“Florence Adams is going to be fine,” Fatima said. “We saw on the news that she's been released. She's on her way back home. There wasn't enough evidence to hold her for Tina Davis's murder, so they dropped those charges, and then I guess the bomb she supposedly was carrying disappeared, so they couldn't hold her for that, either.”
“Oh, thank the Lord!” Cady threw her arms around Fatima. She felt the girl stiffen. “What's wrong, child?”
“There's more. The princess. I guess the guys from Interpol are pretty sure she's not dead after all but now they think she's the terrorist—because she used to hang out with Communist spies and gun runners and Black Panthers.”
“Communist spies? Panthers? Regina? I'd find it easier to believe that Regina got abducted by one of those UFOs. If she gave money to the Panthers, she probably thought they were some wildlife project trying to protect big old jungle pussycats.”
“Yeah, well, whatever her reasons, she gave a bunch of money to the Panthers in 1972. They got proof. And now they're talking how that means you and Power gotta be terrorists, too. They say it's like in the olden days of Black Power and stuff.”
Fatima grabbed Cady's arm, real terror in her eyes.
“Reverend, they're going to charge us all with conspiracy. You do not know how much I don't want to get arrested. I'm still on probation.”
Cady had to resist the urge to smile at the thought of the '70's being the 'olden days'.
“Fatima, child, you need to calm down. There's no way we can get arrested for something Regina did in 1972.”
Downstairs, a phone was beeping.
“Oh, shoot. I left the phone down there.” Fatima took off toward the staircase. “That better be Mr. Jones. I figure we all gonna need us some lawyering.”
“LadyFat, where are you taking off to?” Athena stood in the foyer, her face a careful mask. Her eyes were wary. She wore a man's overcoat that covered her bright dress, and had put a baseball cap on her bald head. The cap had a logo that said “ZZ Security Systems,” and she carried a workman's tool bag with the same logo. She had almost made herself genderless.
“Reverend, I gotta go make a phone call,” Athena said. “Not on the cellular. A secure phone call. You gotta believe me, I would not leave you two ladies alone with all this about to come down, but—I'll be back as soon as I can.
“What's wrong?” Cady said.
“Maybe nothing. I got to check something out. It's real important to me.” She opened a spiral notebook decorated with Peter Max psychedelia and took out a folded piece of blue paper she placed carefully in the tool bag.
“Here's the Princess's diary from 1972.” She handed the notebook to Cady. “I sure didn't see anything about the Panthers, but… you better read it, Reverend. I'm gonna try to make my way out through that crowd and hope they'll take me for one of Power's guards. Are you gonna be okay until I get back—I mean, you can still see and all?”
“Yes, Athena. I can see. At the moment.”
Cady looked in the young woman's handsome, androgynous face, worried but stoic; a soldier's face. Now she realized why she had imagined she was seeing her brother Leroy as her sight began to reappear earlier. Athena was a warrior, like Leroy, and she was eager to be off to battle.
“Go, child. Fatima and I will be fine. We have Jamal and the young men at the gate to protect us. And no matter what you may have heard on TV, I can't believe the police are going to storm in here. You do what you got to do. No need for us all to sit here twiddling our thumbs.”
Cady took the yellowed notebook Athena had given her and returned to the bedroom. Unfortunately, Athena seemed to have dumped the entire contents of Regina's box of papers all over the unmade bed.
The enormous round bed, covered in a black and gold silk spread, with leopard-print sheets, was the only furniture in the room besides the floor-to-ceiling entertainment center and a couple of night stands. The bed was the only place to sit. No wonder everyone had congregated there when she lay blind.
She tossed the notebook on one of the gold-trimmed pillows and stacked Regina's diaries and papers back in the box in order to make a space to sit down and read.
A picture formed in Cady's head; an image of Regina alive and healthy—an image so real, Cady suddenly felt like an intruder rifling through the private diaries. She felt an urge to simply lie on the bed and pray.
But she heard Fatima's platform shoes stomping up the stairs. With a swing of the door, the girl burst into the room.
