by Jabari Asim
Artinces put up her hand. “Not at all. I suppose I’d also prefer we keep this to ourselves. I’d be grateful for your discretion.”
Playfair bowed. “Understood,” he said. He turned to Cherry. “Doctor, this here is Cherry. He’s a genius with bodywork. Cherry, can you help her out?”
Cherry grinned. “I can make it like new,” he said.
Artinces smiled at him. “That would be wonderful,” she said. She turned to Trina. “Young lady, could you please arrange a cab for me?”
When the taxi arrived at the imposing mansion on the edge of Gateway City’s posh West End, the driver hopped out and insisted on escorting Artinces up the serpentine path to her front door. He kept a gentle but firm grip on her elbow, taking careful steps, as if the doctor were made of glass that the slightest breeze would shatter.
“This is completely unnecessary,” she had told him soon after he slid from behind the wheel and scooted around to her door. But he just smiled and bowed as if he hadn’t heard her. To her amusement, the man was considerably older than her and just a smidgen bigger. He wouldn’t take her money.
“I can’t do it, ma’am,” he said when they finally reached her porch.
“I don’t see why you can’t.”
The man took off his hat. “Reid’s my name, ma’am. Wendell Reid. Back in ’48, my grandson got sick. Seem like every baby on the block did. Some went to the hospital and didn’t come back.”
In 1948, a diarrhea epidemic had swept Gateway City. Artinces had stood at the center of that storm and played a pivotal part in helping the city weather it. She had been just three years out of medical school.
“He got better, thanks to you,” Reid continued. “I’ll always be grateful. My wife’s been including you in her prayers every since.”
“I’m glad to know it, Mr. Reid. What does your grandson do now?”
“Student teaching at Farragut Elementary. God willing, he’ll be certified soon.”
Artinces smiled and allowed the man to shake her hand. “That’s wonderful, Mr. Reid. Thank you for your kindness.”
The driver returned his hat to his snowy head, took a step backward, and bowed once more. He offered her his card. “Any time you need a ride, Dr. Noel,” he said, “just ask for me.”
Artinces doubted she’d call on his services again, but she kept smiling and accepted the card. Over the course of her 25 years in medicine, she’d been offered an impressive bounty of talents and services. They weren’t presented as barters from parents with limited resources. Rather, they were tokens of gratitude for services rendered, as if paying the bill—which most did with honorable timeliness—was hardly enough to express their feelings, their recognition of a rare instance in which their faith had been justly rewarded. Wendell Reid’s offer of taxi rides on demand joined a list that included paintings, racing tickets, coupons for free press-and-curls, pies, cakes, houseplants, and refurbished washing machines.
Later, after a thorough self-examination and a warm bath, Artinces relaxed in her bed. It was not quite evening, but she was more exhausted than she expected to be. Curled up under her sumptuous duvet, she considered her options. She had ruled out the stack of medical journals on her nightstand when the phone rang. She was in no mood to talk, but Charlotte was still out, so she picked it up.
“Hello?”
“It’s me.”
“Hey, Me,” Artinces said. She grinned more broadly than she ever did in public.
“I hear you might need a healing. I can be there inside ten minutes.”
“You know you can’t come over. Don’t worry about me. I’m in Charlotte’s capable hands.”
“If you don’t want to see me no more, you can just say so. You don’t have to go smashing yourself into buildings just to get out of a date.” His voice was playful. She knew it masked genuine concern.
“I missed the building and rear-ended a car. I’m certain I’ll be fully functional by this time next week.”
“Functional. Does that mean what I think it does?”
Artinces giggled like a naughty schoolgirl. “Limber as ever,” she said. “Though I am 50 years old, you know. I can’t do everything I did when I was a sweet young thing. But that’s not why you called, right? You’re concerned for my well-being. My emotional state.”
“Stop messing with me, Tenderness. Tell me how you feel.”
“I was a little shaken up, that’s all. There’s not a scratch on me.”
“You sure? No sore muscles or anything? Because I could come over and rub you down.”
“Rub me down? Is that what they call it where you’re from?” Artinces allowed the phone cord to curl around her forearm. She had forgotten she was tired.
