by 72 Hour Hold
“Does he really?” I always thought of PJ as my little boy, which of course he wasn’t.
Trina and I had been going to the flower district since we first moved to LA from Atlanta, nearly ten years earlier. Located downtown, only blocks away from the huge aquamarine convention center and the massive Staples Center, home court of the Los Angeles Lakers, the flower mart was part of a larger area that housed the city’s garment, jewelry, and fabric districts. In cramped, airless buildings, immigrant women who couldn’t say union in English bent over sewing machines, stitching the bodices of prom gowns and swimsuits. Koreans mostly sold not-so-well-known brands and designer knockoffs. Israeli wholesale jewelers played dialing for diamonds. And Iranian merchants offered fine silks, woolens, and blends for less than a third of the price of the city’s retail fabric shops. It was Seoul meets Tel Aviv meets Tehran as borders blended.
The flowers were the province of the Latinos, and there was as much Spanish as English, not to mention Spanglish, in the air as Trina and I meandered from florist to florist. Sellers were set up in adjacent stalls under one gigantic roof. Prices and quality varied, and years of experience, as well as my southern-girl origins, had taught me that it paid to compare. Trina, on the other hand, was not the child of a grandmother who’d survived the Depression and had instilled in her the belief that frugality and deferred gratification were the only entrance fees for Baptist heaven. I had indulged my daughter when she was a child. I hadn’t overindulged her, but I had wanted her to grow up feeling as entitled to lessons and trips as the white kids at her private schools. That Saturday morning, her sense of entitlement was in full display; she stopped at each flower stall and said, “Mommee, let’s get some of these,” with no regard for cost.
That baby voice again. My daughter acted more like a preadolescent than someone now legally entitled to do whatever she wanted without my permission. Watching her drift from flower to flower, I had the feeling that she would be a child for a while longer.
The birds-of-paradise caught my eye. They were huge and bright, and even though the same flowers dotted many of the lawns in my neighborhood, they didn’t grow on mine. “How much?” I asked a stocky man who had just wrapped up flowers for another customer.
“They very beautiful now.”
“Yes, they are. How much? ¿Cuanto cuesto?”
As he added up numbers in his head, a young white couple behind me chatted animatedly. I heard the words screenplay, producer, and green light and turned to see the requisite bony blond girl and her handsome, scruffy boyfriend. They weren’t much older than Trina. In Los Angeles, Hollywood hopefuls are as ubiquitous as the lattes grandes they slurp. There is no escaping their driving ambition. Irritation swept over me. Just looking at them, I wanted to slap both those faces, to knock away the self-assurance that was etched there. They were bubbling over with enthusiasm and confidence, so sure they were on their way. I didn’t want their oh-so-important moneymaking dreams to come true. The last thing on this earth I wanted to see was more of their images on screen, more of them kissing, having fun, being dramatic, or saving the day. I gave them a surly glance, but they didn’t even notice.
The florist whispered the amount. I countered. The seller narrowed his eyes, scrunched up his mouth, did the math in his head. It didn’t matter to me that no one else seemed to bargain at the flower mart. I was a charter member of the Let’s Make a Deal club. The man glanced from side to side to make sure no one heard, then nodded.
“Wrap them up,” I told him. “Aren’t they pretty?” I said, turning to Trina.
She was gone.
For months, Trina had been my constant shadow. If she wasn’t with me, I knew exactly where to find her. Not seeing her evoked the same kind of adrenaline-fueled alarm I had experienced when she was four and broke away from me in the grocery store. Ohmygodohmygodohmygod.
Within ten minutes I had raced through the entire building, including the restroom, and that was when the bubble of panic that was welling up inside me began to burst. I wanted to go find a loudspeaker, get on it, and plead for my daughter’s safe return. I combed through the place once more. All I could hear was the awful hammering in my chest. She’sgone-she’sgone-she’sgone.
“Keri?”
It took me a moment to focus, make the transition. “Marie. How are you?”
Kiss, kiss, hug, hug. Her spicy fragrance rubbed off. My eyes not meeting hers, my eyes looking up the street, down the street, peering into corners.