“What did you say to Athena? Did you send her away with your church lady prejudice? I know you and your sorry church hate folks like us, but you got no right to make her cry. We did not mean for you to find out about us, and we didn't know that all of a sudden you were gonna see stuff. I never seen that woman cry before. What did you say to her?”
Cady sank to the bed, felled by the force of the girl's anger.
“Fatima, I didn't say one word. And I don't hate lesbians. Neither does the church. But the Bible is clear that it's a sin…”
“Yeah, well, Athena says the Bible is clear it's a sin to eat pork and shrimps, too, but I didn't see you worrying about hellfire while you scarfed down dinner, Miss church lady. I been trying to be cool with you, like Power said, but sometimes I do not know why that man is so out of his head for you.”
Fatima shook the phone in Cady's face like a weapon.
The phone squawked.
“Cady? Cady dear, is that you?”
Out of his head. That's what she said. Tyrone. Cady's brain spun with more emotions than she could make sense of.
“Here.” Fatima held out the phone. “It's that society bitch that called before. She says Power gave her the number.”
“Cady? It's Sybil D-D,” the squawk said as Cady held the phone to her ear. “I do hope you've changed your mind about giving an interview. I've talked to Power Magee, and he agrees that you need a friend in the media right now. I'm on my way into LAX. You will let me come talk to you, won't you? Just me and a cameraman. Do tell your guards to let us through. They look so marvelously dangerous. I could probably get them film contracts, if they'd like. Especially the one on the roof. And I can do wonders for that rap singer's career—and her elegant friend Athena. Cady dear, am I in? You really do need me.”
Cady cringed. Had her life come to this; needing someone like Sybil?
But Tyrone had given Sybil the number—and Tyrone was “out of his head for her”. He had her violin and her picture, in his secret retreat upstairs. He had carved her face on that wooden head. At that moment, from the chaos in her mind rose two thoughts, as clear and certain as her faith in the Lord—that Regina was alive; and that Tyrone Power Magee had real feelings for her.
“All right, Sybil,” she said finally. “I'll give you a statement. I'll tell Kareem and Lucas to let you in the gate.”
She reassured Fatima with a smile. How much harm could be done by someone as frivolous as Sybil D-D?
Chapter 42—Cady: A Real Man
After Fatima left Cady's bedroom to go dress for the interview with Sybil, Cady caught sight of the Peter Max notebook lying on her pillow.
“Fatima!” She grabbed the notebook. “This is what upset Athena—it wasn't me. Do you want to read it?” But Fatima's bedroom door slammed shut.
Whatever the problem, Athena would tell Fatima soon enough.
Cady studied her clothes—unpacked and hung neatly in the closet—she would have to thank Fatima for that, and tried to decide what look would be best for the interview.
But when she caught her reflection in the closet mirror, she decided against changing at all. In her simple cotton nightgown and robe, with her new hair extensions cascading girlishly to the middle of her back, she looked as vulnerable and un-terrorist-like as possible. Even the few bruises that still showed on her forehead from the elevator collision would add to her credibility.
She piled the rest of Regina's papers into the box, sat down on the bed, and opened the Peter Max noteboo
k.
“January 4, 1972”, was scrawled in Regina's signature purple ink. 1972—while Cady was still at divinity school and Regina was about to rise to fame.
“Fat,” Regina had written;
“I'm Fat fat fat and ugly, ugly ugly. I can't even look at myself. Arthur hasn't been back for three days, not since he left me at the New Year's Eve party and went off with that reptile who thinks he's David Bowie. So here I am all alone with all this Christmas candy: 70% off at Saks. I couldn't help it. I went in to do the resort wear promo, and there it was—looking so sad—dumped in big clearance bins, still pretty in all its silver and red ribbon; chocolate truffles and rum-filled chocolate crèmes and the caramel-walnut turtles with the incredible dark chocolate on top.
“Somebody's at the door. At this point, I hope it's not Artie. I think I could kill him with my bare hands.
“January 10
“Well, it wasn't Artie, was it? Stupid book, my friend, my only friend. What was I thinking?
