by Chassie West
Then there was me. Not quite married. And even though heading the Shores’ police force was in the works, it was still just that. In the works. So I was not quite employed. And weighing twice as heavily, I was homeless, no not-quite about it. As generous as Janeece had been about insisting I share her apartment until the wedding, it was her apartment, not mine. The fact that my feet weren’t propped on the coffee table in toe-wiggling bliss at being free of my boots was just one reminder that I was company, and had to be respectful of someone else’s property. Putting my feet up would require moving Janeece’s collection of candle holders. As soon as she walked in, she would nudge them into exactly the spots they’d been before without saying a word or even realizing she was doing it.
Not that I was complaining. As apartment mates, we’d been surprisingly compatible, primarily because other than the placement of her knickknacks, Janeece was undemanding and, most of all, rarely here. Between work, church, and a social life so active that she had to use a Filofax to keep track, she was always on the run, which was fine with me. I’d lived alone for years and had no problem with solitude, which presented a niggling area of concern when I tried to imagine my future as Duck’s wife.
Despite that, I was really looking forward to being with him on a daily—and nightly—basis. As it was, his two-bedroom condo was almost home anyway, in fact technically mine since in a moment of temporary insanity he’d signed it over to me. Yet here I was. Feeling rootless. And envious. And annoyed that I couldn’t put my feet up.
The hell I couldn’t, I decided.
I leaned forward to move the candle holders to one end of the coffee table, and my mail slid off the futon onto the floor. I picked them up. Big deal. My Mobil bill. A credit card lure, thank you, no. An announcement of a sale at Salina’s, the second I’d received recently. I wondered how I’d gotten on their mailing list, especially since I’d never been in the store. It was way up on Wisconsin Avenue, and I’d have to take out a loan to be able to afford anything hanging on their racks. Again, thank you, no.
The last piece of mail was a plain white envelope addressed in block letters, canceled in D.C. No return address.
Curious, I opened it. A review of Macbeth, onstage in Chicago. Why would anyone send this to me?
It occurred to me that a while back I’d received an announcement from one of the local theaters, I couldn’t remember which, about a Shakespeare festival. I had tossed it since the beginning dates of the first play in the series were the same ones during which Duck and I were to have been in Hawaii. That had since changed, and was beside the point. Who had sent this and why?
Skimming the review, I saw the light. Appearing as the lady with the soiled hands: Beverly Barlowe, who had lived in the apartment next door in my law school days. God, I hadn’t heard from her in years. I guess she wanted me to know that she’d been right to kiss the law good-bye and follow her heart. The critic obviously agreed with her; the review was glowing. Delighted for her, I began to fold the article when I noticed the writing at the bottom. What could have been, no thanks to you.
Could have been? What did that mean? She’d hit the big time, would shortly go from Chicago to D.C.’s National Theatre with the touring company before opening on Broadway next month. Bev had a skewed sense of humor, but whatever she meant was zipping right over my head. I slipped the review back into the envelope to keep for Nunna, who had adored Bev but had been scandalized at her dropping out of law school.
I reached for the Essence and saw for the first time that it had been thumbed through. My magazine! I felt my blood pressure skyrocket. Was nothing sacred? Damn Neva! I stood up and, barefoot, headed for the door, ready to raise a little hell about invasion of privacy. And stopped.
If Neva was reading my magazines, I had only myself to blame. She had had a key to my box for a couple of years to empty it for me whenever I went down home to see Nunna. Besides, with her and Cholly’s agreement, I hadn’t bothered to file a change of address with the post office, because as managers of the building, they had a special mailbox downstairs and didn’t need the one for apartment 502.
Plus Janeece, the catalog queen, usually received so much mail that there’d be no room in her box for mine. And among the contents of my tote bag was the mail I’d pried out of her mailbox as I’d come in, which included her Ebony magazine, this week’s Time, and half a dozen catalogs. There were any number of evenings when I’d get here first, pick up her mail for her, and read her magazines before she got in from work. So I had no right to mount my high horse with Neva.
This was stupid. I was losing it. Enough.
There was nothing I could do about being not quite married, since unless Duck objected, I was committed to using the cousin’s church for the ceremony on December 26.
There was little I could do about being not quite employed. My brother, Jon, was dealing with Anne Arundel county to make things official. But there was, by God, something I could do about being homeless.
Just like that, the decision was made. I sat down, picked up the phone, and dialed.
“Kennedy.” He sounded busy, distracted. I decided to cut to the chase.
“Duck, me. I’m moving in. Tonight if I can swing it.”
My grand announcement was greeted with silence. My stomach shifted south a few degrees. Didn’t he want me?
“About damned time,” he said, chuckling. “What finally did it for you?”
“I’ll tell you later. And before I forget, how would you feel about getting married in Maryland in Arundel Woods A.M.E. Church?”
Silence again. Then, “Don’t tell me. Another cousin.”
“You guessed it. The Reverend James Shelby Ritch. Details to follow.”
“To hell with the details. We’re still on for the day after Christmas, right?”
“Right.” Relieved at his unspoken agreement, I still hesitated, suddenly unsure of myself. “You don’t mind my moving in now? Honestly? I mean—”
“Babe, please.”
