“Clyde, I need to run, but yes we made nice. He seems like a good guy. Sorry for the melt down.”
“No problem. If it hadn’t been a week since I’d been home, I’d have you over for a wrap up.”
“Thanks Clyde, but I really do have to run.” Maggie headed to the reception area, which was now empty. Damn she thought.
On the sidewalk only a few people lingered because a curfew was still in effect. It was risky to drive after dark. Maggie began her walk home. Two blocks from Aunt Jo’s, a 1962 white Chevy Corvair pulled up and stopped next to Maggie. Sam shouted, “Hey Maggie, need a lift?”
Maggie walked up to the car, leaned in and said, “Thanks, but I’m only two blocks away from my pad.”
“Then why don’t I buy you that Coke I promised?” His smile was contagious. Maggie could not have contained her smile if she’d tried. Her heart and mind were in a reckless duet.
“Sam, there’s a curfew to consider.” Smiling, Maggie realized she’d made her statement sound more like a question.
“I’ve considered that, but I’d really like to talk and exchange phone numbers. Hop in. I promise I have no ulterior motives.”
Before Maggie opened the door and slipped in, she tucked her lips between her teeth to rein in the impulse to say, well if that’s the case then forget about it! Signs of life included a small roach clip in the ashtray and a map of Detroit folded under the passenger’s sun visor. The inside looked as if it had collected more than its share of ash and dust from the fires. But, it was Sam’s aftershave that claimed Maggie’s attention. Old Spice. She remembered telling Issie that Old Spice made her swoon, turned her into Hedy Lamarr on a raw silk chaise.
As Sam pulled up to Aunt Jo’s house, Maggie’s first thought was, this house never looked smaller or tackier. Her second thought, what the hell am I trying to prove?
“Nice,” said Sam, “great neighborhood, big lawn, lots of shade! Wait’ll you see my crib, it’s a dump but the price is right. Are we okay sitting out front? Anyone waiting for you?”
“We’re good. My Aunt Jo is my landlady. I live in the attic and she throws me a few scraps of food every now and then.” Maggie was cheered by Sam’s laugh. She thought wicked looking and he’s got a sense of humor. “Seriously, Aunt Jo went to Windsor when the riots started and I’m not sure when she’s heading back. She might be home now.”
“Wouldn’t she park up front?”
“Nope, doesn’t drive. She takes the bus or asks friends or relatives to give her a lift. That would be me most of the time. I’d invite you in if there wasn’t a curfew.”
“Do you offer rain checks?”
“At a premium.”
“I wouldn’t expect less.” Sam thought, sweet Jesus, I’ve met my match!
Both were quiet. Sam cleared his throat and Maggie reached to open the car door. “No, don’t,” said Sam. “Could we just sit here and talk for a few more minutes?”
Maggie looked at Sam and realized she was far more interested in kissing him than talking. Despite her feminist views on sexual prowess and power, she usually waited for the guy to make the first move. Oh crap, she thought, so I get rejected. I’ve been rejected before. “I know this is crazy, but I’d like to kiss you.”
“I like crazy.”
“Me too,” said Maggie as she took Sam’s face in her hands, tumbled down those fire-eyes and gently kissed his lips. When she started to pull away, Sam put his hands on her shoulders and kissed her with such excruciating tenderness she felt tears form in the corners of her eyes.
“Maggie Soulier, I want to get to know you better. I’d camp out in your front yard if I could, but I don’t want to scare you off. How about a date?”
“I’ve never dated a cop, but I might be tempted.”
“Ah, the draw of a uniform. I get it. Handcuffs, that whole thing?”
Although not visible, Maggie felt the blush under her olive skin. “Nah, more the appeal of investigation, discovery,” she countered, a quick but awkward recovery.
“Better yet! So there’s no misunderstanding, and in the interest of full disclosure, I’m not a cop. I have no handcuffs. I’m a reservist in the National Guard, but that doesn’t make me a soldier. I’m on the dole to help pay for my education. To quiet any residual guilt, I’ve made a pact with myself to make enough after I graduate so taxes on my higher income will more than cover any ill-gotten gain.”