“Girl, where have you been?”
“Oh, hey. Just busy.”
“I guess so. Brooke and Nichelle and I were out last night, and we got to talking about you. Nobody’s seen you in so long. You just dumped us.”
Brooke and Nichelle. Brooke and Nichelle. I couldn’t make their faces appear inside the fog that was my mind. “Oh, no. Just busy at the shop.”
“So we’ll have to buy some more clothes if we want to see you. Well, it’s overdue. I still get compliments on that green suit I got from you.”
“The Armani. That was a really nice deal, and you looked great in it. Just got a new shipment. Lots of fabulous stuff in your size. Eight, right? You know, I have shoes now. Everything you want for a fraction. What are you, a seven? I have some bad Todd Oldhams, black suede, pointed toe. Fabulous. Five hundred dollars new. My price is seventy-five bucks. Worn maybe three times. They’ll go with everything. You want me to hold them for you?”
I could sell in my sleep. I could sell and be going crazy at the same time.
“I’ll come and see you,” Marie said. I knew she would.
Nodding, smiling, I looked past her, around her. My eyes were on the sidewalk, the corner, the entrance to all the florists’ shops up and down the block.
“How is Miss Trina? Is she loving Brown?”
“She decided to wait a year before starting. You know these kids, right?” The words came fast; there was no eye contact. Please, go away. But she wouldn’t.
“Oh.” Marie grew quiet for a moment. “Such a brilliant girl. Brett says she hasn’t seen her in a while. They used to be so close. Brett is loving Howard. She’s pledging AKA.”
“That’s—oh, that’s really …” What was stabbing me in my chest? Where was that pain coming from? “… great.” Great that your kid is succeeding in college and my kid is lost. I didn’t want to feel the cold trickle of envy spilling down my spine, the steady drip of acidic resentment searing my bones. Brett had called me Mama Keri; she used to spend the night with Trina. When they were young girls I confused the sound of their laughter. Please, don’t let me stand here resenting her and her smiling mother.
“Listen,” I said, craning my neck, still looking, “I have to get going.”
“Well, let’s hook up sometime.”
“Okay.”
“Maybe we could go out to dinner or something this month.” She pulled out her date book. “Wednesday, the twenty-sixth, around seven. That work for you?”
“I think that’s good. Sure. I’d better go.”
“Call me.”
“I will.”
“Okay, I’m going to call Nichelle and Brooke. Let’s make this happen. And I’ll come by for the shoes tomorrow. Put them away for me.”
“I will,” I said.
Outside the sun was glaring. I shielded my eyes with my hands as I trudged up and down the block. Hysteria was gripping me by the throat by the time I stopped to stare. Trina was at the end of the street, talking animatedly to a tall, dirty man who appeared to be part of the legions of the homeless who congregated not far from the commercial area. Leave it to LA to position the unwashed and addicted right next door to the flowers, as if the city planners were seeking some kind of humanistic and botanical symmetry.
“Trina!” I raced to the corner, my heart banging against my chest.
“See you later,” she said to the man, and shoved her hand inside her pocket. It was a movement that didn’t register until later, when every detail mattered.
&n
bsp; “You shouldn’t disappear like that,” I said quietly, as we returned to the store. “I was worried.”
“You don’t have to worry anymore.”
“What were you and that man talking about?”
She smiled. “Oh, nothing.”
We strolled around the corner and looked at tulips and roses, then crossed the street to another small shop and purchased half a dozen sunflowers and two bunches of gladioli. Walking back to the car I glanced at my watch, then quickened my pace.
“I have to go to the shop,” I told Trina.
Resale clothing stores are big in LA. I owned one of a handful of shops that offered designer resale exclusively. In the entertainment capital of the world, the hook was elementary: All you had to do was imply that some star had worn this or that, and the ladies who lunched were dying to buy it. I never identified the original owner by name; that was against the rules. But I could allude with the best of them. (“Did you watch the Golden Globe Awards? Recognize this dress?”) The rich ladies—stars, wives of ballplayers, expensive mistresses, and call girls— who turned in their clothes on consignment were happy to get cash for something they could wear only once. The buyers were ecstatic to be swathed, for a fraction of retail, in high-end fabric that had clung to celebrity hips. Everybody was happy, and I was getting paid.
