

  “Can’t we agree that her touchiness is understandable?”

  “Punching other children in the mouth is not ‘touchiness.’ It’s antisocial behavior.”

  “You don’t have to mention this incident to her caseworker, Mrs. Ganza, do you?”

  “Yes, I do. I’m sorry.”

  I glanced around the office. My eyes lit on a fund-raising poster. “What if I make a large donation to the school?”

  “Don’t try to bribe me, Cathy.”

  “Oh, I’m not, I promise you. I’ll make the donation anyway, all right?”

  “Thank you.”

  This was not going well. I’d never had to bargain with people in the old days. Getting what you want is easy when you’re rich, famous and beautiful; good-looking celebrities get away with a lot. I sagged a little. “Exactly what did the other child say to her?”

  “I’ll call her in and let her tell you herself.”

  A few seconds later Ivy slunk into the office. Her black, goth-style backpack hung from one shoulder. Her hands were shoved into the pockets of oversized camo pants, her shoulders made a miserable hunch inside a faded pink Hawaiian shirt over a blue sweater. A half-dozen woven bracelets lined each pale-brown arm, and her reddish-brown hair sprang from my white-girl attempt at frontal corn rows like a wild, high hedge. I’d wanted so often to offer fashion and makeup advice, but her streetwise-goth-tomboy attitude made it clear she didn’t want any part of my girly nonsense.

  When she saw me she halted and stared. “How’d you get here alone?”

  “I drove.”

  Her eyes widened with fear. “Is something wrong with Thomas?”

  “No. He’s supervising the construction work at home.”

  “So you . . . drove here by yourself? You must really be pissed at me.”

  “No, I was worried about you. Tell me what happened.”

  She frowned. “I’m not apologizing.”

  “I didn’t ask you to. Just tell me the truth about what happened.”

  “Some douche-bag called me names. I punched him in the braces.”

  “What did he call you?”

  She shifted uneasily. “Who cares? Let them suspend me. I don’t give a—”

  “You’ve used up your quota of indelicate language in front of me and your principal.”

  Ivy grimaced, chewed her lower lip then shrugged. “Let them suspend me. I’ve got nothing to say.”

  The principal sighed. “The victim of Ivy’s attack called her a ‘fat, ugly, nappy-haired nerd.’ He’ll be disciplined for that.”

  Ivy stared at me unhappily. “‘Nappy-haired’ is redneck for ‘nigger.’”

  The principal scowled. “It most certainly is not.”

  “I know when somebody’s calling me that name. I’ve heard it plenty of times.”

  “But not this time. You’re letting your imagination get away with you.”

  My motherly instincts raised their hackles. “This boy who Ivy hit. Has he been suspended for taunting her?”

  “Yes.”

  “For two full days, like Ivy?”

  “Nooo.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because the hitter always gets more punishment than the hittee. It’s a rule.”

  “Generally speaking, that sounds fair. But not when the hittee provoked the hitter with hate speech.”

  “Hate speech? No. Look, if she’ll apologize for striking him, and promise not to hit any other of her fellow students, I’ll reduce her suspension to one day, just like his.”

  “I’d like a mutual apology. Her for hitting him, him for calling her derogatory names.”

  “I’m sorry, but this negotiation is over. My best offer is on the table.”

  I stood. “All right. Ivy did the crime, and she can do the time. Even if it’s not fair. Come on, Ivy, we’re going home. If the kid calls you a racist name again, you have my permission to clobber him again. I’ll pay for his new braces.”

  “Wow,” Ivy said, staring at me.

  The principal stood quickly. “I hope this doesn’t sour you on the school. We could use a donation. We desperately need a computer lab. We have a lot of disadvantaged students who need every chance they can get if they’re going to survive in a world full of technology.”

  “I’ll pay for the whole lab.”

  She gaped at me. “Even though you’re unhappy with my decision regarding Ivy?”

  “I’m not going to punish the school because I disagree with your judgement. I was raised better than that.”

  “Thank you!”

