At times a mother’s reference to you as her “little girl” fills you with warm, childlike euphoria. Standing in front of Ms. Austin, camera bulbs flashing and television cameras rolling, was not one of them.
“She’s old enough to take care of herself.” I wanted to agree with Ms. Austin there, but now didn’t quite feel like the right time.
“Yes, she is,” Mother said, looking back at me with a goofy smile.“But life is different now, Faith . You and my daughter belong to a generation that believes truth is a relative mind-set. It isn’t.”
“You and I have different opinions on that.”
“Then we have fundamental differences, Faith.”
“And, I’ve never stolen a Sugar Daddy,” she spat like a two-year-old.
“Neither have I.” Mother glared at me.“But trust me, that will be dealt with. And trust me on this, Faith: just because life changes, truth doesn’t. Paint it black and call it brown and it’s still black. Paint it mauve and call it aubergine and it’s still mauve.” I rolled my eyes.“That’s what this means to me.” She walked over to the monument and placed her hand atop it, never minding her chipped manicure.“But even if this monument crumbled into the sidewalk, the truth it holds at this moment would still be the truth.”
Ms. Austin’s phone broke the silence.“Ms. Austin.” I was grateful for the reprieve.“What?!” she screamed into the phone.“I don’t care! I don’t give a flying flip what you want or what you think! I told you I would let you know. That means when I know something, you will know something! And right now I know I’m sick of answering this stupid phone!”And with that Ms. Austin’s phone took a flying flip of its own, right across about six heads, skimmed a rather large swooped updo, and crashed into the wall of the Federal Building.
Ooh, sister’s got a few issues with her cellular. Sergeant Millings woke up from his horse nap and grabbed his gun . That could have proven dreadful, had I not screamed out at him, “Whoa, doggies.
Whoa. It was just a cell phone.”
He looked around as if he was going to rid this city of all cellular activity, but he calmed down after a moment.
Ms. Austin’s face began to grow redder than it had when she was screaming in the phone. Even strands of her hair had shaken loose from her ponytail during her breakdown . When she regained her composure, her mortification was apparent to all. I didn’t mind. I needed the company.
She didn’t ask again if Mother was through. She just turned quickly and walked away quickly. I watched her go. I liked her. I could have been her friend. Shoot, I could have been her. I didn’t know what circumstances had brought her to the choices that framed her perspective. But I knew her decisions had determined her future.
Mother was still leaning against the monument. I realized now that she had been here for me, and for Thomas. All her efforts this week had been about preserving something of value for us to be able to preserve for our children. How strange. That was the same thing this monument was offering.
The treasures of what we have and have become can be found in the faces of those who raised us . Yet some never find a treasure there. So they fight forever to escape the faces of abuse. Others fight forever to run from faces of addiction. Some of us will even fight against faces that are just plain extraordinary. But looking at my mother, I realized ordinary would be boring . Who would want that?
I sneaked off before she remembered me. It would take her two hours to realize that Sugar Daddy was a candy and not a strange man I had stashed under my bed since I was a child. And I didn’t need any other misunderstandings in the paper. So, I left her to return to work. But I would be back. I would be back to check on her soon.
“You left out something,” Joshua’s voice came as I rounded the corner to the back alley to head to my car. He was leaning up against it.
I was too tired to brush him off. “Did you hear all of that?” I asked, half-embarrassed, half too stressed to care.
“Every word. But you missed one.”
I leaned up against the car and stared back. “And what one would that be?”
“The last one . The one about wanting what isn’t yours.”
“Joshua, just drop it.” I opened my car door.
He shut it promptly. “No, Savannah. If you’re going to deal with your ‘demons,’ as you call them, deal with all of them. And a perfect place to begin would be with this incessant desire of wanting something that isn’t yours . You don’t want Grant for any reason other than the fact that he belongs to someone else.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about!” I snapped.
“Yes, I do . You don’t even look at him the way a woman looks at a man she loves.”
“You don’t know how I look at him.”
“Yes, I do.” He was as perfectly sickening as a half-rotten cucumber. “I saw you . You looked at him like a woman who was sad she had lost.”
I abandoned all calm. “I love him, Joshua North! And how dare you try to make six years of commitment so . . . so meaningless and petty!”
“I didn’t . You did.”
“Leave me alone!” I said, trying to pull the handle to my car door, but he wouldn’t move his arm to allow me to retreat. I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream. I wanted to slap him. I wanted to kiss him. I wanted to wrap my arms around his neck and lay one on him. And he knew I did. And that made it all the worse.
“You don’t love him, Savannah,” he said as he inched closer to my face. I could feel his arm behind my back as it held the door firmly closed. I refused to let any part of him affect me. I returned his cool demeanor with a cold stare. “He doesn’t make your eyes dance. I’ve seen them dance. And it wasn’t when you were looking at him.” I felt his breath across my face. He let those words settle in the air between the two of us . We both knew what he meant. “Let him go. Let your pride go. Let this so-called hurt go. Let the desire to have what isn’t yours go, just because it isn’t yours . You’re passionate Savannah . You deserve passion in return.” He removed his arm from my car door . The very presence of it as it brushed my shirt created a feeling I refused to allow to surface.
