by Jo Barney
Daughter? Lover? Both shocking scenarios force my eyes to open, me to say, “I’d like to meet Latisha.”
Chapter Seventeen
I go home, take a sleeping pill, wrap myself in my quilt, and wait for soothing darkness. A frenzy of scenes involving Art and a shadowy young woman flash across my inner screen, make me sick to my stomach. Finally, they slide away and I do, too.
When the phone rings, startles me, I almost ignore it. But it might be Kathleen. It isn’t. A soft voice asks, “Is this Edith?” The voice adds, “This is Latisha?”
The question mark at the end of her sentence makes her a teenager or close to it. “Yes?” I respond, hearing my own question mark. “Ginnie’s friend?”
“Ginnie’s client, mostly. Art’s friend.”
“Art,” I manage. “My husband. My dead husband.”
“That’s why I’m calling. I didn’t know he had died. I feel so bad and…”
Is she crying? “We need to talk. About Art,” I say. Art has made this girl sad. That both disgusts and intrigues me. That he and Latisha had connected in a way that makes her cry because he is dead. After forty-some years of marriage, I have hardly dropped a tear, maybe only once or twice but not about him—only about a song he used to sing. The tears I shed are about not knowing him. This girl’s are about knowing him.
“I’d like that,” she says. “Where is good for you?”
We decide on a new Taiwanese teashop located about in the middle of our East-West neighborhoods. “They have bubble tea,” Latisha says.
“I don’t know bubble tea, but I’m open to it,” I answer, and I think as I hang up, God, make me open to Latisha and bubble tea, and not want to kill her.
I look at the list of bubble teas Scotch-taped to the wall and just about give up. Do people actually drink rosewater? With green tea and tapioca? At $3.95 a glass?
“I like the mocha with everything,” a voice suggests behind me. I step back and look directly in a mass of black ringlets hanging like curtains on each side of smiling white teeth. I have to search a second for the eyes hiding behind curls, and when I find them, they are smiling, too. “If you like coffee…I’m Latisha,” the girl says holding out her hand.
Latisha is a big girl. Her big hair is just right for her six-foot frame. I am amazed both at the size of her body and the hair, but mostly at the strong clasp of the fingers that hold mine.
“I’m Edith,” I say. “Order for me and for you. I haven’t a clue.” I work on sounding friendly.
We wait at the counter, watching the server mix our drinks. I can see that it would be easy to poison someone from behind this counter: the jammy paste, the liquids, the colorful spoonfuls of unknown substances that might be lethal. Even the cupful of round, transparent pellets sinking to the bottom of our glasses.
“Tapioca, big time,” Latisha says, apparently sensing my discomfort.
I hand the server a ten-dollar bill and take my drink to a table by the window. When Latisha joins me, our heads bend into the huge straws, and I risk a sip. Sweet, a coffee flavor. A pea-sized bubble flows into my mouth and down my throat. “Are you supposed to chew?” I ask when I understand I’m not going to choke. She seems warm, cheerful, not my idea of a mistress. Of course, what do I know about mistresses?
“Some do. Some don’t.” Latisha laughs, chews. Then she goes serious. A hand whips the curls back from her face, and strands rest awhile behind her ears. “How did Art die?”
“In bed. Without warning. On Christmas Day.” I wait as the girl blinks, takes a sip from the straw, lifts her head. “How did you know Art?” I ask.
“Ginnie gave me his phone number, and I called him. He said a friend of his had been looking for me and that friend cared about me, but he couldn’t meet me right then. Art said his friend would help me out since I was getting too old to be taken care of by Children’s Services. And Art would be the…”
“Go-between?” When had Art ever done any so-called friend that kind of favor? “So did you ever meet this friend?”
“No, but Art said that the friend would pay my fees so that I could start college this spring. And he would pay room and board to my foster parents so they could keep me for a while.” Latisha smiled. “That was the best thing of all. I didn’t know where I would live.” The drink burbles, and she sucks up the last of the bubbles clustered at the bottom of the glass. She looks up. “That’s about it, I guess.”