  “I’ll pay for the lab on two conditions: Put a plaque by the door naming the lab in my grandmother’s honor—Mary Eve Nettie—and hang a quote about fairness and tolerance on one wall. Something by Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. And Ivy gets to pick the quote.”

  “It’s a deal!”

  We shook. “Ivy will be back in class two days from now. Good afternoon.”

  I took Ivy by the hand. She was speechless. As we headed down the hallway, teachers popped out again. I glimpsed several rising hands with camera phones in them. Ivy glared at them. “Hey, mind your own business! I’ll feed those phones to my goat! Quit staring at Cathy!”

  “Ssssh.” I tugged my scarf further over my face, jerked Ivy’s hand, and we ran. Not exactly a dignified mother-daughter day at school, but we proved we might be good together in a two-legged sack race.

  In the Hummer, driving back to the Cove at a heady thirty miles per hour with my hands shaking, I felt Ivy’s dark eyes boring into me from the passenger seat. “You defended me. How come?”

  “I’ll always defend your right to be treated fairly.”

  “I didn’t mean to cause trouble. I don’t want Mrs. Ganza finding out. What if she—”

  “Don’t worry about Mrs. Ganza. But let’s come up with some ways for you to handle future incidents without smashing some little redneck’s dental work.”

  She sank back in the seat. “It’s not that easy. Nobody’s ever called you names.”

  “Oh, really?” I told her about the incident with the protestors at the Four Seasons. “And a movie reviewer called me ‘whitebread with big teeth.’ Another one said I was ‘eye candy with more charm than talent.’ I’ve also been called ‘gorgeously inoffensive.’ Which made me feel like off-white carpet.”

  Ivy said quietly, “But you’re not fat and ugly, and I am.”

  “You’re not fat and ugly.”

  “And I do have nappy hair. And I am a nerd.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with any of that. Besides, isn’t ‘nappy hair’ a cool thing to have, now?”

  “I want to look like Halle Berry. Like you. You look like a white Halle Berry. I mean, you know, pretty in the same way.”

  “You don’t have to look like Halle or me or anybody else to be pretty. Be yourself.”

  “You don’t really believe that.”

  “Excuse me? I do mean it. Girls cannot let people intimidate them about their self-image. They have to be unique. Be confident.”

  “If you really think looks don’t matter, then how come you still won’t show your face to strangers?”

  I clenched the steering wheel. “Being famous means I’m at the mercy of photographers who want to exploit—”

  “You just don’t want people to call you ‘ugly.’ You’re always scared of being called ugl
y. Nothing Thomas says makes you feel any better. He loves you but you don’t really see how he sees you. No matter how much Cora and I try to show you that we don’t care about how you look, you don’t listen.” Her voice rose. Tears gleamed in her eyes. “What if you freak out and decide you can’t ever go out in public anymore? Mrs. Ganza might decide you really are crazy and take us away from you!”

  I pulled onto the side of the road, turned to her and grabbed her hands. “Ivy, honey, I promise you, I’m not going to let my problems get in the way of—”

  “I’m ugly and I’ll never be good enough for anybody to love! I know it! I know it! Just like you! I’ll never think I’m good enough for people to love, and neither will you, and some day you’ll freak out for good, and then Cora and I won’t have a home anymore!”

  She turned away, sobbing.

  “You tried your best,” Thomas said that night. We sat in the kitchen. “Ivy gets emotional. Don’t blame yourself.”

  I hunched over a cup of tepid tea. “But she’s right. I have no self-confidence, so how can I lecture her on the subject?”

  “I have a suggestion. Maybe you and the girls need some time together. See how you get along on your own. Just a couple of days without me here.”

  I looked up at him quickly. “Where are you going?”

  “New York. I have unfinished business with Ravel.”

  “Do you really want to open that can of worms, again?”

  “It’ll be all right. Just something I’ve been meaning to do. Can you handle staying here alone with the girls? Jeb and Alberta will be here working, so—”

  “Maybe you should wait a week or two until Ivy is speaking to me, again.”