“Why, Doctor, what in heaven’s name are you suggesting? My intentions are honorable.”
“Your intentions are seldom honorable. But that’s all right. That’s what I like about you.”
He laughed. His voice sounded smoky and sweet. She described it that way once and he blamed it on cigars and bourbon. “Bad habits and bad breath,” he said. “No,” she told him. “Hickory and honey.”
“Don’t worry,” she said into the phone. “I told you, Charlotte’s taking care of me.”
At that moment, Charlotte Divine stood waiting for her order at Stormy Monday’s. North Siders who frequented the place seldom left without at least one helping of its renowned lemon pie. Over time, the menu at Stormy Monday’s had expanded along with the restaurant’s dimensions. The takeout counter where Charlotte stood had once taken up most of the establishment, but now was just a cozy corner in a place big enough to seat nearly 100, and it often did. Its biggest business came from the after-church crowd, as “Sundays at Monday’s” had become a popular event. Awaiting her turkey wings, collards, and smothered potatoes, Charlotte was learning that Wednesdays were nearly as crowded.
Pondering the revolving pie case, she heard laughter rising from a booth and saw the men of the Black Swan, Reuben Jones among them. Charlotte liked Reuben, but she’d avoided him ever since she broke up with Ed, the eldest of his three sons. Their high-school romance had helped her escape the dread and drudgery of her days at the orphanage—for a while. But she had been avoiding just about everyone since coming home, and her thing with Ed seemed a lifetime ago. She weighed the reliable lemon versus the blackberry cobbler, without noticing the gaze of a young man standing nearby. He moved slowly in her direction, reducing the space between them until they were nearly shoulder-to-shoulder. Stroking the jeweled ring in his pocket, PeeWee stood up straight and launched his rap.
“How you doin’?”
When she declined to answer, he cleared his throat and tried again. Later that night, left to pleasure himself on the sad and saggy cushions of his sister’s couch, PeeWee would pause to identify the moment when his approach went wrong. He would decide that failing to put on the ring, to actually slip it on his finger, had been his fatal flaw. Only by wearing the ring could he fully harness its power. It would, he was certain, have made all the difference.
“How you doin’?”
Same result. He decided on a bolder approach.
“Hey, girl, you deaf or something?”
She answered without looking.
“No, I’m sick.”
“Sick? What’s wrong with you?”
“Sick of snot-nose punk asses like you thinking you can just walk up on me and act like we’re friends. I don’t know you. I don’t want to know you. So step back.”
“Wait a minute, Slim. You can’t talk to me like that.”
Finally she turned toward him. “I just did,” she said.
Before PeeWee could figure out what to say next, Irene Monday stepped between them. The Pie Lady handed PeeWee a large paper sack.
“Here you go, sugar,” she said. “Two T-Bone specials with hot sauce on the side.”
PeeWee struggled to make eye contact with Charlotte but he couldn’t get around Irene’s imposing figure. She was nearly six feet in he
r comfortable flats. “Better hurry up,” she urged. “I bet your boss can hardly wait to eat.”
PeeWee pictured Sharps waiting behind the wheel of his Eldorado, picking his teeth in the rearview mirror. “He ain’t my boss,” he said. “We’re business partners.”
“Whatever, sweetie. You’ll want to get to this while it’s hot.”
Reluctantly, PeeWee backed away and eased out the door.
Irene turned to Charlotte. “Was that boy scaring you?”
The question prompted an angry glare that surprised Irene. “No? I thought he might have been bothering you.”
“Bothering me, yeah. But not scaring me. And you didn’t have to run him off. I could have handled it.”
Irene looked down at the diminutive Charlotte. She was dressed like a boy but her womanly aspects were clearly perceptible, despite her slouch. Her cap, pulled down tight over the eyes, couldn’t hide the long lashes or the singular, comma-shaped dimple. Eighteen years old and 110 pounds, Irene figured. She didn’t look like she could “handle” much, but maybe she was tougher than she appeared.
“I see you in here with books some days. I guess you’re trying to stay sharp during your summer off.”
