by Julie Smith
Her chair scraped on the floor as she pushed it back, alarm spreading like a stain over her features. For some reason, that made him even madder. “Get outta my sight! Just get fuckin’ out of here!”
She was already at the door. “Okay, Eddie,” she said, evidently feeling safer. “Sure I’ll excuse your French.”
He knew what was going to happen, and it was unacceptable. He needed her gone. Completely gone; off the premises.
He stomped out into the hall. “All the way out! Eileen, you too!”
Neither of them needed to be told twice. He was speaking to their backs.
Only when the door had snicked shut did he allow himself to acknowledge that he was choking to death, that his throat had closed. He gasped; and a howl came out of him, a baying, as if he were an animal. He half expected the women to come running back in alarm, but nothing happened. He locked the door with shaking, sweaty hands, still roaring, bellowing, and when his throat was raw, he sat down on the sofa in the anteroom and let the tears flow.
The funny thing was, he didn’t even know what he was crying about.
Chapter 12
For Talba, the hardest part, almost, was going down in the elevator with Eileen Fisher. They both understood that something more embarrassing than scary had happened, but Talba had other baggage as well. She thought, Eileen’s going to say, “he’s not himself,” and I’m gonna puke.
But when Eileen said it, she didn’t puke, instead cracked, “No, he’s the Antichrist,” which set the girl to giggling, and allowed her to stare at the elevator walls in peace.
When she was safely in her car, she bent over the steering wheel, trying to get her breath, heart pounding, hands shaking. She was sweating too. She blasted the AC up to Arctic and sat there, contemplating the enormity of her sin.
He had asked her why she did it, and she had had an answer, had been on the verge of saying, “It didn’t involve you. It wasn’t about you.” But that sounded so stupid and lame and phony she couldn’t get it out. Now, seeing what had happened, she didn’t even believe it.
She had meddled, whether she had the sense to realize she was doing it or not. Without meaning to, she had wounded this great male beast, had hurt him so bad he might never forgive her.
And in turn that hurt her, made her realize how fond of him she was. Sure, he’d been abusive. Sure, he’d cursed her out, called her an idiot— a chair, for Christ’s sake. But he was out of control in a way she couldn’t have predicted. She’d gone someplace forbidden, opened some sort of secret door, and it had unhinged him. Actually unhinged him.
For a while there, on the short walk to her car, she’d considered calling Audrey or Angie. But she recognized instantly how wrong that would be. Even if Eddie committed suicide, he had to be left to do it in dignity. Not that that was going to happen. She didn’t know what the future held, hadn’t a clue whether she still had a job, but there was no doubt in her mind Eddie would weather this. At least if there was anything to the ancient maxim that you shouldn’t hold things in. The sounds that came out of him after she and Eileen left were a lot like an explosion. If they didn’t rip him apart, nothing was going to.
She looked at her watch. Not quite lunchtime, but getting there. She might as well work as not. The film she’d dropped off would be ready by the time she got there; if it turned out, she’d have an excuse to go shopping on Eddie’s nickel. But first, she needed comfort food.
For Talba, that meant a shrimp po’ boy, something in which she indulged about once a year. Today, she decided, was going to be the day, and she was going to drink a Barq’s with it.
She had to go to the French Quarter anyway— she’d get one there. In her opinion, this was nature’s most nearly perfect food. Talba liked hers dressed— native speak for “decked out, baby-child,” as she’d written in a poem once. Slathered with mayonnaise, topped with crisp tomato slices, then blanketed with lettuce, cut in strips and tucked in like confetti. The shrimp, of course, would be fresh and flash-fried; the bread sweet, French, and so fresh it would still be fragrant. The Barq’s would be cold and sweet as running creek water, but a good deal more caloric. Maybe she’d write another poem about this particular lunch— “ain’ nobody po’ that’s got a shrimp po’ boy”— well, no, but she’d work on it.