  He pushed my lukewarm tea aside and took my hand. His somber eyes bored into mine. “I want to protect you against everything that frightens you. There’s a part of me that would do that for you without question, forever. But I’m trying very hard to get past my need to guard my loved ones with all-consuming obsession. You’ve got to help me. Kick me out of the nest every once in a while. Prove you’ll be just fine without me.”

  After a moment, I nodded. He had such a good way of making it sound as if he had issues to resolve, not me. “I recognize ‘tough love’ when I see it. We’ll be fine while you’re in New York. Absolutely. I want you to go.”

  He drew my scarred hand to his lips and kissed it. I managed a smile, but inside I curdled. I won’t be just fine. I depend on him more every day.

  Thomas

  Leaving Cathy and the girls for even two days was hard to do. Tough love? Hell, it was tough on me. I flew into New York, took a cab into Manhattan, and left a handwritten note for my sister-in-law with a concierge at Trump Tower, handing it over in the empty grandeur of the famous atrium with its pink-veined marble.Ravel—

  Whatever you and I wish we’d done differently on nine-eleven no longer matters. Neither of us wanted our loved ones to die; neither of us deliberately caused the deaths of Sherryl, Ethan, and the baby Sherryl carried. If I could have traded my life for theirs that day, I would have. I’m sure you feel the same way. I’m moving on with my life. I hope you can move on with yours. Good-bye.

  Thomas

  Even if she only told me once more to fuck off or die, it would be closure for both of us. When no response came, that was all right, too. Sometimes making a statement is more important than receiving an answer.

  Cathy

  Just as I feared, Ivy didn’t say a word to me after Thomas left for New York. But when Cora and I went out to the cow pond the next morning Ivy couldn’t resist wandering along behind us. Cora and I held hands as we studied the water. “This spring we’ll add some pretty rocks, a fountain, some waterlilies, some reeds, and some fish,” I told her. “Voila. We’ll have a goldfish pond. It’ll attract frogs and turtles and dragonflies and butterflies and thirsty deer and turkeys and songbirds.”

  “And fairies!” Cora added.

  “You bet. Hey, I’ve got an idea. We’ll name the fish. What would be some good names for goldfish?”

  Cora’s eyes gleamed. “Nemo and Dorie and Simba and—”

  “Simba is a cartoon lion,” Ivy grunted. “Stick to cartoon fish.”

  Slowly, holding my breath, I turned to look at her. “But isn’t there something called a ‘lion fish?’”

  She shrugged. “Yeah, maybe. Sure.”

  Cora stared at her with great patience. “Lions are gold, and goldfish are gold, so there can be a goldfish named after a lion.”

  “Whatever.”

  I feigned deep thought. “What else is gold? Or yellow? Sunflowers. Butter. Okay, I’m naming my goldfish ‘Sunflower’ and ‘Butter.’ Oh, and orange juice. I’m naming one of my goldfish, ‘Orange Juice.’”

  Ivy stepped up to the pond’s edge. “I’ll name my goldfish, ‘Pus.’ Pus is yellow.”

  “Don’t forget ‘snot,’” I offered. “That’s sort of yellow, too.”

  Her mouth quirked. She couldn’t resist me. “‘Pus’ and ‘Snot.’ Cool. Pus and Snot the goldfish. Yeah!”

  “Y’all are gross!” Cora squealed, giggling.

  “And PeePee,” I intoned. “We need a goldfish named PeePee, too.”

  Cora thought that was the funniest thing she’d ever heard. Just naughty enough to be hysterical. She went into giggly overload. Even Ivy smiled. When I nudged her with an elbow—sort of the girly version of a backslap—she nudged me back. We were friends again, at least for now.

  “A fish named PeePee,” Cora repeated, and giggled harder. Ivy and I traded a smile and rolled our eyes. In the midst of that reassuring moment Granny whispered to me the way she often did, disguised in my own thoughts. You’ll never look at this plain old cow pond the same way again. You’ll remember laughing over goldfish. You’ll remember, and so will these girls. The memory of laughing and feeling loved with be here from now on, in this water.

