by Julie Smith
“Speak up, child, I don’t bite.”
Ouch, you just did. “I’m looking for someone named Lura. I’m not sure about the last name.”
“You are not a relative?”
“Not a blood relative, no.”
“I am sorry to tell you that Miss Jones passed away some years ago.”
“Oh. Well.” Talba pretended to rethink the whole thing. “But there was a daughter,” she said slowly, as if it were just dawning on her. “Wasn’t there a daughter?”
Sister Eula drew up herself up another four or five inches—as if she could be more intimidating. She made Miz Clara look like a pussycat. “I wouldn’t know about that.”
“Oh, there was. There was a baby, and I’m pretty sure it was a girl.”
“You got good news for that girl? You a detective or something?”
Talba was taken aback. Did the woman know her? What the hell, why not go with that idea? She almost produced her license, but thought better of it even as her hand rummaged her purse for her wallet—the woman might recognize her last name. She finally opted for a friendly smile and a cocked eyebrow. “I didn’t know it was so obvious.”
“Who are you, girl?” Miss Eula was getting hostile, and Talba wasn’t sure why.
“I’m trying to find her for a relative. My client believes she may be a cousin by marriage.”
Talba suddenly found her heart was beating as hard as it had when the five-hundred-pound sergeant threatened to throw her in jail.
Sister Eula stared a hole through her. “Mmmm-hmmm,” she said, and Talba had the sense that she knew exactly who she was. If her father Denman had come to this church with his woman, they’d remember. Or Sister Eula would. She looked at Talba as if she could penetrate every secret she had just by thinking hard enough. It was the look Miz Clara had used when she was a kid and she was lying.
Talba didn’t know what to do but stare back at her, trying to keep her heart from breaking through her ribs and making a mess in this fine church.
Finally, Sister Eula said, “You all right, child. You all right.”
Are you a doctor? Talba thought. What’s the deal here?
“I recollect Miss Lura had a sister. Mozelle Winters, her name was. I b’lieve she moved to Memphis.” And Sister Eula turned her back and flounced away, as if she were offended.
Chapter Ten
What was that? Talba thought. A gypsy fortuneteller or a church lady? Sergeant Rouselle’s mama, maybe?
She couldn’t wait to go home and get online. But in the end, what she found for Mozelle Winters was absolutely nothing.
And then an axiom of Eddie’s came back to her: always call information first.
I’m an idiot, she thought, and dialed impatiently. But so far as BellSouth knew, there was no Mozelle Winters in Memphis.
She had heard Miz Clara come in from church. With the afternoon stretching before her—and a brand-new car—maybe she could persuade her mother to go for a ride. “Mama? you here?”
Miz Clara didn’t answer. Having a nap, maybe. The Sunday paper was strewn all over the living room, as if she’d had a luxurious Sunday read. Why not me? Talba thought. She got herself a Diet Coke and settled down in a mountain of newsprint. In time, she even drifted off herself.
When the phone rang, she heard it but made no effort to answer. She had voice mail—hell with it. She took a deep breath, fell back into semiconsciousness, and couldn’t have been further away when a banshee keening debouched from Miz Clara’s room.
“Mama? Mama, what is it?” Talba flew into her mother’s bedroom, screaming, wondering if something had happened to her Aunt Carrie, her mama’s only sister.
Miz Clara shushed her, still listening, still keening. Talba heard her say, “I’m comin’ right on over soon’s as I can get a cab. No, honey, don’t you worry about it. I’m sure I can get one.”
Honey? She never called anyone “honey.”
“Mama, I’ve got a car. I got it yesterday.”
Miz Clara shushed her again, even seemed to be waving her off in impatience. After a century or so, she got off the phone.
“What is it, Mama?” Talba winced at the whine in her voice.
“Michelle’s hemorrhaging.”
Talba tried to process it. The baby wasn’t due yet. “Did she go into early labor? Is she in the hospital?"
“Blood just start coming; they thought it was her water breaking, but, no, whole lot of blood come out.”
