The Orange Blossom Special

by Betsy Carter

  “We had a little girl. Her name is Dinah and she’s seventeen now.” She showed Fran baby pictures of Dinah, and locks of her hair that she’d pressed between pieces of waxed paper.

  “Here’s Dinah and her dad at the botanical gardens. Look at those curls. He used to call her his little ‘Boing Boing Girl,’ and I guess you can see why.” Her voice was animated. Barone slipped the picture out of its cellophane sleeve and outlined little Dinah’s face with his thumb. “It’s amazing how much she looks like her father,” he said, looking first at Tessie and then at Fran.

  “She’s got his IQ and my melancholy nature,” said Tessie.

  “She also has your big heart.” He smiled.

  For the first time since she received Barone’s letter, she understood why she was there.

  “Do you want to see our wedding album?” he asked.

  “Why not?”

  Through the pictures, she met his stern father, his martyred mother, and his four brothers. The just-married young Barone—his smile so sure—had his hand resting on the curve of Fran’s lovely bottom as they walked down the aisle. “She’s beautiful,” said Tessie.

  “A pistol, she was.”

  The sun was on the horizon by the time they finally got up to leave. Tessie patted Fran’s bony hand, “I’m so glad I finally met you.” Barone kissed his wife’s cheek.

  That night, he and Tessie drank champagne and ate roasted lamb with mint jelly and just as he promised, they also danced. After they made love in their suite at the Fountainebleau, Tessie rested her head in the crook of his arm. “Doesn’t it feel weird to be here with me knowing that your wife is at home?” she asked.

  “To tell you the truth,” he answered, “it feels exactly as I hoped it would.”

  When she wrote to Jerry about that afternoon, Tessie said that Fran seemed like a nice person and she was glad the four of them could finally get together. His message came to her a week later, after she realized that she had left the picture of Dinah and Jerry at the botanical gardens on the nightstand next to Fran’s bed.

  FIFTEEN

  The mind is one of the most important body parts,” Victoria told Tessie, during one of their Saturday lunches. “It’s as vital as your hair. You wash your hair, you trim it, you keep it stylish. If you don’t, it gets dull, shapeless, pathetically out of date. The same is true of your mind, you see what I mean?”

  Tessie shook her head and tried to keep a straight face, imagining what Barone—who was losing his hair rapidly—would think of this analogy.

  “My best inspirations come to me when I am able to put all thoughts out of my head,” Victoria went on. “Sometimes when I am shopping, I swear I go into a trance. I am there, but part of me is far away.” Victoria closed her eyes and pictured herself in a dressing room, slacks, and blouses draped over chairs; dresses still waiting at attention on their hangers, each garment promising new possibilities. She’d place her hands on her hips and study her figure in the mirror. The years would slip away: she was nobody’s mother, there had been no fire. She was Miss Pearly Whites, the young Mrs. Landy, the hostess of parties where Anita Bryant ate shrimp and oysters leaning back on satin pillows in her all-white living room. That’s when the ideas—wild ideas—would come to her.

  “So last week, I was trying on bathing suits—Catalina does the most slimming styles, by the way—and I started to think about Reggie and what it was about him that repelled me the most. There’s a lot to choose from in that area, believe me, but I realized it was his teeth. Seeing his gums and the way the spit comes through the open spaces where the teeth should be—well, that is disgusting—never mind about that. And then it dawned on me. I could get Doctor Simons to build Reggie a set of teeth. I could buy Reggie some teeth.”

  Again, Tessie had to control herself. She thought about the poem that Jerry would write to go with the teeth:

  This special present is made for you,

  Think of me when you bite or chew.

  Victoria stared at Tessie, her eyebrows raised with expectation. She wanted Tessie to tell her what a fine idea this was, what a humanitarian gesture she was making.

  “Do you think Reggie wants teeth?” Tessie asked.

  “What kind of a question is that?” asked Victoria. “Why wouldn’t he want teeth. Do you think he likes the way he looks?”

