It's All Love

by Marita Golden

  Evelyn was shocked. How could Hart not know what a travesty such a filthy office was? How could he not know how badly this reflected on him, the only Black first-year associate at this powerful firm? That was the day Evelyn knew just how far Hart would go, which was not, in her estimation, very far. She looked around his office and wondered how he had missed it, the essential message of their children-of-the-dream upbringing: Be impeccable, know that you'll have to work twice as hard to get half as far. She did not know that Hart had been trained, ruined maybe, by his White friends, who moved through the world as slippery as fish. The confidence, the gift of these boys, was their inherent confidence in the fact that they were born with gills. They took the spoils of their privilege as easily as the rest of us take in air.

  Evelyn served us both a plate of risotto and poured each a glass of white wine. She had never offered me wine before, but I sipped it without question, admiring its cool, crisp taste and how well it paired with the cheesy, slightly soupy rice. I noted the name on the bottle and imagined making such a meal for Felix. By the time she had poured me a second glass I was bold enough to ask the question that had been gnawing at me since her monologue had begun.

  “Why did you marry him then?”

  She did not, as I expected, take my question seriously. Instead, she continued her story. “The day I went to Hart's office, I was so horrified that I spent the entire day cleaning it. He kept offering up false apologies about being busy with the brief. But what I remember most is him tapping away at the computer while I spent hours sorting through the papers and throwing away empty food containers that looked like after Hart was done with them, rats had had a run at them as well. Each layer revealed a nastier level of filth, and by the time I was finished, I was so angry I could barely speak. But what could I do? He hadn't asked me to clean his office, I volunteered. So I begged off of dinner and went home, determined to break up with him.”

  “What happened then?” I asked, worried that if I did not hurry her along, Hart would come home and she would think twice, the next day, about finishing the story she had begun.

  “The following Sunday he asked me to meet him for brunch. After we ate, he took me to Tiffany's and bought me this ring.”

  She waved her hand at me, five thin brown fingers, each immaculately polished in a pink the color of cotton candy. On her ring finger, a Flintstones-sized gem sparkled. It was of course a ring I had seen many times before.

  “It's a big diamond,” I said appreciatively.

  “It's a big-ass diamond,” she said, laughing. “Emerald-cut. Double channel band. It cost sixteen thousand dollars, and Hart bought it as easily as if he were putting a quarter in a gumball machine.”

  As if on cue, we heard Hart at the front door. Evelyn rose, her story not finished but finished enough. She kissed her husband and then urged him to check on the kids. “They've been curiously silent,” she said, waving him off.

  To me, she said, “It's late. You should take a taxi.” This was unusual. She had never offered me taxi fare home before. But I took the two crisp twenty-dollar bills and was pondering whether I would actually take a taxi or save the money and take the subway when she reached out for my shoulder. Once again, she flashed me her ring. “Tiniest handcuff in the world,” she said, laughing, without any hint of a smile in her voice.

  I took the subway home that night, and the following weekend I made Felix a dinner of risotto and white wine, using the money Evelyn had given me for a cab. I spent ten dollars on the Arborio and mascarpone, a cheese I'd never heard of. Then I spent another ten on a bottle of Pinot Grigio. I reserved the second twenty, in case dinner was a disaster and I needed to run to the corner for two orders of curried goat and rice. But I followed the instructions I had found in one of Evelyn's cookbooks to the letter, and dinner was perfect. Felix had never had risotto and asked me if I might make it every Sunday night. This was not likely. The risotto had required ‘round-the-clock minding, and I think, ultimately, I preferred my rice with less liquid and no cheese. But I made a mental note of Felix's flexible palate and vowed to surprise him with new dishes as often as I could.

