by Nancy Rue
“What are you going to do, Al?” Hank said.
“Not what I want to do.”
“Which is?
“Blow into his office and tell him what a heinous pile of garbage he is.”
“You tried that before.”
“I did.”
“And how far did it get you?”
“It sent me backward.”
“Then there you go.” Hank folded her hands neatly on the map-of–St. Augustine placemat. “So what else you got?”
“I don’t know, Hank. I don’t know anything anymore, seriously. And this feeling.” I plastered my hand to my chest. “This is creeping me out.”
“Tell me some more.”
“I’ve never felt hate like this before, and that’s what it is, just pure hate.”
“Of course it is. Not to beat a dead dog, Al, but you are a prophet. Prophets hate injustice, and they feel it a hundred times more deeply than the rest of us.”
“Willa Livengood is just as callous as Troy Irwin. So’s the Reverend Garry Howard, for that matter. But I don’t hate them, not this way.”
“You don’t have the history with them that you do with Troy.”
“I’m over that, though.”
“Really.” Hank’s bob of dark hair splashed across her cheek as she tilted her head at me. “Let me ask you this: If Troy Irwin completely backed out of West King Street and left the whole thing alone, would you still want to spit every time you heard his name?”
“Yes,” I said.
Her mouth did its twitchy thing. “You don’t even have to think about it for a second?”
“No, and I don’t even know why.” I shoved a hand through my hair. “I told you, I don’t know anything for sure anymore.”
“What don’t you know about this?”
“I don’t know why, after God has completely turned my life around, and I feel like I might be actually living the way I’m supposed to—why I’m still hung up on something that happened twenty-five years ago. My head has let it go. Troy Irwin, high-school lover, hurt me, blah, blah, blah—done—over it. But it’s still on me like some kind of oozing … thing.”
“It’s not just on you,” Hank said, “it’s in you. And you’re not used to things being in you.”
“What things?”
“Whatever it was you were experiencing Wednesday night when you blurted something out about feet and then covered it up with some fund-raising idea.”
“You don’t like the Feast idea?” I said. “India does.”
“I like it fine, but that isn’t what you had going on inside you. Am I right?”
“Yes.” I shook my head at her. “Do you lie awake at night thinking of things I don’t want to look at so you can put them in my face?”
“Pretty much.”
Patrice produced another muffin.
“Eat this one,” Hank said to me, and waited until I’d chewed and swallowed a bite that went down like a wad of sawdust.
“So, Wednesday night,” I said. “It was all these emotions, and it was the same way when I saw Zelda all wigged out—feelings that don’t have any connection to anything. And that’s like with Troy. I have all this hate, and it makes me wonder if that clouds my judgment. I don’t know. I’m not used to this.”
“Not used to feeling?”
“I have always felt, but …”
“But not like you wanted to throw body armor or pull some police officer’s larynx out.” Her mouth gave its signature twitch. “Or jump a man’s bones, so to speak.”
“Tell me we’re not still talking about Troy. That just makes me want to barf.” I looked distastefully at the muffin and pushed the plate away.
“No, it wasn’t Troy’s bones I was referring to.”
“You’re talking Chief.”
“Oh, yeah.”
“I don’t want to jump Chief’s bones.”
Hank chewed.
“Okay, I do, but I can’t.”
“Because of Troy Irwin.”
“What? No, not because of him!”
Hank considered the whipped cream on her Belgian waffle. “Who was the last man you trusted before Chief?”
“We were eighteen.”
“That’s a long time not to be able to enjoy a relationship. I’d hate a man too, if he was responsible for me living half a life for twenty-five years.”
The muffin blurred in front of me. I swallowed so hard I reminded myself of Desmond, choking down his fear.
“How is it that you know more about me than I do?” I said.
“I don’t think I do. I just yank the covers off of you so you have to look at yourself.”
“No, really, Hank, you’re the prophet.”
“And you?”
“Let me get back to you on that,” I said.
I was only half-joking. The other half was still having an identity crisis when Chief, Bonner, and I went to dinner at O. C. White’s that night. Desmond was hanging out over at Owen’s, which gave me a chance to discuss the Troy Irwin house situation outside of his bat-radar range.
“The more I think about it,” I said over our order of oysters on the half shell, “the more I think I should just storm his office and tell him that I know this isn’t just about money, that it’s all about power and his ego and him wanting everybody to think he’s this Henry Flagler benevolent benefactor.”
“And that is going to accomplish what?” Chief said.
He had that edge in his voice again, and I could see that Bonner heard it too. Either that or he always stabbed his oysters twelve times with a fork before he ate them.
“It’ll make me feel better, maybe,” I said.
“It’ll get you thrown out on your ear,” Chief said.
Bonner dabbed his mouth with the black napkin. “We need publicity, Allison, but not that kind. Something positive would be good.”
“You mean like in the news? Going all political? No. I hate that.”
