by Pamela Morsi
Amber looked away.
“The Matt guy is even cute,” Gwen continued. “It’s not like you’re having to go down on the decrepit, old scumbag. I gave you the better one.”
Amber was shaking her head. “It’s so…so…gross.”
“Oh, puh-leeze,” Gwen complained. “You can’t tell me this is the first time you’ve had sex with some creep you didn’t like.”
She didn’t respond to that.
“You got a condom?” Gwen asked.
Amber nodded.
“Then we’re good to go,” she said.
Amber followed Gwen back out to the lobby where Pete was waiting for her with open arms. When they got within the privacy of the elevator, Matt wrapped his arm around her and pulled her close.
He was clean smelling with just a hint of some nice aftershave. Gwen was right. He wasn’t really bad looking. And since he’d sobered up a bit, he wasn’t even all that obnoxious. He wouldn’t be the most disgusting man she’d ever slept with. Just the only one she did for money. Amber felt ill.
“I’m hungry,” she said to him. “Couldn’t we go to the bar and grab a sandwich or something?”
“We’ll order room service,” Matt told her.
The elevator stopped and the door opened. Feeling like a condemned prisoner, Amber stepped forward. Matt pulled her back.
“It’s not my floor,” he said.
Gwen and Pete hurried out. Pete was groping her butt, she was looking back at Amber, encouraging, warning, threatening.
The door closed and the elevator moved up. The space inside was small, but seemed enormously empty without the safe presence of her friend.
This was not what Amber had planned to do with her life.
“Did you go to college?” she asked suddenly.
Matt seemed surprised at the question. “Michigan State,” he answered proudly. “You a football fan?”
“No.”
The elevator stopped and the door opened.
“This is it,” he said stepping forward.
Amber hesitated.
He was standing in the open door, eyeing her curiously.
“I…I don’t think…” She looked up into his face, not certain what to say. “I…I think I started my period.”
His brow furrowed unpleasantly, then he shook his head.
“It doesn’t bother me, if it doesn’t bother you,” he told her.
“It bothers me,” Amber said.
“We’ll work around it,” he assured her. “I hate to brag on myself, but I’ve got a knack for innovation.”
“I don’t think—”
“We’ll have a drink,” he said. “We’ll get you something to eat. We’ll party.”
“I don’t want to do this. Just let me go.”
“What?”
“I want to leave,” she said.
He was shaking his head, disbelieving. “You spent all evening warming me up and now you want to walk?”
She hadn’t encouraged him at all, she was sure of that. But she didn’t feel as if she was in any position to argue.
“Just let me go,” she repeated. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry, but please just let me go.”
He wrapped his arm around her and pulled her out of the elevator. “Come on, baby,” he said. “You’ve already gone this far, the rest is just sliding downhill.”
She was going through her gymnastic routine on the decking around the pool in the backyard. Twirling her ribbon stick and keeping the strip of two-inch-wide satin constantly moving in circles and swirls as she turned, pivoted, leapt and balanced.
The ribbon was her best event, though that wasn’t saying much. She was too tall for a gymnast and had an awkwardness she just couldn’t seem to get past. But practice makes perfect. If she wanted to do better, she’d just have to keep working at it.
She did an Arabesque with serpent spirals, her best movement, executing it perfectly. It was like dancing, but without all the frilly costumes. She was an athlete, not a ballerina. It suited her disposition better than her aptitude.
As she completed sequence after sequence coming toward the finale there was more cause for concern. The conclusion of the routine was a boomerang throw. She grasped the end of the ribbon. Tossed the stick and pulled it back toward her as she went up on toes and made a reverse pivot. Her timing was right-on. The stick was in perfect position and she made the catch. She stood flat-footed and arched, holding ribbon and stick above her head, for the final pose.
From the direction of the covered patio she heard a pair of hands clapping.
“Bravo! Bravo!”
With delight she glanced over to the man still applauding her. He was tall and strong and handsome. She had his eyes. Everybody said so. They were kind eyes.
Giggling, she ran over to him.
“Were you spying on me?” she asked. “You’re supposed to be working. It’s tax season, you know.”
“Who can look at rows of numbers when there is a wood sprite frolicking in my very own backyard,” he replied.
“We don’t call it a frolic, Daddy. It’s a workout.”
He shrugged. “Well, whatever you call it, I call you talented, graceful and beautiful,” he said. “But you’ve got to remember to smile.”
“My teacher said not to,” she explained. “He said the braces detract from the elegance and beauty. The expression needs to be a match of the musicality.”
“The man’s an idiot,” he said. “Nothing could detract from the elegance and beauty of Miss Amber Jameson.”
“Oh, Daddy, you’re silly.”
“I am silly. But you are smart and sweet and wonderful. Every time I look at you, I’m just in awe that an ordinary man like me could be a father to such an amazing creature as you.”
He folded her into his arms. He was so warm, so safe.
“I love you, Daddy,” she said. “I want to make you proud.”
“I love you, too, little pumpkin,” he answered. “And I’m always proud of you. Always.”
His arms around her suddenly seemed too heavy and the scent of him was strange, it was wrong.
