by Elena Graf
“I’d probably show up on her doorstep with flowers and a bottle of wine.”
“Smooth, Dr. Stolz.”
“The worst thing that happens is she doesn’t open the door and you’re back to square one. In that case, you can go home and drink the wine.”
“Good point.”
“But wait until later. You want to be close enough to evening, so you can sit down and drink the wine with her. Get a good Spanish wine. Nothing too expensive. You want it to be a friendly gesture, not like you’re trying to impress her. Marques de Caceres is always reliable. Get the reserva.”
“How do you spell that?”
“I’ll text it to you.”
“Later.”
“Later.”
In a moment, Brenda’s phone pinged.
Liz was always good for her word.
***
Brenda figured she’d head over to Cherie’s around four. That was a civilized hour to begin drinking on a Saturday afternoon. It was also early enough to avoid the presumption of a dinner invitation. Brenda decided she’d stop at Hannaford first to pick up some flowers and the wine. The last time she’d shopped for groceries, she’d noticed they had some of those little daffodils.
She tried to pass the time getting her laundry done and catching up on her reports, but her eye always found the clock over the kitchen sink. Finally, it was getting on to three and she took a shower. She took extra time with her hair and makeup. As she was getting ready to go downstairs, she put her fingers over the sensor in the pistol safe by her bed. She was about to clip her off-duty gun to her belt when she stopped to think. Maybe this one time, it would be a good idea to leave the gun home.
Even bundled in a parka and wearing a polar fleece vest, Brenda felt strange without her pistol in the belt holster. She was more conscious of being without her gun than when she had it on her hip. That was one thing they trained into every cop. Always be conscious of your gun and know where it is at all times. Without it, she felt naked.
She found the little daffodils right away and spent a good five minutes trying to decide which one to buy, finally selecting the one that had two open blossoms and the most buds. She had to ask someone help her find the wine. Her Spanish accent was pretty good, but that didn’t seem to make an impression on the boy she asked to help her find it.
As Brenda drove up to Cherie’s house, she could feel herself tense. She screwed up her courage by reminding herself of what Liz had said: “The worst thing that happens is she doesn’t open the door.”
Cherie’s car was in the driveway, so Brenda parked on the street. She took the wine out of the seat pocket behind her and snatched the plant out of the cup holder. “Here we go,” she said aloud to herself as she headed to the door. She noticed the curtains in the front of the house were drawn. She rang the doorbell and stood back.
No answer.
After waiting a few minutes, Brenda was beginning to wonder if she’d have to accept the booby prize and go home and drink the wine. She waited another minute and rang again.
Finally, she heard the lock engage.
Chapter Nine
When Cherie opened the door, she realized she should have looked out first. There she was in an old Baylor sweatshirt, yoga pants and no makeup. She tried to smooth back her hair, but it was pointless. She’d run a quick brush through it that morning, but she had been running around since. She was sure it was a disaster.
The woman standing on the door stoop was carefully dressed and looking beautiful. Her pink cheeks just glowed. When she saw Cherie, she began to grin. The grin blossomed into a full smile that showed her perfectly white teeth. For some reason, she reminded Cherie of a yellow lab puppy. Brenda held out her arms. One held a little pot of blooming jonquils, the other, wine in a colorful gift bag.
“What’s this?” asked Cherie.
“A peace offering.”
“We’re not at war.”
“No, but I messed up big time last night, and I’m trying to make up for it.”
Cherie looked uncertain, but she took the flowers and the wine. “Would you like to come in?”
Brenda smiled. “Thank you. I would.” She stepped into the house, and Cherie closed the door behind her.
“I’m sorry it took me so long to get the door. My father’s not having a good day with his breathing. I had to set up his oxygen.”
“It’s fine,” said Brenda, still smiling. “I’m just glad to see you.”
Cherie looked at the things in her hand. “Thanks for these. Let me just find a place to put them down.” She nodded over her shoulder. “There are some hooks around the corner. You can hang your coat there,” said Cherie pointing with the flowerpot. Brenda looked around the corner and took off her parka. “Come into the kitchen. I just put my stew on. I need to keep an eye on it until it comes to a simmer.”
Brenda sniffed the air appreciatively, again reminding Cherie of a friendly puppy. As Cherie went in to stir the stew, she decided it was a perfect analogy. Brenda was affectionate and meant well, but she kept falling over herself by trying too hard.
“Come on. Daddy’s in there too,” Cherie called. “You can say hello to him.”
Jean-Paul gave Brenda a smile when she came into the kitchen. “Back already?”
Brenda laughed. “It seems I can’t stay away.”
“Seems so,” Jean-Paul agreed. “Please don’t mind the get up,” he said gesturing to the tank and tubing. “Can’t breathe today.”
“It’s the dry air,” explained Cherie, adjusting the tube to the nasal cannula. “It makes it hard for everyone to breathe, especially people with your kind of COPD.”
“She kept nagging me to stop smoking,” he said, thumbing in Cherie’s direction. “But for the life of me, I couldn’t quit. Not until I got this, and it landed me in the hospital with pneumonia.”
“I told you so.”
