Tiny Imperfections

by Alli Frank

  Arriving home, I’m met with, “Mama, you packed? We can’t be late to the airport tomorrow. Promise me we won’t be late.” When Etta goes to school next year, I won’t miss her badgering me about time. That kid has never heard of, nor practiced, the art of being fashionably late.

  “I’m packed Etta, promise, but we don’t leave until mid-afternoon, so we have plenty of time to finish getting ready in the morning,” I call from the bathroom. Is it too much to ask to have thirty minutes to clean myself up for tonight?

  “Do you plan on parading around New York naked, Mama? If so, then please don’t show up for my interview with the Juilliard director of admissions,” Etta says, standing in the doorway to the bathroom holding my empty suitcase. It’s trying having a seventeen-year-old for a mother.

  “I promise that bag will be stuffed to the top with appropriate clothing by the time we leave for the airport tomorrow. Now, how ’bout you go snooping in your aunt Viv’s suitcase and leave me alone so I can get dressed? You know, before I had you, I had a whole team dedicated to making me look good, now I gotta do it all by myself and it’s a task that takes focus.”

  “Don’t need to check Aunt Viv’s bag; it’s already packed and by the front door. She doesn’t want to miss our flight, either. You know we’ll leave you behind if we have to. Aunt Viv and I can have a good time without you.” Etta is practically levitating she’s so excited to go to New York.

  “Oh, I have no doubt.” What is it with these type A ladies I’m livin’ with? I’m like the chill in the middle of an uptight sandwich.

  “While it may only be for a few more months, I’m still runnin’ this show and you, baby girl, need to go get dressed. I didn’t buy you that jumpsuit you begged for to watch it hang in your closet. And remember, we can’t look too amazing, don’t want to upstage Aunt Viv on her big night.” I give Etta a wink and a swat on her tight booty to usher her along. God bless that child, I hope that backside lifted high to the heavens doesn’t get her in all kinds of trouble in college. My fear is real. I see how Lola’s boys look at Etta. Even though the oldest is only eleven, those boys know an angel when they see one.

  Etta hip checks me and runs out of the bathroom before I swat that backside for real.

  * * *

  • • •

  TY

  In Lyft, be there in two. And if I do say so myself I’m looking fine.

  6:42 P.M.

  JOSIE

  Lookin’ fine is kind of like rockin’ it. No one says it anymore. Come up with something from this decade.

  6:43 P.M.

  TY

  Sharp, hot, dope, handsome, fab, sizzlin’, fly?

  6:44 P.M.

  JOSIE

  Okay, Eminem, stick to looking fine.

  6:45 P.M.

  TY

  And it’s looking like I’m right outside your door.

  6:46 P.M.

  JOSIE

  Can you wait there for 5? I’m pretty sure Aunt Viv wants to make an entrance. A woman never loses her need to impress a man. Lay it on thick, this is her night and so far she’s really eating up being Queen for a day.

  6:47 P.M.

  “Aunt Viv, Etta, Dr. Golden’s here.” How is it those two are always complaining about me being the late one and here I am waiting on them to cross the finish line on this evening’s primping marathon? I can only imagine the amount of product littered across every inch of the bathroom. A shea butter cemetery surrounded by a MAC mess.

  “Now where’s that doctor of mine?” Aunt Viv giggles, making her way down the hall holding Etta’s hand. We stand shoulder to shoulder in front of the coat closet mirror, a vision of color and style and grace—Aunt Viv regal in her emerald-green chiffon dress, me in rich orange, and Etta killin’ it in canary yellow. We are a glorious rainbow of love and femininity.

  Dr. Golden knocks on the front door. Aunt Viv smooths the back of her dress like all women do before stepping into view of a handsome man. She stands straight like the matriarch of our family that she is, clears her throat, and opens the door.