Actually, she kind of liked it. The sentiment, not the line— that was far too cornball. Ah, she had it— she could put it in Miz Clara’s mouth. That would work just fine. In fact, she wasn’t altogether sure her mother hadn’t said it at some point. She’d been forever making points about what did and didn’t make you poor in some kind of spiritual sense that wasn’t Christian (though Miz Clara was). Some kind of thing that went beyond Christian.
Talba stopped to eat at a place on Conti Street, a place where they charged about three times what she’d have had to pay in her own neighborhood, at least a few years ago. There had been a little store around the corner where she and her brother Corey went when her mama gave them money.
He was a butt now, but Corey had been a great brother to have at the time. He had warded off the bullies and taken care of her when Miz Clara couldn’t. Hey! She could write him a poem. That would do a lot to heal the chasm that had opened between them when she drifted into a life that wasn’t about money, and he married Miss La-di-da with skin more like cream than coffee.
That’s some silly shit, Talba thought. She shook her head at her own absurdity, able, with a bite of nectar and honey in her mouth, to be generous toward her sister-in-law. This was far from the best shrimp po’ boy she’d ever had— couldn’t even touch the ones she and Corey used to go get— but it was still nectar and honey. It was greasy and the bread was old— the shrimp fried too slow, the tomato limp and lame, the lettuce going brown— carelessly, lovelessly made. But it was still a shrimp po’ boy and a shrimp po’ boy was still finer than nightingales’ tongues.
The poem was coming. She took out a pen and started scribbling.
My brother used to say, “Little Bird…”
(he call me Little Bird)
He say, “…Little Bird, I’m gon’ get you a wriggle o’ worms
You ain’ goin’ hungry with Big Bird around…
You ain’ goin’ hungry with worms in your tummy,
You ain’ goin’ hungry this fine day in June…dry those tears and flap those wings…
Open that beak and…
And what? Talba stared at the paper, wondering where on earth this stuff came from.
Little Bird? She had no recollection of Corey ever calling her that. And yet it came out so naturally. She focused on her chewing, staring out the window, trying to clear her head.
A picture came gradually into her mind— of herself, watching television. Sesame Street was on. And she was crying. Corey came into the room and left again, perhaps saying something to her.
Then he came back, wearing some sort of yellow outfit— pajamas? His? Miz Clara’s?— and he’d used something to simulate feathers. Maybe it was the kind of grass that came in Easter baskets… something like that, anyway. And he pretended to be Big Bird, and she laughed.
And maybe then he took her out to get a po’ boy. That wasn’t part of the memory, if this was one, and she had a feeling it was. It was too vivid simply to have popped from whatever mysterious place poems come from.
How strange, she thought, to forget a thing like that.
And then:
He was the only father I had.
Her eyes started to water, taking her by surprise. It wouldn’t have occurred to her in a million years to go all gooey over her yuppie brother.
With the aid of the Barq’s, she swallowed the last of the sandwich— a good thing, since she felt her throat swelling. She was getting into father territory again, and she hated it. But it was more than that— it was a sense of wonder that so much of her childhood seemed lost— specifically, that whatever tenderness there had been between her and her brother had been allowed to die.
By me, she though
t. By me. Corey didn’t do it.
But in some ways he had, and she understood that, even as she romanticized him. He chose to go snobbish and materialistic and judgmental when he became a doctor. She didn’t do that to him. In spite of it, though, Miz Clara still loved him. Why couldn’t Talba?
Maybe I do, she thought. I guess I still do. I wonder what he knows about our father?
The last thought, the thought about her father, came tacked on to the rest of it, clear out of left field, and, as with so many things lately, she wondered why she hadn’t thought of it before.
Probably because they walked on eggshells around each other. She never voluntarily asked him for anything. If Miz Clara needed something other than medical care— where Talba happily bowed to her brother’s expertise— she’d customarily get it herself even if it meant taking some job she hated.
Like the one at United Oil, which had replaced the rotting stoop and painted the house. The cottage looked like new now, put the others on the block to shame, and Corey had chided her for it— said he didn’t see why she hadn’t asked him for the money.
