Say You Love Her

by Z. L. Arkadie

  “The only one who stayed was Jacques, and fate had forbidden our love.”

  “What are you talking about, Mama? Forbidden love? Daddy has loved you as long as I’ve been alive,” Angelina said.

  Growing up, Angelina thought her parents were married. Jacques would ride into town and stay with them for weeks at a time and then leave for months, but she just thought it was because he had to go on the road. Angelina understood the life of musicians from a very early age. Once her mother remained on the road for a whole year just so she could pay off the mortgage and finally own their house.

  When Josephine went away for long periods of time, Angelina would sometimes live with her mother’s sister, Aunt Lorraine, in Washington, D.C., for an entire school year. Other times, when Jacques was working in Paris, she would stay with him. But mostly she would remain home in Louisiana, and Karina, Lynette, and two other neighbors, Miss Marie and Miss Julia, would take turns watching her.

  Some nights the ladies would gather in the parlor and drink rum and play bid wiz while discussing the wages of sex and love. Karina would let Angelina lie in the doorway and listen as long as she kept quiet. They said words like “fuck” and “pussy” and “dick” without batting an eye. They agreed that musicians made the best lovers. “They have the hands,” Miss Marie had said. Not until many years later did Angelina know this to be true.

  Angelina loved her life back then. She loved that her mother was a jazz singer and her father was a music man and that they were always on the road. But what she didn’t know was that he was married to another woman—actually two other women! After he and Heloise Krantz, Daisy’s mother, divorced, he married Shelly Price, a nurse from Los Angeles, and they had two sons, Randall and Joseph. During both marriages he was involved with her mother. Her parents were lucky that nights listening to Karina, Lynnette, Miss Marie, and Miss Julia gossip, debate, and shoot the breeze prepared her for life’s shades of gray.

  “Many times Jacques asked me to marry him, but I wouldn’t,” her mother said as her organs were shutting down.

  “I still don’t understand how that remotely relates to your issue with me dancing,” Angelina said.

  And then her mother said, “Beauty could give me the man but never his heart.”

  Angelina sighed wearily as she shook her head. She simply could not repeat it again. Her mother did have her father’s heart. It was the one she stomped all over like grapes in the barrel. Angelina really believed that all Josephine had to do was say the word and Jacques would’ve made it official. But her mother never did. Angelina believed it was because she felt guilty about being the other woman. Josephine always warned her never to be the other woman, always to be the only woman.

  “You know who I am?” her mother asked. “I’m a woman who wanted to be better. I wanted be president or a diplomat. I wanted to be important. The singing, the performing, the smiling and being beautiful for people—that was the least I could become. It was lazy of me.”

  Angelina slapped herself on the chest. “Training to dance the way that I know how to dance wasn’t lazy of me.” She wasn’t going to let her mother minimize the broken toes, the back injuries, and the pulled muscles from hyper-extending. She worked hard to become as good as she was, and there was nothing lazy about it.

  Angelina took notice of the adjustment in her mother’s eyes. In that moment something had changed. Had she finally reached her?

  “You danced like a butterfly,” Josephine said. “I want you to remember. That’s what I thought when I saw you. Everything else I was thinking doesn’t matter. Not anymore.”

  And so, Angelina wept into her hands. Later that afternoon her mother had taken a turn for the worse and still refused to be transported to the hospital in Baton Rouge. Right before midnight, Madame Josephine Beauchamp had passed away. She and her father sat with Josephine’s body until sunup.

  Angelina wept until she couldn’t shed another tear. And so she pulled herself together and called Rodolfo St. Clair’s Funeral Home. She learned that Josephine had already planned her funeral and burial with Mr. St. Clair. She wanted to be buried four days after her death. She had already selected her coffin, the flowers, her dress, and the music and had set the program for the ceremony. Arlene Edwards, her long-time beautician from Baton Rouge, was to do her hair and makeup. She wanted to look pretty for God; however, for all other eyes, the casket was to be closed.