I didn’t mean for my voice to rise, but it obviously did because Bonner began to torture yet another oyster. Chief’s voice, on the other hand, dropped lower, which irritated the hairs straight up on the back of my neck.
“This is not a fight against Troy Irwin,” he said. “It’s a fight for the Sacrament Sisters. At least, that’s what you’ve always told me.”
“I hate it when you do that.”
“What?”
“Throw my own words back in my face.”
“I’m not throwing anything.”
His voice was so low now I had to lean toward him to hear it. We were almost nose to nose. In my peripheral view, Bonner just kept stabbing.
“What if I did go talk to Troy again?” I said.
“What would make it different from any other time?”
“I’d have more information. I’d be calmer.”
Bonner must have finally gotten the oyster into his mouth because he choked on it.
“I’m not going to let you do this, Classic,” Chief said.
I didn’t ask him how he was going to stop me because he just had.
Bonner not so subtly skipped dessert and left us a couple of twenties for his entrée before he begged off for the rest of the evening. I hoped Chief would have dessert. He needed something to sweeten the glower he was still delivering in my direction.
“Their key lime pie is to die for,” I said.
“I’m testy,” he said.
“That would describe it, yes.”
“You won’t like this. Well, you will and you won’t.”
As long as it wasn’t I’m sick of you and I’m out of here, I thought I could handle it.
“What else is new?” I said. “Bring it.”
“
I kept my promise to Desmond and checked around about Sultan’s people. It wasn’t much of a promise. I was doing it anyway.”
“What did you find out?”
“Good news for you: There’s no Sultan-style action going down on West King. Not since he was shot, actually.”
“Who is that bad news for?”
“Desmond. I can’t tell him Sultan’s people are still down there handing out speedballs.” Chief grunted. “Not that they ever were. I never heard of anything like what happened to Zelda, not down there.”
“So what does that mean?” I said.
“It means I can’t try to make Desmond believe the story I told him. It also means there has to be another explanation, and I don’t know what it is.”
“Depends how you spin it.”
“I can’t believe you just said that.”
“I know, right? But it’s true, Chief. There’s no more Sultan business, so Sultan must be dead. Whatever that other explanation is, Desmond doesn’t need to worry about it.”
“You think he won’t?”
“No.”
“Nether do I.” The tiny lines around his eyes deepened. “I love that kid.”
“I know,” I said.
There was a lot of love going on at that table.
CHAPTER FIVE
On Sunday afternoon, while Chief and Desmond were out on their usual ride with the HOGs and I was trying to get ready to go see Zelda, India came over with a quiche from Bistro de Leon and the current guest list for the Feast. She also brought some news.
“Ms. Willa’s a ‘maybe,’” she said while I pulled out the only china plates Sylvia and I had saved for special-occasions-for-two. The rest of my parents’ dishes we’d sold to fund a trip to the Caribbean. I preferred those memories over the finger sandwiches.
“I thought she was supposed to be the guest of honor,” I said.
“She probably will be, depending on how things go at lunch tomorrow.”
“Lunch tomorrow.” I stopped pawing through the disheveled silverware drawer. Desmond had obviously been the last one to empty the dishwasher. “What lunch?”
“I hope you’re free. Ms. Willa wants to treat you at 95 Cordova, just to get clear on a few things.”
“What things?”
“Honey, I don’t know specifically, but you’ll do fine now that you know what she’s like. Just focus on the real thing and let the bigotry nonsense just roll off your back. I think half the time she goes on like that just to see what you’ll do. “
I abandoned the fork situation altogether. “Tell me you’ll be there too.”
“Actually, I can’t. I have a vendor coming in with a whole new line.”
“What about Bonner?”
“Darlin’, what is the problem?”
“I’m going to blow it, that’s the problem. What have I not blown in the past two weeks? Willa. Zelda. The cops. Chief.”
“Chief?” India’s eyes drooped at the corners, not difficult considering the amount of eye shadow she wore. I always marveled that she could keep them open under the best of circumstances. “Y’all haven’t broken up, have you?” she said.
“No. There’s nothing to break up.”
“Now, honey, I don’t believe that. The man is completely smitten with you.”
“I just don’t think I can handle Ms. Willa alone, and get a donation out of her.”
“That’s not what this is about.” India picked up the pie knife I had managed to uncover and cut two triangles of quiche with the elegant precision of a hand model. Another reason she was the one who should be lunching with Ms. Willa.
“What is it about, then?” I said.
She opened the dishwasher and selected two forks, which she laid delicately on our plates. “Personally, I think it’s you she’s curious about. I think she was taken with you.”
“She was taken with the fact that I disowned myself from my parents. That’s a great foundation for a relationship.”
“Does it matter, if it’s a foot in the door?”
“I just smell disaster. What if she doesn’t come to the fund-raiser because I tick her off again?”
“Then we don’t need her ol’ money, do we?” India tore off two paper towels and folded them into napkins resembling origami. “But I really don’t think that’s going to happen. You just talk about the Sisters and your love for them and your passion for what God is telling you to do, and she will be at your feet. Just like everybody is when you forget yourself and just let go and let God.”
