“And you want this job?” he asked in an accusing tone.
“Well, I’d much rather have the entire pie, but I’ll settle for this one slice,” Felicia said while frantically trying to think of a reason to excuse herself.
“You don’t think it’s odd that the liquor they target toward black people has names like ‘Silver Bullet’ or ‘Mad Dog’ or features wild, crazy bulls tearing up everything? Doesn’t that tell you something about the poison they’re trying to shove down our throats?”
“Those are beers. This is a wine cooler.”
“It’s all the same. Alcohol or gunpowder—it’s just another bullet they got aimed at black people’s heads.”
“Do we know you? You keep jumping in our faces without so much as a how-do-you-do—” Felicia asked.
“Yeah, well, black folks like you have a tendency to pluck my last nerve.”
“Maybe you should leave, to avoid being plucked any further,” Lindsay suggested.
“No. I’d like to hear exactly what you mean by ‘black folks like us,’ ” Felicia said.
“I mean all you Forbes– and Town and Country–reading folks. As long as Mr. Charlie signs a contract and throws thirty pieces of silver your way, you’re happy being his paid assassin,” he said, ready for combat. “Hey, if you want to be a sell-out, cool. Just don’t walk around here trying to pass yourself off as a sister.”
“Who are you?” Lindsay asked. There was something wildly sexy about this rebellious stranger. While she found him vaguely appealing, it was painfully obvious that Felicia thought him to be a first-class asshole.
“Lexis—”
“And what in your expert opinion do I need to do to prove that I’m a sister? Wear dreads and drape myself in kente cloth?” Felicia asked sarcastically. She was having difficulty keeping a lid on her anger.
“Beats that Malibu Barbie thing you got going.”
Felicia, not wanting to cause a scene at her father’s party, counted to ten before quietly answering this obnoxious stranger. “Let me tell you something. It takes more than dreadlocks and Malcom X paraphernalia to make you black,” she said through clenched teeth. “Half the kids walking around wearing X Tshirts and hats don’t know a damn thing about the man or what he stood for. If they did, they wouldn’t be killing each other over leather jackets.”
“Oh, like you Taittinger-drinking, Porsche-driving, Armani-wearing wannabe tokens have a clue. I don’t know why I’m bothering to explain this to a bourgeois Black American Princess. I knew I shouldn’t have come here tonight.”
“That’s the first thing uttered out of your miserable mouth this evening that I agree with. How dare you come to my house and insult me and my family.” Shaking with full-blown fury, Felicia turned to leave but was waylaid by Susan Mitchell.
“Lexis, there you are. I see you’ve met Felicia Wilcot, the daughter of tonight’s guest of honor.”
Wilcot, Lexis thought. Great. He had just insulted beyond repair the daughter of the man he had hoped would help finance his next movie. This was the only reason he’d let Susan talk him into coming to yet another one of these ridiculous affairs. Despite the anticipated success of Southeast, his first, soon-to-be released film, the two-picture, six-million-dollar deal with MarMa Pictures didn’t begin to meet his budgetary needs. Supplementing the studio’s money with individual financing was the only way he could make his next films and stay true to his creative vision.
He’d really blown it big time. Susan had warned him to keep his opinions to himself, but after two consecutive days of kowtowing to these uppity black folks, the challenge Felicia presented could not go unmet. And now, in less than ten minutes, he had met and slaughtered his cash cow.
“As I’m sure he’s mentioned, Lexis Richards is president of In the House Filmworks and one of our up-and-coming directors,” Susan continued. “In fact, his first film comes out next week. Felicia owns a PR business in New York. She could be a real help to you.”
“The only help I could possibly give to Mr. Richards is in the form of a little advice.” Felicia said, wearing a Nutrasweet smile.
“This ought to be good,” Lexis retorted.
“If your social skills are any indication of your directing expertise, your best bet at success would be to find yourself a busy street corner and help keep traffic moving.”
