by Julie Kibler
Robert twisted his head to gaze at me as if I were too dense to walk the earth. “You know that’s different.”
“I mean it. Why can’t we talk? Be friends?”
“You know why. Don’t play dumb on me, now.”
“I’m tired of people saying what I can or can’t do, Robert.” I puffed air out of my mouth and dropped my chin against my hand, drawing circles in the sand under the arbor with the toe of my shoe. Then I plucked the shoe off my foot and threw it against the vines over my head, hard. Its impact released a shower of dead plant matter onto my head, which would have been fine had it not been laced with a few living creatures. When a spider plopped into my lap I screamed and jumped up from the bench. I brushed wildly at my skirt and backed away from the spot.
Robert threw his head back and belly-laughed, deep waves rolling from inside him. I hadn’t seen him so expressive in years. It was as if in my town and on our property, Cora and Robert and Nell filtered their emotions through a fine sieve. If I hadn’t been so startled by the spider, I would have marveled simply at Robert’s laughter. As it was, I narrowed my eyes at him while stamping my feet and shaking my shirt, still worrying that the spider roamed in its folds.
“Oh, you got him, Isabelle. That spider ran as fast as all his legs could carry him away. But, my, that was funny,” he said, mirth still wrinkling the corners of his eyes. He leaned on his knees until his laughter subsided. Then he reached for my shoe where it had fallen. He carried it to me and held it out. I took it from him, and his fingers brushed mine, barely, but enough to make a shiver run from my finger all the way up my arm to the back of my neck.
He felt it, too. I knew he did. He dropped his hand, then froze in place. I’d heard the other girls whisper about boys they liked, heard them describe how they felt when they first really and truly knew the boy liked them back, but I had never experienced it for myself. Now? I knew what I knew.
It flowed between us—even if we couldn’t say so aloud. It was no longer one-sided, no longer just a daydream, however treacherous, in my own mind.
I broke the awkward silence. “Here’s a question—what are you doing here?” I motioned to the arbor and his tools. “Well, mostly, why?”
“This is my church. And this is my church job.”
“Your church job? How many jobs do you have?”
“Well, not my paid job. Every member pitches in to get things done. It’s coming up on time for revival, and my job is getting the arbor trimmed and looking good and not so full of live things before the meetings start.” He grinned, and my cheeks heated up as I recalled my hysterics.
“Everyone?” I asked Robert. At my church, everyone was pulled into service on scheduled work days, of course, and the women and girls cooked and served and cleaned up for special dinners or events, but the rest of the time, it seemed the place ran itself—with old Mr. Miller’s help. Mr. Miller slept on a cot in an alcove in the basement. He cleaned and maintained the building in exchange for his keep, and the ladies of the congregation rotated carrying him meals, cooking extra when they cooked for their own families, or, as in our case, having their housekeepers prepare simple meals to deliver. Every couple of weeks, Cora sent Nell or Robert over to the church with a pail filled with sandwiches and fruit for Mr. Miller’s dinner, along with fresh milk and coffee. He’d been there as long as I could remember, though I’d heard whispers about a wife and family and a paying job lost in the early years of the Depression. He kept to himself, mainly, and we kids avoided him, frightened of his long, dour face. But the older I grew, the more I wondered if his expression was not meanness, but grief. After all, I never saw him truly angry, not even when he huffed and grumbled at the boys for leaving shoe-polish streaks on his freshly waxed floors from running and sliding along them in their Sunday shoes.
“From the time they’re old enough to walk,” Robert said, “even the littlest ones have some chore or another. Straightening the singing books or the pencils, pulling weeds, whatever the mothers and Brother James divvy up between them. I’ve been making this arbor ready for meetings since I was thirteen.” He gestured to the branches over him, then pulled at a button on his shirt, his face an awkward version of proud.
“Well, now, it’s a fine-looking arbor, if I do say.” I strutted around the edges, studying his handiwork. “But it looks as though you’ve missed a spot. Here.”
Robert rolled his eyes and went back to work. “Oh, now you’re the expert on arbor tending, I see.”
