By Appointment Only

by Lisa Eugene

  “You’re not allowed to smoke here.”

  Huh? Had I heard him correctly? I’d just told him what happened and that’s all he could say to me?

  “Wh-what?”

  I must’ve appeared dimwitted because he repeated his words slowly, like I was hard of hearing or not proficient in the English language. He motioned behind me and I turned to see the large, red, No-Smoking sign on the wall. My face grew hot with rage.

  Asshole!

  I shrugged. “Maybe I can’t read.” Taking a long drag, I exhaled a vigorous smoke cloud. Although not directed at his face, that’s where it ended up.

  “There’s a picture,” he informed tightly, indicating the painted cigarette with the giant X slashed across it.

  “Can’t see it through all this smoke.”

  “Put it out. Now.”

  I flicked off the ashes, instinctively rebelling at the stern command.

  “Sorry, I need it to keep me warm. It’s cold out here and I wouldn’t want to catch a chill.”

  His nostrils flared as surprise stole his expression. Had he expected me to cower, rush to obey his command, fall at his feet like his biddable lackeys? That wasn’t my style.

  His light blue eyes grew as cold and hard as his heart appeared to be. “I can have you physically removed from the premises.”

  I was steaming, tired of being pushed around all day. Anger and frustration fueled my bravado. A humorless chuckle curled out of my throat.

  “Just try it. That would look great on the six o’clock news. Good thing you’ve got all these reporters here.”

  The long look he gave me shook a tremor through my limbs I couldn’t blame on the cold. He was not a man people challenged. I rolled my eyes at that conclusion. I was not a woman to be ordered around. Determined not to allow his intimidation, I exhaled more smoke, my lips tilting up when the cloud enveloped his face.

  He was a bigger asshole than Mr. Clancy. No wonder the school’s administrator thought he could treat people like garbage. It trickled down from the top like dirty water. They were all sullied with the illusion of superiority. I’d been bluffing earlier when I’d threatened to hold my own press conference, but now after having to endure more scornful disdain, I would’ve been more than happy to share my experience with the press.

  I straightened and pushed out my chin, ready to go toe to toe—although technically I was down one. I waited, stubbornly holding his gaze.

  A wry smile suddenly jerked the corner of his lips before he gave a quick, incredulous shake of his head. Shock pinched my brows when Rutherford abruptly rotated on his heels. Buttoning the long cashmere coat over his designer suit, he headed back to his waiting minions.

  “Get rid of her!” he tossed over his shoulder to the man who’d initially approached me.

  My fists squeezed tight, nails punching into my palms. He’d withdrawn, just like that, as though I hadn’t been worth his time. There’d been mocking humor in his eyes. This was a game to him—a game where he held all the cards and I was woefully empty-handed.

  “Asshole!” I hissed loudly.

  Mr. Rutherford didn’t break his stride, but I could tell from the roll of his broad shoulders my insult had landed. The crowd disappeared through the front door and his lackey took a step toward me.

  I placed my hands on my hips and leaned in. “You lay one finger on me and I swear I’ll scream this place down so loud all those reporters will come running out to see who let loose the inmate from the asylum!”

  He stopped in his tracks, raising both palms in supplication, but his smile was mocking. Just then, Mrs. Nancy came hurrying out with Emmy at her side.

  “You’re needed inside, Tommy,” she said to the man who shot me a nasty look before entering the building.

  The sight of Emmy had me inhaling deep breaths in an effort to calm. Immediately, I put out the cigarette and rushed forward.

  “I’m so sorry,” Mrs. Nancy cried. “Mr. Clancy made me wait until Mr. Rutherford was in the conference room.”

  I nodded, taking my daughter’s hand. I’d figured that might’ve been the reason for the delay. God forbid they chanced a run-in with Emmy. Turning to leave, I felt Mrs. Nancy’s hand on my shoulder.

  “Please . . .” the older lady begged softly. “I know you’re upset by what happened today. And you have every right to be. Mr. Clancy is a horrid man, but you must know that we love Emily. She’s a truly special girl.”

