“You’re driving too fast,” another whack from Victoria. “You’re going to kill us.”
“Remember, you have precious cargo,” Rosa intervened. She kissed Dorothy’s Angel’s forehead.
The little woman slowed down, but she kept an eye on the rear view mirror. No one was following them.
“Take us to the pharmacy first,” Victoria said, after a short pause.
The little woman drove to a drugstore on Main Street. She helped Victoria step out of the car and then Rosa into her wheelchair. She could sneak away and go back to the house while her sisters did their shopping.
“Now, you take care of the baby while Victoria and I look inside for a few things,” Rosa said, giving Dorothy’s Angel to her sister.
The little woman received the baby.
A little bell rang as the two crones entered the drugstore. They browsed through the aisles, trying to remember what it was they needed.
“Aren’t these lace ribbons nice, Rosa?”
“Too expensive.”
“We could dress the baby in lace, like a girl for a photograph. We could buy him a pair of wings, too, to make him look like a true angel.”
What if somebody saw Heather’s car parked in front of the store? The little woman wiped the sweat off her eyes with the baby’s blanket.
“I don’t think that dressing a boy with lace would be a good idea.”
“Why not? He will look like a cherub.”
Or if someone saw her rocking a stolen black child in her arms? The little woman started to shake.
“Dress him like a girl? What the hell are you thinking?”
“Why not?”
“Because he’s a boy!”
“And what does that matter? I liked to dress myself as a boy when I was younger…”
She had to go. Soon, before somebody saw her. The little woman looked down at the little lump she held between her arMs. Dorothy’s Angel smiled at her. He seemed to like her. She should have cooked him into a soup and crush his bones into a flying unguent. That’s what she should have done the night she stole him. She still could do it. She could snap his neck right there. The little thing was so fragile. Alas, she had been touched by her maternal instinct, too, just like her sisters. Babies smelled so good, of talc and sweetness. Their skin was so soft and they laughed so candidly. The little angel smiled again. Oblivious to her ugliness, he expected nothing in return but another smile. She couldn’t boil him, the little woman thought, smiling back at him. He and her dog, Cautious, were the only creatures that ever inspired her to smile, and if she didn’t have the heart to discipline that old sack of fleas, how could she kill this little Bebé Bombón? She had to return to the house. It was time to say adieu. She left the baby atop a pile of empty cardboard boxes by the entrance and darted back to the car.
Inside, the sisters continued fighting.
“Boys should dress like boys and girls should dress like girls! Don’t you know nothing about nothing?”
The little woman’s hands were shaking so hard, she couldn’t insert the key into the ignition. And to where would she drive the car? She couldn’t take it back to the house. The girl would see it and that would be too dangerous. She stepped out, dropped the keys, and ran as fast as she could.
“A boy dressed like a girl is not a crime. Not if he wants to, and I know he wants to, because I am his mother. We are going to buy this lace and we’re going to dress him like a…”
The little bell rang again, this time for someone leaving the drugstore.
“CORA!” A woman’s voice hollered.
By one of those strange coincidences of life, Mrs. Hamm and her daughter had been shopping inside the same pharmacy that same morning. Mrs. Hamm had just discovered her grandson atop the cardboard boxes.
“It’s your child, Cora.” Mrs. Hamm took the baby in her arMs. “It’s your baby!”
“My baby!” the girl yanked the creature out of her mother’s hands. “My little baby!”
Kisses, tears, and runny noses! Some of the customers stepped out to find out what all the excitement was about. No one could explain how it was that the little angel suddenly appeared outside the pharmacy.
Hearing the commotion, the two sisters crept away from the drugstore as inconspicuously as two old hags, one in a wheelchair, could.
“We didn’t see anything…”
“We live in Mar Vista. It’s the first time we’ve ever shopped at this place…”
What a day of joy was that Sunday! Dorothy had done nothing but cry and carp against the injustices of life since the harrowing night in which her grandson was taken, but now she couldn’t stop singing alleluias, praising the Lord, and clapping. Her daughter had barely eaten a thing since that same sorrowful night; she had spent days and nights staring silently at the wall, tearless, for her eyes had seemed to have dried up, but now she was dancing, and that night she ate an entire chicken.