She hadn’t said what was on her mind: You could see what she needed as well as I could.
And she wondered why she hadn’t.
She picked up the photos from Shoney’s and found herself pleasantly surprised— not bad at all, though she only had two of the men. Still, she had hopes.
She strolled into Millie the Milliner’s, happily full of her favorite food, confidently carrying a possible break in the case, happy to be there. She’d put the morning behind her— the rain, the near faux pas of barging in on the prayer breakfast, Eddie’s wrath, and most of all, her shame. She had done a truly bad thing, and she knew it, but she hadn’t thought of it for half an hour. She was looking forward to a little browse through Millie’s, and also to a chat with Millie herself.
Millie was helping a customer. She was dressed today in purple— flowing purple pants worthy of Talba herself, gorgeous purple top in tie-dyed silk, knee-length lavender jacket. Her chapeau dujour was something D’Artagnan would have been proud of, royal purple felt with a luxuriant black feather. Her nails were blood red.
Talba caught her eye and gave a little wave and a smile, but evidently Millie didn’t see her. Either that or she ignored her, and Talba couldn’t see that. Still, she seemed to be taking a lot of time with her client.
Another came in, and Millie went right to her, leaving Talba feeling snubbed. Oh, well, she thought, I’m not a paying customer. She amused herself trying on hats.
And finally, when the second customer had gone, and they were alone in the shop, Millie disappeared into the back. Something was up.
Talba followed her, but with care. She had no idea who else was back there. But no one was there except Millie, organizing bits of trim as if it were the most pressing job in the world.
“Hey, girlfriend. What’s going on?”
“This part of the store’s my private space.”
Talba shivered. “Wooo. Have you got a thermometer? It got real chilly all of a sudden.”
Millie smoothed out a piece of bronze velvet. “I’m afraid I can’t help you today.”
“Today? Why not today?”
“Look, Miss, I’ve spoken to my lawyer, and I really can’t help you.” She was keeping her eyes on her workbench, not meeting Talba’s.
“Oho. You seem to have forgotten whom you’re dealing with. Not ‘miss.’ ‘Baroness.’”
“Baroness.” The way she kept her eyes down made Talba distinctly uncomfortable.
Talba opened her purse and brought out the folder of newly printed photos. “I’ve got some pictures to show you.”
At last, Millie raised her eyes, and they were formidable. “I need you to leave my shop, please.”
“Hey, I thought we were friends.”
“I’m ordering you to leave.”
“I thought you were Rhonda’s friend. I thought you wanted to get the creep who killed her.”
For answer, Millie picked up the phone, dialed information, and said, “The number for the Eighth District, please.”
Probably just for effect, Talba thought. Nobody wanted police in their shop. But she was making her point, loud and clear.
“Okay, I’m out of here. Call me if you need me.” She scribbled Eddie’s office number on a piece of Millie’s gift wrap, and made a mental note to ask Eileen to get her some business cards.
She breathed deeply as she walked back to her car, trying to regain her composure. She was more shaken than she wanted to admit. Toes got to Millie, she thought, and the thought wasn’t pretty.
Whether he did it with money or threats, he’d realized it had to be done, and done it fast. He was covering his tracks well. Talba was afraid for Shaneel and Cassandra. Close to panicked, in fact.
Fingers shaking, she dialed Aziza on her cell phone. “I need to talk to Cassandra right away. Can you call the school and fix it?”
“For heaven’s sake, Ms. Wallis. What on earth is it?” She was irritated, a woman accustomed to full reports, not cryptic requests.
“I may have an I.D. on the perp.”
“What? Who is he?”
“I don’t have a name yet. Just a picture.”
Aziza sighed. “Okay, show her. Where are you?”
“Just leaving the French Quarter.”
“I don’t think you have time to get to her school. Today’s choir practice. She takes the bus to the church— why don’t you head there?”
“Okay.” She took down directions so precise it was like talking to a cartographer.