“Yes, you did. But it wasn’t really the smoking that did in my lungs. It was the chemicals on the boats. We used all kinds of acids to etch metals. It would throw up green fumes like you wouldn’t believe.”
“My father was a mechanic in the Navy,” Cherie explained. “They sent him down to New Orleans. That’s how my parents met.”
“You should have seen Cherie’s Mama,” said Jean-Paul, gazing into the air and smiling. “Goddamn! What a pretty girl she was, just like my Cherie. I took one look at her, and I knew I had to make her my wife.”
Cherie loved the look that appeared on her father’s face whenever he spoke of his wife. It was pure adoration. She wondered if she’d ever meet someone who’d look at her like that. She watched Brenda smiling and nodding as she listened to Jean-Paul go on about her mother.
“Cherie, I feel less dizzy now,” Jean-Paul said. “I think I’ll take my tank and go into the living room to catch the news.”
“Okay, Daddy, but lay off the Fox News. It’s pure propaganda.”
He waved dismissively. “What do you know?” With effort, he got up from the kitchen chair. The wheels on his canister cart squealed a little as he rolled it into the living room.
Cherie stirred her stew and tasted it with the spoon.
“What smells so good?”
“Cajun beef stew. Mama’s recipe.”
“Really?” asked Brenda, taking a peek into the pot. “What makes it Cajun?”
“Sweet peppers. Some Jamaican jerk sauce.”
“It smells delicious.”
Cherie looked up. “Would you like to stay for dinner? We have plenty as you can see.”
“I don’t want to impose.”
“You’re not, or I wouldn’t have asked. Sit down. Let me open the wine.” She gestured to a chair and rummaged around in a drawer for the wine opener. “You even got the right color. How did you know?”
“I hope it’s good. Liz recommended it.�
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“It’s good. I’ve had it before.” Cherie took down two wine glasses from the cabinet and poured a glass for each of them. “It probably should breathe a little, but this wine is usually good right out of the bottle.”
She sat across from Brenda and reached with her glass to click Brenda’s. “Cheers.”
“Cheers,” agreed Brenda.
“We have a couple of hours before dinner. I hope you don’t mind.”
“I don’t mind. Not at all.” Brenda’s eyes looked dreamy, and Cherie could see a hint of that expression her father had when he spoke about his wife.
“Let me get you some snacks, so you don’t faint waiting for the stew to be ready.”
She felt Brenda’s eyes on her back as she cut a block of pepper jack and arranged the slices on the cutting board. She took a box of rice crackers out of a cabinet.
“Don’t make a fuss for me,” said Brenda, lightly touching her arm, which felt good.
“It’s no fuss,” Cherie assured her with a warm smile. “Hold on a minute. Let me just give Daddy some of these.” Cherie put crackers and cheese slices on a plate and brought them out to Jean-Paul. Of course, he had Fox News on again, but she wasn’t about to argue with him with Brenda there.
“Thank you, honey,” said Jean-Paul with a radiant smile. “You’re an angel just like your mama.”
“I don’t know about that,” said Cherie.
“I like your friend.” He winked. “Not bad to look at either.”
“Daddy!”
He grinned. “Go on. Don’t leave her hanging there in the kitchen all alone.”
Cherie found Brenda stirring the stew. “I hope you don’t mind me interfering. It was boiling really hard. I turned it down a little.”
“So, you can cook.”
“Of course, I can cook. I always win the department chili contest.”
Cherie shook her head. “It’s probably rigged because you’re chief.”
“It is not!” protested Brenda indignantly. “It’s a blind taste test.”
Cherie laughed. “Only kidding. Oh, Brenda. You’re so easy to tease.”
“I’m very literal. Wit is not my thing.”
Cherie looked her over carefully and wondered to herself, what is your thing? Her mind instantly started to roam, and then her eyes. Brenda glanced down, then up and smiled. Cherie realized she’d been caught admiring Brenda’s breasts. Fortunately, with Cherie’s coloring, blushing wasn’t obvious.
“Sit down. I need to put the stew in the oven.” She put the glass top on the old-fashioned chicken fryer and slid the pot in the oven. “Now, we don’t have to worry about that anymore.” She sat down and raised her glass.
Brenda put a piece of cheese on a cracker and handed it to Cherie, then she took a cracker for herself. She chewed thoughtfully and gazed out the window. “It’s already staying light longer. That’s nice.”
“It is nice, but you didn’t come over here to talk about that, did you?” She waited while Brenda took her time thinking it over.
“No, I wanted to talk about last night and what happened. That man was disgusting. I’m so sorry you had to put up with him.”
“He called you a dyke.”
Brenda nodded.
“So am I,” said Cherie, “but I don’t usually use that word to describe myself.”
Brenda let out an exaggerated sigh of relief. “Thank God! My gaydar still works!”
Cherie laughed out of proportion to the humor in the statement.
“I like it when you laugh,” said Brenda. “I like everything about you.”
“I like you too, Brenda.”
“I mean I like you.”
“I knew what you meant. And I think I like you too, but there are some things we need to get straight.”
Brenda sat back in her chair and eyed her cautiously. “Shoot.”