Amber opened her eyes to find herself twisted in the covers of a disheveled bed in a downtown hotel. The light from the desk lamp illuminated the room. The man in whose arms she lay was a stranger.
She pulled away from him.
The dreamy memory of her father’s visage was so fresh and vivid that she felt it physically, like a painful kick to the stomach. Tears welled in her eyes. Tightly she squeezed them shut, pushing the old anguish away.
If her father hadn’t died things would have been different. She would have finished high school. She would have gone to college. She would be headed for a bright future. But more than those things, if he hadn’t died, he would still be here to love her.
Amber got up and began searching for her clothes.
“What are you doing?” The sleepy question came from the far side of the bed.
“I’m getting dressed,” she answered.
He fumbled for his watch on the side table. “It’s four o’clock in the morning,” he complained.
“Go back to sleep,” she told him. “I’ve got to get home.”
She carried her things into the bathroom. She took a five-minute shower, scrubbing off the worst of her night. She had no urge to linger. She put on her clothes and brushed her hair, pulling it up into a scrunchy. Makeup free and ponytailed, in the mirror she looked like an entirely different woman than the one she felt inside.
Amber hung her purse on her shoulder and opened the bathroom door. Matt was standing there, leaning against the door frame. His hair was standing on end and he was wearing only his boxers.
“Here,” he said, holding out a stack of bills.
“No, that’s okay,” Amber said, moving past him.
He pressed the money on her. “Cab fare,” he said.
“How far do you think I’m taking a cab—Austin?”
His expression was stern. “You can’t b
e walking around out there at this time of night,” he said. “If you don’t take a cab, I’ll have to get dressed and come with you.”
Amber sorted through the cash in his hand and took a ten-dollar bill. “This will get it,” she said. “Thanks.”
“Thank you, baby,” Matt said.
“Don’t call me baby, I hate that.”
“Okay.” He hesitated for a long minute. “I’m sorry. I don’t actually remember your name,” he admitted.
“Gwen,” Amber told him. “Just remember me as Gwen.”
10
Saturday was cleaning day. At least it was for Ellen. Amber slept in, as per usual, and Wilma had never much believed in it.
“If God had wanted us to keep house, he wouldn’t have invented maids,” she would joke.
In Wilma’s long, undisciplined and chaotic life, there had been very few maids. That didn’t change her opinion about it one bit. Wilma had no need for order in her personal choices or her surroundings.
Ellen, on the other hand, felt much more in control of her world when all the rooms were spic-and-span and the dresser drawers were tidy.
She took on the Saturday morning ritual with only Jet’s help. They put on aprons and tied bandannas around their hair. Jet did all the low dusting, chair legs and bottom shelves. Ellen took care of the higher areas.
The child was singing, in her sweet, angelic voice, one of the horrible songs that Wilma had taught her.
“When Puppy was little, just about so tall, he hiked up his leg and he wee-weed on the wall.”
Ellen ignored the vocal entertainment and concentrated on the little girl’s efforts. Jet was very careful and conscientious about her work. She took what she saw as an adult responsibility very seriously. Ellen wanted to nurture that, develop it.
She had taken it for granted with Amber. Her daughter had always been biddable and dependable. During Paul’s illness when money had gotten tight, she’d never complained about the change in their lifestyle or the shortage of new clothes and spending money. Quite the opposite. She, on her own initiative, had gotten a job to help make ends meet. Those were some of their best times as a family. They were all pulling together for a common goal and hope was contagious.
That seemed far distant from the situation today. Amber still worked, but beyond that her level of responsibility was not in keeping with what Ellen would have expected of a single parent. She should be making a home for Jet, making a life for herself. Neither challenge seemed to rate high on Amber’s to-do list.
Ellen hadn’t seen it coming. Not her daughter’s disillusion, self-destruction, unplanned pregnancy. Nor had she seen the inevitability of her husband’s death.
Ellen wasn’t sure who did realize it first. Paul, who quit talking about getting well? Or Amber who withdrew from family, friends, school? But it certainly was not Ellen.
She hadn’t even allowed for the possibility. As long as there was a new treatment, an untried drug combination, an experimental protocol, she’d been confident that a cure was just around the corner. The doctors had been as upbeat as she was herself. Only the insurance company seemed to be throwing in the towel.
Paul had cautioned her against spending their retirement money. Ellen had had no qualms, not even hesitancy. It was an investment. They would spend their money to get Paul well and then the two of them together would build the business back. She’d envisioned Paul’s health, his future, as if it were a blue-chip stock option. It turned out to be more like putting their financial future on a roulette table at 23 red. But she wouldn’t have, couldn’t have done anything differently. How much was a husband/father worth? How much should a wife be willing to pay? To Ellen’s mind, the answer to both questions was anything.
She’d waved away his worries.
“I don’t anticipate saving your life as a recurring expense,” she teased.
“What if I don’t recover?” he’d asked. “You’ll have to start all over.”
“If I have to start over, I will,” she’d assured him.
But she hadn’t. Not really. Beginning again was like swimming upstream. Exhausting, and more suited to younger and stronger people. Ellen was content these days to simply tread water.
“Look, Gramma! I found a penny,” Jet called out to her excitedly.