  After Angelina spoke to Mr. St. Claire, she called Daisy on the house phone since Josephine had had Dorothy program her number on speed dial. She couldn’t stop sobbing while relaying the news about her mother’s death. Daisy and Belmont immediately flew to Baton Rouge to be with her. The next person she intended to call was Charlie. She spent hours looking for her cell phone before she realized she had left it at his house on the nightstand next to the bed. She tried to reach Daisy to ask for his number, but she was already on the way and couldn’t be contacted.

  Things got busier even before Daisy and Belmont arrived. Word about Madame Beauchamp’s death traveled fast. Friends and neighbors stopped by to pay their respects. They brought pound cake, buttermilk beignets, fried apple pie, and bread pudding. Jacques spent most of the day at the funeral home, finalizing the musical requirements. It was his way of avoiding what Angelina couldn’t. She smiled solemnly and assured every visitor that she was fine and her mother had gone peacefully. She kept repeating the same phrases over again.

  “She’s out of her misery.”

  “She didn’t feel any pain because of the cocktail she was taking.”

  “She was happy.”

  “Thank you for your condolences.”

  Goodness, was she relieved to see Daisy (who looked more pregnant than the last time she saw her) and Belmont drive up. She got them set up in the master guest room and made roasted pork chops, biscuits with gravy, and butter noodles for dinner. They were pretty impressed that she knew how to cook like that.

  “Not all of us can afford a full-time cook,” she had said, finding some reprieve from the sadness in joking with Belmont.

  Belmont laughed. It was pretty evident that he wouldn’t be shamed into firing his cooks anytime soon.

  Later when they sat down to eat, Daisy and Belmont rehashed the story of how they met to make her feel better. Angelina thought it was a sweet tale. It reminded her of how she felt when she first saw Charlie.

  “What about Charlie?” she asked. “Do you know how deep he’s in with Monroe?” Angelina never believed he was giving it to her straight regarding Monroe.

  That’s when Daisy said that last Friday he hadn’t been in Martha’s Vineyard a full day before he flew back to L.A. to be with Monroe. Apparently he had this big epiphany and realized he loved her.

  “And not Daisy,” Belmont had said.

  “Whoa, rewind please,” Angelina said. “What do you mean by ‘and not Daisy’?”

  “Charlie has believed he was in love with me since we first met.” Daisy rolled her eyes as though that notion was ridiculous.

  Shock made Angelina’s saliva travel down the wrong pipe, and she choked. She coughed as she tried to fully process what she had just heard about the man she really liked. She believed the time they spent together and the sex they’d had had been extraordinary. She was not the kind of woman who gave her heart recklessly, but Charlie was becoming more than a fling. On the other hand, from the very beginning her instincts had warned her that she should make an effort to protect her heart when it came to him. He had a classic case of self-loathing. L.A. was full of men who were plagued by the same disorder. She had been involved with a number of them before she decided to avoid them like the Ebola virus. But Charlie was slightly different than the norm. He had all the components to heal himself. All he had to do was realize that he was already good enough. But she wasn’t the kind of woman who forced thirsty horses to drink the water—as if she could anyway. After all, she had her own baggage to shrug off her back. However, it still stung to think that he was probably ha
ving sex with her while thinking about her sister the entire time. She was nobody’s second best.

  “Excuse me,” she said, at the end of her coughing fit. “I just got sleepy all of a sudden. I have to go. Don’t worry about the dishes or the food, I’ll clean up in the morning.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” Belmont said, studying her inquisitively.

  Daisy stood up. “Angelina, are you okay?”

  “Yes,” she said in an overly cheerful tone. “Everything’s just hitting me at once. I haven’t slept in a while.”

  Angelina was usually an early riser, but she woke up late on Monday morning. Daisy brought her breakfast and sat with her as she ate.

  “You made this?” she asked.

  “I used to cook before Belmont came along.”

  Angelina put a helping of scrambled eggs in her mouth. “Mm,” she said, impressed.

  “I still got it.” Daisy winked.

  They smiled at each other and Daisy looked as though she had something on her mind, so Angelina asked, “Is there something you want to say?”