Before Lexis had the chance to respond, their conversation was cut short by the rhythmic beats of the steel drums coming from the pool. Libby Hobson, arms around the waist of the dean of Howard University’s law school, began a conga line that eventually snaked itself around the living room and outside into the cool March night.
“Hey, you three—join the party,” encouraged Felicia’s laughing mother as she headed out the door.
“In a minute.” Felicia smiled back. “Excuse me,” she said and made a beeline to her father’s study. The conversation with Lexis had put a damper on her previously good mood. Wannabe white girl. Black American Princess. His biting accusations clung to her, bringing to the surface feelings Felicia had pushed deep inside.
After all these years she was accustomed to outrageous comments from whites, like “You don’t really act black” or “You don’t look like a normal black person.” What she never got used to, however, was having to defend herself against her own people for “not being black enough.” This form of self-defense was not only frustrating but extremely painful.
Despite what Lexis thought, Felicia was proud to be a black woman. What he didn’t seem to understand was that it went beyond simple pride. It was an issue of being caught in the middle—trapped between the black activism of the early sixties and the recent resurgence of Afrocentric pride. Felicia’s generation grew up in the glow of Martin Luther King’s dream. Her parents had pushed aside the dashikis for business suits, moved from the lunch counter into the executive dining room, and raised their daughters to believe in “being judged not by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.”
Assimilation was the marching order of the times, and Felicia’s parents took their mission to heart. While the Wilcots surrounded their family with progressive and accomplished people of color, they also worked hard to give their daughters the finest of everything European culture had to offer—the best private schools, classical dance and music lessons, travel abroad. Even Felicia’s marriage to Trace Gordon managed to keep her privileged and color-blind lifestyle intact.
Felicia glanced at the family photograph on her father’s desk. It was taken on her wedding day. The Wilcots were indeed a beautiful family, and by all appearances Trace, with his brooding good looks, fit right in. He was the son of a prominent family in Atlanta, his father a well-connected judge and his mother a social icon known for her energetic efforts on behalf of several local charities. The Gordons had raised an intelligent, ambitious young man who believed he could do anything—regardless of race. With degrees from Emory University and Harvard Law School, he was a firm believer in the “economics of color.” Trace believed that once one reached a certain level of social and economic status, race ceased to be an issue. Black and white no longer mattered—green was the only color that counted.
On the surface Trace and Felicia seemed the storybook, happily-ever-after couple. But were they and the rest of their well-to-do friends, as Lexis had implied, simply a group of selfish, black urban professionals enjoying the good life while so many others lagged behind?
Felicia laid her head on the large walnut desk. Lately she was always tired. It seemed as if she was engaged in a constant struggle these days. A struggle to build her business, to save her marriage, to find herself.
She could hear the collage of happy voices and steel drums, but she had no desire to rejoin the party. She had to get up early to catch the first shuttle back to New York. She was interviewing a new receptionist, and Trace insisted she be back in time to have lunch. Felicia slipped unnoticed from the study and headed upstairs. Right now she just wanted to go to bed. She need
ed to rest for the struggle that would begin anew tomorrow.
4
“Stephanie?” Beatrice called through the closed door.
“Come in.”
Beatrice opened the bedroom door holding Barclay, the house cat. Unlike Beatrice, who took one step forward and stopped, Barclay leaped from Bea’s arms into a chaotic playground. As usual, Stephanie’s room was a mess. Clothes draped the furniture and littered the floor, both singularly and in piles. Shoes and socks were scattered around the room, and hats hung haphazardly on nails lined the walls. The bed was lost under a pile of twisted linen. In the far corner a bookcase overflowed with books crammed every which way, while cheap knickknacks sat on the shelf collecting dust. In the eye of this hurricane sat Stephanie at her makeshift desk, dressed in a suit.
“You’re going out?”
“I have an interview at ten-thirty.” Stephanie intentionally left out the word “job,” giving Bea and others the impression that she was constantly working on one article or another. The truth of the matter was she hadn’t written a word since meeting Jack. “Why? What’s up?”
“I was wondering if your friend had decided on the vacant room?”