“That’s one of them.”
“It’s just an expression. You know that.”
“I hate guns.”
“You made that clear last night. It’s okay. A lot of women are afraid of guns.” Brenda lifted the hem of her polar fleece to show that she wasn’t wearing her off-duty pistol. “I left mine home in your honor. It was a big deal for me. I feel naked without my gun.”
Cherie was touched by the sensitivity of the gesture. “Thank you. That means a lot to me.”
Brenda nodded. “I’m not saying I’ll always do it, but it seemed important today.”
Cherie searched Brenda’s earnest blue eyes and decided she deserved an explanation. “I think I need to tell you why guns frighten me so much.”
“Okay,” said Brenda, a little frown puckering her brow.
Cherie took a sip of wine for fortification. It had been hard enough to tell the story to Mother Lucy.
Brenda picked up a cracker and began to nibble on it. “Go ahead. I’m listening.” Cherie could clearly read the anxiety in her eyes. Usually so bright and sunny, they seemed to cloud over when she was worried.
“I’m black,” Cherie said.
“What?” Brenda sat up straight, looking completely puzzled.
“I know I don’t look black, but I am.”
“You can’t be!”
“I am. My mother was biracial. Her mother was black, probably biracial too. Her skin wasn’t very dark. But as far as I know, I am one quarter black. In the old days, they would call such people ‘quadroons.’”
“That’s impossible,” said Brenda. She looked mystified and slightly angry.
Cherie had been carefully watching for an angry response. That would be a bad sign, and a reason to limit what she shared. Then Cherie realized that Brenda was only confused and surprised, not angry.
“That’s impossible,” Brenda repeated. “You look as white as I am.”
“I know, but I’m not. I can pass for white, but I’m not. I identify as a black woman.”
“Why? Wouldn’t it just be easier to let people think you’re white? I mean especially up here. Everyone’s white except for the Somalians up in Portland and the native Americans.”
Cherie shook her head. “It’s not easier for me to keep the facts from people I care about.”
Cherie watched Brenda’s eyes soften at the last words. “Who else knows?” she asked.
“You mean, besides my father? Liz Stolz and my coworkers at Hobbs Family Practice. Mother Lucy.”
“Does it really matter? To me, you’re white.”
“Yes, it matters, and I’m going to tell you why. I could always pass for white. At some point I realized what a privilege it was to be white. I could go places my sister couldn’t. Nobody ever followed me in a store thinking I might steal something, but they watched my obviously black sister like a hawk. It embarrassed me. It got to the point that I didn’t even want to be seen with her…my own sister. The white part of me looked down on the black part.” Brenda, whose eyes were focused directly on hers, shifted anxiously in her seat. “Then my sister died and everything changed. We were in college, riding back from a party, when we got pulled over for a broken taillight. A young, nervous trooper approached with his gun drawn.”
“Don’t tell me that fucking cop shot her!”
“Yes. He did.”
Brenda looked sickened. “What happened?”
“We’d been smoking some pot. I guess he could smell it on our clothes. He ordered my sister to get out of the car. When she hesitated, he shot her.”
“Jesus Christ!” The horror spread across Brenda’s face. “How could he do something like that?”
“No reason. She wasn’t threatening him. We were just two women. No threat at all.”
“I’m sure you weren’t.”
“When he shot her, the bullet went through her and hit me in the shoulder. I was just grazed by the bullet.”
&nbs
p; “What happened to the trooper?”
“Nothing. He got off. Not even a reprimand.”
“That’s wrong. It would never happen up here. Not even in New York in the worst neighborhoods.”
“Things are different in the South. It’s not easy to be a woman there. Black or white.”
“I could never live in the South,” said Brenda, shaking her head. “We have yahoos up here too, like you saw last night, but not like in the South. Even the women are backward.”
Cherie gave her a hard look.
“Not you, of course.”
“Don’t lump everyone together.”
“Why not? A little boy trooper, who was probably poorly trained and scared shitless, shot and killed your sister. Because of him, you hate cops. That’s why you were always so strange around me. You paint us all with the same brush.”
Cherie raised her chin defensively. What Brenda had said was uncomfortably close to the truth. “Most of the time, I can put it aside. I had to work with the police in my counseling practice from time to time. Professionally, I can be objective.”
“Except with me.”
“Except with you because I knew you had your eye on me.”
“And that made the prejudice worse? Makes no sense.”
“No, but phobias after trauma rarely make sense. Your uniform and your gun trigger me.”
“Well, that’s a problem,” said Brenda, raising her brows.
“Yes, it is.”
“Does that mean you don’t want to see me?”
“No, it means I have to work on it.”
“How?”
“I am seeing Mother Lucy for therapy. She suggested the idea of seeing you socially…without the uniform and the gun.”
Brenda nodded, evidently understanding. “But I blew it last night when that asshole confronted me.”
“That whole scene was bad. The noise. The threats. His calling you a dyke. Seeing you ready to draw your gun was the icing on the cake.”
Brenda, looking mortified, stared at the bowl of crackers. “I’m the asshole. I should never have brought you there. I knew it was rough. But there are so few places open this time of year.”
