by Aime Austin
“Get your feet off that couch. How many times…? Never mind. Come here and help me with this.”
She and her sister Deidre would never have gotten away with this. As soon as their mom and dad came home, they’d have rushed to the kitchen to add vegetables to a stew, or make sure the potatoes were ready. Not this one.
Olivia grabbed for a thin brown paper bag in Sheila’s hand. Sheila stepped back. Her daughter, never graceful, almost toppled over. “Livvy, don’t be a klutz. Grab my briefcase. It’s the heaviest.”
Her daughter relieved her sore back of the briefcase and a leather tote that held spillover work. Shrugging off her jacket, she walked to the kitchen and shoved her purchase to the back of a cabinet out of Olivia’s reach. Leaning against the gold speckled Formica counter, she violated her house rule of always putting things in their proper place, and kicked off her heels. Curling and stretching her stockinged feet, she let the cool tile relieve the ache in the arch of her foot.
“What have you eaten today, Olivia?” Sheila watched her daughter straddle a kitchen chair, eyes glued to MTV.
“Cafeteria lunch. Some cookies after school.”
Even at twelve, Olivia was moving past what her mother would have called ‘healthy.’ It was showing in her face and butt. She tried not to imagine what her colleagues thought when they saw Olivia. Her former partner’s children were all gangly kids, engaged in year-round sports. The only exercise her daughter got was working her fingers on the remote control.
“I don’t know why you eat that junk. You have to learn it’s all about calories in, calories out. What do you want for dinner?” She gestured to the cold, empty stove. “I’m going to order in.”
“Whatever.”
She pulled a menu from the drawer and dialed the phone. “I’d like to order two small antipasto salads for delivery.” She paused, trying to concentrate on the usual litany of questions. “Yes, no. No dressing. If you must, put it on the side.” She gave their Latimore address. “Olivia. Handle this delivery when it comes. I’m going upstairs to change. I’ll be back when the food gets here.”
Barely able to pull her eyes away from the swirl of television color, Olivia took the proffered cash, jamming it into her pocket.
Decibel by decibel, the volume increased. Olivia would go deaf if she didn’t keep an eye on that girl. Teenagers. After opening the cabinet, she removed her favorite glass. Its diamond design mimicked the crystal Peyton had in his apartment. The heft of the glass belied its true origin. Pulling a bagged bottle from the back of the cabinet, she poured enough of the golden liquid to fill half the glass. She put the bag back, and topped off her glass with plain cola. Picking up her shoes, she moseyed up the narrow stairs to her third floor bedroom. Lying back against the pillows, she sipped the bittersweet liquid. Peace.
“Close the door behind you,” Peyton Bennett, Junior had said.
Sheila had been with the firm for more than a few years, and she’d never been behind a closed door with anyone. Not sure if she should be nervous or happy, she sat, bouncing a yellow pad on her knees. Peyton, who’d been an associate when she’d joined, had recently made partner. Not that the son of the firm’s founder firm getting a promotion was a shock.
Peyton looked at his watch, its gold gleaming in the faint light from the slim window. “You want something?” Sheila didn’t answer as Peyton turned and helped himself to something from his decanter. He turned back, crystal in hand and looked at her. “Drink?”
Lead crystal had never been something real people did. The characters on the drama-filled stories her mother was always trying to catch were filled with old white men in leather chairs, cigars and decanters at the ready. What the hell? Maybe a little something would calm her nerves.
“Sure.”
Peyton filled another glass and pushed it across the desk. She took one sip of the liquid. The burn was unexpected, and Sheila tried to cover her mouth as her throat closed up, sputtering and coughing in protest.
“Oh God, I’m sorry,” Peyton said, moving papers and bottles. “Topping it off with some ginger ale might help.”
Keeping up with the guys was important. Sheila took another sip of the doctored drink. It slid down much better this time. Her insides were warm, despite the cold January sun. Her knee stopped bouncing.
“I’m planning to start an informal mentoring program at the firm.”