  HART NEVER made partner at the law firm where Evelyn had spent an afternoon cleaning up his office. He wasn't fired exactly, but it was suggested that his talents would be better used elsewhere, and so it was he'd taken a job at the NAACP Legal Defense Fund. He had been there ever since. Evelyn saw him as a man fallen from glory, and in her mind, this was a fact that would never change. Her diminished expectations were understandable enough, but my grandmother had taught me the one constant in life was change. I could feel it in the Porters’ house, and I often wondered what it might be. Might Hart meet another woman down there at the NAACP, a nice Black girl, half Evelyn's age, with no Park Avenue aspirations and an abiding passion for ironing Hart's shirts? Or would Evelyn be the one to leave, abandoning Hart and the children for one of those European robber barons who would relish the thought of a smart, wealthy Black woman as his second wife?

  As it were, change came not in the form of infidelity as I expected, but under the guise of friendship. Hart had a good friend from childhood, a man who was a regular houseguest of the Porters whenever he was in town, which was often. I had met both him and his wife on a number of occasions. Like Hart, the man was dedicated to “fighting the good fight,” which Evelyn took to mean he had chosen a career path in which he would never make any money. Evelyn was none too fond of the wife, although she did a decent job of hiding it. The woman, who lived in Chicago with her husband, was pretty enough but modest in her dress and demeanor. Behind her back, Evelyn called her Ann Taylor because the woman bought all of her work clothes there and regularly tried to bond with Evelyn over news of an upcoming sale. Evelyn, who bought her work clothes at Bergdorf's, preferred labels that went by one name, not two: Armani, Escada, Valentino.

  Sometimes it seemed that it was one of Evelyn's few pleasures in life that as low as Hart had sunk, they still had much to lord over this couple, who were, in terms of race and breeding, their closest peers.

  “Have you ever been to Chicago?” Evelyn would ask me, moments after showing her husband's dearest friend to the door.

  I had not.

  “It's so provincial,” she said. “And they don't even live on the Gold Coast. They live in this itsy-bitsy house in some godforsaken suburb. I mean she actually thinks Ann Taylor is a bona fide designer.”

  It was always like that when the couple came to visit. Evelyn was always cutting them down, despite the fact that Hart and the man were more like brothers than friends and the couple had two girls who were exactly Nick and Zoe's age. One year Hart suggested the families pool their resources and rent a house in Jamaica for the winter vacation. Evelyn complained about it for weeks.

  “They've never even been to the Caribbean!” she said. “I don't think either one of them has been out of the country since they met in Africa, working for the Peace Corps.”

  “That's very impressive,” I said. “I've heard about the Peace orps.

  Evelyn rolled her eyes at me as if I should know better than to open my mouth unless invited to speak.

  “Please,” she said. “Travel in college hardly counts.”

  This hurt my feelings more than it should have. Much to my own surprise, I was wounded by her presumptiveness. She seemed cruelly unaware what I would have given to have gone to college, how much more I would have valued a chance at the Peace Corps over a lazy, rich person's vacation at a villa in Jamaica.

  THE MAN'S BUSINESS brought him to New York more and more often. As he could not afford a hotel, Hart named the family's guest room as a suite in his honor. Whenever he could extend his trip to include a weekend, the woman joined him, and the four of them—Evelyn and Hart, Hart's friend and his wife—would see the latest Broadway show and visit the fanciest restaurants. The couple from Chicago became Evelyn's favorite object of derision as they were a hearty stand-in for her husband, whom she could not or would not mock to his fac
e. Then one day everything changed. The man gave a speech at a political convention that attracted a great deal of media attention. He won a prominent position in government, and people began to talk that he might be the first Black man to serve as president of the United States. He was on television constantly, though the first time I saw him, it caught me unawares. I was watching the evening news with my sister when his familiar face flashed across the screen. “I know that man,” I said. “He's a friend of Evelyn and Hart's.” And then I had a thought that showed how badly I had been indoctrinated with Evelyn's rude ways, I thought, What is he doing on TV? He lives in an itsy-bitsy house in the suburbs of Chicago, and his wife actually thinks Ann Taylor is a big-name designer.