The girl softened, but only for an instant. “Something like that,” she said.
“You’re lucky to have the opportunity,” Irene continued. “School, I mean. Dr. Noel’s a true Christian to be paying your way.”
Charlotte was tired of hearing about how lucky she was. She’d bumped from foster home to foster home for most of her young life. A few months in the good doctor’s house and all of a sudden she was supposed to forget all that.
“She’s not paying my way,” Charlotte said sharply. “I have a scholarship. Do you think my order’s ready?”
“I’m sorry. Let me get that for you,” Irene said. She turned and headed into the kitchen.
Charlotte found the Pie Lady just too jolly to put up with. What is she, Charlotte thought, 45? 50? At any rate, old enough to know that all that smiling and calling everybody sweetie would amount to nothing. Charlotte had known as much since she was a little dirt dauber in diapers. The Pie Lady’s dimples and grins resulted from her famously happy marriage to a local sign painter. Even Charlotte knew that story, as did anyone else who ever spent more than five minutes in Irene’s company.
Later that evening, Irene would tell her husband about her encounter with the sullen girl. She’d perch on the edge of the bed while Lucius sat on the floor with his back to her, snug between her voluptuous thighs. Her nightgown would ride up and she’d feel the heat of his shoulders while she scratched his scalp with a hard plastic comb and Ultra Sheen. She’d tell him about all the diners she had cajoled and comforted while he had been at the table he shared with the other men of the Black Swan. He’d lean back and close his eyes, his woman reciting an entertaining litany of names, faces, and memorable conversations, until finally he tired of the talking and the scratching. He’d turn his head and plant a kiss on her inner thigh, mumbling sweet nothings about his perfectly delectable Jelly Roll. He used to call her Pie Lady, the way so many others did, but that seemed too ordinary after a while. He arrived at his personal nickname for her after a night of ecstasy led him to declare that Bessie Smith, bless her soul, was indisputably wrong. The truth, he was certain, was that nobody in town could bake a sweet jelly roll like Irene.
Charlotte watched as Irene returned from the kitchen with her order in hand. Underneath the happy expression lurked worry lines and crow’s feet so deeply entrenched that not even a century of joy could completely offset them. Thinking about those lines, Charlotte was sure that the Pie Lady had suffered as much pain and heartache along her way as anybody else. Yet she kept on grinning. As if that would help.
“Listen,” Irene said. “I don’t know what’s ailing you, but my lemon pie certainly can’t make it any worse. Here, take a couple slices for you and the doctor. On the house.”
Charlotte always drove a little too fast. She was not the kind of girl who took note of landscape and landmarks, the sticky crossroads where memories linger. To her, familiar street corners were like scars, stubborn welts that no amount of liniment or distance could soften. She didn’t want to profile or promenade, take note or be noticed. She never paused to catch her reflection in the passing glass or cast a knowing nod at anything that could remind her of how far she’d run and how far she’d yet to go—no, she’d never pull a sleeve or coattail and say to the heart inside it, remember this, remember that, remember when? She needed to get up, get through, roll on, be gone. The buildings and boulevards, the funeral parlors, liquor lounges, pool halls, and storefront churches of North Gateway might as well have been streaks of neon, sparks tossed from flicked cigarettes. Her eye was on the end, the destination beckoning like the day’s fading light. A fellow driver pulling up beside her at an intersection would see a girl bobbing her head to silence, eyes squinting and unrelenting, not bothering to breathe until the traffic light stopped screwing around and faded from frustrating red to encouraging green. Before that other driver became aware that the light had changed, Charlotte was already exhaust in his eyes, dust on his windshield, an alluring wisp of sinuous neck and gleaming chocolate remembered in the fevered delirium of a late-night dream. If she drove fast enough and the streets were just the right kind of empty, she could pull up to the Noel residence nearly tipsy with momentum. Only then would she slow down and step unsteadily onto shaky ground, tousled and distracted. She shook it off, willed the merciless earth into stillness and regained her tough-girl guise, the fierce mask of resolve the world knew her by.