No, it’s not. “Did you have ribs at Boo’s Soul very often?”
Latisha nods. “My favorite place. He said he liked it, too, but not the ribs so much. Art never did come to this here place, though. He said the idea of bubbles scared him.”
At least my husband and I had one thing is common. A fear of bubble tea. My own bubbles lie waiting at the bottom of drink. I gather them in my mouth, feel their soft, firm presence and chew. Just like tapioca pudding, only bigger and without the pudding. Fish eyes, my cousin used to tease me. Really big fish eyes. For the first time this afternoon, I am relaxing in this girl’s warm gaze. Then I remember why I’m here. “He gave you money?”
“Sometimes. Spending money, he said.”
“And you met him how often?”
“Once or twice with Ginnie, and then once a week or so since last fall at Boo’s Soul or at other places.” Latisha looks down at her hands, pulls her shoulder bag into her lap. “I didn’t know about you.” She takes a Kleenex out of her bag, blows a little, mostly dabbing quietly at her eyes. “I’m sorry if that was wrong.”
The Kleenex is pink.
“So Art didn’t mention he was married, had a son and grandchildren?”
“He mentioned the son, talked about having a couple of little kids around sometimes, said you all were big on Christmas. But mostly, he asked about how I was doing, what classes I was taking, did I need anything? He was kind of like having a nice grandpa. Sometimes he gave me advice.”
“Advice? Like what?”
Latish blushed. “I had a boyfriend, sort of. I told Art about him, and Art told me that I had to take care of myself—you know, be safe.”
Shit!
“He gave me the address of Planned Parenthood, but I already knew it because my foster parents told me the same thing. He never brought it up again. Which is okay because Leandro and I never did get together and nobody had to worry anymore.”
I suspect that worry isn’t a problem to Latisha. Worry is what parents do. At least I, a mother, used to, still do. I am not aware that Art ever worried about kids, his own especially. Until Latisha.
My bubbles are gone. Latisha is looking at her watch.
“Sorry,” she says when she sees I have noticed. “I’m working part time. At a wig shop. I’m due at 4:00, and I’ll be getting there on TriMet. The bus is due in five minutes.”
I should drive her, I think. However, the window of opportunity has closed. Latisha has her bag on her shoulder and her firm hand out. “Can we do this again?” she asks.
“Of course,” I answer, squeezing the girl’s fingers, not wanting to lose this contact. Not until I have earned the truth, at least. Lover? The suggestion about Planned Parenthood may have come for a much different reason. Daughter? His belated interest in her studies, life. I’ll never know unless we meet again. Maybe not bubble tea. “How do you feel about Starbucks?”
“Or Cuppa? Bus nearby. When?”
“A week from today?”
Latisha pulls out her planner, scribbles. “Got it. See you,” she calls.
I go home and return to the quilt and the pill and the frantic impossible visions.
Chapter Eighteen
Twice in the past two days, people have said, “See you soon,” and I have come to not trust that promise. See you soon means “unless something more important shows up.”
Well, I can do that, too. I have things I have to do, and people to see. Or bits of paper to look over one more time, allow them to lead me somewhere that makes more sense.
All I know is that Art was
meeting a social worker and a young girl with really big hair, and was in fact giving her money. The social worker suspects he’s the girl’s what? Father? Guilt-stricken years later. And I am beginning to believe he could have been her lover. Besotted. My sick midnight thoughts come up with the idea that somehow Art had gotten Latisha’s birth information, had used it to make contact through the social worker with her.
At least the pink Kleenex has an explanation. Art had picked it up, unusually neat, tucked it into his pocket. Forgot it.
I am about to open the Why envelope in an effort to quell the churning that is rattling my waking hours when I hear a knock, unlock my door, open it and am greeted by a frenzy of yips, paws clawing at me, and two children yelling. I let them in and collapse against the sofa.
“What?”
“A surprise, Grandma.” Meg speaks up, grinning as if she’s about to burst into bubble tea. “We decided you need a friend. Here’s Brody.”
I feel a warm tongue slathering my leg. “Brody?”