  Evelyn no doubt had the same thought the first, second, and hundredth time she saw the man on TV. But it soon became clear his fame was no flash in the pan; it was the real deal. As humble as ever, the man and his wife continued to visit the Porters whenever they were in town. The man, now a regular presence on the cover of magazines, seemed to rely on Hart as a touchstone, a truth teller in an uncertain sea of new friends and overly zealous supporters.

  The woman, Evelyn noted, no longer wore Ann Taylor. She now showed up for dinner at the Porters’ dressed in Donna Karan and Oscar de la Renta, confessing, somewhat embar-rassedly, that whenever she met a designer, the next day he sent over a rack full of clothes in her size. Evelyn's eyes widened, and she began to warm to the woman. I had to admit that her behavior was impressive. Evelyn was not so sycophantic that the woman would recognize her immediately as a fake, but she began to reach out casually, in ways that suggested she was merely strengthening the relationship, not deepening what had been only a very shallow acquaintance before.

  When February rolled around, there was no question that the couple from Chicago would join the Porters on their annual jaunt to Jamaica. This time around there was no complaining from Evelyn. Rather, if anything, she seemed slightly nervous about being outshone by the wife. Every day she brought home shopping bags full of what she called resort wear, expensive warm-weather clothes that are sold only in the wintertime. Then the next day she took it all back. She had always seemed so confident in her wardrobe choices, donning the latest looks as easily as her seven-year-old daughter wore her school uniform. But the days leading up to the Jamaica vacation were a flurry of shopping, returns, and exchanges.

  Evelyn returned from Jamaica rested and buoyant. During the vacation Hart's friend had told them that he would soon be announcing his bid for the presidency and he wanted Hart to play a key role in the campaign. The Porters were moving to Chicago, where campaign headquarters would be set up. And after the election, if all went well, they would move to Washington, D.C.

  “Congratulations,” I told Evelyn, and although this meant I would soon lose my job, I was genuinely happy for them, especially Hart, who was being rewarded for being such a good friend.

  “Thank you,” Evelyn said, beaming. “I want you to know that I'd like you to come with us.”

  “To Chicago?” I said, somewhat stupidly, since I knew this was where they were going.

  “No, to Mars,” Evelyn said, affixing me with the full beam of her grin.

  I knew she did not remember that I have a sister in New York and nieces and nephews that I love. She did not remember that I have a boyfriend who I hope will one day be my husband. It was not her job to remember that I have a life away from Park Avenue. I imagine it is inconceivable to her that there is life beyond Park Avenue.

  “I couldn't,” I said quietly.

  “What are you staying here for?” she chided. “That chubby little taxi driver with the high-pitched voice? I'm offering you a front seat to history in the making.”

  I was both surprised that she had remembered Felix and hurt that she had chosen to dismiss him in such unflattering terms.

  “You're an attractive girl,” Evelyn said. “You could do very well for yourself. I'd like for you to stay with us for at least two more years, until Nick begins kindergarten, but after that I wouldn't be averse to setting you up with a nice lobbyist or policy researcher. You're bilingual, and Washington is a very international city. With the right introduction, it's not inconceivable that you could marry above your station.”

  I found this interesting, that she spoke of my “station” as if it were a fixed and solid thing, rather than the uneven labyrinth of trapeze bars and swings that she herself had traversed. At any given moment during our acquaintance, she had made it clear that she sometimes thought of marrying Hart as marrying up, but she just as often thought of it as marrying down. Now the couple was on the upswing again, and it seemed only natural to her that what I would want for my own life was some facsimile of hers.

  If I had the gift of speaking my mind without filters, I would have told Evelyn that while Hart's friend's bid for the presidency was indeed exciting, I did not need a front seat to that particular portion of American history. If I was bold, I would have told Evelyn that, presidential pal or no, she should treasure her marriage because at the end of the day there really is only one story in the history of the world: You're born, and you spend a portion of your life feeling lonely and adrift. If you're lucky, that time is very short, and if you're unlucky, that time never ends. But if you're average, you meet a man who thinks you walk on water and because of this single, irrational thought, he'll give you anything he's got. It may be half of the bed in the Lincoln Bedroom. It may be a lifetime supply of free taxi rides for your sister and all of her rambunctious kids. It's not history in the making, like Hart's friend and his presidential race, but it's how we live our lives. It's all the history I need or care to know.

