by Pearl Cleage
TEN
I didn’t know it was a photograph of you!” I said when the smiling young woman who introduced herself as Aretha Hargrove carefully removed the protective padding to reveal a larger-than-life portrait of Abbie standing with her back to the ocean and her face to the sky. The frame was, as desired, big and bold and very gold.
“Well, who else is he going to put up in a place called Sweet Abbie’s?”
My face must have shown my surprise because Abbie laughed and actually blushed, which was truly charming in a woman our age. It takes a certain amount of innocence to respond with an uncontrollable flush when someone ventures too close to whatever you hold secret or sacred or just plain private and therefore not suitable for public consumption.
“The restaurant is named after you?”
Aretha grinned at Abbie. “She’s still in denial, although I don’t know how long you’re going to be able to keep that going once he hangs this bad boy right inside the main entrance.”
“I’m not in denial,” Abbie chided Aretha gently, who simply rolled her eyes and leaned against the truck nonchalantly.
I judged her to be in her late twenties, tall and strong looking with a head full of tiny twists held back from her face with a big red ribbon. She was wearing overalls and a T-shirt, but her long neck and easy grace made her look elegant in spite of her paint-splattered work boots and well-worn navy pea coat. She and Abbie had an easy give-and-take and their joking was the kind that can never mask real affection.
“He who?” I said.
“Peachy, the owner,” Aretha said. “He’s been driving me crazy to get this hung.”
“Peachy’s a man?” I was sure Abbie had said she. Or maybe I just assumed the friend she was going to visit, the friend she’d been with when she had her “I’m an American” moment was a woman.
“Of course, he’s a man,” Aretha said, turning to Abbie. “You’re not in denial about that too, are you?”
“I told you. I’m not in denial about anything. Peachy is a friend,” she said to me. “A good friend.”
“The best,” Aretha said to me sotto voce.
Abbie ignored her. “We’ve been through a lot together, and when he decided to open this restaurant, he asked me if he could call it Sweet Abbie’s.”
She shrugged her shoulders and I swear she blushed again. “I told him he could.”
Aretha shook her head and her twists jiggled on her head like the ringlets that used to come standard on the better baby dolls. Cheap baby dolls had molded plastic heads with painted-on curls, but as you moved up in price, the hair got better, too, until you reached the most expensive dolls which had rooted plastic hair, usually blond, that could be washed and set on tiny pink plastic rollers. I wondered if Aretha set hers or just tied it back with a bow and let it go its own buoyant way.
“He should have called it Please, Baby, Please,” she said. “Since he’s only doing it as a love offering.”
This was getting more and more interesting. “What kind of love offering?”
“For Miss A,” Aretha said. “He’s hoping once he proves himself, she’ll let him make an honest woman out of her.”
I raised my eyebrows at Abbie. Was she really considering taking on a number four?
“I should have told you that Aretha is an incurable romantic. She keeps trying to marry me off.”
“I am many things, but an incurable romantic is not one of them. I just know Peachy and I know a little about you.” Aretha grinned at me. “We’ll talk later.”
“I’ll look forward to it,” I said.
Abbie smiled at us both. “You want to come in, or are we ready to roll?”
Aretha checked her watch. “If we get on the road now, we might be able to get this thing on the wall before he opens for dinner. Should we try for it?”
“Sure. I’ll get my things.”
Aretha climbed back into the pickup, which was a bright red, perfectly restored sixties-era Chevy, a gift from her uncle Eddie, she told me after I complimented her on it when we first went outside. He had taught her to drive when she was fourteen, and when she left home to come to Spelman, he handed her the keys.
“I was the only girl in my whole freshman class who owned her own pickup,” she said, still proud of her uniqueness.
Abbie grabbed a small overnight bag and her shawl.
“Still travelin’ light?” I said, echoing Zora.
“High praise from the woman who once hit all the major European cultural capitals in three months with only one suitcase and a duffel bag.”
“Those were the days,” I said, grabbing my coat, confident that I would spend many more pleasant hours in this house over the next few weeks. I still had a lot of questions about this whole citizenship thing that needed answers, but they could wait until another time.
“No, these are the days,” she said, turning to hug me. “I’ll be back on Friday. Why don’t you come for dinner on Sunday? Bring Zora if she’s free.”
“I would love to,” I said. “Thank you.”
Aretha was at the wheel with the motor running as we headed down the front walk. The magnolia was swaying gently in the breeze, the big waxy leaves, dry in winter, clacking softly against each other in the topmost branches. I was loving the feel of this neighborhood. Abbie being just around the corner was icing on the cake.
“By the way,” I said, suddenly remembering my day’s major mission, “how’s that little grocery store across from the newsstand?”
“It’s great,” she said, opening the passenger door and handing her bag to Aretha, who tucked it behind the seat. “The woman who started all the gardens around here opened it six months ago. The produce is always fresh.”
“There’s a bakery in there, too,” Aretha added as Abbie climbed in and clicked her seat belt into place.
“Sounds perfect,” I said.
Abbie reached her arm out the window and I took her hand.