“Why did I do it? Now I've eaten every piece of chocolate in the loft and I can't even move to go out and get more. Please, if there's a God, don't let me be pregnant. It was just that he looked so sad. And so brave. That was it—his sad, brave eyes. So much like Cady's.
“It was weird, opening the door and seeing him there, in his uniform, looking like this dangerous stranger, and then I realized who it was.
“'Leroy,' I said. 'Come on in. Excuse the mess. You want a chocolate turtle?'
“He looked so funny and formal in that uniform, sitting politely on the floor cushions eating candy while I lounged around in one of Artie's shredded antique kimonos. It took me a couple of minutes to realize that he was probably uncomfortable with what I didn't have on underneath.
“'Did you get my Christmas card?' he said. He always sends me a card, and this year it was one of the giant Hallmark ones—all golden sparkles and angels with trumpets. Inside it said 'Some angels for your angel pie.' I showed him where I'd tacked it up on the wall over my mattress. It was pretty much our only holiday decoration, aside from the Saks Fifth Avenue candy boxes.
“This made him get all emotional. At first I didn't know why. Then he sat down on the mattress and said.
“'I'm shipping out Monday.'
“I knew he meant to Vietnam. I really try not to think about the war. All the protests are so crazy and weird, and people get tear gassed and everything, but sometimes I feel like I should protest, too—like after I see all those pictures of burning children in Life magazine—but I don't have the right clothes: all the little Indian cotton things and love beads and water-buffalo sandals. I don't think they let you protest in silver vinyl and Mary Quant.
“But suddenly here was this guy—this nice, somebody's-brother-guy. And he was sitting on my bed saying he was going over there to kill people and get shot at and all the rest. It was like all that war stuff I'd been trying to ignore was sitting right there on my unmade bed sheets.
“He looked at me with those sad, dark eyes and said. 'I might not come back, Regina. I got this feeling…'
“I smiled or something. I did not want to hear this.
“'There's one thing I gotta do. I can't go before I give it a shot…' His eyes got wild and strange. He grabbed my hand. 'Regina, I gotta tell you—I think about you all the time. I got all your pictures. I… I think I love you. There, I said it.'
“Well, this was not what I expected. I don't know why. I guess I'd had enough clues. But nobody's ever said they loved me. So I didn't know what to do, and I picked up his hand and squeezed it. Maybe I couldn't take looking at his eyes anymore. I guess he took that to mean more than I meant it to, and then he was kissing me on the mouth. His kisses were so sweet and soft that I couldn't stop. So I let it happen… everything. And it wasn't horrible like with the creeps with the piano. I don't think I had as good a time as he did. But it was as good as eating angel pie.
“At least I hope he had a good time, because he's going through God-knows-what in Vietnam now, and please Jesus, if you're out there—don't let me be pregnant.
“Cady hates people who have abortions more than anything. But she'll hate me if she finds out what I did with her baby brother, no matter what I decide to do.”
Cady could hardly breathe. She had no idea how to process this.
“Reverend Cady, do I look all right in this?” Fatima burst into the room wearing a little blue flowered dress with a lace collar. Her hair was pulled into two dreadlocked ponytails.
Cady jumped, filling her lungs with calming air.
“Athena hates this dress.” Fatima frowned at herself in the mirror. “She says it makes me look like a phony.”
Cady tried for diplomacy. “You certainly don't look like a dangerous terrorist.”
“No. I look like Alice in Wonderbreadland.” Fatima tugged at the collar. “I'm gonna wreck my career here. Where is Athena? I can't get dressed without Athena. And half my clothes are still at that dump in Malibu.”
Fatima clamored back down the hall to her room.
Cady didn't know whether to laugh or cry as she turned back to the notebook again and tried to comprehend what she had read.
Leroy. And Regina.
She'd never had an inkling. After he saved her from the '68 riots, Leroy had always asked about Regina, but Cady had assumed he was just impressed because she was a famous model. She felt so sad for her sweet, stoic brother, holding his love inside all those years. She knew she couldn't condone what they had done, but her heart was grateful to Regina for an act obviously motivated less by passion than compassion.
