The January Girl

by Goldie Taylor

  “What’s your name, ma’am?”

  “Ms. Delafuenta. D-E-L . . .”

  “I know how to spell it,” Sandy spit out.

  Bitch, Angel wanted to say. You better know how to spell it.

  Between patients, Sandy slipped Jack the note. “Your friend is a pushy little something,” she warned. “She called at least four times today and then came in.”

  “Where is she now?” Jack asked with little patience.

  “In the waiting room.”

  Jack went immediately to the front office, threw open the door, and summoned Angel back to his office. He slammed the door behind her. “Did you not hear one word of what I told you this morning? You can’t be here. Didn’t you get that? I told you we had to cool this thing off.” His fury was barely contained.

  Angel crossed her shapely bronze legs and sat coolly as he fired away. She remained cucumber cool as he came unglued. She said finally, “Jack, I’m pregnant.”

  “You are undoubtedly the most—” He stopped midsentence. “With what?”

  “A baby.”

  “Whose baby?”

  “Jack, don’t be funny. With our baby.”

  “We are not having a baby.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Get rid of it. I’ll call a colleague and arrange for it this afternoon.”

  “It? You can’t be serious.” Her green doe eyes began to tear.

  “I could not be more serious.” His fingers were tingling with rage. “If you don’t mind, I need some time to think,” he growled.

  “Sure, Jack. Anything you want,” she said sweetly.

  “And while I’m doing that, I want you to call a friend of mine,” he said, scribbling a colleague’s name and number on a pad. “His name is Bill Whitehead. He’s a gynecologist. He’ll give you a blood test.”

  “For what?”

  “To confirm you’re actually pregnant.”

  Angel thought quickly. “I don’t mind taking a test. That’s not what’s important. I just need to know you want us—me and the baby.”

  “Angel, tell me you love me with a straight face. Tell me it’s not the fancy cars, the trips, and all the money that you love. Tell me you don’t love the idea of a big house. Tell me you wouldn’t do just about anything to stop waiting tables.”

  He snapped off his watch and threw it into her lap. “Take it. It’s worth at least thirty grand.”

  “My job pays my bills,” she said, tilting her head up. “I don’t need anything from you. Jack, you know that I love you.”

  “I knew we would get around to that. Tell me you’d love me if I was broke,” he demanded.

  Angel tossed her generous hair back and said innocently, “I didn’t want to make things complicated.”

  “Too late for that,” he sniped.

  She took the slip of paper, placed the watch on his desk, and left.

  Jack instructed Sandy to cancel the afternoon’s patients and send those that were already there to Doogie and the other associates. Long after Angel had gone, Jack sat in his office behind locked doors for hours waiting for the answer. He didn’t like Angel’s idea of a happy family. Eight months ago, she was just another girl with a tasty set of lips who knew how to keep them closed. She was a quick and easy detour whenever Thandy was out of town or busy working. For a while, Thandy had been so wrapped up visiting colleges with Montana and volunteering for the campaign that she was rarely home.

  There had been others, including Lucy the Lunatic, a manic-depressive who had showed up unannounced on his doorstep with her suitcases. He kept her supplied with lithium. When she was lucid, Lucy would bake him lasagna and cook homemade meatballs. When she wasn’t, she’d call his cell phone a hundred times a day and threaten suicide if he didn’t come over right away. When he didn’t return her calls, he would invariably find that she’d keyed his Porsche. Etienne was suspicious, but Jack blamed the incidents on schoolkid pranks. Lucy flattened eight tires and broke out the windows of his BMW before it was all said and done.

  Then there was Sugar. Just the thought of her made his head spin. She didn’t need any other name—just Sugar. They made love efficiently so she could get home in time to cook dinner for her husband, whom Jack knew in passing. Jack had been her escape; he was her one indulgence. Their frequent rendezvous at a local no-tell-motel usually lasted under thirty minutes. In and out with no strings. Sugar didn’t know and didn’t care what Jack did for a living until she saw him interviewed on CNN one afternoon. Even then, she didn’t mention it. A couple of years back, she joined a new church and abruptly stopped calling. Where was Sugar when he could use a cup?