I’d been a publicist in a large public relations firm right before taking the plunge and opening up my clothing store. It was through my clients, mostly actors and actresses, occasionally news anchors and politicians, that I learned about resale clothing. The people I represented often sold their outfits to specialty shops, especially after a big industry event, a charity ball, or a single television appearance. When they told me what they had paid for the new clothes and how much the consignment-store owners had given them, I was intrigued.
Business at As Good as New had gone from steady to fantastic since I opened the doors eight years ago. Location, location, location. My place was in Culver City, minutes away from the Santa Monica Freeway and dying to serve every major ethnic group connected by that highway. Very conscious choice. A black woman with a designer resale clothing store in LA had to be midway between the African Americans with disposable incomes who lived in Ladera Heights, Baldwin Hills, and View Park and the whites and Asians who couldn’t afford Beverly Hills prices but still wanted to look good. Truth be told, more whites bought from me than blacks. Buying resale required a mental adjustment for black women; they equated secondhand with poverty. But word of mouth was working among the sisters, and gradually more and more of them were coming in.
Saturday morning, and my place was packed. Made me feel good walking in the door. Shoppers were browsing. Cash register was chachinging away. Behind the drawn curtains all the dressing rooms were full. Adriana, one of my two saleswomen, strolled casually between the showroom and the back, where people were stepping into this, stepping out of that. She was an innocent-looking young white woman with long brown hair and a willowy body. There was a sense of wonder in her glance, as though she were in a state of continuous amazement. Adriana had a sweet, helpful attitude; the customers loved her. Around her the air thrummed with zippers zipping, fabrics rustling, sounds of jubilation and dismay. Disappointment was addressed immediately. We had a no-pressure policy, and I instructed my people to be truthful with the clients. If something looked good, we said so. If something was unbecoming … “Well, how about this?” I’d never been guilty of turning out some clueless woman who thought she looked great in a dress that was riding her butt like a seesaw. Of course, as delusions go, that’s not the worst one.
As Good as New wasn’t a huge store, but it was beautifully decorated. My goal was for every shopper to feel wealthier and more elegant when she left than she had before she walked in. A living fantasy, that’s what a woman wants when she shops. The carpet on the floor was a swirl of earth tones set in a paisley design. The walls had the obligatory faux finish required in the chichi zone, but one so charming and unique it was more art than decoration. Hanging on the walls were antique window frames, accented by purple sashes. Potted palms were placed in every corner. There wasn’t a huge inventory, but that was by design. Once inside As Good as New, a customer felt she’d walked into a rich woman’s personal closet and was free to roam around and pick out what she liked.
The first thing I did was to pull out the shoes that Marie wanted to try on.
Adriana rushed over and gave Trina a hug. “Hey, girl,” she said. Her voice was whispery, baby-girl soft. She smiled at me. “Good morning, Keri.” She seemed perkier than usual, and I was glad to see her so happy.
“Hello, Adriana. How’s it going?”
“I sold the blue pantsuit that Beverly Drive brought in, and her tan suede jacket just went out the door.”
I learned early on that people who sell their clothes usually don’t want other people knowing what they’re doing. In order to protect the privacy of the clients who contributed our stock, we called them by the streets where they lived.
Adriana’s smile was a high-beam dance that made me grin right back. Easy to see the kind of little girl she’d been, how hard she’d tried to please. Sometimes there was heartbreak in her smile. Maybe I recognized it because I could still taste my own.
I handed her the shoes. “Put these away for my friend Marie. She’s supposed to come in tomorrow. Put them back out on Monday if she doesn’t show up.”
Adriana nodded, her light brown hair bouncing off her shoulders. “Topanga Canyon’s housekeeper brought over the two pantsuits.”
“How are they?”
“Beautiful.”