  “Maybe he does,” said Tessie, knowing how her answer would get Victoria riled up.

  “Do you mean to tell me that if he has the choice of looking like a decrepit old fool or a man of some substance, that he would choose the former? Tessie Lockhart, you have a lot to learn about human nature.”

  Tessie didn’t know how much longer she could keep up her end of the conversation. She thought about poor Reggie and how his life had become inextricably bound with Victoria’s, so much so that if Victoria decided he was going to have teeth, he was going to have teeth whether he wanted them or not. She wondered if Victoria worried about Crystal half as much as she did about Reggie, and was about to steer the conversation in that direction when she felt a silence drop over the room like a sheet.

  A group of four young black people—three boys, one girl—had walked into Harmon’s. Their movements were sharp and determined, as if they had all been given the same commands. Deliberately, they took their seats on the red vinyl stools and placed their elbows on the yellow countertop. They didn’t speak to each other, and their mouths were fixed in small tight expressions, as if they knew that they had put themselves in harm’s way, and now they were sitting stiffly waiting for it to arrive.

  Victoria turned to look where everyone else was looking. Then she looked at Tessie. “See that young colored fellow, the one with the white Oxford shirt,” she said. “He looks neat and well groomed. And look at those teeth! There’s no reason that with some teeth Reggie couldn’t look like that. You can see my point, that teeth . . .”

  The young man at the counter asked the waitress for toast, jam, and a cup of coffee. The waitress’s name, according to the yellow nametag she wore, was Patsy. “I’m sorry,” she said with strained politeness. “We don’t serve colored people here.” The young man was unmoved. “Please, I’d like some toast with jam and a cup of coffee.” Patsy stared steadily at the hem of her apron as she picked at it with her fingernail. “Damn,” she said. She had snagged her nail. Almost as an afterthought, she looked up at him. “Mr. Harmon has a policy about serving to coloreds. Would you like me to get him?”

  “That would be a fine idea,” said the young man.

  It didn’t take long for word to spread around the neighborhood about what was happening at the lunch counter. Arnold Kamfer, whose funeral parlor was just a block down the street, came into the restaurant to see for himself. Some of the fraternity boys who were buying liquor a block away at Landy’s, also stopped in. Mr. Harmon, who had earned the nickname Big Red because of the color of his hair and the permanent flush on his face, walked over to where the young people were sitting. As he wiped his hands on a dirty dish towel, he stared down at the young man who had asked for toast and coffee. “I thank you to leave here, son, before there’s any trouble.”

  “I would like some toast with jam and a cup of coffee,” said the young man again.

  “You leave me no choice but to call the police,” said Mr. Harmon.

  As he turned to go back into the kitchen and use the phone, Arnold Kamfer stood up, walked slowly to the lunch counter. He stood there, studying the crowd in the restaurant to make sure that all eyes were upon him. Then he picked up the red plastic ketchup container from the counter and squeezed it into the hair of the young black woman. She lowered her head and kept her elbows on the table as the ketchup dribbled down her face and onto her blouse. She barely moved except to bring her hand to her face and, with a simple flicking gesture, wipe the ketchup from above her eye.

  “That poor girl,” said Tessie. “Should we do something?”

  The noise of the crowd grew louder.

  “Yes,” said Victoria
. “We should get the hell out of here.” She reached in her bag, pulled four dollar bills from her wallet, and left them on the table. With Tessie following behind her, Victoria pushed aside one of the fraternity boys who blocked the door. “What are you staring at?” she said to him, then turned to Tessie. “My God, have you ever seen a worse complexion?”

  At about that time, Charlie had left the liquor store and was running up University Avenue to find out what was happening. He got there just in time to see two police cars pull up in front of Harmon’s. Four policemen, their hands resting on the nightsticks that hung from their belts, marched into the restaurant. When they came out, each was holding a protester by the scruff of the neck. Outside, a crowd was starting to assemble. Someone threw a rock; someone else threw a shoe.