  If you lined them all up in a row, you could scarcely tell one from the other. They could pass for first cousins, if not sisters. All had long raven hair, light-colored eyes, and skin like butter. Etienne would have stood out like a sore thumb. Far from light-bright-almost-white, Etienne’s toasted pecan complexion and deep coal-black eyes were a sharp contradiction to Jack’s paramours. But at the time, the marriage looked good on paper. Once a sure-footed society diva, his wife was the scion of an important family and needed little training in Wife 101.

  Why do I always pick the crazy ones?

  Another hour went by before his private line rang.

  “It’s positive.”

  Jack accepted the news without question. “Thanks, Whitey. I owe you one.”

  “Who is she?”

  “Just a friend in need.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Late on Election Day night, a handful of county offices in the southeast corner of Georgia were still counting votes, but the race for governor was decidedly a landslide. The loser, as is customary, made the obligatory phone call to pledge his support. The concession lasted less than two minutes.

  The crowd was cheering and the champagne was flowing when Sloane Faulkner took the stage. It was closing in on 2:00 a.m. when the final vote came in. He’d waited in a hotel suite high above the ballroom, surrounded by the campaign team and family. They waited until there was little or no doubt left. He was the people’s man, the one they could call on when the garbage man wouldn’t pick up bad furniture, when City Hall didn’t pick up the phone, when the lady at the voting booth tried to deny their God-given right to cast a vote. Faulkner was their man.

  In another life, he had been an unassuming high school physics teacher and taught evening classes at Georgia State. A nasty zoning fight lured him down to City Hall. A big-box retailer threatened to put a store in the neighborhood. They didn’t expect Sloane and Marla Faulkner. Together they rallied their neighbors and told the corporate stiffs to go to hell. Savoring the victory, he didn’t leave City Hall for nearly twelve years.

  The hotly contested race for governor would have been a run-of-the-mill scrap, but Faulkner wouldn’t take a dive. He went on campaigning like he could win the thing. The incumbent had a fat war chest and endorsements from anybody who meant anything. Two weeks before Election Day, his wily opponent produced a stack of ill-gotten tax records and proudly announced that Sloane Faulkner was a fraud.

  According to the IRS, Faulkner owed more than two hundred thousand dollars in back taxes. Never mind that he’d lost four times that on a bad land deal. How could he manage the state’s business when he couldn’t see after his own?

  Faulkner was better at math than the IRS. Three days later, he held up a letter showing a reversal. The federal agency actually owed him forty thousand dollars. The campaign committee, armed with hundreds of volunteers, redoubled their efforts. The people had the final say.

  “The only poll that counts is the one they take on Election Day,” Faulkner told the baptized masses.

  He eased up to the podium, with his dutiful wife and grown children at his side, and claimed the victory. It had been a long time coming. The first race for Atlanta city council had been a decided cakewalk. He doubled down and ran for council president in the next cycle. There was no stopping Faulkner. The road had been well
paved. Four years ago, Faulkner made history when he soundly defeated a sitting lieutenant governor, a mostly ceremonious post that included more than his share of ribbon cuttings at senior citizens’ centers, and fried chicken dinners in church basements. His intentions were as clear as tea leaves even then. Faulkner was on a mission. He would become the first black governor south of the Mason-Dixon Line. He alone would stop the Republican tide rolling across the South.

  “To the people of Georgia, I say thank you!” Faulkner began.

  The crowd roared as they waved signs emblazoned with his name. The governor-elect cleared his throat. He raised his hands over the audience and they at once grew silent.

  “You went to the polls this morning and told the world that you won’t be nailed down. That you won’t give up or give in. You said you were tired of dirty politics and secret backdoor deals. You told us that you’re ready to fight for a better Georgia!”