“I’m so happy you’re here,” she said. “We have so much to talk about.”
“I can’t wait!” I said. “Have a safe trip.”
Aretha tooted the horn as they pulled away and I waved them goodbye as they turned the corner and headed for the interstate. It wasn’t even noon and I had already found an old friend, made a new one, shared some champagne, and heard about a man named Peachy who was in hot pursuit of a woman who had just told me that marrying again was the last thing on her mind. Now all I had to do was head over to the grocery store so I could stock Zora’s kitchen with something more interesting than a bottle of Stolichnaya. Abbie was right. We have everything to talk about, but in the meantime, a woman’s still got to eat.
ELEVEN
The grocery store was even better than Abbie had described it. Small and crowded with customers moving carefully between the narrow aisles, it boasted a wide variety of fresh fruits and vegetables, fish and fowl, but no red meat. The bakery offered sliced bread and crusty loaves, along with homemade fruit pies and a beautiful chocolate cake, whimsically decorated with a border of bright pink roses and the word Yes right in the middle where Happy Birthday usually goes.
I bought as much as I could fit into the reusable canvas bags I bought at checkout to do my part to stop global warming, and headed home a happy woman. I’m not political in the traditional sense, but I think some things are fairly obvious, even to somebody like me. Peace is better than war. Global warming will kill you. Once I get it, I do what I can.
The phone was ringing as I closed the front door behind me, and I checked the caller ID, delighted to see Howard’s number showing.
“Hey, you!” I said. “Your timing is perfect. I just walked in the door.”
“Hey, yourself,” he said. “My timing is lousy. I’ve been calling you for hours.”
“I’ve only been gone two days.” I laughed. “Can’t live without me, huh?”
“I’m hanging on by a thread already. How was the trip?”
“Uneventful,” I said.
�
��And how’s my baby?”
“She’s been better, but nothing a little bit of her adoring grandmother’s TLC can’t fix.”
“Let me speak to her.”
“She’s still at work. You’re stuck with me. Guess who I ran into?”
“Greta Garbo.”
“She’s dead, remember?”
“So is Elvis, and people run into him all the time.”
“Abbie Browning.”
“From Paris?”
“Well, she lives here now, but Paris is where we met her,” I said, surprised he remembered her. “I’m impressed with your powers of recall.”
“Does she still smell like patchouli?”
Now I was really impressed. “Yes, she does! How can you possibly remember that?”
“Please,” he said. “She was the only black girl I knew who always, always smelled like patchouli.”
“How many white ones did you know?”
“Hundreds. Thousands! There was a moment there when after every show, all my costumes would smell like hippie hash bars, but that’s not why I called you.”
“I thought you called to say you missed me.”
“I’m not the only one. I talked to François this morning. He can’t believe that you left without giving him a chance to explain.”
“Explaining has never been his strong point or mine.”
“Well, all that might be about to change. The board is meeting next Wednesday to discuss the season. They wanted you there in case the press shows up.”
“Why would the press care about a routine meeting?”
“Because I’ve alerted them to the strong possibility of unpleasantness.”
“You didn’t!”
“I most certainly did. How else am I going to get the word out to your many fans that their queen may be in peril?”
I laughed out loud. If I had any doubt that Howard knew what to do to get me back where I wanted to be, his status report obliterated it. “You’re my hero.”
Howard laughed, too. “Of course I am, but I’m doing this for purely selfish reasons. I’m already dying of loneliness. Without you, everything is a bore.”
“You’re never bored!”
“I know that, but if I was, now would be the time,” he said.
“I miss you, too,” I said. “Call me after the board meeting and let me know how it went?”
“I’ve already got you on speed dial,” he said. “Gotta run. Kiss my baby for me! Love you madly!”
“Love you more!”
Which was probably not true. When it comes to unconditional love, me and Howard are tied for first place.
TWELVE
When Zora got home at ten thirty, I was in the kitchen putting the finishing touches on what I knew was one of her favorite meals: roast chicken with lemon and tarragon butter, green beans with almonds, and new potatoes. I had also picked up a loaf of crusty French bread, and for dessert, baked apples with whipped cream. The landlord’s kitchen was well organized, well equipped, and a pleasure to work in, even for an amateur like me. I’ve always loved to cook for my friends, and Zora and I had spent a lot of time together in the kitchen. Judging from her dramatic weight loss, she hadn’t spent many hours there lately.
I had found a multidisc CD player in the front room and programmed it for random selections, curious about what might come up for my listening pleasure. Exploring somebody’s music is as revealing as poking through their closet, and usually a lot more fun. By the time Zora arrived, I had heard everybody from Louis Armstrong to Buckwheat Zydeco and enjoyed them all. I was basting the chicken, singing along loudly to Bob Marley’s “Exodus,” and wishing I had the patience to grow dreadlocks when she walked in. She gave me a quick peck on the cheek and headed straight for the freezer.
“Hey, darlin’,” I said, closing the oven door and figuring another thirty-five minutes should do it. “Welcome home. You hungry?”
“I didn’t know you were cooking,” she said, pouring herself a drink. “I grabbed a sandwich a couple of hours ago.”