“Smart move, Tervo. And, in the spirit of full disclosure, I’m a Canadian and I’m not sure I want to live and work in a country that enslaved Negroes and continues to oppress non-whites. There’s so much to love about America, but the bigotry, greed and corruption is totally fucked up.”
“You’re singing from my hymn book, Maggie, but this is my home and I’m committed to civil rights.”
“Hmm,” said Maggie as she started to open her door. Sam jumped out of his side of the car and met her at the sidewalk. Without further words, they walked to the front of the house.
Maggie moved a weathered St. Francis statue on the porch with her foot, picked up the hidden key and unlocked the door. As she turned to say good night, Sam embraced her. She felt the whole length of his body against hers, about six feet of him to her five feet six inches. The hollow below the open button of his shirt was exposed and Maggie kissed him there, then kissed his muscled neck. The smell and texture of his skin felt familiar, as if she’d done this before.
Sam’s arms were wrapped around Maggie’s waist. He felt the rise at the small of her back and his thumb moved to stroke the skin under her waistband, just above her tailbone, an area Maggie called her Bermuda Triangle. She wanted to swoon, to invite him to her mattress on the floor in the dormer. But, the thought of black stubble on unshaved legs pulled her back to the porch. Maggie reached for Sam’s hand and said, “This is way too nice to stop, but I’m not going to jump in the sack with you.”
“We can take our time.” He looked at her number in ballpoint on his left hand and asked, “Dinner Wednesday?”
“Wednesday’s good.” Maggie walked into the house, closed the door behind her and gave way to wobbly knees as she slid down the door’s back. Sitting on the floor, arms and legs akimbo, she whispered, “holy mother of god.”
The phone rang Monday morning before Maggie was out of bed. She raced downstairs but missed the caller. Damn, she thought, it could have been Sam then quickly reminded herself she was not going to sit around waiting for a guy to call. As Maggie started heating water for coffee, the phone rang again. The wall phone was next to the pantry. “Hello!” said Maggie.
“Hi, sweet one. Did I get you up?” asked Aunt Jo.
“I just woke and couldn’t get downstairs fast enough to pick up. Where the heck are you? I’ve missed you.”
“Here in Windsor. We could see the smoke and flames from the park along the river. What a mess! Did it reach our neighborhood?”
“Nope. We’re fine. Freedom Riders met on Sunday and as usual they’re organizing and mobilizing. I said I’d do liaison work with the city to help streamline services.”
“Sounds like Clyde lassoed you again. How’s he doing?”
“Lots of excitement there, but it can wait until you get back.”
“Good idea. These long-distance charges are ridiculous when I can see Detroit across the river. Any chance you can pick me up on Wednesday? Uncle Cyp said he’d give me a ride to the station when he gets off work about five. That would get me to the other side of the tunnel by seven.”
Damn, thought Maggie, there goes date night. “Sure, Aunt Jo, no problem. If I don’t hear from you I’ll be there at seven.”
“Great! If something happens and we run late, should I call you at home or Angelo’s?”
“Umm. Try here first and if I don’t answer call Angelo’s. You can leave a message with Angelo or Clyde if I’m busy.”
“Will do. Au revoir.”
“Au revoir, Auntie Jo.”
The kettle on the stove was whistling, letting off ste
am. Maggie looked for something to throw.
Okay, Maggie thought, I need to focus on options. Maggie fixed herself a Maxwell House Instant Coffee, sat down at the table and began penciling some scenarios:
1. Call Sam and work out alternative.
2. Call Sam and have some options ready, like—
a. Change in plans, how would you like to meet Aunt Jo?
b. Change in plans, what if we picked up Aunt Jo together and grabbed some dinner?
c. Change in plans, I have to pick up Aunt Jo Wednesday night. How does Tuesday night look for our first date? (Too forward, invitational!)
d. It looks like Wednesday won’t work. What works for you?
Good grief, thought Maggie, no wonder Clyde assigns me liaison work. I’m like a robot!
The phone rang again. “Hello,” said Maggie.
“Hey Maggie, Angelo here. Can you come in early today and help in the dining room? We just took a reservation for twenty at five o’clock. Some kid’s sixteenth birthday party.”