“What did your dad think of that?” Sheila blurted. Her face grew warmer as regret stilled her heart. Damned alcohol had loosened her tongue. Peyton Bennett, Sr. was no fan of coddling associates. They could all sink or swim for all he cared. She was barely treading water.
He leaned forward and smiled at her. From his clear blue eyes to the quirk of his lips, the smile seemed genuine. “Fortunately, BFB is not a dictatorship. We put it to a partner vote, and the majority ruled.”
Sheila took another sip. It felt good to lose the knife edge of nerves that she perilously stood on every day, afraid to make one fatal slip.
“Where do I come in?”
“I’m your mentor.”
“Does this mean I’ll make partner?” She’d had to ask. Never ask, never receive, her father had always said.
Peyton let out a hearty laugh. She had to laugh as well, glad now that the door was closed and the hallway was not filled with their giggles.
“You’ve always had a one-track mind. I picked you because I don’t think the firm is strongly behind your long-term career. I want you to get as fair a shake as the other associates. I don’t know a lot about you though. Can I ask you a question?”
Sheila hesitated. Honesty was not the best policy in the legal world. Making a truth that fit a narrative was better. She laid the pad and her pen on his desk. “Peyton, I…”
He grasped her hand, a friendly gesture. Awareness of Peyton as a man came unbidden. Their eyes locked and his smile disappeared. She snatched her hand back like it was on fire.
He refilled both their glasses. She drained hers this time, no coughing or gagging. He sipped thoughtfully. Neither of them talked about the tension in the room, as thick as the evening fog rolling in from Lake Erie.
“I wanted to ask you what you’d do if you didn’t make it here.”
Sheila’s stomach bottomed out for an entirely different reason, this time. Her left thumb stroked the smooth metal of her wedding band. Her husband Keith would want her to quit and have a house full of kids. But she had to make it. She needed the security of a permanent job.
“Of course, making partner is paramount. I want to contribute to the firm, build on the legacy of Bennett—”
“I know all that. But what else?”
“What are you asking me?”
“I’m asking you what else you’ve dreamed of? I’m not asking you as a partner, or your mentor. I’m interested in you. Sheila, you keep very quiet here. Hold yourself apart from the others. Hole up in your office, like we’ll give it away if you’re not in there all day and night. I want to know what makes you tick. I’ve never known anyone like you.”
Black, from the east side is what he probably meant. Though black and white people had been living together in Cleveland for at least a hundred and fifty years, they might as well live an ocean apart, not just a few miles. She chose her words carefully. “I’ve always thought about being a judge, maybe.” There, she’d said it. Her biggest dream. Something she knew would probably never happen. Cleveland judges were elected, and the political machine didn’t elect a lot of black ones.
“Cool. Who knows? Maybe one day you’ll leave us to do that. Turn the tables. Judge us instead of us judging you.” And that had been it. He hadn’t laughed or made fun of her. Instead he’d talked about the kind of cases that she’d have to handle to succeed at the firm.
“Mom, the food is here,” her daughter called from below.
Taking her time, Sheila sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the empty glass in her hand, remembering the weekly mentoring sessions with Peyton. He’d tutor
ed her in the finer points of the law—and expensive alcohol. She’d heard a mom call the evening drink ‘mother’s little helper.’ There was a lot of truth in those three words.
Without a man’s strong hands to help ease the kink of a knotted muscle, Sheila rolled her shoulders and dropped her head to loosen the tension that settled between her shoulder blades. There was no rest for black folks; working twice as hard only to get half as far as white folks.
She had a judicial appointment that wasn’t all the way there, after leaving a partnership that she’d clawed her way to, only to have it slip through her hands like sand. Putting on, what her mother would have called a housedress, she girded herself for dinner.
“Mommy!” her daughter shouted again.
“Honey,” she called down. “I know you’re not putting that salad dressing on there. It’s nothing but fat and calories you don’t need.”