  I regarded the teacher’s pleading face. Mrs. Nancy was a phenomenal educator who nourished a side of Emmy I’d never seen. I’d been pleased with Emmy’s other teachers as well. It was too bad their administrator was such a first class prick.

  “Mr. Clancy rarely has contact with the students,” she continued as if reading my thoughts. “He’s only here today because of Mr. Rutherford’s visit. I assure you that this sort of thing never happens.”

  I managed a smile, but inside I was still roiling with thunderous outrage. Mrs. Nancy took a step toward Emmy, placing her palm against her cheek. Emmy leaned into it, closing her eyes, and something inside me shifted. There were very few she allowed that touch.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow, sweetheart,” Mrs. Nancy said, then offered me an apologetic smile before walking quickly back into the building.

  I started toward my car with Emmy, barely controlling my anger. The frustration of my day tumbled over me. Marie, my ex-husband, Mr. Clancy. And to top off the piss-pie, Mr. Rutherfucker! That pompous ass! Just because he had wealth, and power, and status, he looked at me as though I was worthless, like I was beneath him!

  How dare he?

  Emmy and I reached my Nissan. The asshole’s shiny, blue Bentley was still parked in front of it, the differences in our lifestyles glaring. The sight fueled my anger until I vibrated with it. Dropping Emmy’s hand, I marched over to the Bentley and gave it a swift kick with my good foot.

  “Asshole!” I rumbled beneath my breath.

  Satisfaction swelled in my chest until I pulled my foot away and saw the huge dent it had left in the side door. I gasped, my gaze scattering in alarm around the lot. I couldn’t believe what I’d done. I’d been angry, but hadn’t meant to damage the car.

  Damn expensive vehicles. Built with paper-thin foil-paper!

  I’d kicked my Nissan countless times and never left so much as a scuff mark. The dent was a yawning crater in the door, a noticeable contrast to the pristine perfection of the rest of the vehicle. In a panic, I considered my next move. A range of scenarios played out as my heart pounded urgently. One seemed the obvious choice. I raced to my car and pulled open the door.

  “Get in, Em!” I screeched.

  Emmy stood on the sidewalk, her fingers moving restlessly over her hair. I watched her, regret quickly replacing my anger. The fact that I’d lost control in front of my daughter churned my gut with guilt. I always tried to set a good example for Emmy.

  “Get in the car, Em!” I repeated urgently.

  Emmy stared absently out at the lot, her hands pawing at her hair. She was upset with the disarray. I sighed and stepped toward her, quickly checking the front door of the building. We needed to get out of there fast.

  “Sweetheart, as soon as we get home, I promise I’ll fix it, okay?”

  Emmy petted her hair faster and faster, growing more agitated. She was not happy with my answer.

  Now? Now she was worried about her hair? My heart raced, running a marathon in my chest. If anyone came out and noticed the damage to the car, I’d be screwed. There’d be no denying my culpability. They’d drag me over, line up my foot with the dent—and it would slip right in—a perfect fit.

  I wanted to weep. This was karma, payback for my angry impulsiveness. Wanda would be waggling a chastising finger at me right now. She considered me a hothead, always said my spontaneous nature would get me into trouble.

  Rutherfucker himself was going to emerge from that building at any moment. He’d call the cops and send me directly to jail because I didn’t have
a damn dime to pay for fixing his foil-paper car.

  And that asshole would have no qualms about locking up an out-of-her-mind, single mother, with a broken toe who’d just gotten sacked! He’d laugh and scour me with those glacial blue eyes as I was driven off in the paddy wagon.

  “Em!” I implored. “Please get in the car . . .”

  My stubborn daughter wouldn’t budge, and I knew she’d stay firmly rooted until her locks were subdued to her satisfaction. It wasn’t that she cared about the way her hair looked. She didn’t like the feel of it brushing against her face. I’d tried to cut it many times, but Emmy wouldn’t have it. Defeated, I started rummaging through my car for something I could use to tie back Emmy’s hair. Finding a life-saving clip in my glove, I used my fingers to rake her hair into a ponytail and secured it quickly.