Hearing patience, impatience, a note of chiding, and a lot of love in those two words, I was on firm ground again. Nunna and Mrs. Kennedy would just have to get used to the idea. Janeece would be disappointed—she enjoyed playing roommates—but she’d understand.
“Will you need any help?” he asked. “I’d come by, but this looks to be a late night. How much stuff do you have left to bring?”
I hadn’t thought that far. There was no way I’d be able to carry all my clothes in one trip, but there really was no hurry. It wasn’t as if I was being kicked out of here, eviction notice in hand and marshals on my tail. Besides, I would need a farewell session with Janeece, which would involve sharing a few tears and a bottle of white Zinfandel.
“Thanks, hon, I can handle it. I’ll bring all I can take down to the car in one trip tonight. Someone’s bound to see me loading it, so I don’t dare leave it to come back up for more or it’ll be gone and I’ll be replacing a window, if not the whole car. There’s always tomorrow for the rest of my stuff.”
“Smart move. Okay, Scarlett O’Hara.” I could hear the smile in his voice. “Hey, speaking of tomorrow, maybe you can do me a favor. Can you hang around until ten to let the cleaning lady in? She left her keys the last time she was there.”
I had yet to adjust to the idea of a cleaning lady.
“It occurs to me,” I said, approaching the subject warily, “we won’t need her any longer. I’ll be there to do the cleaning.”
“Hmm. Are you sure about that? Neither one of us will be around much. And when we’re home, I don’t know about you, but housecleaning will be the last thing on my mind.”
“We can talk about it later,” I said, opting not to push for the moment. “But we should at least warn her so it won’t come as a surprise.”
“We nothing. You warn her—if you can.”
I wondered what that meant. “Be glad to,” I said, and hoped I wouldn’t regret it. “Well, I’d better go. My supply of boxes is down in Janeece’s st
orage area, so I’d better get to it.”
“Great. I’ll stop and get some curry chicken from Honan’s, so if I’m super-late, nibble on something until I get there. Gotta go. I’ll see you at home.”
At home. I hung up, feeling grounded and in control of my own fate for the first time in days. That is, until I realized just how much was involved in this spur-of-the-moment move. All the furnishings from my former apartment were already in his, waiting patiently for me to join them. The only things left to go were winter clothes. But for someone who claimed to have little interest in what I wore, I’d managed to keep enough of them to fill Janeece’s hall closet. Whether I’d have as many boxes as I’d need was open to question.
I emptied the closet, piled the clothes onto the end of the day bed in the den, the rest on the futon in the living room, and began sorting through them leisurely. If Duck was going to be late getting home, there was no point in hurrying. I considered stopping long enough to make coffee, decided against it. I’d had coffee at lunch, so strong I could still taste it.
I would need a separate box for shoes, one for underwear and jammies. Then there was all the miscellaneous stuff from the bathroom. Seven boxes minimum. No, eight. My bathrobe, so plush it made me resemble a big, fat Easter bunny, would require its own carton.
Then there were the two packages Neva had signed for. I was tempted to open them but shoved temptation aside. It would be more fun to do it when Duck and I were together. I wondered who’d sent them. We’d assured everyone that we already had everything we needed and would not expect gifts. Janeece had suggested we let folks know we’d welcome money, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it.
Janeece. I checked the time and wondered when she’d get home. There would be no point in waiting around for her. She might have gone shopping, to the gym, anywhere. Janeece did what she wanted when she wanted, accountable to no one and enjoying it immensely. That would last for another few months before she would begin considering marrying her first husband again. They’d tried it twice, that is, after she had ditched the second husband, who’d turned out to be already married anyway. I wasn’t sure I understood my roomie’s definition of marital bliss, but that was her problem, not mine.
I thought I heard her at the door and came out of the den to say hi just as the phone rang—a wrong number, but by the time I’d assured the caller that he had not reached Thrifty’s Rib House and hung up, she hadn’t come in. I opened the door in case she was loaded down. The hall was empty, the only sign of life a glimpse of red as the door to the stairs creaked closed.
It was time to deal with boxes. I answered a call of nature, then went searching for my better slippers. The ones for every day were too ratty to be worn outside the apartment.
I grabbed my keys and my Maglite and took the elevator to the basement, not one of my favorite places. It reminded me of a crypt, the twenty-five-watt bulb outside the storage units far too dim for anyone to see much clearly unless you were an owl.
The elevator stopped at the first floor, which it did whether or not someone there had pushed the call button. The doors wheezed open onto pure chaos. The decorators were in full swing now, bellowing carols off-key while they jockeyed ladders into position and dangled ornaments from the branches of the tree. They’d obviously recruited help from friends as well as family; half of the faces I’d never seen before.
Mr. Stanley, coming in from outside, raised his cane in a gesture for me to hold the elevator.
“Take your time,” I called to him above the din of the carolers, and put my back against the rubber stop. “I’m going down, though.”
He limped slowly across the lobby, his cane thumping against the marble floor. “Thanks, dearie,” he said loudly. “You’ll be a while down there. One of the dryers is on the fritz.”