“A really good, gentle, older dog just right for you,” Winston chimes in, standing very straight behind his giggling sister. “Brody is a part golden, part something else, and he has the best brown eyes of any dog we looked at.” My grandson gives me an unflinching stare with his own brown eyes, daring me to say no.
I don’t know what to feel. Anger? A little. Dismay, definitely. Interest in the tongue making its way up my leg? Yes, in a weird sort of way. “I don’t want a dog,” I say, the way I used to say, “Clean your room.” Not convincing, even to me.
Kathleen moves into the tangle of legs and tongue. “We talked about you being alone here, needing maybe something furry to pet. We made a trip, Edith. I drove, an accomplice—to the Humane Society, and Meg and Winston found Brody.” She glances at her children. “They feel Brody and you are meant for each other.”
Brody seems to know what his role is at this moment. He sits down and smiles at me.
Before I can object, Winston adds, “We have the food, a leash, he’s had his shots, and we brought a bed for him. No problem, Grandma.”
It’s the Grandma that gets me, warmth of that word. I feel myself caving. “You have to help, you know. I don’t know about…” Brody and Meg and Winston land on me, arms and legs digging into my thighs, and I haven’t felt so landed on since the clothes line full of sheets fell on me fifty years ago. Smothered. Wet. Tugged at.
We introduce Brody to the door that leads to the yard at the back of the house. Winston opens the sack and takes out several metal dishes, a box of plastic bags, and a sack of dog food. “You’ll get used to it, Grandma,” he assures me. The children fill his new shiny bowls with water and food.
“Where does Brody sleep?” I wonder. Dog house? Backyard?
“Dogs are pack animals. They sleep with their pack.” Meg seems to be quoting a dog expert, probably the Humane Society volunteer who had okayed Brody’s adoption.
“And that’s me?” I’m getting the picture. “What if he snores?” A dog in my bedroom, noisy, like Art ––but with rules. “He sleeps in his own bed.” Boundaries are important.
“Sure, Grandma. Whatever you want. He’ll do it.”
Damn. That’s a change. This might work out.
The children take Brody for a walk, tucking a couple of poo-bags into their jeans pockets, arguing who gets the leash first. Kathleen sinks to the sofa. “I hope you aren’t angry. It was Meg’s idea, to get you the dog. She says you look sad sometimes. Little kids notice things like that.”
“So do old ladies. You also seem sad and tired. You’ve not been home when I’ve called. What is going on?”
Kathleen lays her head against the sofa back and closes her eyes. “We’ll take Brody if he doesn’t work out.”
“Kathleen. Can I help?”
My daughter-in-law doesn’t speak for a moment, then she raises her head and sits up, back straight, more Kathleen-like, and I’m relieved.
“Brian took ten thousand dollars from our savings account. A couple of months ago. He says he’ll pay it back.”
Speechless, I go to the kitchen, pour two cups of coffee, set one of them in front of Kathleen, and by then, she and I are breathing well enough for me to ask, “Why?”
“I got the bank statement, saw the withdrawal, and asked the same question. He won’t tell me, except that I shouldn’t worry. It’s his problem, he insisted, and he’s taking care of it.”
Kathleen’s lips barely move, her eyes fixed on her cup. “He’s still going out at odd times.” She looks up at me. “And I’m going out of my mind.” The words crackle, break up. “I try to follow him. That’s where I’ve been every day, wandering the streets like I’m psychotic, following him when I can find him. Most of the time he just goes to business meetings and lunches. I can’t keep doing this. I’ve hired a private detective.”
“That’s not so crazy,” I say, not sure if I should remind Kathleen of my own experience with a detective. I should sit next to Kathleen, maybe hold her hand. No. Kathleen’s not looking for pity. Maybe a friend to listen? “You just want to find out answers. I know about that, how not knowing is worse than knowing.”
I’m about to go on, but Kathleen stands up, goes to the window, pulls the drapes back. “The kids love that dog. They begged to take Brody home. I said no, not now, and they gave up too easily. They know something is wrong. I finally agreed when Meg, in tears, said you need company. When this is all over, Brody can come live with us. We may need company then, too.”