“Connie told me last night she’s going to move in with her boyfriend.”
“That’s too bad. She seemed like a nice girl. Well, if you think of anyone else …”
“I’ll let you know,” Stephanie promised, conveniently forgetting that her friend Gina was looking for a place. She had no intention of helping Beatrice find a new boarder. Ever since the last girl left to be married, Stephanie’s living arrangement had been ideal. For four hundred dollars a month she enjoyed the use of the front parlor, kitchen, and bathroom and even had a clean bedroom at her disposal if she chose to engage in more intimate entertaining. Stephanie never had to wait to do her laundry, and the phone in the hall was always available. Other than a bit of unwelcome advice and a raised eyebrow or two, her living situation was perfect, and she found absolutely no reason to tamper with perfection.
“Hello,” Stephanie called out as she stepped inside the small reception area and closed the door behind her. There was nobody available to return her greeting. Glancing around, Stephanie was surprised. Instead of the Madison Avenue—chic decor she’d imagined, this had more of an “early relative” look to it. The small reception area, with its heavy walnut desk, dark bookcases, and worn leather chairs, resembled a man’s study. Government-issue-looking file cabinets lined the walls. Adding the only real color to the room and separating the reception area from what must be the boss’s domain was a beautiful Oriental screen. Curious, Stephanie peeked behind and found a round antique desk of blond wood and its accompanying chair, upholstered in peach. As she reached out to inspect the framed photo sitting on the desk, the phone rang. Following several unanswered rings, she picked up.
“Wilcot and Associates. I’m sorry, Ms. Wilcot isn’t in at the moment. May I take a message? Anita Baker, the singer? Of course, who else? I’ll tell her you called.” I just talked to Anita Baker, she thought as she hung up the phone and walked back into the main office area. This could be a fun gig. Maybe I could write some celebrity profiles. Just as she sat down, the phone rang again. “Gary Taylor, Keep the Faith Records, in until noon. Okay, I’ll let her know.”
Three messages later, the door opened and Felicia walked in from the ladies’ room. Stephanie was in the middle of a phone call, and Felicia was impressed by her professional manner and comfortable phone presence. “Stephanie Bancroft?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Felicia Wilcot. I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you arrived. Thank you for covering the phones.”
“You’re welcome. I’m here for my interview.”
“That won’t be necessary. Based on this impromptu trial by fire, you’re hired. When can you start?”
5
“Today I will find a job. Today I will find a job.” Gabrielle repeated her mantra as she turned the corner of Fifty-fourth Street and walked up Sixth Avenue. It was early, and most of the shops along the street were still closed. Gabrielle’s empty stomach directed her into Muffin Mania, where she gazed hungrily into a glass case filled with a mountain of bakery delights.
“What will it be?”
“A blueberry muffin and a small coffee.”
“That’ll be three fifty-seven.”
Three dollars and fifty-seven cents for a muffin and coffee? Gabrielle wanted to tell her to forget it, but she was too embarrassed. She paid the cashier and sat down at one of the small tables by the window.
This was not turning out to be such a great day. After more than a week of successfully dodging the hotel staff, she’d almost been caught. Shortly after six this morning, while retrieving the OUT OF ORDER sign from outside the bathroom door, she saw the cleaning woman approaching and barely had time to grab her bag and hide in one of the toilet stalls. Once the woman gathered her cleaning paraphernalia from the storage closet and left, Gabrielle quickly dressed and slipped out of the bathroom. Hotel workers were busy setting up for morning meetings and men and women in business suits sat coffee-klatching in various corners of the floor. And now, because she hadn’t been able to grab a roll from one of the catering tables, she’d been forced to spend nearly all of her daily food allowance on a bitter cup of coffee and a blueberry muffin. Plus her back and neck were killing her. She had to find a job today. She could not continue sleeping on the bathroom sofa in the New York Hilton Hotel.
“Is the manager in?” Gabrielle asked.
“Louie, somebody’s looking for you.”