John, Russell, and Big Daddy, together with all their neighbors, were invited to their home to celebrate. Big Daddy read a poem, and John and Russell played some music. Miss Johnson and Mrs. Lucas were the first ones to stand up and dance. They all caroused with the enthusiasm of the first Juneteenth: hugs, cries, food, and laughter! And, as a grand finale, John proposed to Cora.
“Would you marry me?” he asked, one knee on the floor.
Cora didn’t respond. She wiped the traces of gumbo off her mouth and turned a supplicant face to her mother.
Before Mrs. Hamm could say no, John stood up and promised her that he would leave music and find a steady job at the derricks, that he would never drink again, not even water, and that he would take care of his family. Mrs. Hamm chose to believe him. Russell then offered to move out from the storefront pad that he and John shared, so the new family could have some privacy, as soon as he found a new place to live.
“You can move in with us at the Grand Hotel,” Big Daddy offered, and Russell accepted.
So much joy! So much happiness! If any suspicions remained about Ms. Cummings, they were all dissipated that evening. It didn’t matter anymore who had done it: Dorothy’s Angel had come back. When the news of the child’s reappearance and John’s marriage proposal arrived, Mr. Hamm, still in jail, waiting for trial, fell to his knees and thanked the Maker for all his blessings.
19
In which we attend a police hearing
Josie’s initial sense of relief after mistakenly believing that Heather had survived their visit to the cemetery turned into animosity when a few days passed without receiving a call from her girlfriend.
Why hadn’t she called yet? Josie had no doubt that Heather was still alive. She hadn’t recognized the lady traveling in the back, but she was one hundred percent sure that the car that she had seen at Dell Avenue was Heather’s. And who else could have been driving but her? Heather wouldn’t lend her bus to anyone.
Heather probably was expecting Josie to call first, and that’s precisely what vexed her. Tricking your best friend into believing that you had been murdered was in very poor taste and needed not to be celebrated. It was she who should have been mad at Heather, and not the opposite. She lost her shoes, got her knees and hands all scratched, and, in retrospect, the time she had spent at the Liptons was, for the most part, not too pleasant. Imagining Heather dead had unsettled her deeply. The least that Heather could do was to call first and apologize.
Three days later, the ill will turned back into concern. Josie sneaked into her supervisor’s office and dialed Heather’s number.
“She’s not here,” a voice with a strong Jamaican accent responded from the other line. “I am her neighbor, Mona.”
“Do you know when she’ll be back?” Josie asked.
“Do you know when your mother is coming home?” Mona asked Tyler. “The boy doesn’t know,” she said, to Josie. “She left him alone, since the w
eekend. He knocked on my door two days ago asking for breakfast.”
“Oh my God!”
“I wouldn’t worry too much, honey,” Mona grumbled. “She leaves him alone all the time. She’ll be back tonight or tomorrow. I’ll keep coming here to see how he’s doing.”
“Where do you think she could be?”
“Where else, my dear? With that man.”
“Will?” Josie asked back. “Do you think she’s with him?”
“Where else? This is not the first time she’s left Tyler alone. Whenever that man calls, she runs to see him immediately.”
“He’s not a good man, Mona.”
“Oh, he’s not. I keep telling her, but she doesn’t listen.”
By the time she hung up, Josie wasn’t sure if she should feel more or less worried.
But that same afternoon, riding the bus back home, she saw Heather’s Fairlane parked on Main Street. Her friend was definitely back in Venice.
The car got towed the next morning and Josie didn’t see it again. The next time she tried to call her friend, on Friday, she found that the line had been disconnected.
“This is queer,” the girl complained to her little landlady over breakfast. “Are you sure that Heather hasn’t called or stopped by? Did you ask your sisters?”