The significance of it hit her. Her brother Corey was a doctor. If he thought it was serious, it was serious. And if he called his mama, it was really serious. He’d normally wait till it was all over to do something like that.
Talba pondered what it might mean. Only one thing, she decided. It had to mean he was scared to death.
“Where is she?”
“Baptist.” She meant Memorial Medical Center, where Corey was on staff. Before it got gobbled up, it had been Baptist Hospital; to New Orleanians of a certain age, it still was.
“Let’s go,” Talba said.
“I gotta put on my wig.” Miz Clara cleaned houses for a living. She liked to keep her hair in a near buzz cut. “Mama. Let’s go!” Talba was surprised at the urgency in her voice.
Miz Clara hated the car, of course—couldn’t understand why Talba couldn’t get a nice comfortable Cadillac or maybe an Oldsmobile or something. She griped about it all the way to the hospital, which got under Talba’s skin so badly she nearly had a wreck on I-10.
Her hands were sweating. It occurred to her that she was actually worried about her sister-in-law.
Corey was in the maternity waiting room, pacing, his shaved head looking somehow dull, almost dusty. I wonder if he shines it, Talba thought. He said, “I wish they let you smoke in these places.”
He’d never smoked in his life.
Miz Clara’s voice was uncharacteristically gentle. “How is she, baby?”
Talba would have given anything to have missed what followed. Her older brother the doctor, the successful one in the family, who had a big house in Eastover and the kind of car Miz Clara approved of, threw his arms around his mama and cried. “Oh, Mama, I’m gonna lose her.”
Miz Clara’s moment of gentleness was over. She gave him a shake. “Shush up, boy! You are not.”
He looked at her as if she were speaking Russian.
“She’s a healthy young woman and she’s in good hands. Idn’t she?”
Corey just stared.
“Well, idn’t she?”
“Yes, ma’am. She’s in good hands.”
“And you know how to pray, don’t you?”
He looked a little impatient at that but once more he said, “Yes, ma’am.”
“Well, start doin’ it, son. Just as soon as you tell me what’s going on in there.” Her head jerked down the corridor.
“I don’t know. They won’t tell me.”
Talba thought, Ah, so that’s what’s gotten to him. He’s out of control. He’s a doctor and he can’t do anything for his own wife.
“Well, what’d they say? They musta’ said something.”
“They said she was bleeding.”
Miz Clara said, “Hmmph.”
“And shocky. Her blood pressure was dropping.” He took in a breath and let it out. He spoke softly. “They said they thought they could save the baby.”
“Well, then, they’ll save it.” Miz Clara’s face was set as if she could make the doctors mind her, like they were kids in a sandbox.
“I don’t care about the baby.” Corey balled his fist. “I just want Michelle.”
“’Course you want Michelle. And you gon’ get Michelle. They didn’t say they ‘thought’ they could save her, did they? That’s ’cause they know they can.”
Talba’s palms were sweating; her heart was speeding again. She was catching Corey’s fear. What’s Mama talking about? she thought. Does she really believe that?
Corey looked a little calmer, though. He took off his smeared gl
asses and began to clean them. “Yeah. Maybe so. Maybe that’s what they meant.”
Miz Clara looked around. “Where are her people?”
Corey looked at the floor, avoiding her eyes like a child. “I didn’t call them.”
“What you mean you didn’t call ’em, boy? They her people.”
“I couldn’t face them, Mama. I couldn’t face them just yet.” Miz Clara crossed her arms and glared. Gentleness just wasn’t her forte.
Corey spread his arms and this time looked her full in the face. His eyes were brimming. “Mama, I didn’t want them. I wanted you and Talba.”
Talba felt her own eyes fill up. Had he really included her too? And he’d called her Talba, not Sandra.
Miz Clara said, “Come here. Come here, son.” She opened her arms to him.
Once again, Corey clung to his mama. She said, “I guess we don’t have to call ’em just yet. Let’s sit down. Let’s sit down now.” She led him to a chair.