By the time she got there, choir practice had started. Her mission was certainly urgent enough to interrupt, but Talba didn’t at first, preferring to listen for a few minutes to the voices, male and female, young and old, blended in the pure joy of singing. Shaneel was there too, openly having the time of her life, and Cassandra, while not exactly abeam with delight, seemed at peace. Maybe she wasn’t enjoying herself, maybe she wasn’t even able to, but Talba could see she was finding something in herself most people didn’t have. Whatever it was, it was getting her through, and God knew she needed it. Or Goddess knew, Talba thought. The girl needs a mother.
Listening to the choir, watching the girls, she was catching on to why they did it when they didn’t seem even slightly religious. They had a beautiful gift, something special, something outside the mundane. She was happy for them. It was the thing she told kids to look for in themselves when she went to high schools to talk about poetry. Not many of them had a clue what the hell she was talking about.
Where’s Pam? she wondered, scanning the choir for the little redhead. Since almost everyone was black, she’d have stuck out like a snowball. She wasn’t there; still in mourning, perhaps.
Talba listened for twenty minutes, absolutely unable to bring herself to interrupt, and did so only when the choir stopped for a breather. She spoke with the leader, who called the girls down from the choir loft to mundane ground.
They were avoiding her eyes, sneaking glances at each other. “Hello, women,” she said.
Shaneel couldn’t help a smile; Cassandra couldn’t manage one for the life of her.
“I’ve got some pictures for you.” She gave them each a picture of the baron’s brother, and one of the other man, the man she didn’t know.
Cassandra said, “So?”
“Have you ever seen either of these guys?”
Cassandra shrugged, not even deigning to answer.
Slowly, as if she really hated to, Shaneel shook her head. “No’m,” she said, finally. “No’m, I don’t b’lieve so.”
“I think one of them might be Toes.”
Cassandra shrugged again, managing to pack so much contempt into a simple shoulder gesture that Talba wondered if she might have a future in the theater.
This time Shaneel shook her head vehemently, apple cheeks shining in indignation. “No’m,” she said. “Absolutely not.” Talba looked at her quizzically, struck b
y a false note somewhere or other. “He don’t look a thing like him. Neither one of ‘em.”
She was lying, and very poorly too. “Which one of them doesn’t look like him?”
Cassandra said, “Neither one of them does,” each word a dagger. The girl was so full of hostility Talba thought she might burst into flame.
“Girls. The man’s dangerous. What’s the deal here?”
“Thought we was women.” Shaneel sounded disappointed.
“I think you’re about to get demoted. If you’re afraid of this guy, let’s get him behind bars.”
Cassandra was wearing overalls and a pink T-shirt. For once, she looked no older than her age. The little puffball atop her head gave her the look of a baby animal— fuzzy and vulnerable. She gave another of her mighty shrugs. “Who’s afraid of him? He was just somebody to fuck.”
“Young lady, you might shock your mother, but you can’t shock me. At your age, I’d done more rebelling than you ever thought about doing.”
“I’m supposed to care?” Cassandra could have been made out of caramel-colored stone. Shaneel looked panicked, as if she’d somehow been betrayed— whether by Cassandra or Talba herself, Talba couldn’t tell.
“Shaneel, could you excuse us a minute, please?”
Tears started to glisten in the girl’s eyes, but she turned back to rejoin the choir. Talba stopped her. “Can you wait a minute? Sit over there, will you?” She was embarrassed at having “young lady’d” the girls; it was the sort of thing she told herself she’d never say. She turned to Cassandra. “You remind me of somebody, you know that?”
Not even a shrug this time. Just a blank stare.
“It’s me, honey. I used to hurt as bad as you do. I used to hate the world as much as you.”
Nothing.
“It’ll get better, I promise you.”
The girl turned faintly interested eyes on her.
“Do you believe me? Fourteen’s the worst age in the world, unless you count twelve. I swear to God it’ll get better.”
“No, it won’t.” There was still no expression on Cassandra’s face. She might as well have been a doll. But her voice had a slight catch.