“Sure, Angelo. Four o’clock okay?”
“That’s my gal, see ya then!”
Enough, Maggie thought, I’m over thinking a simple date. Whatever happens, happens. No more romanticizing.
After Maggie finished her third cup of coffee, she surveyed the tattered house and decided to do some deep cleaning, maybe pick up some fresh flowers for the kitchen table and a new plant for the living room. Okay, she thought, who am I kidding? I’m building stage sets for Sam to feed my imagination and breathe life into my drab existence. Time to face facts. I’m about to throw myself off the proverbial edge for a little mojo.
4
The Fallout
Just one week after the riots, “For Sale” signs in Detroit’s white neighborhoods have become endemic. Developers in the suburbs are filing plans, throwing up houses, schools and shopping malls. Detroit’s city fathers are concerned a mass exodus portends devastating financial and sociological risks to the city’s future.
—Detroit Weekly
AUGUST 1967—Maggie woke thinking about Sam. Screw him. It was nine o’clock Wednesday morning and she’d not heard from Sam since he left on Sunday night. The good news, she thought, no cliff jumping. When the phone rang, Maggie flew to the kitchen. “Hello!”
“Hey Maggie, sounds like you’re out of breath. What’s happening?”
“Oh, Issie, I thought you were this guy I met. The one who’d carry me off on his magnificent steed; but of course, I keep forgetting I’m not in a fairy tale. Shit.”
“Well, at least you’re meeting guys. Twenty-three may seem old, but I know women who got married in their thirties!”
“Issie, I don’t feel old, just lonely. My college friends are working on cruise ships, at camps or missions in South America and I haven’t seen my friends across the border in months. Maybe I’m just bored. What’s going on in Wasteland these days?”
“Nothing, just wanted to hear your voice. Kids are driving me nuts and Eddie is trying to convince me we should buy a Harley because it would save a ton of money on gas. I think he forgets we live in the northern tundra. What’s with guys and Harleys? Do they think they’ll grow a bigger set of gonads?”
“I dunno. I’m too down to be good company. Shit, Issie, I really wanted this guy to call.”
“Who is this dude?”
“Sam. Sam Tervo. Drop-dead good looking. He was at one of the barricades when I was making my Coke run during the riots. MBA candidate at Wayne, civil rights worker, reserve in the National Guard. I think he has some lame job like mine. We didn’t talk jobs. He and Clyde have been friends for a long time and Clyde respects him. He’s smart and wickedly funny. I’d forgotten I had a libido. Oh, shit. We were going to go on a date tonight but he never called. No word. He could be dead for all I know.”
“If he’s all that and more, there may be a good reason he couldn’t call. Give it time.”
“Well, we’re supposed to do some work together, one of Clyde’s assignments. So I may get to see him again. I built it up in my mind and that’s where it hangs; making up stories about where he is, what he’s thinking, doing. It makes me feel like a sixteen-year-old.”
“Hey, this is all good! It sounds like you’re really attracted to this guy. Don’t make up stories. Wait and see what happens. Let it be, let it be, let it be, let it be. . . .” sang Issie.
“Oh my god, what did you do with the money mother gave you for singing lessons?”
“I know, terrible mistake. Let me know if you hear from Sam. I could use a good love story.”
“Don’t count on it. This whole thing is such a head-trip. I pick up Aunt Jo tonight so will check with you later this week.”
“Plus tard, Marguerite.”
“Plus tard, ma chère soeur.”
After Maggie hung up, she looked around the kitchen. The floor was as clean as it could be. On the table, a lime green vase filled with orange day lilies reflected the morning sun.
When Maggie showed up for work that day, Clyde left to take care of some personal business and Angelo asked her to cover the kitchen. As usual, it was slow until about five then things started to get busy. Maggie reminded Angelo she had to leave at six to pick up Aunt Jo. Angelo said, “Tell her to take a cab and come here. I’ll pay for it.”
“Angelo, I can’t do that. She’s going to have a ton of luggage and food and who knows what else. I can’t ask her to take a cab. I’m happy to drop her off at the house and come back here around eight, eight-thirty.”