When she came down, Sheila could see the leaves and meat glistening all the way from the dining room door.
“Mom, an antipasto salad is meant to have dressing,” Olivia retorted. This girl…. Lifetime habits had to start now.
“How was school today?” Her daughter swallowed hard. For a moment Sheila felt a twinge of guilt for taking her out of Bethune, but that was quickly swept away by the thought of the opportunities she’d have from a real school like Shaker High.
“School’s okay so far. But the kids are really standoffish. No one talks to me.” She sighed as if she had the weight of the world on those narrow shoulders. “I wish I had more friends than just Cate. She doesn’t even want to talk to me or sit with me at lunch all the time….”
“Olivia, I’m not friends with a single person I knew in junior high. You don’t need these kids. Just keep your head in your books.”
Her daughter’s light brown cheeks flushed red. “How would you know, Mom? You don’t have any friends. I don’t want to grow up to be old and lonely like you.”
Sheila gripped her glass so hard she thought it might break. She had never talked back to her mother. Never. Behavior like Olivia’s would have earned her a full-on beating with a switch, or a slap if she was lucky. But you hit kids these days, and they were calling nine-one-one in a heartbeat.
“Olivia. You do not want to be anything like those white kids. Keep your head down, do your work, and make sure your grades are good.” Sheila took a long drink, letting the liquid give her patience. “Don’t worry if these damned kids like you or not. You need to worry about getting A’s, getting into a good college, and a better graduate school. You’re gonna need a good job to support yourself so you don’t have to rely on any man. These privileged kids can goof off partying and they’ll be just fine. They’re not worrying about you, so don’t you worry about them.”
Glad to see the message received, Sheila pushed aside her half eaten salad. Olivia devoured hers like she was starving.
Come to think of it, she hadn’t seen much in the way of tests or grades since the school year had started. “When are your progress reports due?” she asked. “Seems about time for you to have gotten some kind of grades.”
Olivia shifted, suddenly uncomfortable in her seat. Her cheeks grew red again. “We haven’t gotten them yet,” she said. “It’s sometime next week, I think.” She could see her daughter’s belly poking out over her jeans and yet she pulled a piece of Italian bread from the foil packet and spread a thick layer of butter.
“Are you going to eat that too?” Sheila asked, incredulous. “You’ve already had salad and dressing. You can’t still be hungry.”
It was as if her daughter didn’t hear her. Instead, Olivia spread the butter thicker, swallowing the bread in two bites. After chasing the bread with cola, Olivia shuffled from the dining room back to the living room couch.
Sheila swallowed the remaining contents in the glass, but thirsted for more. The faces of four twenty-something actresses flashed on the screen, an old Beatles tune, a theme song for the show. Why did her daughter take such solace in this fake world where everyone had perfect hair and teeth, nice clothes, and big houses—though you never saw them do a lick of work. She didn’t have the energy to parent this child tonight, to steer her on the right path. Maybe tomorrow. Sheila got one more drink to relax before joining her daughter for another night of escapism on the couch.
Seven
Progress Report
October 19, 2001
Olivia didn’t know what jolted her awake, until she opened her eyes and saw a very angry mother standing over her. Her body turned leaden with dread.
“Well, Princess, I’m glad you finally deigned to wake.” Her mom’s voice was scarily calm. She brandished a folded paper under her nose. “Perhaps you can tell me the meaning of this?” Calm turned accusatory.
Despite great effort, fear prevented Olivia from getting her mouth and brain to work in concert. Not waiting for an answer, her mother went on with morning red eyes that were the stuff of horror movies. She shrank back as far toward the wall as she could.
The shouting started then. “Why in the hell am I busting my ass to keep you in Shaker Heights? We left Glenville so that you could go to a school that challenged you—and you come home with these grades?
“To have the nerve, the absolute nerve, to hide these from me—for a week, no less. Have you lost your ever lovin’ mind? Where do you think you’re going in life with grades like this?” The finger came out then, jabbing her hard in the sternum. That would hurt for days. She hoped it didn’t leave a bruise she’d have to explain away during gym class.