Gabrielle stood at the counter silently repeating her mantra—Today I will find a job, today I will find a job—until the manager stepped out from the back office.
“Who’s looking for me?” he challenged.
“Hi, Louie. I’m Gabrielle Donovan,” she said arming herself with a foolproof, buttery smile.
Every bone in Louie’s body told him that this girl wanted something. They also insisted that he give it to her.
“I need a job.”
“Who doesn’t these days? You ever worked a cash register before?” he asked, surveying her body. Gabrielle had the distinct impression that he was judging much more than her ability to sell muffins.
Gabrielle simply shook her head no while biting her bottom lip in an irresistible and vintage show of “damsel in distress.”
“Do you have any retail experience?” Louie asked, after nervously clearing his throat.
“No, I haven’t. But I know, with someone like you teaching me the ropes, I’ll learn very fast,” she answered, slowly lowering her eyelashes before looking Louie straight in the eye.
“Well, you seem like an all-right enough kid. Okay, I’ll give you a try behind the counter. You’ve got one week. If things work out, the job’s yours.”
“Thank you, Louie. Thank you so much.”
“Yeah, yeah. I’m a saint,” Louie responded, blushing slightly.
“You start Monday. Be here at seven-thirty sharp. Don’t be late. And you need to fill this out,” he said, handing her a job application.
“Now?”
“Yeah, now. You can’t work till I get all your particulars—address, phone, age. You are eighteen, aren’t you?”
“Nineteen. Can I take this and drop it back by this afternoon? I’m late for another appointment.”
“Yeah, okay, but you don’t work till I get your information.”
“No problem, I’ll see you later. Thanks again, Louie.” She smiled as she took the application and headed out the door. Everywhere you go somebody’s handing you a stupid piece of paper, Gabrielle thought as she walked back toward the hotel.
“Okay, looks like I have two possibilities here,” she murmured to herself as she canvassed the crowded eatery. Gabrielle wanted to sit and get the paperwork for Louie done, but with the lunch hour in full swing, only two seats were available. One was located across from a young man whose entire face was punched full of holes and ad
orned with a variety of hoops, rings, and studs. Her only other option was to sit at the table situated in a cramped little corner by the kitchen. The heavyset woman sitting there looked perfectly normal; it was just that Gabrielle was carrying her luggage, and the path was narrow and winding.
Slowly she made her way to the back, her progress punctuated by the steady screech of chairs sliding across the floor to accommodate her baggage. “May I?” Gabrielle asked, pointing to the empty seat with her right hand, revealing a thumb splinted and bandaged with white gauze.
Beatrice Braidburn smiled, indicating her approval. She watched as Gabrielle settled into her chair before pulling a pen and form of some sort from her leather-look handbag. After several attempts to put pen to paper, it was obvious to Beatrice that the girl was having trouble maneuvering the pen with her left hand.
“It looks like you could use some help,” Beatrice offered. “Would you like me to fill that out for you?”
“Would you mind? I slammed my thumb in the bathroom door. It really hurts.”
“Not at all. In fact, I used to be a pretty good secretary in my day. I just retired a few years ago. I’m Beatrice Braidburn. My friends call me Bea.”
“I’m Gabrielle Donovan.”
“Is that two L’s or one?” she asked, jotting down Gabrielle’s name on the application.
“Two.”
“Date of birth?”
“March eleventh, 1975.”
“A Pisces. Happy belated birthday. My late sister, Helen, bless her soul, was a Pisces.”
“My mom’s name was Helen—well, really Helene.”
“Where is your mother, dear?”
“She died recently,” Gabrielle answered softly.
“Oh, I’m so sorry.”
“Are you from New York?”
“No, I came here from Terre Haute, Indiana, after she died.”
“What’s your address, dear?” Bea asked, filling in the silence.
“I’m at the Hilton Hotel.”
Beatrice gave Gabrielle a quick once-over. Judging from her neat but inexpensive attire and tattered bag, the New York Hilton Hotel seemed beyond her price range.
Read Between the Lies Page 3