  Four blocks to the north of the liquor store was the black section of town. At the Old Stone Church, Ella and Pauline were attending a prayer meeting when word came that some Freedom Riders had staged a sit-in at Harmon’s. It was Pauline who urged Ella that they sneak over to see what was happening. Charlie was standing on the sidewalk across from Harmon’s when he noticed the two women walking down University Avenue. He rushed toward them. “What are you doing here?” He was incredulous. “This is no place for you to be.”

  “We wanted to see,” said Pauline. Ella kept her eyes fixed on her friend. She looked scared and small. Charlie grabbed each woman by the arm and started off down the street away from Harmon’s and back toward his store.

  Suddenly, a face that Charlie recognized as one of the fraternity boys who came into the store once in a while, pushed himself up close to Charlie’s face and shouted “Nigger lover!” Charlie moved in front of Ella and a rock caught him on the side of the head. One of the guys who worked across the street at the Gulf station sunk his fist into Charlie’s ribs. For a moment, it was the bulk of the old women that kept Charlie standing. Then, a bunch of young boys came out of nowhere, just like the rock and the fist, and formed a circle around Charlie, Ella, and Pauline. Charlie prepared himself for another blow. One of the boys shouted to the gathering crowd, “Get the hell away from these people, or we’ll beat the crap out of you.” Charlie recognized the boy as Huddie Harwood, Crystal’s friend. The small posse moved clumplike down the street. It was a startling sight: the young man with the plump baby-fat cheeks arm-in-arm with two old black women, bent over as if they were struggling against the wind; and the boys that surrounded them in a “Ring around the Rosy” circle. People turned and stared. Even the policemen towering over the crowd on their quarter horses stopped to take in the curious sight. Ella, Charlie, and Pauline, their arms entwined, their eyes fixed straight ahead, just kept walking.

  Then Charlie saw the beauty parlor up the street from Harmon’s. He’d grown up hearing about the genius, J. Baldy. This seemed a good time to meet him. “Let’s go in there,” he said, nodding toward the bright red door with its brass handle. The boys guarded Charlie, Ella, and Pauline as they ducked into Baldy’s doorway. “I’ll tell my sister I saw you,” Charlie said to Huddie. Huddie winked and took off with his pals.

  Charlie pushed against the door. It was locked. The curtains were drawn and there were no lights coming from inside. Then he saw the curtain move and a face pushed against the window staring at him, a face he recognized as Mr. Baldy’s. “I’m Charlie Landy, Victoria’s son,” he mouthed slowly. And again, “Victoria Landy’s son.” Charlie watched the taut face at the glass soften with recognition. He saw the man reach his hand up to unlatch the lock. Charlie and Ella and Pauline pushed through the door. “Come quickly,” said the man with his hand still on the lock. Once they got inside, he locked the door again, and leaned up against it.

  It was quiet inside the shop. The smell of apples and the soothing sight of the peach-colored walls were a sharp contrast to the shouting and the press of bodies outside. Charlie, Ella, and Pauline still clung to each other. Jésus had recognized Charlie from Maynard Landy’s funeral.

  “This is Ella and her friend Pauline,” Charlie said.

  “Of course, Ella,” said Jésus. “You must be the sister of Reggie.”

  Ella stared at Jésus, unable to find words. Being in this place with its leather chairs and fancy pictures on the walls was as scary to Ella and Pauline as being outside with a mob of angry people. Was it proper for them to sit down? They stood before Jésus like two schoolgirls.

  “Yes, sir,” said Ella meekly. “Reggie Sykes is my brother.”

  Jésus heard the tightness in her voice echoing his own fear. That’s when he noticed the blood trickling down the side of Charlie’s face. “You are hurt,” he said. “Come, Sonia will fix it.”