“How many God damn times do I have to tell you that black people don’t get a fair shake in this country? Unless our credentials are stellar, we get passed over.
“Before you were born, I worked my ass off for years, finally making partner at Bennett Friehof. Then despite this family and no support from anyone, I got appointed to this judgeship—a job where some white man can’t fire me. Do you know that it was hell for me finding a job? I had straight effing ‘A’s in college and law school, but hiring partners didn’t care.
“I got in when they couldn’t turn me down and worked day and night, turning in flawless memos and briefs, only to be passed over for partner, year after year. I watched boys who’d graduated years after I did—who I trained, order me around on cases, telling me what to do, closing the door on me when decisions were being made.”
The lingering smell of alcohol on her mother’s breath surrounded her like a cloud. Olivia didn’t dare wipe away the spit that had flown from her mom’s mouth and landed on her face.
“With this kind of mediocre performance, you’ll end up just like your father, lucky to have any piece of shit job at all.” Olivia’s ears perked at the mention of her father. Her mom hardly ever talked about him. Maybe she could live with him one day, if she could find him.
He might not have a lot of money, but at least he didn’t drink. Her mom was still yelling. “You watch all that God damn TV—talking about how you want to leave ‘boring old Cleveland’—wantin’ to work for some glossy New York magazine or at a television network. Well none of them are going to want some roly-poly black girl with a second rate education.
“Aren’t you going to answer me?” Her mother’s hands curled around the covers and snatched them to the floor. The cool air only had a moment to hit her body before her mother yanked her out of the bed by her left arm.
At once, Olivia was standing up and rubbing the shoulder of the arm her mother had pulled so hard. When she thought her mother wasn’t looking, she stole a glance at her clock radio. Crap. Not only was her mother on the warpath, but at this rate, she was going to miss the school bus and have to ride with her too.
Sheila continued, “Go wash up and get dressed in those overpriced clothes you’re always asking for. I’ll take you to school today.”
Olivia ran to the bathroom, and even though she tried hard to hold it all together, her eyes smarted, and her nose dripped. Thank God her mother didn’t see. There was lit
tle room for emotion in her mother’s house. She did her best to pull it all together for school in less than ten minutes.
Her mother didn’t understand. School was boring. What was the point? She had never seen any adult doing equations or filling in blank maps. As long as she understood what the teachers were going on about, she wasn’t worried about her future. Olivia knew she’d be fine as soon as she could get to college and away from her mother.
She didn’t say any of that to her mother, of course. The angry diatribe continued all the way down Shaker Boulevard. There was no time to look at the mansions and imagine the fairy tale lives of their occupants. Her hope for tense quiet was misplaced.
“Don’t just sit there with your mouth stuck out,” her mother hissed. “What are you going to do to fix this? I didn’t raise no idiot.” Her mother shook her head vigorously. Then she pressed down on the gas, hard. The car shot forward, barely missing the bumper of the SUV in front of it. Her mother hardly noticed. “You’re going to hunker down and do what’s necessary to get straight A’s. There will be more working and a lot less TV watching.”
They pulled onto Belvoir Oval, her mother finally taking a breath. “Now get in there and learn something—you sorry excuse for a child.” Tasting freedom, Olivia pushed open the door, when she felt the vicious pinch of the flesh on her upper left arm.
Olivia knew from experience that no reaction was always better, but the exclamation of pain, and the tears that sprung couldn’t be contained. She jumped out with her backpack, and felt nothing but a whoosh of air as the car door slammed behind her.
Six hours later, Olivia walked to the Friday afternoon ‘For Girls Only!’ meeting alone, head held high. Beth galloped toward her in the hall. Despite the early morning fight with her mom, she was pleased with herself for getting her clothes right today. Her Britney Spears newsboy cap, flared jeans and long sleeved tee looked like everyone else’s clothes.