  Satisfied, Emmy hopped into the backseat like she hadn’t a care in the world. I smiled at the irony and dropped a kiss on her forehead. I wished I could be so cavalier, but life had never allowed such optimism. After locking Emmy’s seatbelt, I jumped behind the wheel, and without a look back, pulled away, demolishing more pylons in my haste.

  Twenty minutes later, I walked into my small two-bedroom apartment. It was originally a one bedroom, but my landlord had erected a flimsy divider in the living room, creating a makeshift bedroom for Emmy. This was the same apartment Steven and I had moved into when Emmy was born, the same one I’d kicked him out of four years later for his infidelity.

  Today the peeling walls and battered linoleum covering the floor seemed even more dilapidated. A bucket sat under a large crack in the ceiling, and was the only thing preventing the uneven floors from flooding when it rained. I’d hoped to save enough money to get out of this shit hole, but after today, that dream seemed even further out of reach.

  For all my bravado, there were admittedly times I felt deeply discouraged, raw, fragile, and so terribly . . . alone. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply as the culmination of those feelings washed over me.

  A moment later, I felt the gentle pressure of a small head against my bosom. Emmy pressed close, offering comfort the only way she could. She’d somehow sensed I was grappling an emotional edge, barely hanging on.

  My phone rang and the familiar lyrics floated through the quiet apartment, promising things were gonna get easier, brighter. I listened to those lyrics, trying desperately to believe.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “You should’ve seen the way he looked at me, Wanda, like I was garbage!”

  Wanda sat in the battered armchair across from me, flipping through help wanted ads in the daily paper. I’d borrowed her laptop and was trolling Craig’s list. She pursed her lips and regarded me through a mesh of long dark lashes.

  “You still obsessing over that man?”

  I scoffed loudly, highly offended. Staring into Wanda’s ebony face, I shifted my position on the couch, suddenly uncomfortable. “I am not obsessing over anyone! I just can’t believe his absolute arrogance.”

  Wanda cocked a brow, her silence a condemning scream. I hated when she did that. My best friend was obviously tired of hearing me complain about Rutherfucker, but I couldn’t contain my lingering annoyance. If I had my choice of programs, I would’ve pulled Emmy from his school in a heartbeat. Grudgingly, I had to admit there was nowhere else Emmy would get the enrichment programs and services they offered. She thrived at the academy.

  Wanda’s gaze darted to my foot that was submerged in a bucket of ice water.

  “You know you really should’ve gotten that X-rayed. Your toe might be broken. Soaking it after three days isn’t gonna help.”

  I shrugged, following the other woman’s gaze. “Girl, you know I don’t have money for doctors. It’s just a bad sprain.”

  Angling my leg, I surveyed the damage. The swelling had decreased significantly, but the discolored digit resembled a weathered post. The ice water wasn’t doing much at this point, but it felt good. After dropping Emmy at school this morning, I’d returned home for my daily soak, and to resume my job hunt. Wanda had come over to help.

  “How about a dog groomer?” she asked, reading from the paper. Her expression fell. “No, it says here you need experience.”

  “I used to pick out my ex’s clothes and cut his hair. Does that count?”

  She chuckled and pushed back her long micro braids. “Hell yeah! I’m cutting it out. He’s the dirtiest dog there is!”

  I smiled and passed Wanda the scissors. She hated Steven as much as I did. She’d gone through everything with me, helped pull me from the bottomless pit that had been my marriage. We’d met in third grade, grown up in the same poverty-stricken neighborhood in Brooklyn, and fought the same demons.

  Now, she lived a few blocks away from me. The neighborhood was sketchy, but at least drugs weren’t dealt openly on the streets and I wasn’t awakened at night terrified by the sound of gunshots.

  “All men are dogs,” I mumbled, my mind back pedaling three days. I remembered the intense stare from impassive blue eyes and a shudder passed through me. “Rich or poor. It doesn’t matter. It just irks me when they pretend to be something they’re not, you know? Like, you’d think a man that ran a school for special needs kids would have a kind heart, that he’d care what the hell happened there. But no . . . I’m telling you, Rutherfucker was ice cold—all business.”