Ellen glanced over to where the child was pointing. Sure enough, she could see a tiny metallic gleam just under the edge of the couch.
“Is it a lucky penny or just an ordinary penny?” Ellen asked her.
The little girl slid it out where she could get a better look and studied the coin.
“Is it the man that’s lucky or the house?” she asked.
“The man,” Ellen answered. “A very great man, Abraham Lincoln. He was a president and he made the law equal for people of every color.”
Jet didn’t seem interested in the history lesson. She sighed. “It’s just an ordinary penny.”
“Well,” Ellen suggested. “You can put it in your pocket or you can turn it over and leave it someplace to make it lucky for somebody else.”
The child was taking her options under serious consideration.
“If I give it to somebody else, will it be lucky for them?” she asked.
“Absolutely,” Ellen told her. “I’m sure there are a lot of people who deserve some good luck today.”
Jet nodded, thoughtfully.
Within the house they could hear the telltale shuffle of someone moving about and the closing of the bathroom door.
“Mama’s up,” Jet said delightedly.
She picked up her penny and deserted her dust rag.
Jet hurried into the kitchen and waited next to the coffeepot. She knew from experience that this was Amber’s first stop on the journey of her day.
Ellen decided to take a break herself and make a fresh pot. She poured the last of the strong black elixir into the sink and rinsed the carafe. Behind her Jet was busy apparently adjusting her mother’s chair. Ellen filled the machine with water and scooped the ground coffee into the filter. A small red light came on as she pressed Brew. Almost immediately a hot, steady stream of brown liquid began to flow.
But not soon enough.
“Don’t tell me there’s no coffee,” were Amber’s first words of the day.
“Five minutes,” Ellen assured her.
“Good morning, Mama,” Jet said.
“Good morning,” Amber responded, before even glancing at the girl.
When she did look at Jet her brow furrowed and then she burst out laughing.
“My God, Mother, what’s this do rag on Jet’s head? You’ve got her dressed up like Aunt Jemima.”
Ellen looked at her granddaughter, horrified.
“Amber, don’t say such a thing,” she scolded. “We were cleaning. I insist that in my own house, we avoid speaking in racial stereotypes.”
“Just ’cause you don’t speak them, doesn’t make them not exist,” Amber responded. “And remember, Mother, this is not your house.”
“It might as well be,” Ellen said. “I’m the only one who has any interest in keeping it habitable. Or are you thinking that I’m just the maid?”
“I help Gramma,” Jet pointed out. “I’m a very good maid.”
Amber looked at her mother, snidely. “If you’re so sticky about stereotypes, I wouldn’t think you’d train your granddaughter to be a domestic.”
“Cleanliness in next to Godliness,” Ellen declared, sounding like a priggish stuffed shirt even to her own ears.
It was, in its way, a victory for Amber, who looked momentarily pleased with herself.
“Who’s Aunt Jemima?” Jet asked.
Ellen hesitated, not sure how much to explain.
“She’s a lady who makes pancakes,” Amber answered.
Jet accepted that explanation without question.
“Why don’t we make some pancakes,” Amber said. “You and me, you want to make some pancakes?”
Jet’s eyes widened with delight. “Coul
d we?”
“Jet had breakfast hours ago,” Ellen said.
“I don’t care,” Amber told her.
It was a challenge. Ellen was tempted to take it up. Amber breezed in and out of her daughter’s life with not nearly enough concern. She came and went as she pleased with apparently no thought to making something of her own life or bettering her daughter’s. Ellen couldn’t ignore her disapproval. But, she couldn’t punish Jet for it either.
“Oh, please, can we, Gramma?” Jet pleaded. “Can Mama and me make pancakes, please.”
The child’s deference to Ellen didn’t sit well with Amber.
“We can do anything we want,” Amber told her daughter. “We don’t need anyone’s permission.”
Jet looked at her mother as if she wanted to believe her. But she shot her grandmother a glance, just in case. Ellen wouldn’t deny the child a special time with Amber.
“It’s please may we make pancakes,” Ellen told her. “And yes you may.”
“Yea!” the little girl cried delightedly, clapping her hands.
“Just let me get some coffee down and I’ll be ready,” Amber told her.
Jet was clutching her hands together and grinning ear to ear.
“I can wait, Mama,” she assured Amber. “I can wait very patiently.”
Ellen poured the coffee for her daughter and directed Jet to get the milk from the refrigerator. It took the child a moment, digging through the fruits and frondescence of Wilma’s most recent foray to the market.
Jet returned with the milk and, with Amber’s help, poured a little into the coffee. She waited until her mother had taken a sip and had relaxed back into the kitchen chair before glancing at the floor and making a very dramatic gasp.
“Look, Mama!” Jet said pointing. “Look there, there’s something under your chair. Look.”
Amber followed the direction her daughter indicated.
“What is this?”
She obviously recognized what it was immediately, but still posed the question.
“It’s a lucky penny, Mama,” Jet told her.
Amber leaned down and picked it up, examining it thoughtfully.
“I think it’s just a penny that got lost on the floor,” she said. “I think it’s just a plain old ordinary penny.”