Talba was feeling slightly like a voyeur, but on the other hand, he’d said he wanted her there. When they were children he’d been there for her, sometimes when she was so little she couldn’t remember and had to be told once she grew up. Sometimes in ways she remembered—he babysat while Miz Clara worked her housecleaning jobs.
And then, because she felt he’d become a snob who’d forgotten the values—and the people—he was raised with, they’d grown apart. Part of that was just her own jealousy—she realized that now—and part was Michelle, but they were over that. They were close again.
Michelle.
Michelle who might be in there dying right now.
She wasn’t though—she couldn’t be. Corey was just upset because she was his wife. His wife whom he loved so much he was crying on his mama’s shoulder.
Talba glanced at the other two. They were holding hands now, heads bowed. They were praying.
She felt embarrassed. She shouldn’t be watching this. And yet she certainly wasn’t watching with cool objectivity. She couldn’t get her heart to slow down.
She tried deep breaths, thinking of Michelle lying on a table, her belly a mound rising out of her snaky body, her legs apart, blood gushing out.
Worse, she saw Michelle’s face, saw her pain.
Oh, God, I see why Corey called us. The worst thing is to think about it.
What if they did save the baby and not Michelle? That was almost the worst case scenario. What was Corey going to do with a tiny baby?
She felt so sorry for him it was like an ache. This couldn’t happen to her only brother. Just couldn’t. He was so happy…
Happy?
She had never thought of Corey as happy with Michelle. But she thought back to the night they’d told her she was pregnant, a night she’d dropped in on them unexpectedly, very late, demanding information. An entirely untactful episode, in which she’d been focused largely on herself.
They’d stood in the kitchen holding hands, Michelle’s belly barely beginning to curve, the light shining on Corey’s bald head. And now that she thought of it, they were radiant. They were the image of a happy couple, a couple at the beginning of their lives together, looking forward to their baby.
She isn’t supposed to make me happy. She’s supposed to make him happy.
Talba’s eyes filled again. Who was she to judge Michelle? She could put up with her. Oh, yes. If she could just have her back, she could put up with her. At that moment, she realized, she wanted Michelle for a sister-in-law more than anything in the world.
She had to do something. She couldn’t just sit here driving herself crazy. “Corey,” she said. “You want me to call the Tircuits?”
He stared up at her. “You?” She knew what he meant and it shamed her. He was the older brother, accustomed to doing for her. She’d never made such an offer before.
“Give me the number. I’ll be glad to.”
He nodded and pulled out his address book.
The Tircuits couldn’t have been more different from the Wallises if they’d been white. They were descended from Louisiana’s Free People of Color, who had thrived in the nineteenth century, and they were virtually royalty in New Orleans. They were light-skinned, straight-haired blacks, called “Creoles” in this day and age, and they had money. They had an extremely successful business dating back to antebellum times.
They’d never given Talba the time of day.
But, then, she hadn’t gone out of her way to befriend them, either.
Only when she had the number and had gone out to the corridor and turned on her cell phone did it occur to her she had no idea what to say. She was going to have to wing it. A woman answered. “Mrs. Tircuit?”
“No, this the maid. Let me get her.”
A maid. These were black people who had a maid.
“Hello? This is Ardis Tircuit.”
“Mrs. Tircuit, this is Talba Wallis. Corey’s sister?” She made the statement a question and hated herself for it.
“Yes?”
“Michelle’s having her baby and—”
“Michelle isn’t due yet.” The woman spoke with authority, but Talba heard the fear in her voice.
“I think there may be complications.” She swallowed hard. “Corey needs you.” The lie slipped out cleanly.
“Corey? But what about Michelle?”
“She’s in the delivery room.”
“Already? How long has she been in labor? Why didn’t somebody call?”
“Mrs. Tircuit, this happened very suddenly.” Talba made her voice very calm. Somehow, that got the message across.
“Is she all right? Is my daughter all right?”
“We hope she’s going to be.”
The woman broke the connection, evidently panicked. Talba hoped she had someone to drive her to the hospital.