  Daisy patted the mattress. “Do you plan on getting out of this bed any time soon?”

  Angelina stretched and yawned. “I may have run out of gas.”

  “Did we say something about Charlie that upset you?”

  “No.” It came out a little too high-pitched to sound true.

  Daisy raised her eyebrows. “Okay.” She rose to her feet. “Don’t leave anything on that plate, young lady.”

  Angelina forced herself to smile. “I won’t.”

  A few hours later, Angelina lay on her bed staring out the window. She couldn’t lie there all day nurturing the broken heart that she refused to acknowledge. There was too much to do. She accidentally yanked her hair as she tried to get up. “Ouch,” she hissed and massaged the crook in her neck. So the first thing she did was call Mrs. Arlene Edwards, the beautician, to make an appointment for Tuesday. Mrs. Edwards wouldn’t hear of making her wait until then, being that it was the day before the funeral.

  “Come on down,” Mrs. Edwards said. “I’ll be here.”

  Angelina dug an old pair of cut-off denim shorts out of the lower dresser drawer that she kept in the closet. It was her “one day I’ll be able to wear this here” drawer. She pulled on the shorts and a faded Papas and Beer T-shirt from that trip to Mexico in 2002. “Ah,” she sighed, basking in the freedom. For the life of her, Angelina would never be able to understand why her mother wanted her to be a doctor who wore stringy panties, pretty dresses, and at least a two-inch heel and not a world-class dancer who felt comfortable in vintage denim and over-washed T-shirts. It made no sense whatsoever and being a respectful daughter, she’d never challenged Josephine on the issue.

  Angelina called for Daisy when she made it downstairs, but neither she nor Jack was home. She retrieved her car from the garage and drove into town finally to do what she’d wanted done since she was ten years old.

  “I want it short,” Angelina said after Arlene got her situated in the styling chair.

  Arlene balked as though Angelina had asked to be punched in the face. “Your Madame Beauchamp would roll over in her grave twice if she knew I cut your hair.”

  “Well, she isn’t in the grave yet,” Angelina said. She immediately regretted saying it.

  Arlene twisted her mouth, contemplating as she studied Angelina’s face.

  “You know your hair is going to grow right on back.”

  “Then I’ll just have to keep cutting it, Mrs. Edwards.”

  “Baby, you want to look your best, don’t you?”

  For a second she wondered what Charlie would like. She wasn’t in the habit of saying that she cared about how she looked out loud. The truth was that sometimes she did—normally whenever she was in a lousy relationship, like her last one with the notoriously arrogant Donald Light. What a horse’s ass he turned out to be. He had wandering eyes to go with his massive ego and thought she should’ve felt privileged that he chose to be with her. That’s why she stopped taking his phone calls, figuring he wouldn’t miss her if she just quietly forgot he ever existed.

  “It’s just hair, Mrs. Edwards. It doesn’t make you look your best or your worst. Can you cut it or not?” She had gotten testy, and she knew better. “I apologize if I’m rude, but could you please just cut my damn hair.”

  Arlene sighed, giving up. “How about I cut you some shorter layers and we’ll keep going until both of us are satisfied.”

  Angelina took the deal, and when they arrived at the final result she released a gasp of delight. The woman she always wanted to be was staring back at her through the mirror. Her hair was a few inches below her shoulders and full of natural easy waves.

  Upon returning home she ran into Daisy, who was roaming the property, taking pictures with her cell phone. After gushing over Angelina’s new ‘do, Daisy said she had spent the better part of the morning with Karina, who told her all about the artists who live in the area. Karina had taken her to visit Ms. Marie, Mr. Douglas Plume, and Ms. Sally. They had given Daisy permission to write an article about their lives and the neighborhood.

  “I haven’t mentioned this new project to Belmont yet,” Daisy disclosed with a woeful sigh. “He and Jacques went to New Orleans to handle the details of the will. Your mother left everything to you, of course, but they’re making sure the will doesn’t get stuck in probate and so forth.”