The little woman shook her head a few times, reluctant to look Josie in the eye. Had that not been her usual reaction, Josie would have thought that something was terribly wrong with her landlady.
“What about Russell,” Josie asked. “He hasn’t called either, has he?”
The little woman shook her head again.
Josie took a small bite of her toast. Not that she expected a call from Russell, not after what had happened the last time they spoke, but it would have been nice if he suddenly decided to call her.
She missed him badly. But she couldn’t just go knock on his door and tell him she was willing to take him back, could she? Not for a second time. Not when he had cheated on her and admitted it. Now, if she just ran into him again, say, by accident, she could give him the opportunity to apologize and make amends. But it was as if Russell had been trying to avoid her for the last few weeks. Well, not really. It was she who had been avoiding the places they used to frequent together, especially the Gas House Café. Josie knew that she could run into the twins there before she ran into Russell, and after what had happened the last night she had seen them…well, she just didn’t feel like running into them again anytime soon. She needed to meet Russell in a different place.
The opportunity arrived with the announcement of a public hearing at the Police Commission building on Victoria Avenue to debate the merits of granting an entertainment permit to the Gas House Café.
Mr. Matthews had decided to fight the city’s resolution that prevented his patrons from enjoying live poetry readings. He was, after all, a lawyer who specialized in civil rights and had ample experience in the matter, and he was the financial angel behind the artists’ colony residing on the top floor of the Grand Hotel, which he also owned. He could afford and was willing to endure a long fight against the Venice Civic Union.
The first session of the hearing took place on the morning of August 27. Along with Mr. Matthews, Eric “Big Daddy” Nord, as the manager and official greeter of the coffeehouse, appeared as the defendant. Larry Lipton and Mr. Robert Chatterton, from the Venice Citizens and Property Owners for Cultural Advancement, a second neighborhood association that had been formed in opposition to the Venice Civic Union, were their main two witnesses.
The two dozen members of the Venice Civic Union comprised the plaintiff’s side, with Mr. Alfred Roberts as speaker.
Josie took a day off from work to attend the hearing, in hopes of running into her boyfriend. For lack of a better companion, she brought along her little landlady. The poor thing had been in a real tizzy for the last two weeks, shaking and jumping like a mistreated pup whenever somebody talked to her. She could also use a day off, the girl reckoned.
Russell was there. So were Eva and most of the gang from the Gas House. Josie and the little woman sat a couple of rows behind them where they could get a good glimpse.
“I’m glad we arrived early,” Josie said to her companion.
The little woman nodded.
“Had we not, we wouldn’t have found a chair.”
Sure enough, the room couldn’t fit in another soul. Half of the audience was standing. Between supporters of the coffeehouse and supporters of the Union, over five hundred people were in attendance. Unfortunately for Mr. Matthews and Mr. Nord, the crowd was composed mainly of the latter. Eight thirty in the morning proved to be too early an hour for the crusaders of free expression.
Josie was dressed to impress. Black slacks, flats, and an emerald green sweater, borrowed from Sears. She had pulled up her hair into a tall chignon with a few loose strands pulled out for softness. Most people hadn’t dressed up, she glanced around. She felt sorry for her little landlady, wearing her usual: an old discolored dress, a full body apron, and her red sweater.
Russell looked very handsome, Josie noticed, with his t-shirt tucked in and had his hair parted, like a greaser. He looked a bit tired, though, like a schoolboy trying to stay awake during math class. The Polish whore, Josie stretched her neck, wore a long maroon skirt and a button-up short-sleeved sweater. She had her hair in a ponytail, glasses, and all she wore for makeup was red lipstick.
“I hate that woman,” Josie whispered to her companion.
She had to admit it, though: Eva looked stunning. Like a pinup calendar girl for the month of September. She knew how to dress, how to talk, and how to be charming. And her accent! Subtle, but you still knew it was there. Sweet, and feminine, like a bird singing. Nothing like Josie’s Chicano drawl.