Talba was stuffing her cell phone back in her purse when it rang again. “This is Ardis Tircuit.” Talba thought: She must have caller I.D. “What hospital did you say?”
“Baptist.”
Reluctantly, Talba went back to join her mother and Corey. Miz Clara had her eyes closed. She looked like she was in pain, but Talba knew it was only a deep focus. She’d seen it before; her mother was rocking back and forth in prayer. Her brother was still holding hands with her. He looked like a trapped animal.
Talba simply didn’t see how she could sit here with this kind of tension. She herself did not pray. What she did to tune the world out was read, and she was way too wound up to do that right now. Or to speak.
She ended up doing nothing, letting her mind wander, sweating and feeling miserable, until the first of the Tircuits got there. Maybe I could talk to them for him, she thought, but Miz Clara appointed herself family spokesman and when the elegant Mrs. Tircuit burst into tears, told her she had to be strong and trust in Jesus. They’re probably Episcopalians, Talba thought.
Not that Episcopalians didn’t trust in something or other, but Talba was pretty sure they didn’t talk about it in polite company. Still, there wasn’t an answer to what Miz Clara said; Ardis Tircuit could only nod and shut up.
Her husband arrived soon, in a business suit, and then a couple of sisters, the latter two wailing. It was turning into a deathwatch, everyone dressed up and praying or crying. They certainly are pessimistic, Talba thought. It’s as if they’ve already given up on her.
And Talba realized that she hadn’t, that she wasn’t remotely ready to, that—like Corey—she couldn’t imagine life without Michelle. “It’s going to be all right,” she said automatically, patting an arm here, a knee there, and actually, she felt that it was. Women gave birth every day, even if there were complications.
And yet—it oughtn’t to take forever. What was happening? Talba imagined them doing a C-section, sewing her back up—what else? Transfusions?
Even as she was thinking it the doctor came out, finger-combing hair just out from one of those surgical shower caps. She was frowning, intent on her hair, scanning the room for Corey.
When sh
e found him, she smiled. “Everything’s fine.” She looked as if she was going to say more, but Corey’s eyes closed and his knees buckled. One of the Tircuits caught him. Miz Clara said, “Lord, Lord!” Oddly enough, it was Talba who thought to ask about the baby.
The doctor smiled. “A beautiful girl.”
“She’s okay?”
“They’re both fine. Mrs. Wallis had what we call an abruption. In simple terms, that’s when the placenta starts tearing away.” Everyone looked at each other fuzzily. “It can be life-threatening to the baby—and sometimes to the mother as well. In this case, the baby’s heart rate started dropping so rapidly, it…” She looked a little squeamish and stopped, apparently realizing she shouldn’t finish this sentence in front of the family. Talba filled in the blank for herself: …it really scared us. The doctor said instead, “We had no choice but to do a C-section.” She smiled again, this time at Corey. “But you got her here in time, Dr. Wallis. They’re both doing great. Congratulations on your daughter.”
And then they were all hugging each other and crying, even Talba. She felt unbalanced, as if the ground had shifted.
Chapter Eleven
She slept the sleep of the dead and woke up Monday morning thinking of her newborn niece and her dead friend, Babalu Maya, AKA Clayton Patterson. A couplet came to her: “Life is a leaf / that hovers in the wind.” She considered it, decided against. She had to get around to this one, though. Something important had happened to her—she just wasn’t sure what it was.
She opened her closet and selected a white blouse and blue skirt—her unvarying choice for work. While the Baroness de Pontalba had almost as exotic a wardrobe as a drag queen, Talba Wallis the PI had once worked as an office temp; thus she had a closet full of white blouses and blue skirts. Why waste energy and money, she felt, on clothes she was never going to like anyway? The skirts and blouses were selected for blending in—always respectable, never noticeable. That was good for an office temp and even better for a PI. (She also had a good navy pantsuit for events like Babalu’s funeral.)
She did some of her best thinking driving, and this morning (having already contemplated the deeper issues), she thought about Babalu’s name. No wonder she’d chosen it—this was a woman who’d been quite literally wounded.
