Remembrance

by Mary Monroe

  “I didn’t have a rough day, but I had a weird day.” I proceeded to tell Camille about my encounter with Cliff.

  “I can’t believe my ears! Cliff’s living on the street and eating at soup kitchens?”

  “Well, at least he’s in the process of turning his life around.”

  “What a shame. You know, I like Eric and all, but you and Cliff made such a cute couple—”

  I cut Camille off as fast as I could. “Don’t even go there! Cliff is part of my past, so that’s that. But I wish I had asked him the name of the firm he’s going to work for.”

  “For what?”

  “So I can check in with him from time to time to see how he’s doing.”

  “Bea, let well enough alone.”

  I sucked in some air and was ready to get defensive. “Can you explain what you mean?”

  “You’re not Mother Teresa—”

  I cut Camille off again. “And I’m not trying to be. Cliff meant a lot to me at one time, and I’d just like to know he’s doing okay. I hope things work out for him so he will never have to eat at another soup kitchen. Or be homeless.”

  “I hope he gets his life back together. It’s always sad when someone falls on hard times. I hope he doesn’t come back to see you again.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “Girl, it’s been a long time since you saw the man. For all you know, he could have been locked up in an institution for the criminally insane and is obsessively in love with you or something!”

  I was sure she was joking. “Very funny, Camille. Thanks for trying to scare me. I don’t think Cliff’s got any mental issues. If he has, I’m sure he’ll get help if he needs it. And, if he ever comes to me for help, I’ll do all I can.” I suddenly lost interest in going to the mall. “You want to meet me for a drink?”

  “I’d like to, but I just walked in the door a few minutes ago. That stray dog I took in last month, it knocked over the tree and there are broken bulbs and tinsel everywhere. I need to take care of that right away. And I promised Nick I’d finish putting up the rest of the decorations this evening. I wish you had asked me yesterday. Why the sudden need to meet me for a drink? Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “Because last week when we went to Edie’s Bar, you stayed only long enough to have one margarita.”

  “I had something on my mind that day.”

  “What?”

  “Menopause. I think mine actually started back in October.”

  “Is that all? So what? Mine started two years ago. Why do you think you’ve started yours?”

  “Hot flashes are hitting me like lightning bolts, I have trouble getting to sleep at night, and I haven’t had a period in two months.”

  “So menopause is dragging you down today too?”

  “Not really. I just wanted to meet for drinks . . . because I’m not ready to go home yet,” I mumbled. “Sometimes I get so bored there. I don’t look forward to weekends, since I always have to look for things to do so I won’t just sit around. Can we hook up tomorrow or Sunday?”

  I ignored the loud, drawn-out sigh I heard coming from Camille’s end. “No can do. I’m going to be busy all day tomorrow lollygagging at a bunch of flea markets with my mama. And after church on Sunday, Pastor Riddle is having dinner at our house. Hey! Let’s play hooky from work on Monday and go have lunch at Lady Esther’s. If that doesn’t cheer you up, nothing will.” Lady Esther’s was a popular soul food restaurant in downtown Oakland. The food and the service were so good; we both ate there on a regular basis. So did the mayor of Oakland, and a lot of local celebrities.

  “I can’t. You know how busy we get this time of year. We’ll be serving God only knows how many turkey dinners in the next couple of weeks, and there is a lot of work to be done. Two of the other volunteers have already taken off for the holidays, so they’ll really need my help.”

  “Bea, you’re my girl and I love you to death, but I wish you’d stop wearing yourself out.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I’m proud of you for being so dedicated and caring when it comes to other people. But I doubt if that soup kitchen would shut down if you quit. I wish you’d steer some of your attention toward other directions. I’m sure it would do you a world of good.” There were times when it seemed like Camille was singing some of the same songs Eric sang.

  “Exactly what are you trying to say?”

  “Maybe you need more affection and attention.”

  “Pffft! Eric gives me all the affection and attention I need.”

  Camille sucked on her teeth for a few seconds. “If Eric is doing that, and you’re still bored, maybe you need to think about how your marriage is working and figure out a way to fix it.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Camille was a very intelligent woman, but she said a lot of dumb things. My marriage was fine, and I’d been telling her that for years. However, even though I loved being married, sometimes I wondered what it would be like to be single again. But I was not curious enough to find out. I had married Eric for life and I took my vows very seriously. If and when we ever had serious problems, or even separated, I would never give up on our marriage. “Don’t you dare start analyzing me, Dr. Phil,” I scolded.

  “That’s not what I’m doing. I’m just trying to help you ease into middle age.”

  “I don’t have a problem being my age, and I’m certainly not interested in looking to change up some aspect of my marriage. Eric is not perfect, but he’s perfect for me. I don’t even remember the last time we argued.”

  “I wish I could say that. Remember how often I used to threaten Nick that I was going to move out if he didn’t stop spending so much money on his relatives?”

  “Of course, I remember. I was a witness a few times. You nagged him so much, he moved out.”

  “Yes, he did, but we worked things out. We had a few sessions with a counselor and our marriage is stronger than ever. He promised me that before he doles out more money to his family, or to anybody else, we’ll discuss it first. Now, the only thing I’m concerned about is getting old. . . .”