But the affair couldn't have been what upset Athena. She didn't even know these people. Leroy had died only a few months later; probably even before Athena was born. Flipping through pages of purple scrawls about clothes and drugs and parties, Cady stopped at an entry written in a different color ink:
“March 20
“I hate doctors. I hate the way this guy talks to me like I have the IQ of a gerbil. And he keeps calling me Mrs. Ingram in this phony voice like I'm supposed to pretend I'm married. I also hate his stupid Bic pen, but I stole it anyway, because I can't find my purple one. My Life Is Over. I'm pregnant. Damn Leroy. Damn Vietnam. Damn Ho Chi Minh and Richard Nixon and the Military-Industrial complex, and the Tri-Lateral Commission, or whoever it is that Arthur keeps saying made the war.
“What Am I Going To Do?”
The next entry was back to the purple ink.
“March 27
“I tried to cancel this stupid Easter trip to Mother's, but she pulled this guilt-trip crap on me, and so here I am. God I hate this place. All the little orphans look at me like I'm a germ.
“How could I stand to grow up here? Now I don't even get to stay in the attic, because there's two little Vietnamese woodwind players up there. I have to sleep in the same room with Mother. She keeps staring at my belly.
“I know she knows.
“March 29
“I am never going back to that house. The stink of Clorox was too much. I hope I don't throw up again. The diesel fumes from this stupid bus are making me feel like losing lunch again. What's really scary is Mother thinks I did this on purpose to annoy her. 'How could you do this to me?' she said.
“It's also scary that she offered to raise the baby; 'If that Arthur won't marry you.' Where would she keep it, in the root cellar? What if it couldn't play an instrument?
“She assumed the baby was Artie's, of course. She thinks I did this to get him to marry me. I had no idea how much she hated him. 'Those people,' she kept calling him. 'How can you want to marry one of those people? There will only be heartache and pain. Don't do to yourself what I did with your father.'
“At that point I'd had enough. 'Those people?' And all this time you pretend to be so tolerant. And then I came out and said it—'I thought I was one of 'those people' or are you telling me Papa wasn't Jewish after all?'
“She stopped and looked right in my face, 'What are you talking about? I'm ta
lking about his homosexuality. Your father wasn't a Jew. He was a homosexual. That's why the Nazis sent him to the camps. I married him so he could escape to America. I thought he could change. He couldn't. None of those people can. Don't marry this man. Give me the baby and go and have a real life. Find a real man.'
“A real man. Oh, I found a real man. And I've got his real baby inside me. Poor Artie doesn't even know.
“And he never will.
“I'm going to Cady. I'll tell her everything. Cady will know what to do.”
But she hadn't.
The words blurred in front of Cady's eyes. The purple scrawl was getting more and more difficult to read. Was it Regina's writing or her own eyes? She rested her eyes a moment and then forged on.
“April 1—Leona's Pie Store, Roxbury Mass
“People say you shouldn't be the same fool twice, but here I am. April Fool. Again. What a difference four years can make. Four horrible years. Leona's dead. Leroy's in Vietnam. Roy and Sinclair run this sad place that used to be full of the world's best smells, but now it stinks of cigarette smoke and burned coffee and the awful day-old white bread they sell.
“And Cady! Cady looks like a fat old cleaning lady with her stupid church pamphlets and self-righteous phoniness. And now she wants me to go with her to some stupid Ivy League tea over in Cambridge so she can pry money out of her old Bryn Mawr buddies for some Baptist charity, and I am never going to be able to talk to her about what's going on.
“'You'll be a big help,' she says, although I can't imagine how—since I can't fit into any of my good clothes.
“'Pinky and Freebie always ask about you,' she says. 'And Sybil D-D's just back from an archaeology dig in Alexandria. Or a bridge tournament in the south of France.'
“She's not sure. Whichever, Sybil D-D will have a tan to die for.
“April 3—Philadelphia
“'Thank goodness for Sybil D-D. She turns out to be a friend after all. A better friend than Cady. She could tell. Right away, she pulled me aside and said. 'How far along are you, dear? Are you going to have it, or do you need the name of a good doctor?'
Six Pack of Sleuths: Comedy Mysteries Page 99