Charlotte double-checked to make sure she’d locked the car, a secondhand Chevy Malibu the color of dirty dishwater. Artinces bought it for her after Charlotte got into a fight on a public bus. The dust-up began when Charlotte couldn’t help overhearing a young mom complaining about Dr. Noel’s advocacy of breastfeeding.
“She gave me a brochure,” the girl said, “but I pitched it as soon as I got outside.” The girl looked 20, give or take. The baby on her lap sucked mindlessly on a lollipop. Round and sleepy-eyed, to Charlotte’s practiced eye he was hardly ready for hard candy. She had half a mind to yank the sucker from his lips and perhaps delay the tooth decay he was certain to suffer. As soon as he got some teeth, that is.
“I wanted to tell that bitch, shit, this ain’t your child. You should mind your own business,” Young Mom continued.
“I know, girl,” one of her cohort said. “Formula just as good.”
Charlotte couldn’t hold her tongue any longer. “You should have listened to her,” she said.
Young Mom swiveled, incredulous. “Heifer, was I talking to you?”
Charlotte stared her down. “Do you know how many babies Dr. Noel has saved? Black babies?”
“My baby ain’t hardly black. He light-skinded. Shut the hell up before I whup that ass.” Young Mom hoisted her baby, already the color of a Hershey bar, and handed him to her friend. She stood up, ready to brawl.
“No,” Charlotte said, removing her earrings and rising to the challenge. “You shut up, philistine.”
“I look like a Phyllis to you, bitch?”
The girl was tough but Charlotte held her own. She even had the upper by the time the girl’s friends dragged her away, bruised and belligerent.
“My man gon’ get you,” she yelled. “He just got out and he gon’ get you! His name Bumpy Decatur! You watch and see!”
Charlotte barely blinked when Artinces later determined that her knuckles required a pair of stitches. But the doctor was mortified. “What were you thinking?” she demanded. “You’re about to go to college. You’re about to make something of yourself.”
“I know,” Charlotte said, but Artinces went on as if she hadn’t heard her.
“Sometimes you just have to let things go. You just have to let them roll off your back. What were you fighting about anyway? What did she say to you?”
“You’re right,” Charlotte
conceded. “It was stupid.”
The two had first met when Charlotte proved herself a reliable and impressive volunteer in the pediatric ward of Abram Higgins Hospital, where Artinces had made her reputation and still reigned as a leading eminence. Late evenings, after rocking babies to sleep at Abram H., Charlotte typically wished Artinces good night, declined her offer of a ride, and headed off alone. In time, Artinces grew close to the girl—well, as close as Charlotte allowed—and found out she lived at the nearby children’s home. She had never known her parents, she said, and had been in and out of foster homes for as long as she could remember. Charlotte was in the 10th grade then, with straight As and a strong interest in medicine.
Two years later, when Charlotte proceeded across the stage with diploma in hand, she looked out and saw Artinces standing and applauding in the front row, as proud as any mother. The next day, Artinces invited Charlotte to move into her house.
After the fight on the bus, Artinces marched her new ward right down to the nearest car lot, where they discovered the Malibu. Charlotte barely concealed her deep pleasure at receiving the car, and nodded agreeably when the doctor assured her that the Malibu would not be accompanying her when she went off to school.
Charlotte had turned 18 that summer. She had wondered where she would go after the children’s home kicked her out, and had felt forced to contemplate the relative pros and cons of highway underpasses and park benches. Instead, she found herself in an opulent room of her own, fortified by nutritious dinners and sporting a complete wardrobe that she hauled to college in a brand-new set of luggage. Decorating her dorm room with her newly acquired treasures, she gave herself permission to hope.
Now that she was back from school, however, Charlotte was more somber than ever. Artinces was perplexed, her patience challenged by the girl’s long silences and fondness for vanishing into thin air. There had been some turmoil on her campus, including a student protest that drew the attention of heavily armed policemen. One student had been killed. Charlotte said she had been in the library at the time, far from the tragedy. Artinces surmised that the clash had troubled or even frightened Charlotte, but her efforts to get the girl to talk about it had so far yielded only shrugs and gloomy mumblings.