  “Good evening, Dr. Golden. I appreciate you getting all gussied up in your best church clothes for me,” Aunt Viv singsongs. Those are no church clothes, I think to myself, slightly slack-jawed and staring at Dr. Golden. He’s in a deep midnight–blue European-cut suit that accentuates his God-given ocean-blue eyes, swimmer’s shoulders, and slim waist. His suit jacket cuts a perfect V. Ty’s lavender shirt collar is conservatively open, showing a hint of baby-smooth chest. He’s wearing shoes that look straight out of a Milanese leather factory, nearly causing me a fashion orgasm.

  “Good evening, Viv. Do you think after one heart attack and two checkups we can move our relationship to the next level and you call me Ty? After all, I have seen you in a hospital gown, front side and back.” Aunt Viv lifts her hand to her mouth to stifle another giggle, but the golden doctor intercepts it on the way to give it a kiss. Etta and I watch in awe; we’ve never seen Aunt Viv so intimate with a man. “I got you this wrist corsage, Viv. The honoree of this evening’s soirée must have flowers so everyone in the room knows exactly who she is. May I put it on you?”

  “Of course, Doctor—I mean, Ty. Thank you.” Aunt Viv blushes. I wipe a tear from the corner of my eye before Aunt Viv can notice and scold me for making a fuss. Even if the rest of the evening is a bust, witnessing the tenderness and reverence Golden Boy is showering on Aunt Viv makes the last month of complaints about the party and the earlier eight hours of schlepping Aunt Viv around San Francisco worth it. This is Aunt Viv’s fifteen minutes of fame and, deservedly, this little corner of the world is revolving around her.

  “Well, there you go, Viv, you look absolutely beautiful. I knew you were a sight, but, woman, you take my breath away.” Aunt Viv fingers the yellow flowers on her wrist, demurely tips her chin at Ty, and strides out the front door. Etta swallows a snicker and we roll our eyes at one another, a nonverbal agreement that Aunt Viv is going to be unbearable for the next couple days riding high from tonight’s attention. I’m unsure if there will be enough room in the Lyft for the two of us, Dr. Golden, Aunt Viv, and her ego.

  I send Etta out behind Aunt Viv and then grab my purse and keys to lock the door. Ty is waiting for me on the front stoop. Damn if his mama didn’t teach him good manners. I pull the door shut, lock it, and shimmy past Ty.

  “And you’re looking damn fine, too, Ms. Bordelon,” Ty whispers in my ear, flicking the bow of my dress at the back of my neck. My skin erupts in goose bumps. I’ve really got to start dating. If I get goose bumps from a gay man’s touch, imagine what might happen with someone who actually wants to rip my clothes off. Watching him make Aunt Viv swoon reminds me how a man can make a woman feel with the right kind of sweet attention. With Etta leaving soon, Aunt Viv’s recent heart attack, and coming across Michael again, I find myself needing, well, truthfully wanting, some of that sweetness for myself.

  * * *

  • • •

  Ty wasn’t lying; I do look fine. The combination of college application stress with Etta, the crunch of mid-admissions season, and a shortage of my favorite chocolate pretzels at Trader Joe’s, and I’m within eight pounds of my fighting weight, a number I haven’t seen since 2003.

  As we roll up to the school, we hear the live Afro-Cuban music coming from Fairchild’s grand foyer. Etta’s unconsciously swaying in her seat, her body incapable of not moving when it hears a sweet beat. The car parks right in front of the twenty stately stairs covered in red carpet. Etta hops out of the car first and floats up to the main entrance, her hips continuing to keep in time with the Cuban groove. I take in a sharp breath. Etta’s confidence as she half dances, half glides her way into the party throws me deep into one of the few memories I have of being with my mother. She moved through the streets of New Orleans, skin glistening from the summer humidity, shoulders swaying to whatever tune w
as in her head. I don’t recall the specifics of my mother’s features, I just know she was a mere five years older than Etta in my last memory of her before she dropped me like a milk delivery on Aunt Viv’s doorstep. Watching Etta, I know it’s true that her body was born to move, and I can’t help but wonder, with a bit of fear, if Etta is a next generation Ophelia Bordelon. And if she is, how will those roots and seeds play out in her future, since no one knows what happened to my mother.