“Not a problem,” I bellowed back. “I’m heading for the storage units. How’s Mrs. Stanley?”
“Middlin’,” he said, stepping in. “This cold weather, doncha know.”
He rode down with me, pressing the button for his floor as I got off. “You take care, now. Tell Miz Holloway I said hello.”
“Will do,” I said, suppressing a grin. Janeece, a flirt from the day she was born, was a favorite of all the elderly men in the building.
Relieved to hear one of the washers going in the laundry room at the far end of the hall, I turned left toward the opposite end. At least I wouldn’t be alone down here. I hurried toward the storage lockers, anxious to get in and out as soon as I could. Arranged along both sides of the narrow passageway, the cubicles were about five feet wide by nine deep, with solid side and rear walls and fronts of heavy chain metal so the contents were visible—or as visible as the dim bulb in each cell would allow.
The one for my former unit was crammed with blanket and tool boxes, crates full of yarn, and pots of paints and brushes, testimony to Neva’s arts and crafts through the years. Janeece’s was across from it, jammed with as many clothes racks as she could get in, each groaning under the weight of her summer wardrobe swathed in plastic bags or tissue paper, the odor of moth balls and squares of cedar in assorted pockets pungent and stifling. Monster shoe racks took up most of the floor space, every niche containing a pair of spike-heeled sandals high enough to cause nosebleeds. And not a box in sight. Which meant they were at the very back, behind all those clothes.
I cussed, pocketed the key, and began plotting strategy. I’d have to move at least one of the shoe racks outside to have room to walk. Each housed a dozen pairs and were awkward to handle, but I managed to wrestle the middle rack into the corridor. That freed enough space for me to reach the pull chain for the light. Big wow. If the bulb in the corridor was a twenty-five watt, the ones in each cubicle had to be fifteens. My Maglite would serve for more than moral support.
And any illusion I had about simply squeezing between clothes to get to the rear rapidly bit the dust. I slithered between some rather staid suits to be confronted with a row of full-length, see-through wardrobe bags so stuffed that I couldn’t wiggle between them. I wedged one arm past a pair of them and found yet another row of the things. Janeece had managed to fill every inch.
Lifting the wardrobe bags off the rails was out of the question; they were heavy and unwieldly. I’d have to go under them. It was just as well I was still in jeans.
Maglite ablaze, I lowered my backside to the cold concrete floor, rolled under the two rows of wardrobe bags and bang into a single row of cartons, all labeled in Janeece’s florid printing. Behind them lining the rear wall were my boxes, folded flat, as pristine as the day I’d lugged them home from the moving company. At least three of her cartons would have to come out so I could crawl in far enough to get a hand on mine.
The first two of hers were no trouble; I slid them forward easily. I hooked a hand around the third and pulled. It not only came out readily, it also came apart. The tape holding the seams of one end disintegrated. The side bulged, bowed, then burst open in spite of the top on it. The contents, old newspaper articles, photographs, and letters, spilled onto the floor.
I swore again, nudged the pile back in, and turned the carton so that the wounded end butted up against one of the others I’d moved. With enough space to maneuver, I had my boxes free in no time, one of which I’d have to sacrifice to replace Janeece’s. Taping hers would be a waste of time. She’d filled it too full to begin with; the other sides bulged dangerously as well.
I carried my load to 503. The apartment was still empty. I propped the flats against the end of the futon and went in search of tape. I had just found it on the shelf in the hall closet when I heard the click-click of a key. I peered around the corner, and Janeece burst through the door, Neva behind her.
“See? See?” Neva said. “There she is. Told ya she was here.”
Janeece gawked at me, then slammed the door behind her, almost hitting Neva, who’d stepped in, clearly intending to find out why my roomie was so agitated.
“Where the hell have you been?” s
he demanded. “I’ve been trying to reach you for hours! Why didn’t you call me?”
She towered above me, her French roll fraying around the edges, the tail of her chartreuse silk blouse coming loose from the waist of her short black skirt. This on a woman who always looked as if she was ready for a shoot with a Vogue photographer meant she was in a state.
“What do you mean, you’ve been trying to reach me? I’ve been here since—when, Neva? A little after four?”
“Thereabouts.” Neva moved to the futon and perched on an arm. I winced, but it held. The fact that Janeece didn’t even blink was testament to how upset she was.
“Four?” Janeece hurled her ridiculously small Kate Spade purse onto the futon. “Then why didn’t you answer the damned phone? Didn’t you get my messages?”
I glanced at the cordless, its light blinking steadily. “Janeece, I talked to Duck a little while ago, and there were no messages on that thing. You must have called while I was—”
“You talked to Duck? He’s all right?”
“He’s fine. Why wouldn’t he be?”
“I take it you haven’t been in the kitchen.”
“Uh—no.” I shoved the stack of my jeans and slacks aside. “Sit down, girl. What’s got your knickers in a twist?”
She stared down at me, then threw her head back and examined the ceiling. “Swear ta God, I’m gonna kill me somebody.” Her gaze swiveled back to me. “Where was he?”
“Duck? At work. Why?”