  At first, Evelyn was hurt, offended even. But as winter turned toward spring, and Hart became a regular presence on television and in the newspapers, she softened toward me again. She found a way not to take my rejection of her job offer personally. I imagine it has something to do with her fantasy of me as the noble immigrant, that she came to see as rooted in a Brooklyn she has never seen, the way the Statue of Liberty stubbornly plants her stone feet on Liberty Island.

  As for me, the evening that Evelyn offered to take me to Chicago, to give me the opportunity to sit with and serve greatness, Felix came and picked me up from work. It's not something he did often, but somehow he seemed to always know when I was just too weary to take the subway and then a bus home. No matter that he could have cleared a hundred dollars in the two hours it takes him to drive from Tilden Avenue to Park Avenue to pick me up and back again. He sat in the car, straining to listen to some Haitian station he would lose if he drove even two more blocks north. The smile on his face when he saw me emerge from the service entrance let me know this was a man who would carry me, from borough to borough, by piggyback, if it were my pleasure. I am not my grandmother. She was the type of woman that men feared and women envied. But I do have the sense that my grandmother gave me. She would consider me a portrait in foolishness to make myself a willing exile from this land called love.

  Coming Clean

  NICOLE BAILEY-WILLIAMS

  IT WAS A WEEK AWAY from my wedding, and I was scared witless and shitless. I had been with Laurence since our senior year in high school when the star football player had guided us to a teeth-clenching, on-the-edge-of-our-seats win, and I, a pageant princess, walked away with another title, Homecoming Queen. It was that night, when he was coasting on the dizzying vapors of victory, and I was sedated by the satisfaction of collecting another trophy, that I held his gaze when he smiled at me. And I smiled back.

  I'd never liked football players. I'd thought that they were shallow, dumb even, so although I'd found him physically attractive, I'd never thought that he was anything more than a decorative shell. I, on the other hand, was actually proud of my reputation of being pretty, intelligent, talented, pleasant, and yet untouchable.

  I prided myself on being every freshman's dream—the girls’ silent envy and the boys’ overt desire. But they saw only the shell. The be
autifully decorated Faberge egg. Inside, I was flawed, but I never let anyone get close enough to see that.

  But that night when he smiled at me, the clasp came undone, and I was thrown wide open. Vulnerable, unburdened and surprisingly happy.

  We'd sat in the bleachers and talked for hours after the dance. With his football jacket draped over my shoulders, we mused about the colleges we were applying to, our hopes for the future, and how we wanted to change the world. With youthful optimism and suburban kids’ security, we were confident that we'd make a big impact on the community and the world.

  He kissed me that night as we stood on the step in front of my door, and I knew we were on the verge of something that would change the rest of my life.

  We were inseparable for the rest of the school year, and we compared notes as college acceptances poured in. Hampton? Yeah, but only a partial athletic scholarship. Howard, yes. Money, nope. Duke, yes, and a full ride. North Carolina, here we come.

  And off we went hundreds of miles away with each other as our only support system. His mother had spent the past five years floating in and out of his life in a hazy, smoke-filled world, leaving him and his two siblings to be raised by a reluctant aunt. At eighteen, he still didn't know who his father was. My mother, who was dripping rich and on husband number four, seemed more than happy to have me out of the house so that she could continue her perpetual party without any interruption from me.

  My real father had died of lung cancer when I was six, and the parade of men my mother had trotted in to act as his replacement had been worthless to me. They'd been a gold mine to her. That's what she drummed into my head.

  “Honey, keep yourself up. No man wants to come home to a cow unless he's a farmer.”

  She'd started me in the pageant circuit when I was almost ten, saying, “You really need to improve your walk. You look like Igor lurking around here. And lift your chin. The only thing interesting down there are my Prada boots.”