As much as I hated churchy clichés, I let that one slide. “We do need her money,” I said. “But I won’t take it if it’s not given in the right spirit, you know what I mean?”
India set the plates on the bistro table and turned to me, sleeves flowing over her hands as she folded them at her waist.
“Ms. Willa may be cantankerous, Allison, but she is not Troy Irwin. In fact, nobody but Troy Irwin is Troy Irwin, and I think it’s time you trusted some people. Cut them a little slack. I told you this once before: Not everybody can bring home a hooker, but most of us can do a little something. You can’t be putting all those little somethings under a microscope.”
I sighed. “What time tomorrow?”
“Eleven forty-five. I brought a couple of things for you to try on, just in case you want to dress up a little.”
I didn’t tell her I was planning to go to lunch on the Harley.
Or that I was taking somebody with me.
Mercedes was so dolled up when I went by to get her the next day, I decided to leave the bike parked at C.A.R.S. where Sherry could keep an eye on it. I didn’t have the heart to crush her carefully straightened do under Desmond’s helmet or ruin the look with a bulky jacket. In a swollen-houndstooth plaid pencil skirt and black blouse engulfed in ruffles, Mercedes wouldn’t have met India’s approval, but she was so completely herself—and so completely not the woman I’d first met hawking her wares in front of the tattoo shop—that she definitely met mine.
I, on the other hand, was in leathers and a cobalt silk scarf, my only concession to the two-hour makeover India did on me. The makeover that made me too late to see Zelda. Chief had assured me it was okay. She wouldn’t even see him, said she “didn’t need no lawyer.” It wasn’t okay. She was showing up almost hourly in my thoughts, and it clearly wasn’t okay.
But there was today, and Mercedes and I linked arms as we crossed Ponce de Leon Boulevard and strolled the remaining four blocks down King to Cordova. That day, the March breeze had the quality of a warm caress, one of the reasons for living in Florida. Ask me in wilting July, and I wouldn’t be able to remember that, but in early spring, with the freesia stretching their hopeful necks from the pots along the sidewalk and the sun splashing its sparkle onto last night’s puddles, it felt like home. I chose to take that as a God sign, and I smiled at Mercedes when the doorman rushed to greet us.
Her brow lowered all the way down to her eyelids.
“What?” I said.
“You not gon’ give me any instructions, Miss Angel?”
“Why would I? You know how to conduct yourself in a restaurant.”
Okay, so, granted, our fine-dining training had been at the Waffle House out on US 1, but I refused to stress her out with a lecture on what utensils to use in what order. I wasn’t sure I even remembered that myself.
“You’re delightful, my friend,” I said. “If this lady can’t see that, we’ll move on.”
“Like Jesus said ’bout brushing the dirt off your sandals when people blows you off.”
God love Hank and her Bible study.
“That’s it,” I said. “And thank you, sir.”
The ancient doorman had been patiently waiting, door open, for us to clear all that up. He was in fact so
old, I looked twice to make sure he hadn’t just fallen asleep, or worse.
Once inside the 95, the fashionable darkness elicited mumbles from Mercedes about needin’ a flashlight in there. But my eyes grew accustomed to it by the time the “Mother D” led us to Ms. Willa’s table. It was all the way in the back, sheltered by a pair of potted orange trees. Even as miniscule as the woman was, she and her mane of hair presided as if she owned all she could see. And there was definitely nothing wrong with her eyesight.
“Who’s that you have with you?” she barked to me before I was even halfway to the table.
“See?” I said to Mercedes out of the side of my mouth. “You don’t have to worry about your manners.”
“Mmm-mmm,” Mercedes said.
“Nice to see you too, Ms. Willa,” I said when we’d arrived at the table, and the other diners’ heads had stopped turning. “This is my friend Mercedes Phillips. She’s involved in the Sacrament House ministry, and I thought she could answer any questions that I might not be able to.”
“Aren’t you the head of it?” Ms. Willa said.
“Actually, God is the head. I guess you could say I’m second in command, but there are probably things that go on that I’m not privy to.”
It didn’t occur to me until Ms. Willa blinked her too-bright eyes several times that I was waxing far more eloquent than I had at our previous meeting. Of course, a chimpanzee would be an improvement over that.
“I’ve already ordered,” Ms. Willa said as we took our seats. “The turkey croquettes are good here.”
Yum.
“Sherry?” she said.
“She couldn’t come, ma’am,” Mercedes said. “She have to work.”
Ms. Willa looked at me. “What’s she talking about?”
“Another woman in our ministry is named Sherry,” I said.
“I’m not talking about her. I’m talking about this.” She tapped one of her scarlet nails against a bottle. “Do you want a glass of sherry?”
“Is it got alcohol in it?” Mercedes said.
“Well, of course it has alcohol in it. I don’t think they make it without.”
“Then no thank you,” Mercedes said.