  The crowd went wild. When the noise subsided, he continued on. “And I’ll tell you one more thing,” he boomed.

  “Make it plain!” a woman yelled from the back.

  “Yes, ma’am!” he returned. “This is our Georgia. Black, white, brown, and otherwise. Rich, poor, and somewhere in between. Man, woman, and child. Republican and Democrat, this is our Georgia!”

  “Say it, son!” another woman shouted.

  “I want you to know that I heard you this morning. The entire country heard you. Hell, the entire world heard you!”

  He paused and said, “They heard you say, this is your Georgia!”

  The crowd began to chant. “Faulkner! Faulkner!”

  “I mean to tell you that you did a good thing this morning. You went to the polls and made your voice heard.”

  He lowered his voice. “That, my friends, is a powerful thing. Fifty-nine years ago, my mother told me that there was a brighter day ahead. Even as she scrubbed floors for four dollars a day, she pressed me to do better. When my daddy got laid off from the carpet mill in Dalton, she told us to move on. She told me that I need only look to Tallulah Falls, that I need only see the glory of Stone Mountain. That I need only know that power of the great Chattahoochee River. That I need only look to the valleys of Albany, the streets of Atlanta, the piedmonts of Habersham, the shores of Savannah, to hear the sweet music of our native son Ray Charles. ‘Georgia! Georgia!’ ” he sang. “I need only look there to see the promise of a better day!”

  The crowd lit up. “Just an old sweet song, keeps Georgia on my mind,” they sang in unison.

  “When I announced my candidacy for governor of this great state, wiser minds called me a fool! They said I was a crazy man. A deranged physics teacher.”

  “Say it ain’t so!”

  “Yes, sir,” he said to the crowd. “They said I didn’t have enough money. They said I didn’t have the experience. That I didn’t have the support. I ain’t ashamed to tell you they said no black man was worthy of this esteemed office. That Georgia hadn’t come far enough.”

  “No, they didn’t!”

  “But Lord, Lord, Lord. I tell you the truth. You told them they were wrong! As surely as the sun rises over Brunswick and sets over Villa Rica.”

  “Yeah!”

  “You told them that you knew better!”

  “Yeah!”

  “You told them that we were ready for better schools! A better economy! Better jobs! Meaningful jobs at meaningful wages! Something you can raise your children on! Better housing! A government that serves the people!”

  “Yeah!”

  “They said, look here, Faulkner. Those are good ideas, but ain’t no way you can win. The big boys won’t give you their money. Rural Georgia will turn their back on you. Atlanta won’t turn out. They’ll cut you off at the pass. They won’t let you by. But surely, so surely as the Chattahoochee rolls downstream, I stand before you tonight as your next governor!”

  The audience erupted. Marla Faulkner beamed.

  “It is with honor and gratitude that I stand before you tonight and say thank you. Thank you to Mrs. Idela Young from White County, who mailed a five-dollar bill to the campaign. Thank you to Mr. Agner Pope from Columbia County, who called me at two o’clock in the morning to say, ‘Keep your head up and keep going.’ Thank you to Mrs. Lila Brown and her bridge club in Winder for going door to door, urging their neighbors to give me their support. You welcomed me at the Unadilla Kiwanis Club and the Rotary Club in Macon. I had breakfast with you at a diner in Helen. You opened your homes and your hearts. I tell you that it meant all the difference. And, darling,” he said, pulling Marla in close, “you make the difference every day.”

  The crowd roared.

  Sloane and Marla Faulkner had been married over twenty-five years. Both had been schoolteachers. Together they had raised three daughters: twenty-four-year-old Misha was in law school at the University of Georgia, and the younger twins, Mavis and Michelle, were co-eds at Georgia Tech studying software engineering. All were campaign volunteers. They stood beside their father, convinced he was the smartest man they ever knew. Various campaign staffers lined up behind them. Others scurried in and out of the hotel ballroom directing media traffic and rechecking the numbers. All four local broadcast affiliates were carrying the event live from the ballroom.