  I bring myself back to the present when I see Nan, erect and tidy, greeting guests at the summit of the stairs. I have to give it to her, she did indeed go all out with the Miami-meets–New Orleans mash-up theme for Viva la Viv. From the live band to a couple of classic red and baby blue 1940s Fords lining the curb, Nan did what she could to turn this expansive Seacliff estate into a mini-Havana. Complete with strobe lights the whole vibe feels very Buena Vista Social Club with palm trees, forced heat, trayed cigars, and plenty of Cuba Libres at every turn. While I do give Nan a pile of credit for sparing no expense on behalf of Aunt Viv, I can’t help but wonder if Nan realizes she has confused Cuban with Creole. Communism with Cajun. Does Nan even know where we’re from? Or care? Given her efforts I suspect she knows but doesn’t care.

  * * *

  • • •

  LOLA

  God I wish I was a lesbian, Jo!

  7:17 P.M.

  JOSIE

  Where you at?

  7:17 P.M.

  LOLA

  Staring at you from the bar.

  7:18 P.M.

  JOSIE

  Get me a glass of champagne and then get over here. And thank you. When Nic dies we can be lesbians if you want.

  7:18 P.M.

  LOLA

  Done.

  7:19 P.M.

  Roan gets to me before Lola does. “Grrrrllll! Give. It. A. Whirl!” He gives me two sharp snaps and puts his hand out to me and I grab hold for a slow take it all in, baby three-sixty. The heavy orange satin feels buttery on my skin as it lifts just a hair to let in a slight breeze and show off my cocoa-buttered legs. My locks are swept up in a bun to highlight my long neck that’s framed by gold hoop earrings. The highlight of this outfit is my purple suede heels that have only known concrete twice. Once on my first “official” date with Michael and tonight. These are not everyday shoes, these are I’ve got something to prove shoes. And tonight, once I saw Aunt Viv in her emerald green and Etta (who is one of five people in the whole world who can crush a canary yellow strapless jumpsuit) I knew this was the night that the Bordelon women came to slay.

  Lola saunters over carrying two flutes of champagne. As she’s about to enter our circle she does her own twirl making sure our group gets a full view of every inch of her glory. Ty chokes on an ice cube. The plunging V at the back of Lola’s dress, which is a mere couple of inches from playing peek-a-boo with the icing on her cakes, takes him by surprise.

  “Ooooooo la la, Lola! Look at you!” Roan gushes all over Lola. Lola has known Roan for all the years he’s worked for me and she can speak Roan fluently.

  “Look at me? Look at you?!?! Top to toe, toe to top, Tom Ford is weeping with joy right now. Slap you on a billboard, it couldn’t be any better if you tried—FAB-U-LUSH!” Lola fans herself like she’s overheating. The love affair between Roan and Lola is strong and it is real. I’ve been the third wheel since I introduced the two.

  “Roan, Lola, you remember Ty Golden?” I ask, shifting the conversation off our vain selves to avoid seeming vapid in the midst of someone who, you know, massages hearts with his bare hands.

  “I do remember you,” Roan says, placing a hand on Ty’s chest and looking right into his eyes challenging him to a game of who will blink first. We are now officially playing with the admissions gods. If Nan knew Ty was a potential parent, not invited specifically by her, Roan and I would be updating our LinkedIn profiles. For once, I give thanks to Nan’s indifference to the admissions process of the middle-class applicant. “You’re San Francisco’s very own gay Hermès with inexhaustible stamina and an ungodly metabolism.” I forgot Roan was a classics major at Santa Clara.

  I duck under Roan’s arm to step between the two men before this whole scene turns into one big Greek tragedy.