“Are you finished?”
He got on his bike and headed down the alley.“I’m finished,” he called back.
He and I both knew things had only begun.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
I collected myself in Katherine’s Corner Bookstore before heading back to the office. Few places brought such comfort. Few things as well. But books, well, books were living entities to me . They triggered as many memories as poorly chosen love songs or badly splintered park benches . They brought to mind vacations and good years, and I enjoyed just looking at them. And if I could get a few undistracted minutes, maybe I could actually finish the one I’ve been reading.
“Savannah, I haven’t seen you since lunch Friday.”
“A lot has changed since Friday, Katherine.” I smiled at the striking, petite, middle-aged storeowner approaching me with her undeniable freshness.
“I hear your mother has been at the monument since then.”
I tried to focus on the new-books section.“What you hear is true.”
She walked over and replaced a misplaced book on the shelf in front of me. I watched her graceful olive hand with short red-painted fingernails. Katherine was a former beauty queen herself. But she defied every stereotype known to the common population of man . Victoria was the personification of rhinestone tiaras, mascara cries, ridiculous talent costumes, and post-traumatic stress disorder. She is what every good novel or bad press coverage would define as the typical beauty pageant contestant. But Katherine, she was different. She was elegant and calm. Self-assured yet humble. Stunningly beautiful yet perfectly unassuming . We had met two weeks ago, when I discovered this world of hers for the first time. She had given me some of her secrets. But best of all, she had given me her friendship.
“How are you doing with that?” she asked me. “With everything that is going on at the courthouse
?”
“I don’t know.”
“You mean you don’t have an opinion?”
“Oh, no, I have a multitude of opinions. I’m just not sure what I know about all the opinions that I have. Couldn’t you tell by my article?”
She laughed.“Savannah, you are too young to be so complex.”
“And I hear I look the worse for wear because of it.”
“Who told you that?”
“A stranger in a floral dress. She said I looked old, or maybe she called me tired. No, actually I think worn out were her exact words.”
She giggled at my pouty lips and droopy demeanor.“Savannah, you look beautiful. Are you talking about the elderly African American lady with the straw bag?”
“That’s her! Has she been in here too?”
“No, but I’ve seen her on the street a couple times . The dress caught my attention.”
I sat down on the steps that led to the fiction section of the bookstore.“What do you think is up with her?”
“Probably lonely . Maybe retired, or her spouse has died.”
“But don’t you think her children would tell her,‘Mother, let’s please don some different attire’?”
She laughed.“You crack me up, Savannah.” She sat down beside me, and her pressed khaki pants slid up at the ankles, fully exposing her cute little black slip-on sandals.
“And she follows me.”
“She follows you?”
“Yeah, and she wants my food.”
“What?”
“Serious. I had to share my lunch with her on Sunday. I mean, I didn’t mind, but with Mother up there strapped to cement, I’ve been a little sensitive about the whole food issue.”
“Well, who knows? Maybe she’s sent to teach you something. Get yourself a good book and put your mind at ease.”
“I’ve got one I can’t find time to finish. Besides, everything in life shouldn’t be a lesson.” I stood and scanned the books . The title Ten Minutes from Normal jumped out at me.“I’m glad Karen Hughes knows where Normal is. I couldn’t find it with a wall map and a day to waste.”
“Well, you could ask her where it is. I hear she’ll be with the president tomorrow.”
“Oh, my word, I forgot the president was coming tomorrow. He’s one president I won’t have to read about. I already know his life story.”
“You do, huh?”
“Oh, yeah,Vicky has the hots for him.”
“Savannah,” she said, giggling, “you shouldn’t talk that way about your mother. She is in love with your father.”
“She may be in love with my father, but I shall not tell a lie after the kind of day I’ve witnessed: the woman would love to be Laura Bush for a day.”
“She would whip your heinie for that.”
“I wish she was home to whip my heinie; that would mean she was cooking too.”
“You could cook for yourself.”
“Tried it. Didn’t work.”
“Some things have to be tried more than once.”
“And some things are better left to the experts.” I gave her a good-natured wave, and the bell gave its ding-a-ling-a-ling at my departure.
“You sure can find a way to get into the middle of things,” said a strange voice as I closed the door.
“Emma!” I was unable to hide my shock.“What happened to you? I mean, you’re clean . . . I mean . . . you’re . . .well, you’re just clean.”
“You made your point.” She tried to stifle a laugh. “Are you always so honest?”
I felt my face flush. “I’m sorry. It’s a curse. Man . . . you just look . . . you look fabulous. I thought I’d seen you around town a couple times. I just wasn’t quite sure it was you.”
“Well, it’s me.” She ran her hands along the seams of her tailored khaki sundress . The black piping lay strikingly upon her golden skin.
The sallow tone present just last week was gone.
“What happened?”
“Uh, humiliation maybe?” She looked straight at me.
I tried not to flinch.“Are you going to yell at me again?”