  Suddenly I had had the urge to call Thomas and let him know he was loved, too.

  Thomas

  Marcus Johnson and I stood at Ground Zero, looking over a railing at the raw footprint where the towers had been. A cold wind chapped our faces. Marcus, a New York fireman who’d been on duty during nine-eleven and in the months afterward, had become a good friend among the blood and dust of the ruins. He’d lost fellow firemen there, and he was determined not to lose me. Marcus was the one who handed me a respirator mask on my first day as a volunteer and said, “Wear this all the time, Mitternich, or your lungs will turn into raw meat. There’s environmental shit in this air that could screw us all.”

  Thanks to Marcus I wasn’t among the thousands of Ground Zero workers with lung problems. Neither was he. “What fuckin’ happened here?” Marcus asked wearily, as we leaned on the rail. He opened his big, dark palm and let a few blood-red rose petals lift into the cold wind. “Man, will we ever know the truth about who knew what, and when they knew it, and whether this could have been stopped?”

  I took a rose from him, crushed it in my hand, and let the petals float away. “People we cared about died. That’s all we’ll ever be certain of.”

  “The suits are fightin’ over what to do with this property.”

  “I know. I was asked to comment on the design of the memorial. I told them I didn’t care what they built here. I don’t need a memorial to remember what happened, and no matter what architectural marvel they put in place of the towers, those towers are all I’ll see when I look at this site.”

  Marcus nodded. “The suits will be fightin’ for control of this place for years to come. Greedy bastards.”

  “It’s just another restoration project now. For everyone but the people who were here that day, and the people who lost loved ones here, it’s a historical site where tourists can snap a picture and buy a postcard.”

  “Maybe that’s good, Thomas. To put it in perspective that way.”

  “I don’t know. I wish I believed in easy answers.”

  Marcus’s cell phone played the opening bars of Ray Char
les’ What’d I Say? He flipped the phone open and clamped it to his ear. “Yeah?” Silence; him, listening. Then, “You’re jerking my chain, lady. Yeah, right, and I’m Denzel Washington.” Marcus pressed the phone to his jacket and stared at me. “You know any women who sound like Scarlett O’ Hara? This one says she’s Cathryn Deen. The actress. The one that got roasted in a car accident last year.”

  “She is.”

  Marcus gaped at me. “You’re shittin’ me.”

  “I’ll tell you about her and me over a cup of coffee. It’s a long story.”

  “She says she just wants to know if you’re coming home tonight or in the morning. ‘The girls are making him a cake,’ she says. ‘Tell him I bought him a new cell phone,’ she says. ‘The vet says Banger passed the other one with no problem.’ Who’s Banger?”

  “Tell her I’ll be home tonight. Late. I’ll call her from Asheville. Tell her I love her. Tell her to tell the girls I love them, too.”

  “You’re shittin’ me. Cathryn Deen. The real Cathryn Deen.”

  “The real one.”

  He put the phone to his ear. “Babe. He’ll be home tonight. He loves ya. He loves the kids. He’ll call from Asheville. Yeah. Kisses. Smooch. My wife’s a big fan of yours, by the way. Always with the Cathryn Deen movies. Got the DVD’s, too. Love you, too. Bye-bye.”

  Marcus stuck the phone in his pocket, staring at me open-mouthed. We looked out over Ground Zero again. “Man,” he said. “Cathryn Deen must be psychic. What timing. Cause now I’ll look at this place and think about her calling. And so will you.”

  I nodded. My heart lifted a little. Cathy had effectively cast her own aura over the memories here. Something good to add to the mix. It would never be entirely dark here, again.

  Cathy

  Apparently my timing had been excellent. Thomas was standing at Ground Zero. As the girls continued to hurl bawdy goldfish names at each other I walked to the house, squatted by the front steps and spoke to Granny.