“The expert of many things, master of none.” I sighed. It was true. Sure, I was smart, a good student, but I had no special talent, no burning passion to even present to my mother as an option to her plan. I envied my classmates who were already learning trades and the few who would attend college, pursue careers they’d dreamed of for years—mostly the boys, but a few of the girls, too, whose mothers were more modern than mine. And though I did want a family one day and dared to dream of romance and true love, I feared it wouldn’t be enough. I longed for something more, but I had no idea what more looked like.
“Why the sigh?”
“I’m envious of you. Of your opportunity to go to college and be something.”
His regard balanced between amazement and amusement. “You? Jealous of me? Oh, you don’t want to be me.” He shook his head and grabbed a rake and started scraping together the branches he’d lopped from the underside of the arbor, dragging them toward one edge. “Trust me there on that. You have no idea.”
My cheeks felt flushed as I pondered this truth. I couldn’t imagine being a boy, much less a Negro—a second-class citizen in every way, or so my upbringing had taught me, though I questioned this more every day. “Well, no, maybe not. But I want the chance to do something important. Something truly important.”
Robert chuckled. I followed as he pushed the trimmings toward an indention in the dirt across the yard. From the bundle he’d carried away from the hardware store, he pulled and lit a matchstick, then tossed it onto the brush pile. Eventually, leaves and branches smoldered in the afternoon sun. “You’ll do something important,” he said. “Too stubborn to do otherwise. May not be what you’re dreaming of, may not be important in the way you think, but still.”
“See? You don’t laugh at me when I say things. Well, yes, you do laugh at me—you’re in big trouble for that. But you take me seriously nonetheless. That never happens.”
He seemed to withdraw a fraction, though he never moved from the stance he’d adopted, his hands on his hips, watching the fire and watching me. “What if I didn’t take you seriously, Isabelle? Am I allowed that? Not taking you seriously?”
My heart seemed to shrink inside my chest like a punctured balloon. Of course he wouldn’t disagree with me or poke fun at my dreams. Given who each of us was, it wouldn’t be acceptable. Yet I wanted him to be honest with me, more than anything. And it seemed he was honest, no matter what he claimed. “You decide,” I said, my voice hardly above a whisper. “It’s not mine to allow.”
My words crossed an invisible line, one that could change things between us. One that invited trust.
8
Dorrie, Present Day
WE PULLED INTO Memphis earlier than expected that evening, having made good time in spite of our stops. Still, I was surprised when Miss Isabelle asked me to drive past all the tourist spots before we found our hotel, just to look. Elvis’s house was smaller than I’d pictured—considering all the fuss. His songs weren’t generally my style, but some of them could move even me. (Seven down, five letters: “unaffected by joy, grief, pleasure, or pain.” Stoic. That was me.)
I yearned to slip away later to one of the blues clubs we eyed along Beale Street. I listened now and then to the stuff my kids liked. The verdict? I liked the beat, but most of the lyrics offended my delicate sensibilities. The blues, now, that was some genuine grit. But I didn’t think it would be wise to leave Miss Isabelle alone, and the vision of us together in a place like that only made me laugh. We needed to
get some shut-eye anyway.
I’d helped Miss Isabelle set up a computer and an Internet connection around the time I started doing her hair at home, and she’d more than mastered it. Her online skills left me coughing in her dusty wake. She’d been all over the Web, planning our journey. I’d volunteered to find us places to stay, but she’d already taken care of it, reserved our hotel rooms and everything.
Miss Isabelle waited in the idling car in the pull-through of our first hotel. I gave the guy at the sign-in desk the reservation name and Miss Isabelle’s credit card. He eyed it and asked me for ID. I handed over Miss Isabelle’s. He checked it out, then gawked at me. Like he thought I was trying to pass for her or something. And let me tell you, passing wasn’t something I’d ever be able to do. My color was plainly there for the world to see.
He pointed to the picture. “This isn’t you.”