I hear a burst of laughter and a sharp, happy bark. The children have found a stick, and it appears that Brody is part retriever as he skids across the grass in pursuit of it. Maybe I’ve always wanted a dog, without knowing it. I can imagine walking Brody, talking to him, telling him to stop snoring, even taking care of his…
“Ooo, he pooped,” Meg yells. She waves at us at the window. “This is how you pick it up, Grandma.” The girl pulls a plastic bag over her hand, grits her teeth, stoops to scoop up the pile. Her brother, standing back a little, says, “Way to go, Meg.”
“Next time you get to do it,” she answers as she runs to the garbage can and lifts the lid.
“Damn. Just like a man. Lets the woman do the cleaning up.” I am not sure what tone of voice Kathleen intends. Joking? Angry?
“Cleaning up is a female gene,” I answer. “Look at us, cleaning up after our husbands.” We two such different women have something in common.
Winston, Meg, and Brody roar in. “He needs water,” Meg shouts. The scramble for the dish, the dog’s loud, eager lapping ends whatever either of us might have said next.
“We need to go, Edith. Appointments at the dentist.” The dog gets hugs, then their grandma does, and then they go to the door. “I’ll call you,” Kathleen adds.
Another promise.
Brody’s toenails tap behind me as I go to the kitchen,. “Just you and me, kid,” I say as I rub his head. It’s good, having someone to talk to, the churning stilled.
Chapter Nineteen
Brody hears the knock on the door first, growls in his low, protective voice, stirs on his pillow at the side of my bed. My heart beats a little faster, too, as I put down my book and pull on my robe. “Who is it?”
No answer, just another knock. Brody clicks behind me as I head to the door.
I have never before used the little peephole in the front door. I put my eye up to it and see hair, a lot of it. “Latisha?”
“Yes. Sorry to come so late. I just got off work.”
I am confused. Hadn’t we talked of coffee, not an unexpected drop-in on a dark night? I open the door. “Come in,” I say, once I see that it is indeed the girl and that she is alone.
Latisha hesitates. “I’m not staying. I was going home after my shift, and I missed the last bus that I had to transfer to, and I couldn’t find a public phone, so I walked here so maybe I could use your phone to call Helen, my foster mother?
“How did you know where I live?”
“I looked you up in the phonebook after we met. I was going to send you a thank-you note.” Latisha fidgets with her jacket, as if she’s about to take it off and then decides not to. “But I had a big test and I forgot.”
I am not about to ask her to stay. Why would I? The very idea of her is painful, no matter what that idea is. I point to the phone on the coffee table. “Go ahead and call.” I add, “Then you’ll have to leave. I’ve got an early appointment and need to get back to sleep.” Brody lies down between us, and Latisha steps over him to get to the phone.
“Hi, it’s me,” she says a moment later. “I missed my last bus, and I’m at a friend’s house. Can you pick me up?” She listens. “Great. I’m at 72…” she looks at me for help with the address, and I give her the names of cross streets at the stop light three blocks away.
“Easier for her to find,” I add. Who knows who the girl is calling and, in fact, who Latisha is. I shouldn’t have opened the door in the first place. “I’ll point you in the right direction, and you can start walking.”
Latisha pats Brody’s head. “That’s cool, Mrs. Finlay.” As she leaves, she turns and smiles, and I suddenly feel very bad. “I knew you’d help me. Thank you. See you next week.”
I lean my head against the closed door as I turn the lock. Why am I so afraid? Of a young woman with a head of curls and teeth that shine in the porch light? A person who says thank you and tells me I’m cool. Nothing frightening about her. Is there? Only unknown. For the moment that’s enough make my heart beat a little faster, my mouth go dry.
Brody has returned to his bed and is looking at me with sleep-heavy eyes. “I acted like a bitch, didn’t I, dog?” An semi-alert ear twitches in agreement. I groan. “I guess you know about bitches. Well, you’re going to have to deal with yet another one.”