“I wish I had an accent like she does,” she had said once to Russell.
“But you do,” Russell had responded with a laugh. “You have the sweetest accent of them all.”
Richard had come to the hearing, too, with his fiancée. He and Lina were sitting a few rows behind Josie.
What are they doing here? the girl wondered.
Lina’s outfit was quite insignificant. A short summer dress and sandals. With all the money that Richard had, he should have made her wear something better. And he looked ridiculous. A tweed suit, white gloves, and a Panama adorned with a ribbon that matched the trim of his vest. He had his sunglasses on, despite being inside. The millionaire noticed Josie and swayed his fingers to say hello. Josie responded with her own sway and a big smile. Lina smiled back. She looked bored.
“Mr. Lipton,” the officer in charge, Mr. Thomas Mulherin, began his interrogatory. Josie pulled her legs in, straightened her back and cocked her head slightly to the right to pay better attention. “In the pledge presented, Mr. Matthews and Mr. Nord in here mention the services that the coffeehouse renders to the community of Venice West. Your name appears as the main organizer of these services, is this correct?”
“It is, sir,” Larry responded.
Are Eva and Russell holding hands? Josie raised herself a bit and stretched her neck to check if they were. They weren’t. Maybe he didn’t like to hold hands with her in public. Or maybe he didn’t like to hold hands because her hands sweat, Josie thought with malice.
She looked again at her landlady. She didn’t seem to be having a good time. She was hunched, staring at her own feet, rubbing her knuckles. Her legs looked dry. Josie opened her purse and handed her a small bottle of lotion.
“And what is your exact relationship with this coffeehouse, Mr. Lipton?” Officer Mulherin continued.
“I’m just a client, and a good friend of both Mr. Matthews and Mr. Nord.”
Larry looked important in a suit. How would Russell look wearing a tie? Josie had never seem him clean shaven.
“And the nature of these services you render is?”
<
br /> “We’re embellishing Venice. We produce art. We paint, we write, we play music. We make this community a better place. Nothing more.”
“They sure do,” Josie said aloud.
Eva turned back and hushed her. The nerve!
“And, Mr. Lipton, do you receive any kind of compensation for the services you rend?”
“No. There is no charge for what we do. We are happy to do it for anyone. It is a work of love.”
It sure was, Josie thought. It was because Russell still loved her so much that he had painted her face on a trash can. He looked so sweet and so handsome. Why had she been so cruel to him? She had tried to take the money that Richard had paid him. Russell turned his face to Eva. His nose! Like that of a Roman God. He had gained weight. God, she loved his beautiful little belly. She could fuck him right there, right in front of all these people… You could tell he was having a difficult time staying awake. So was George, balancing on his seat. That fatty Noelia looked sleepy too.
Eva appeared to be the only one paying attention to the hearing. She was the only one who caught all of Larry’s innuendos, laughing when no one else did.
Josie decided to laugh too, whenever she did.
Larry certainly knew how to talk. He could be funny. Still and all, this hearing thing was incredibly boring. It was like a session of poetry reading, but with far more people, and with no munchies, no wine, and no jazz music.
Josie looked back at Richard. He followed the questioning with a serious face. He didn’t notice her watching. Lina exchanged a sympathetic smile with her. The poor thing. Her ears were the size of dinner plates.
“Mr. Kelly,” Officer Mulherin was now interviewing one of the witnesses from the Union, “how long have you lived in Venice?”
“Over thirty years, Officer. I came here when I was twelve years old to work at the derricks.”
“Who cares about how long these people have lived in Venice?” Josie said to her little landlady. “What difference does it make? I’ve been living in Venice for less than a year and I’m a better Venetian than any of these square-minded hypocrites who want to shut down the Gas House.” Realizing that her companion wasn’t paying attention, she turned to the person on the other side: “Why do they have to ask all these details? I bet that guy has never been inside the Gas House. Why is his testimony important?”
Love, or the Witches of Windward Circle Page 29