“Really?” I shook my head and chuckled, but not too loud. I imagined those nighttime hotel clerks got all out of whack when someone questioned their limited authority, like they were on some kind of power trip or something. “Kindly look to your left,” I said. “That is Mrs. Isabelle Thomas.” I pointed out Miss Isabelle sitting in her car just outside the entrance. I waved at her, and she waved back and shrugged her hands in the air, like “What’s the holdup?”
“This is her credit card and her ID,” I said. “She made the reservation.”
“Well, ma’am, I can’t take ID for someone else. We require the person who made the reservation to show the ID.”
“You’re kidding, right?” I said. “She’s sitting right there. You can see she’s the same person as the one in this picture.”
“I’m following our company policy, and you need to calm down, ma’am. I will have to call security if you continue to argue with me.”
“Calm down?” Really? He said that? And security? For telling the truth? Hot damn. I was calm until right about then, just commenting and halfway laughing. But after he said that, I knew the only thing I could do that wouldn’t conclude with my hands around his neck and me getting cuffed and carried off to jail was to bring Miss Isabelle inside.
I huffed out a big breath and grabbed her ID and credit card back before I headed out to the car. I wasn’t going to leave them sitting there when he might walk off and someone else could snatch them. I hardly trusted the idiot alone.
Miss Isabelle lowered the window when she saw me coming. I’m pretty sure my ears were steaming like an old-fashioned pressure cooker going good. “What is it, Dorrie?”
“Mr. Night Manager isn’t confident you are the person in the ID. He would like to see you up close and personal. Mr. Night Manager probably assumes I’ve kidnapped you, considering we don’t exactly look like we’re related.” I growled. I actually growled. “And whatever you do, do not tell me to calm down.”
“You look calm to me, Dorrie—well, mostly—and Mr. Night Manager is going to wish he’d dealt with you, because he’s not going to like dealing with me. Not at all.”
I pulled open the door, and Miss Isabelle unbent herself from the passenger seat. Every time she emerged from the car, it seemed her joints were stiffer and giving her more trouble. Driving cross-country had to be hell on her skeleton and muscles after nearly ninety years of use.
But eventually, she drew herself up to her full height—all something like five feet two inches of it. That woman was tiny, but when I squinted just right, I imagined a hat and gloves, like she was Queen Elizabeth about to walk in there and give that kid what-for.
“Young man, is there a problem with my credit card?” she said, and the night manager blushed and scraped at his Adam’s apple with his grimy fingernails.
“Oh, no, ma’am. No problem at all. As I was explaining to your—your friend here, we can’t take the credit card and ID from anyone but the holder.”
“Well, here I am, then, ten feet closer, and I’m sure you can see clearly now I’m the person in the picture. So do your magic. And be quick about it.” She turned toward a stripy upholstered chair a few yards from the desk. “You can bring me the signature slip.”
“Oh, yes, ma’am. I can do that. I’m sorry for—”
“Now. Pay close attention. Tomorrow morning, we expect your complimentary breakfast buffet to be hot and the coffee fresh and strong. No leftovers from today or shriveled-up stuff that’s been sitting there for two hours. We’ll be down at eight sharp. Or maybe eight-fifteen. We’ll need extra towels and pillows brought to our room within the next ten minutes and help with our luggage. Any questions?”
He tried to run his fingers through his hair, but they got stuck in what was obviously too much Dippity-do. I almost felt sorry for the guy by then.
Not really. But I did laugh a little inside at the expression on his face. He was probably some poor college student who worked the night shift so he could go to class, and I doubted he was paid enough to give us the five-star treatment. But he’d asked for it with his earlier pomposity. I bet the next time a customer was plainly sitting in the passenger seat, giving obvious permission to her companion to use the credit card, whether he followed company policy or not, he wouldn’t tell anyone to calm down.
In the elevator on our way up to our room—Mr. Night Manager followed with the luggage cart on the next trip—Miss Isabelle said, “I hope you don’t mind sharing a room.”
You know, up until then, I hadn’t thought about it. What sense would it make for Miss Isabelle to pay for separate rooms when one room with two perfectly good beds would do fine?