  “Nice suit.” Roan brushes the lapel and then winks at Ty before taking two steps back. Thankfully he picked up the down boy signal I was vibin’ his way, but the pause comes with a curious lift of his left eyebrow. Roan is either shooting Ty some shade or he now recognizes him from someplace other than the vegan food truck and admissions. Oh dear God, infidelity is not necessary information for a director of admissions to know about an applying family. I choose to pretend I didn’t see their subtle exchange, but my stomach lurches nonetheless.

  Lola heads off to chat up a Fairchild parent whose son is on her oldest’s soccer team. Roan spies a relatively famous alumnus who is a fairly important human rights attorney at the fresh age of thirty. And since Roan believes human rights in San Francisco means gay rights and gay rights means potential boyfriend material he heads over to fancy himself a flirt. Roan likes to do right in the world through association.

  Ty and I are left standing together, Aunt Viv already lost to a crowd of admirers. “So, do you, Daniel, and Gracie have any fun plans coming up? I remember Daniel saying in your parent interview that he loves to head to Washington in April for the tulip festival and then somewhere to taste Washington wines.” This seems like very safe conversation given that having Ty here is playing outside the admissions rulebook. Plus, it proves that I listen and pay attention in the parent interviews. Usually.

  “Yeah, about that.”

  “About tulips?”

  “No, no not tulips.”

  “Wine?”

  “Well, yes, kind of about wine. Liquid courage and all. I need to . . .”

  “You need to get yourself a refill and get me one, too, please. I think I’m going to stick to red tonight, no more champagne. No, white, I’ll stick to white wine; don’t want to potentially stain my dress. If you don’t mind grabbing us two glasses, I’m going to check in on your date.”

  “Okay, sure, but then I have to talk to you about this whole kindergarten thing, Josie.”

  “Probably best if Daniel’s part of the conversation, don’t you think? E-mail me tomorrow and we’ll set up a time for you and Daniel to come in when I get back from New York.” I’m used to people wanting to talk shop with me when I’m trying to be a regular person and have some fun. It used to annoy me, but now I just tell them to make an appointment and walk away.

  “I need to talk to you tonight, Josie. Daniel doesn’t know.”

  And ugh, there it is. Dr. Golden is no different than Meredith Lawton pretending to be my friend; Vanessa Grimaldi offering me free facials; or the myriad of other parents who want to give me Giants tickets, symphony tickets, backstage passes, or a weekend in Sonoma to butter me up so I will admit their child. Often in a couple there is one parent who plays outside the rules, and Dr. Golden willingly being Aunt Viv’s date must be his version of transferred airline miles. Pricey tit for costly tat. How did I not see it? Did his good looks and care for Aunt Viv really throw me that far off my game? I needed something from him and he most definitely needs something from me. I’m sure he sees this evening as a fair trade.

  I’m not going to ruin tonight for Aunt Viv, so I will have to effortlessly avoid getting locked into a one-on-one conversation with Ty. I see him walking toward me with our wine and I quickly scan the room for Aunt Viv. She’s by the grand piano being showered with compliments from a couple of boys, now young men, who I remember hanging out in the kitchen between school and basketball practice begging Aunt Viv for scraps, they were such hungry, growing food receptacles. Actually, they were more like stray dogs—the more Aunt Viv fed them, the more they showed up before practice. And now here they are, filled out and tuxedoed. I don’
t want to bust up their lovefest, but I need someplace to hide.

  “How are you doing, Aunt Viv? Enjoying yourself?” I ask, awkwardly inserting myself into the middle of the conversation.

  “I’m having a lovely time chatting with Eric, Ben, and Riley, who I haven’t seen in ages. Did you know Eric wrote one of his college essays about workin’ with me in the kitchen? Imagine. But you I get to sit next to on a six-hour flight tomorrow, so if you could just let the four of us continue our delightful conversation that would be wonderful.” With a pat on my shoulder, Aunt Viv waves me off and turns her back, closing off the circle. Damn, who knew Aunt Viv could be such a mean girl. New plan. Find a corner to practice my fifty-nine-seconds scholarship speech one last time. Crap, Golden Boy is heading right for me doubling down with two wineglasses.