  Sonia beckoned Charlie to follow her to the magenta sink where she washed the ladies’ hair. “Please, sit,” she said.

  To hear a soft voice and have a place to lie back seemed like a miracle to Charlie. The tightness in his stomach was finally relenting. He lay back on the chair, rested his head on the curve of the porcelain, and fell soundly asleep. He didn’t even feel it when Sonia dabbed his cut with hydrogen peroxide, then pressed a cloth with cold water against it to stanch the bleeding.

  Jésus invited Ella and Pauline to sit. “Please, it would be my pleasure,” he said, offering Ella his hand to help her into the seat. “Is a horrible thing, what’s happening,” he said. “I never thought I’d see something like this in America.”

  “Mr. Baldy,” said Ella. “Often times me and Mr. Landy talked about the times ahead. We have to put our faith in God and pray. He gives us the strength for whatever comes.” As if summoned by Ella’s words, there was a pounding at the door. Nobody moved as the pounding got more insistent. Tentatively, Jésus stepped closer to the window and tugged the curtain aside to see who it might be. “Oh my goodness,” he cried and unlocked the door. In flew Victoria, with Tessie holding on to the back of her blouse as if they were playing tag.

  “Good God, what’s going on out there?” said Victoria, her voice rising. “We were stuck in that crowd for nearly half an hour.” Victoria’s hands were trembling. “I swear, we nearly got trampled to death.”

  It was Tessie who saw Ella first. “Ella?” she uttered in disbelief. It was one more thing in an afternoon of too many things.

  Terrified that Victoria would be angry with her for being where she shouldn’t, Ella got up and offered Victoria her chair. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Landy,” she said, stumbling over her own words. “Pauline and me, when we heard about the incident at the coffee shop, we came downtown to see what was going on. We saw Charlie and the three of us were walking down the street when someone hit Charlie in the head with a rock.” She was talking faster now. “And then these boys, they came and made a circle around us and told the crowd that if anyone touched us, they would be mighty sorry. And then Charlie said he thought nobody would follow us in here, so the boys took us here and Mr. Baldy let us come inside.”

  “Charlie’s here, too?” said Victoria. “Oh, boy.” She puffed out her cheeks, snorting as if she’d just had a close call.

  “Yes ma’am, he’s in the back with Sonia. She’s washing up his wound.”

  Victoria took in the sight of Charlie lying in Sonia’s chair, of Ella and Pauline in this place, this expensive place—her sanctuary—of Jésus, his usually impassive face, rigid with anxiety, of Tessie, frightened witless.

  “Well this is . . . for God’s sake, Charlie Landy.” She crammed a piece of Juicy Fruit in her mouth. “Can’t you just be with people your own age and act normal for a change? Why do you always have to go butting your nose into other people’s business?”

  By now, Charlie was sitting up, holding the cold compress to his head. “It wasn’t other people, it was Ella,” he said softly.

  “You care more about everyone else than you care about me. I tell you . . .” Victoria didn’t finish her sentence. She was diverted by Ella’s face in the mirror. For all the years she had known her, Ella wore her hair in a bun, hard and neat as a golf ball. Now, for the first time
, Victoria noticed her high cheekbones, her broad forehead, her strong masculine hands—maybe there was even some Cherokee blood in her. How could she have never seen this, that with a more flattering hairdo and some weight loss, Ella might be an attractive woman?

  Victoria cracked her gum. Charlie could never understand how she could create a little gum-bubble, then pop it open using only her back teeth. The cracking was steady as Victoria stared off into space. Charlie knew that when she cracked and stared she was thinking about something, and whatever it was, it was something he would never have predicted. Victoria turned her attention to Jésus. “I know this sounds crazy at a time like this, but you know me, always Miss Practical. While we’re all stuck here with this zoo going on, I wonder what could you do with Ella’s hair, you know, to give it a little pizzaz.”

  “Oh Mrs. Landy,” Ella protested. “I couldn’t. That wouldn’t be right.”