  “I advise you to get used to that, because getting older is part of living,” I said dryly.

  “Just like dying. But I don’t have to like it.”

  “Like it? What’s that got to do with anything? I don’t like getting out of bed some days, but I do it, because that’s part of living too.”

  “Now you’re the one sounding like Dr. Phil. You can say and think what you want. But this is not a pleasant time for me agewise, I mean. Lately it seems like every place I go, people remind me that I’m no longer young. I went to Popeye’s the other day and the cashier addressed me as ‘mama,’ and I didn’t like that one bit! What made it even worse was the fact she was in her thirties!”

  “Something that trivial wouldn’t bother me. I’m just glad I’ve lived this long. I hope I live at least another forty-something years. And just to let you know, most people have no idea how old I am. My coworkers think I’m still in my early thirties.”

  “Look, I feel old enough. If we don’t get off this subject now, I’ll be feeling as ancient as Methuselah in a few seconds. Let’s talk about anything else. What’s up with the kids?”

  “Well, I really miss them. They don’t visit that often, and they rarely call. When they do, they never stay on the line more than a couple of minutes.”

  “You’ve got that empty-nest thing going on too, huh?” Camille’s voice cracked. “When the twins told me and Nick they wanted to go to a college back east, we tried to talk them into going to Berkeley, or at least UCLA. They’d already made up their minds, though. When they left, I was depressed for a little while. But they’re keeping up their grades and they’re happy. That’s what really matters. Just thinking about my babies being so far away makes me so emotional.. . .” Camille exhaled and then sniffled. “Let’s talk about something more pleasant while I clean up some of the me
ss my dog made, okay?” she panted. She didn’t give me time to respond. “Besides the Cliff incident, how was your day? Did you encounter any other interesting characters?”

  I was happy to lighten up the conversation. “Every day. There’s this guy named Russell, who comes in a couple of times a week. He’s about our age. Except for a long, ugly scar on his cheek, he’s not bad-looking. He never says anything, at least not to me. But every time I look in his direction, he’s staring at me with this eerie smile on his face. No matter how early he arrives, he always gets at the end of the line when we start serving. I’m the last server, so when he makes it to me, I put his food on his tray as fast as I can. But he always stands there a few seconds longer than he needs to and stares at me with this glazed look in his eyes.”

  “Did he come in today?”

  “He came as we were serving the last of the lunch meal, but he didn’t eat. He walked in, looked around the dining room, smiled at me, and shuffled back out the door.”

  “Hmmm. I’ve said it before, and I’m going to keep saying it. You’d better be careful at that place. This Russell sounds like a real piece of work.”

  “Pffft! I’m not worried about him. He’s been coming to the kitchen for years and we’ve never had a problem with him. But there is another man, who’s been coming in lately, that seems real mysterious.”

  “In what way?”

  “Well, he’s quiet, courteous, clean-shaven, and very articulate. He doesn’t seem like the kind of man you’d find eating at a soup kitchen. He doesn’t even look homeless. Just before I called you, I saw him go into one of those tents under the freeway overpass.”

  “Maybe he isn’t really homeless.”

  “Then why would he be eating at a soup kitchen and hanging out at a tent encampment?”

  “Who knows? There could be a reasonable explanation for that. I read a book about a millionaire who was so eccentric and cheap, he took advantage of every freebie he could. He even went to the free clinic when he needed to see a doctor, and he ate at soup kitchens.”

  “I don’t think the man I’m talking about is an eccentric millionaire.”

  “He could be something much worse. I read another book about a serial killer who stayed under the radar for years by hanging out at soup kitchens and homeless shelters.”

  “You need to stop reading so many grim books.”

  “You’re a fine one to talk with your true-crime-book-of-the-week self!” Camille shrieked. “Anyway, what’s his name?”

  “Charles Davenport. He spoke directly to me for the first time today, and he was so nice and polite.”

  “He sounds nice enough, but be careful. You know we all worry about you.”

  CHAPTER 10

  After my conversation with Camille, I meandered up and down several streets and ended back on the same block where I’d seen Charles enter the tent. There were several men dressed in shabby jackets and coats milling around the area. The mysterious Russell was among them. There was a wide bandage on his chin, a few inches from his cruel scar. He was the last person I wanted to see me. I parked far enough away so he wouldn’t. But it was a red zone, which meant I couldn’t sit as long as I had the first time.

  There were more tents than I’d originally thought. They stretched from one end of the block to the other and were various sizes and colors. Even with my windows closed, I could still smell the stink of urine and other unholy stenches. A young Hispanic woman in a man’s trench coat moseyed out of the tent I’d seen Charles enter earlier. A few seconds later, he wandered out of the same tent. He spoke briefly to the woman and then they walked off together. It made me so sad to see so many homeless people there. I couldn’t stop thinking about what else I could do to help them. Just as I was about to leave, my cell phone rang. It was Eric.

  “Baby, where are you?” he asked in an impatient tone. There were times when he behaved like a worrywart if I was a minute or two late. That annoyed me to the bone. I didn’t have a curfew and I was not about to start behaving like I had one.