  Later on they sat on the porch and drank lemon tea and ate tuna sandwiches. Daisy’s eyes danced the foxtrot as she recounted the affairs between Karina and Lynnette and then Lynnette and Miss Julia’s first husband, Terry, who ran off with Miss Julia’s maid, Lisbeth. She described the neighborhood as being exquisitely irreverent.

  Just before sundown Angelina went next door to see to the details of the repast. Karina and her husband Leon were planning a big “home-going” celebration for her mother. They ended up sitting around the table reminiscing about all the hit songs her mother had recorded. She also learned why her mother believed she could never marry her father.

  “Cecile, that voodoo bitch, read those goddamn cat bones and told her that if she continued to love Jacques that she would die and if she marries him, then he would too,” Karina said.

  Angelina’s mouth fell open. She couldn’t believe what she had heard. “I don’t believe that stuff,” she said.

  “Me neither, but your mother did. That’s why she never went to the hospital for treatment. If you ask me, I think she savored the idea of such a theatrical ending.”

  Angelina was speechless. She knew her mother refused chemotherapy, even after they caught the cancer in the second stage. She thought it was because she would’ve rather died than lose her hair. She thought vanity had claimed her life, not love, not dramatic passion.

  “I apologize, I probably shouldn’t have said that in front of you,” Karina said.

  “No.” Angelina reached out and put her hand on top of Karina’s. “I needed to hear it.”

  “That’s why I always say don’t mess with them voodoo bitches,” Leon said.

  She drank a glass of bourbon in remembrance of Madame Josephine Beauchamp as more friends joined them. They retold stories of how her mother always kept her doors open to traveling musicians while maintaining a discriminating eye.

  “Remember when Jo-Jo went by there trying to get in,” Lynette said, cackling.

  “She shot at that bugger’s feet with a .22!” Leon banged his fist on the table and laughed.

  Even Angelina laughed because she remembered it vividly. Her mother had said, “He wasn’t nothing but a crook.” She wanted to give him an incentive never to get the inkling to show up on her porch ever again.

  Angelina would’ve stayed longer, but Daisy was alone and Belmont had been worrying because she had been cramping a lot lately. As soon as she walked into the house, Daisy told her that Charlie had called. She used Daisy’s cell phone to ring him back. They spoke. She said she would call him when things had cooled do
wn some.

  That was Monday. It was Wednesday. The funeral was over. The service was exceptional. Throughout the service, the album that Charlie and she had driven all the way to New Orleans to pick up played lightly in the background. Hearing her mother croon ever so softly, Angelina couldn’t stop crying from the beginning until the end of service. As she sat at the table, wearing black, she acknowledged who held her captive in a state of indifference as she pursued life aimlessly. At the moment, she was definitely free—and that made her so very sad. The repast party at Karina’s was in full swing and she was at home sitting at the table. Daisy, who had been sticking close to her since the day started, got too caught up in the music, the dancing, and fun at Karina’s to notice that Angelina sneaked away. She found herself haunted by the sound of the casket being lowered into the ground. She wondered why in the world she’d stuck around for that part. Madame Josephine Beauchamp would never walk the Earth again. Her mother had wanted the big party, but Angelina didn’t feel like celebrating her mother’s absence. She thought whoever came up with the notion that death should be a time of celebration was a fool. Death was solemn, heartbreaking, and final. And so Angelina bent over her forearm, opened her mouth, and wailed loudly. She cried until her sobs become soundless and her throat and her stomach ached. With a face drenched by snot and tears she dragged herself upstairs. That was it, Angelina determined. She would cry no more. She went into the bathroom to dry her face and blow her nose and then curled up on her bed and slept through the festivities.

  Daisy stayed with her after Belmont flew to Tokyo on business on Friday. It wasn’t easy for him to leave Daisy, but he had been spending a lot of time with Jacques. Angelina knew her father had something to do with Belmont choosing to cut the cord.

  The weekend flew by. Daisy helped her clean out her mother’s closets and donate clothes, shoes, accessories, and some of her mother’s keepsakes to charity—per her mother’s request. They cooked meals together and sat on the porch to eat and talk, catching up on the years of sisterly conversations that they had never had.