“Any damage?”
“The navy blue pinstripe is perfect. The pale green has a slight tear in one of the buttonholes and a stain in the front. Frances is fixing them now.”
“What’s the stain?”
Customers would accept small imperfections in previously worn clothing. I’d sold torn items, pants hemmed unevenly, and a blouse with all the buttons missing. But a stain, even a small one, was a major deterrent for most people. People saw stains and thought of dirt that couldn’t be washed out. Stained garments didn’t sell.
“I don’t know.”
Clothes had fascinated me since I was a little girl. Ma Missy, my grandmother, sewed for wealthy people. I remember one night watching her laying out a pattern on her table. The fabric was purple silk. She’d just begun to cut when the front door flew open with such fury it hit the wall. I smelled my mother before I saw her. The thick odor of bourbon ascended the stairs before she did. By the time she reached Ma Missy’s sewing room, she was staggering. She collapsed on the floor in front of us, but not before she threw up all over the purple silk. I cried when she wouldn’t get up. Ma Missy left her there on the floor and threw away the soiled fabric.
Days later she made me a beautiful dress out of pale blue satin. I escaped from my yearning in that froufrou frock with its balloon skirt. I was someone else: my mother’s beloved child. Dressing up on the outside always helped me feel less exposed on the inside. Maybe that’s the psychology of clothes for most women. Otherwise, we’d all be wearing a uniform.
Frances was sitting in front of a sewing machine that was pushed up against the wall of the small area in the back that served as both my office and the alterations room. She held up a pair of pale green pants and a navy blue pinstripe jacket.
“Ooooh,” I said. “What are they?”
“Prada and”—she fingered the label of the navy suit—“Gambelorino?”
The name on the label was important. There was a time when I cared about flesh beneath my fingertips, kneading it until sighs of gratitude floated up. Healing occupied space in my mind then. Now designers were my bread and butter, and my fingers were for counting money. I shrugged, then reached over and examined the suit: felt the fabric, checked the seams and the topstitching. “This is very expensive. That’s what we’ll tell the clients.”
Frances nodded, her nimble fingers tugging at the t
hread as she deftly repaired a small tear in the buttonhole of the green suit jacket.
“Where’s the stain?”
She pointed to a crusty pinkish circle the size of a dime over the left breast pocket. “It was red. Looked like lipstick or blood. I put some remover on it. Don’t worry, I’ll get it out. Topanga Canyon wants four hundred apiece,” Frances said.
I rolled my eyes, and Frances laughed.
“How should we size them?” I asked.
“A very small six. Petite. You should call Downtown Girl. These would fit her. She’s another scrawny one.”
I gave her a sideward glance and rolled my eyes again. I was only slightly bigger than Topanga Canyon and Downtown Girl. Frances had never met a Big Mac she didn’t like. Everything about her was large: her size, her smile, her spirit. She patted her long weave and grinned.
“That’s all right. I could take all y’all scrawny women’s men,” she said with a laugh. “Did Adriana tell you that she met somebody nice? She’s going to the movies with him tonight.”
“No wonder she seemed so happy.”
Our eyes met. Adriana’s romances always started out on an upbeat note. Her stop-and-start love life was of great concern to Frances and me. Adriana had never been a winner in love lotto.
“If my fat ass can get a man,” Frances said, “ I know she can, pretty as that girl is.”
Getting wasn’t Adriana’s problem. Keeping was the operative word. There was an elephant stampeding through her life that chased men away. Frances and I liked to pretend it wasn’t there.
The phone rang. Frances answered, then handed it to me. Her eyes issued a warning.
“Be nice,” she said.
Be nice, I repeated to myself, a question mark in my mind. That admonition fit two situations, two sets of hot words and no apologies, two men.
Love in the past tense is always tricky.
“Hello.”
I knew it was Clyde by the way he cleared his throat. That was my ex-husband’s way of steadying himself: He cleared his throat and then barreled in. For my part, I took deep relaxation breaths and kept my fists clenched. “I don’t want to argue with you. I was calling to see how Trina is doing.”