  “I’m on my way home. Why?”

  “You’re usually here by now, so I was getting worried. There are a lot of crimes being committed on the street, especially this time of year.”

  “I’ll be home in a few minutes,” I said with a slightly exasperated sigh. I was tempted to remind him of how many people we knew who’d been victims of crimes in their own homes. Sometimes it seemed like so many of the people I knew were obsessed with the possibility of criminal activity.

  “Okay. I’ll see you then.”

  When I made it to my block, Eric was pacing back and forth on our front porch and talking to somebody on his cell phone. It wasn’t even dark yet and he already had on his bathrobe and pajamas. As soon as I parked in our driveway, he hung up and ran to the car and opened my door. “Did you have car trouble or something?” he asked, glancing at his watch as I piled out. He grabbed my arm and steered me toward the house.

  “Uh-uh. I just drove around so I could see some of the Christmas decorations. I saw a tree downtown in front of an office building that had so many lights, it looked like a chandelier.” Eric was the last person I’d tell I’d been snooping around a homeless encampment; he would have demanded to know why. Other than the fact that I was being nosy, that was a question I couldn’t answer. “Who were you talking to on the phone?” I asked.

  “My cousin Aileen.” I followed Eric into the living room. I dropped my purse onto the coffee table and we plopped down on the couch.

  “Did she say why she hasn’t responded to my Christmas/birthday dinner invitation?”

  “Nope. She didn’t even mention it. She called to ask if I could send somebody over tomorrow morning to stop her shower from leaking.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know why some people are so inconsiderate. Six others haven’t responded either.”

  “Maybe they’re trying to tell you something.”

  My mouth dropped open like a pothole. “What would they be trying to tell me?”

  “Bea, you’re so nice, it’s hard for people to say no to you. After all the parties you’ve hosted for the same people every year, did it ever occur to you that some of them might want to do something different every now and then? You saw how fast people left after your Thanksgiving dinner last month.”

  “All they have to do is tell me that they don’t want to keep coming.” I would never tell Eric how bluntly Natalee Calhoun had declined my invitation and put our friendship on hold. It would have opened another can of worms.

  “I’m sure some of them want to, but they don’t know how to say it without hurting your feelings. Baby, look at the signs. Every year, fewer and fewer people come to your parties. I’m sure that most of them would rather spend their time doing other things—like hosting their own holiday get-togethers.”

  “Then tell me why some of those same people used to call me up in January to make sure I included them on the guest list for my annual Valentine’s Day party, as well as some of my other parties later in the year?”

  Eric snorted and caressed my arm. “Yes, people used to call you up for that reason. Used to . . .”

  “Well . . . maybe it is time for me to slow down,” I said thoughtfully. “Maybe people are just burned out from the festivities. What do you want us to do for this holiday? We don’t have to celebrate my birthday on the same day, like we’ve been doing. We can drive over to Oakland and have a nice dinner at Lady Esther’s, either a few days before or after Christmas.”

  Eric hunched his shoulders and rubbed the back of his neck. “Me? I don’t really care what we do. If you still want to cook a big meal and have a house filled with guests, you should.” He gave me a tight smile and clapped his hands. “Enough about that!” He kissed my cheek and softened his tone. “Now, how was your day at the soup kitchen?”

  “Same as usual,” I muttered, rising. “I’ll go start dinner.” I started walking toward the door and then I stopped and turned back around. “Eric, I’d like to
go out this weekend.”

  He gasped, and his eyes got as big as walnuts. “Go out? With whom?” He was even smarter than Camille, but sometimes he said things dumber than the ones she said.

  “With you,” I whimpered.

  He squinted and asked another dumb question. “Why?”

  “Why? So we can have some fun, you knucklehead,” I cackled. “Is a hat rack the only thing you use your head for these days?”

  Eric patted the top of his head and chuckled. “Nope! It’s so big now, a hat wouldn’t fit on it.”

  “Be serious. Anyway, I hear the new band at the Jazz Palace is really nice. Camille told me the lead singer sounds just like Barry White. Will you take me there tomorrow night?”

  He hesitated and gave me a defeated look. “All right, I guess I can do that. So long as we get back home before too late. You know I can’t keep my eyes open as long as I used to.”

  “Then we’ll have to go out early,” I countered.

  “That’s fine, baby. Now before you get busy, go get me a beer and that heating-pad thing for my feet. If you expect me to be out on a dance floor tomorrow night, I’m going to have to start working on my dogs now.”

  CHAPTER 11

  The Jazz Palace was one of the oldest clubs in the Bay Area. During the 1990s, it had been my favorite hangout. Patrons showed up in everything from jeans to evening gowns to three-piece suits. I wore my turquoise shawl over a long black dress, which I’d never worn before. Eric wore a blue suit with a white shirt and one of his numerous Steve Harvey ties.

  The building was shabby and in a run-down neighborhood. But that didn’t stop people from coming to hear the great bands they featured. When we arrived Saturday night at eight-thirty, the place was already packed. Eric started yawning at nine o’clock, right after he’d finished his first beer. Ten minutes later, he dozed off.