“No problem,” I said, willing to bet she hadn’t eaten anything, although I could smell the vodka already on her breath when she kissed me. “You can sit with me while you have your drink.”
“I don’t think I’d be very good company,” she said, tossing a copy of Dig It! on the kitchen counter in front of me. It was today’s issue and there she was on the cover, standing in Paschal’s draped in my luggage, looking stressed out and skinny, next to a picture of herself looking like she used to, happy, healthy, and effortlessly beautiful.
Scandal takes its toll! The headline blared. Dig It! exclusive. What a difference a year makes!
“What is this?” I said, confused.
“There’s more,” she said. “Page six.”
I flipped to it and there we both were, sitting in Paschal’s, talking intensely. The pictures weren’t great, but they were accurate. Zora looked terrible and I looked concerned. Movie people always say that the camera doesn’t lie, and in this case they were right.
At the bottom was a reproduction of the cover photos with comments about the change in her appearance, complete with arrows pointing out the contrast. Breasts: Last year, full and firm. This year, shrunken and sunken. Booty: Last year, best in show. This year, where’d it go?
I was outraged at the invasion of her privacy and mystified as to the possible photographer. “Where did they get these?”
“Probably the waiter.”
“MacArthur?” I couldn’t believe it. “Why would he?”
“Because they pay good money for this crap.” She practically spit out the words.
“He didn’t seem like that kind of guy,” I said.
Hair, said the copy next to an arrow pointing at Zora’s severe little ponytail. Last year, perfect perm. This year, mystery mess.
“I can’t believe they got it out this fast!”
Zora looked at me for a minute and took a swallow of her drink. “You still don’t get it, Mafeenie. It’s different now. It’s fast and it’s vicious and it never stops!”
“Welcome to the world,” I said, wishing she wasn’t already high. Talking to a drunk is counterproductive. Afterward they never remember what you said.
“All right, Mafeenie,” she said. “I think now’s a good time to show you my room.” She nodded at the tabloid on the counter. “Bring that, will you?”
I followed her up the stairs, wondering what I would find behind that closed door. It had taken all my strength not to open it this afternoon, just enough to take a peek inside, but I couldn’t have lived with myself after that kind of betrayal of trust. Sure, I was worried about Zora’s state of mind, and sure, I was a believer in grandmother privilege, but not enough to risk alienating her forever.
When we got to the door of her room, I thought she might pause for some kind of warning like don’t touch anything, or it doesn’t bite, but she walked right in like she had nothing to hide. The room was a little smaller than mine, and it didn’t have a view of the pool, but from what I could see, there were no snakes under the neatly made bed at all, just two packing boxes and a pair of fluffy pink slippers. On the nightstand was a photograph of me, one of her and Jasmine on the back deck of the motel, one of her father in costume for his one and only Broadway show, and one of her with Howard in front of the theater in Amsterdam. She set her glass on the dresser and leaned down to pull out the boxes. Curious, I stood there holding the rolled-up copy of today’s Dig It! and awaiting further instructions.
“Pick one,” she said.
“What are they?”
“Just pick one. Any one. Any one at all.”
She slurred that just enough to make me cringe so I reached down and pulled out the first thing my fingers touched. It was another copy of Dig It! The front cover was split in half, they seemed to like that effect, with a picture of Zora on one side and on the other side, a picture of the murdered vet. He was wearing an army uniform and holding a huge automatic weapon in one
hand and what looked like a joint in the other. The headline said: Doomed vet well known as battlefield doper! The date at the top was last summer.
Zora was watching me, but she offered no explanation.
“Are they all Dig It!’s?”
“It comes out every day,” she said. “You’d be surprised how fast they accumulate.”
She plucked the back issue and the new one from my hands and knelt to quickly tuck them into place.
“The new one goes in at the back of the section,” she said. “The old one resumes its position between Mystery coed’s ties to dead gangster target of police probe and Dead vet’s shocking secret life lead to coed ultimatum.”
She was right about one thing. The sheer volume of the coverage was a sickening surprise to me. No wonder she was overwhelmed. She stood up again, reached for her drink, and took a big swallow. When she looked back at me, her lips were set in a tight line. Turns out Zora had snakes under her bed after all.
“Why are you keeping this stuff?” I said. “Aren’t you the one who called it a bunch of trash?”
“It’s history,” she said. “Maybe I’ll show them to my kids one day.”
“Why would you do that?”
She shrugged her thin shoulders. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe to show them that life is more complicated than they think it is.”
I resisted the impulse to tell her life is always more complicated than you think it is. I also resisted a strong impulse to kick the box over. “Why do you care what these idiots say?”
“Because people believe what they read whether it’s true or not.”
“What difference does it make? People who know you don’t think it’s true.”
“Which would be fine if all I had to do was hang around with people I already know, except that’s not the kind of job I have, remember? It’s not like I’m a librarian, Mafeenie. I don’t just do counseling, I’m starting to represent the organization at conferences and hearings. This kind of crap just makes it hard for anybody to take me seriously.”