  Wanda huffed dramatically, but I plowed ahead, ignoring her irritation. “You know the type I mean—totally corporate America. Rich. White. Excessive. A man who doesn’t give a shit about us everyday folks.”

  “What do you mean us everyday folks?”

  “Working class. Minorities.”

  Wanda looked up, laughing. “Uh, have you looked in a mirror lately?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Hey, just because I came out looking more like my Irish father than my black mother, doesn’t make me any less black!”

  “Girl, you’re blond with green eyes!”

  I frowned. “I am not blond. I have brown hair with highlights. And my eyes are hazel, more brown than green.”

  Wanda chuckled again. “As long as you don’t go around shouting to the world how black you are. Remember what happened in fourth grade?”

  I heaved a giant sigh and shot her a cross look. Wanda loved recounting this story. We’d attended an all-black elementary and middle school. I’d had a tough time fitting in, always having to defend who I was because I hadn’t looked like everyone else.

  “Remember how you kept insisting you were black?” Wanda laughed.

  “And no one believed me.”

  “Yeah, Latisha Johnson asked you to bring in a picture of your daddy . . .” Wanda was laughing harder now. Despite myself, a smile pulled up my lips.

  “And . . . and . . .” Wanda toppled over on the couch, laughing so hard she couldn’t spit the words out. “You brought in the picture and Latisha wanted to beat the crap out of you after school.”

  I rolled my eyes again. “How the hell was I supposed to know the man in the picture was Denzel Washington? My mom had his damn photos all over the house. For years I thought that man was my daddy!”

  I was laughing now, too, at the childhood memory. I had no real memories of my father. Mom said he’d died when I was four years old, and before that he’d apparently blown in and out of my life like the changing wind. Sometimes he was there, and sometimes he was not, but he would always leave. Mom said he never stuck around. I had no image of his face, no pictures.

  Mom rarely talked about him, but I knew she’d loved him very much. There was unmistakable pain in her eyes that never fully dissipated, even twenty-six years later. She’d told me when I was a teen that their relationship hadn’t worked out, that his family could never accept her. The racial divide in their small Brooklyn community had been too deep and culturally imbedded for their love to endure. My father had eventually married someone else and had a family. Although he’d provided for me and was occasionally involved in my life, my mother had never recovered from the
heartbreak.

  Latisha had been pissed when I’d brought the picture of Denzel to school. Mom had worked as a waitress and once met Denzel at the restaurant. She’d taken a picture with him, a picture she’d cherished. I guess I’d known deep down he couldn’t be my father, but as a child, it was easy to pretend.

  When I brought the picture to school, Latisha thought I was messing with her, mocking her in front of the other students. I think I’d just been desperate to belong to someone, to claim a father like many of my friends. Back then, girls were tough, even in fourth grade. Most already belonged to gangs.

  “She would’ve kicked my half-black ass all over Brooklyn,” I admitted with a chuckle. “I think I peed my shorts when she took out the Vaseline and the razor blades.” I stared at my best friend. My voice softened. “But you stood up for me. You had my back.”

  Wanda straightened. Her eyes met mine and she smiled. “I’ll always have your back, girl. You know that.”

  I nodded firmly, mutual affection passing between us. Wanda was a statuesque woman, tough, with a no nonsense attitude. Even in fourth grade she’d been tall for her age. No one messed with her.

  “Sorry I wasn’t around on Monday to pick up Emmy for you,” she said.

  “It’s okay. It was just an overall miserable day. It headed down hill fast, and then that damn man just pushed me right off the fucking edge. I swear he—”

  “Puleeze!” Wanda huffed. “I’ve never seen you let someone push your buttons like this!”

  “I wouldn’t let him push anything of mine. I’m just sayin’.”

  Wanda cut an eye in my direction and picked up the remote, affectively dismissing me. She was done listening. I watched in a sulk as she scrolled through daytime TV, but I was far from done complaining about that man.

  “Keep that down,” I warned. “I don’t want my landlord knowing I’m home. I’m behind on my rent.”