  Thandy was lying in bed, watching proudly as others took the podium. Her best friend and former college professor was making history. She leaped up from the mattress and pumped her fists in the air. He’d won!

  Thandy had hosted a fundraiser at her firm and opened her home to friends. Jack had come, too. One of the early naysayers, he had been slow to believe, although he had written a check for the maximum contribution because Sloane was his friend, too.

  They spent the evening pretending they were casual friends. Phillipa would have riddled his body with darts, but Thandy forbade it. Her guests sipped wine and nibbled at small plates of hors d’oeuvres as they crowded into her living room. Sloane had been simply magical, if not enchanting that evening. Each of the over ninety guests stroked a check for the maximum contribution. At her direction the National Association of Securities Professionals’ political action committee made a handsome donation of twenty thousand dollars, which Thandy delivered personally. All told, her efforts had brought in over two hundred thousand dollars.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Girl, we did it!” Sloane said.

  “No, my friend, you did it.” She yawned and stretched her arms.

  “I haven’t slept in two days.”

  Thandy pinned the phone between her cheek and shoulder. “I know it was worth it.”

  “Every minute. How are you? How is Chicago?”

  “Chicago is good. I’m just waiting for the first snow.” She yawned again, pouring her vowels out like a waterfall in slow motion. “I miss Atlanta.”

  “Every good-bye ain’t gone.”

  “That means some are and maybe that’s for the better.”

  “How is Montana? Is she ready for Yale?”

  “The real question is can Yale get ready for her?” She could sense his smile through the phone.

  “How are you? Really?”

  “I’m good,” she said, wiping the crust out of her eyes. “I promise.”

  “It’s late. I know I woke you up, but I just wanted to hear your voice.”

  “It’s good to hear yours.”

  “Dating?”

  “Not really. Just fumbling around I guess. Chicago does have its charms.”

  “You know, Thandy, fumbling around until the right thing comes along can be good. Fumbling is good. Sit still long enough and the right man will find you. You ain’t hard to miss.”

  “The guy next door brought a welcome basket by the other day.”

  “I’m sure he did,” Sloane said with a chuckle. “Did you invite him in?”

  “Of course not.” Thandy scrunched her brows. Sloane knew better.

  “He’s probably still waiting outside.” Sloane laughed again.

  “I hear wha
t you’re saying, but I’m not ready. I don’t know that I have anything to give anybody.”

  “Any man in his right mind would be glad to be yours. Promise me you’ll find the time to get out there and fumble some.”

  “That’s easier said than done.”

  “I know. Phillipa tells me that you had a medical emergency of some sort.”

  “It was nothing really. I spent the night in the hospital. Just tired, I guess. Bad substitute for a vacation.”

  “Why didn’t you call me?” Worry laced his voice.

  “Nothing you could do from Atlanta. You had a campaign to win.”

  “With no small thanks to you. Anything I can do?”

  “I’m okay. Really I am.”

  “What happened?”

  Thandy paused for a moment and said, “Seems I was pregnant.”

  “God, no!”

  “I had a miscarriage.”

  “Are you all right, baby girl?”

  “It was for the best. And you’re right. I just need to move on. The good Lord has a way of taking care of these things. Every moment is as it should be.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She eased down into the blankets and closed her eyes. “Don’t be. Like I said, every moment is as it should be and I believe that. After I get through this, I will fumble around a little more. I promise.”

  “You know, I knew you were something special the day you walked into my classroom. I knew you were going to do big things.”

  “I remember. Montana had chicken pox.”

  “And you brought her to class with you.”

  “No other choice. If we were going to get up and get on, I couldn’t stay away from class. I guess she went to Emory, too.”

  He laughed. “They ought to give her an honorary degree.”

  “She’ll have to get her own.”

  “She will. Trust me on that. Did you hear my speech tonight?”