She smiled.“No. I was harsh. But you deserved it.”
“I deserved worse, actually.”
“I probably did too.” She lowered her head and fingered the bow at her delicate waist. I tried to change the subject.
“You been eating?”
“What?”
“You just look a little healthier.”
“Yes, I’ve been eating.”
“Do you want to go eat with me sometime? Maybe talk, like normal people?”
“No,” she said flatly.
“No?”
“No. I’m not really ready to be your friend.”
“Eating lunch together would make us friends?”
“Yes.” She turned to go.“Well, try not to add to anyone else’s troubles.”
“I’m really sorry for hurting you, Emma.” I hoped she knew I meant it.
She turned around to look at me with the beauty I remembered from her high-school days. “It didn’t turn out all bad, Savannah. Look at me.” She held her arms out at her sides.
I nodded.“Yeah. Look at you.”
She left, but I would see her again. And one day I’d buy her lunch.
Peggy Noonan’s book was lying on the corner of my desk. I lifted it up in my hands, and it opened to page 65 . The red underlines from my own pen caught my eye. They marked her reflection on Reagan’s character as it related to his stance on communism.
“It was in this drama that Reagan’s character was fully revealed,” she wrote.“In a time of malice he was not malicious; in a time of lies he did not falsify; in a time of great pressure he didn’t bend or break; in a time of disingenuousness he was clear and candid about where he stood and why. And in a time when people just gave up after a while and changed the subject, he remained on the field through all the long haul.”
I laid the book down and saw my article still resting on the corner of my desk. After the events of my lunch hour, it didn’t feel like the right story to tell. No, as backward as it sounded, the human-interest story I really needed to explore was mine: the story of the bystander, the uninvolved, the ill-equipped, the student, the one who hadn’t broken under the pressure but avoided it altogether. Maybe exploring this story would help to establish the depths of a relationship, the trust that comes with a writer and her audience . Maybe it would help them to understand me . Maybe it would help me to understand me . The city and I had both suffered our share of upheavals this week. Maybe in a few paragraphs I could help us both discover what we’d learned.
I worked hard until two o’clock. And at the last moment, with no time to spare, the pages slipped out of the printer, and I headed to Mr. Hicks to meet my deadline.
Jessica all but ducked under her desk when she saw me come around the corner.
“Hello, Jessica.” I peered over the corner of the low-walled cubicle that surrounded her desk.
She didn’t respond.
“You can’t stay under there forever.”
She didn’t respond again.
“I’ll catch you when I come back.” I proceeded to Mr. Hicks’s open door and knocked lightly.
A loud thump came from behind me.“Ow!” And the blonde carpet inspector came up rubbing her head.
“Come in,”Mr. Hicks offered.“What’s so funny, Savannah?”
“Oh, nothing much,” I said, trying to control myself.
“Is this your article?”
“Yes, sir. All finished.”
“Are you pleased?”
“Pleased? Let’s just say I’ve come to terms with myself.”
“Well, let’s hope that’s a good thing.”
“It is.” I turned back to the door and paused to ask a final question.“Am I going to be on the cover of the paper tomorrow?”
He looked up from his desk with a slight smirk. “From the reports from the field I have received, yes ma’am, I believe you are.”
&
nbsp; “Arms spread-eagle.”
“That’s the one.”
“Declaring I’m a thief?”
“Very probable.”
“I figured.”
“You did?”
“Yes, sir, I’m pretty good at figuring nowadays.”
I sneaked into the ladies’ room before I went back to my cubicle . Three Cokes and no lunch made for an uncomfortable situation. I peered underneath the stalls just to make sure I didn’t walk in on any unsuspecting soul . There were feet in two but none in one, three, four or five. I settled for three. As I locked the door, another pair of feet came to occupy four.
I like to look at feet underneath stalls. Even wrote an entire short story on them for my junior year creative writing course. “The Stories of Shoes in a Stall,” I called it . Today’s feet both wore flip-flops. Stall number two’s flip-flops were black, and the toes were short and plump . They housed their small, unpainted toenails with great padding and protection. As if they just plumped right up around them. Stall number four housed white flip-flops.
I love this place. The owner of the white flip-flops had long toenails painted a deep metallic rust . The nails hung slightly over the toes and were long and narrow. Downright weird . Toenails tend to be a reflection of the individual . Vicky wears red. Always red. Paige wears clear. Always clear. I wear pink. Always pink. In-your-face Victoria. Always-brutally-honest Paige. Always trying to be not quite in your face and hopefully honest, at least when possible,me.
As we each arrived to wash our hands at the same time, I had known before I saw them what they would look like. Their feet had given them away.
“Knock, knock,” came the voice on the other side of my nonexistent door.
“Hey, Claire . Welcome to my office. Come in and have a seat.” This friend of mine was solely responsible for acquiring my apartment with her fabulous real-estate skills.
“I don’t have much time. I’ve got to go show a house in a few minutes. I just wanted to drop off your new keys so you could get your stuff moved in.” She held out the two keys that hung from a long metal loop with a Cora Betts Realty marketing tool at the end.
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