But I wondered how she really felt. I wondered if she’d ever spent a night with someone like me—a person of another race. I wondered how many people in general had spent the night with a person of another race.
“Well, I’m okay with it, Miss Isabelle. Of course I’m okay with it. How about you?”
She gazed at the floor numbers. Making eye contact in an elevator is hazardous to one’s health. “It’ll be nice to have someone else there, Dorrie. I miss having company in my house sometimes. It can be awfully lonely and quiet.” She shifted her point of view to the doors as they slid open at our floor. “But God help me if you snore.”
I snorted. Miss Isabelle’s sense of humor was sharp as a needle fresh out of the package. I could only hope I’d be as shrewd when I had nine decades of experience. “Me, snore? I’m more worried about you.”
“Oh, you don’t have to worry about me snoring. Tossing and turning, maybe, though I can’t even accomplish that efficiently these days. I don’t sleep much anymore. More like little catnaps all night long. All day long, too.”
I’d heard people talk about that happening when a person grew older. I wondered what Miss Isabelle thought about between naps. When I lay awake at night, unable to sleep, my mind mostly raced with worries about my children staying out of trouble—lately, Stevie’s unacknowledged predicament—or whether I could trust Teague, week after week, year after year, to be who he appeared to be now.
Mr. Night Manager placed our overnight bags in appropriate spots around the room, and I wondered if he expected a tip. Miss Isabelle thanked him with another Queen Elizabeth look down the end of her nose—even though he was a foot taller than she was—and gave it a twitch, as if the room didn’t smell so great. I deduced he didn’t get many tips; he didn’t look at all surprised.
It was still early. We’d stopped for dinner outside Memphis and our stomachs hadn’t completely settled. I waited while Miss Isabelle carried her nightgown and housecoat into the bathroom to dress for bed. Once she was settled in the easy chair with one of her crossword puzzle books and the TV remote in hand, I said, “I’m going to step outside and make a few phone calls, Miss Isabelle. Anything else you need right now?”
“Oh, no, dear. I’ll be fine. You don’t have to baby-sit me. Go do what you need to do. And Dorrie?” She paused, and I saw the exhaustion in her face, extra lines I didn’t remember having been there the last time I did her hair. “Thank you. I couldn’t have done this wi
thout you. You’re—you must be a good daughter.” Her voice trembled on the last word, and my heart welled up with affection and sympathy. Something told me whatever lay in wait for her—for us—at the other end of this journey was going to be harder than I’d imagined so far. I was glad she wasn’t alone, even if it meant I had to study my own problems from afar. I was beginning to feel I was a critical part of this thing for Miss Isabelle—even if I had no idea why yet.
I dug through my purse for my cigarettes and lighter and dropped them into my pocket when I was sure Miss Isabelle wasn’t watching. I hadn’t had a smoke since that morning, before I arrived at her house. I wasn’t as antsy as I thought I’d be. I’d been trying to quit for the thirtieth time and was down to about three most days. Our conversation in the car had distracted me from the cravings, and I hadn’t wanted to draw attention to my bad habit when we stopped for meals or rest-room breaks. I’d told myself I could live without my lunchtime smoke for one day, and I guess my ornery old self had listened. I carried my cell phone conspicuously so Miss Isabelle would think I’d been digging for it.
“I know you smoke, Dorrie,” she called from the easy chair.
Busted.
“You don’t have to hide it from me. I can smell it on your fingers when you fix my hair. Don’t worry, it’s not unpleasant. Reminds me of the old days. Everyone smoked everywhere.”
“I’m trying to quit,” I said on my way out the door, my automatic response to anyone who said anything about my smoking, ever. The habit embarrassed me. It was something I’d sworn I’d never do in all the years growing up around my mother and her boyfriends. I’d rarely seen any of them without a cigarette hanging off the ends of their hands like extra finger joints. My mother was half-dependent on the oxygen canisters Medicaid delivered once or twice a month now, but she continued to smoke, like the oxygen was a treat and not a necessity.