“Fergetaboutit,” said Angelo, mimicking Hollywood Italian.
“Angelo, I can drop Aunt Jo off and be here by eight-thirty the latest.”
“Naw. It won’t kill me to work the kitchen for a few hours. You go, enjoy your Auntie. If she has any of those killer éclairs, it would buy a lot of forgiveness.”
“I don’t know, Angelo. Those Windsor éclairs are a rare delicacy, but since it’s you . . .”
“Go on, get to work. I said I’d work a few hours, not the whole goddamn night.”
Maggie loved Angelo’s curmudgeonly nature. It always felt like a delicious peek into his closely guarded soft underbelly.
On the way to the tunnel, Maggie found her thoughts drifting to Sam. She couldn’t believe she so misjudged him and the connection she felt. Damn, Maggie thought, I’m twenty-three and way too old for these kinds of romantic games. I want to find someone to love, marry and raise a family with. Unless Sam’s dead or unconscious, there’s no reason for not calling. What an asshole.
Aunt Jo was just getting off the bus when Maggie arrived. Almost fifty, Aunt Jo was hard to miss with her long, straight, premature white hair in a loose pony tail, red lipstick and her signature black shift, black flats and bright colored shawl. Never married, Aunt Jo’s uncommon beauty and keen humor defied terms like old maid, spinster or crone. Once Maggie’s dates met Aunt Jo, they often chose to hang out at the house and shoot the breeze with her over the kitchen table.
“Hey, Aunt Jo!” Maggie cried out and waved. Other than her one suitcase, Aunt Jo had three small paper bags. One was from the French Bakery. Maggie took her suitcase.
“How was your trip, Auntie Jo? Any rioting, burning or looting along the way?”
“Oh, Maggie, I’ve missed your humor! My sister Minnie is losing hers. It was good to see her and Cyp, but I think I’m getting too old and impatient to deal with Minnie’s constant complaints. I never realized how particular she was about everything, from how I peeled potatoes to how Cyp folded the newspaper.”
“You’re not too old, just more savvy about Aunt Minnie’s attempt to control the world. I sometimes wonder why Uncle Cyp doesn’t change religions so he can get a divorce.”
“I think Cyp has other ways to express his life force. Minnie’s a test of wills, but my guess is he loves the Minnie he married . . . somewhere inside this Minnie. Very deep inside this Minnie!” laughed Aunt Jo.
“I guess. Did I tell you I met someone?”
“A
special someone?” asked Aunt Joe.
“I thought so. His name is Sam. He showed up in my life then disappeared. We were going to go out tonight but he never called. I’m bummed. I liked him so much.”
“Well, honey girl, if it’s meant to be and all that. There’s nothing you can do to force love. It either is or isn’t. I know that doesn’t fit so well with your power to move mountains, but this is different. This needs to steep and settle and evolve. It may not happen on your timetable, or at all. But, if it does, it’ll be worth waiting for. This is one of those times to let it go, to trust the universe or god or whatever you believe in to bring you what you need.”
“That’s what Issie said—actually sang. Oh, Auntie Jo, I’m glad you’re home. I feel like I’m falling apart.”
“My sense is there’s more here. Maybe, instead of falling apart, you’re falling into place and you just don’t know it yet.”
“I hope you’re right. You hungry?”
“I have six éclairs—two for you, two for me and two for that rapscallion boss of yours. Did he blackmail you again?”
“Is the Pope Catholic?”
When Maggie pulled up to the house, a white Corvair was parked on the street. “Oh god,” exclaimed Maggie, “that’s Sam’s car. Let’s park in the driveway. I can pull the car in the back later. Damn. I smell like a pizza!” Worried she might hyperventilate Maggie eyed Aunt Jo’s paper bags.
“Well, there you are. He’s on time for his date. Stay calm and invite him into the house. I’ll make some coffee and you get cleaned up. We’ll share the éclairs when you get down.”
“Aunt Jo, I think he’s getting off too easy. He didn’t call. What the hell?”
If the Moon Had Willow Trees (Detroit Eight Series Book 1) Page 3
