by E. J. Olsen
Nikki added more hot water to her bath and closed her eyes. She remembered her first Halloween in Palmer Woods. How she'd gone and bought three bags of candy, even though she'd seen very few children in the neighborhood.
That Halloween had been particularly cold, and she'd wondered how the children were going to show off their angel wings and Superman capes if they were bundled up like Eskimos. She'd just come home from work and barely had a bowl of soup before the doorbell rang.
She'd put on her witch's hat and run to the door, expecting to see tiny tots hollering, "Trick or Treat!" Instead, there were adults and teenagers, most with only a half-cocked attempt at a costume—the stark white face paint of the "Dead Presidents," or a terrifying Freddy Krueger mask—holding out a pillowcase for candy. They came in droves all night, kids tumbling out of buses and church vans, and the hungry adults vying with them for the best candy.
The enormity of it had shocked and depressed her. As she opened the door, some of them peeked inside. "You have a nice house," they'd said and she'd blushed, Marie Antoinette doling out her little pieces of cake.
Within an hour after sunset, she'd given away all of her candy and had started combing the kitchen for bags of chips, apples, anything. She'd finally closed the door and turned off all of the lights, trembling. And still, the footsteps came.
This was Detroit. A city where there was no place to hide.
"Nikki? Nikki!"
Suddenly came her husband's voice on the stairs—the front stairs—his keys jangling in his hand. Nikki felt a wash of relief. "I'm in the tub getting ready. Where were you?"
"On an international conference call, couldn't get away to call you. Sorry."
Just like that, there he was grinning in the doorway, his teal silk tie setting off his russet complexion.
"Is that what you're wearing?" he asked, his eyes lingering on the bubbles glistening against her amber skin.
In his presence, the noises of the house silenced themselves. Her fears shriveled.
"Stop playing," she said. "Get dressed."
There's no such thing as a little bit pregnant.
Nikki was surprised at how true the old adage was, how completely pregnancy had changed everything, though she was only nine weeks and barely showing. Even now, as Jason helped her into her plush, vintage Mouton coat, she felt a tip in the balance between them, something she hadn't known in their five-year marriage.
"Careful," he said, as he tucked her into the Cadillac.
Nikki noticed how her own senses had become heightened, almost feral. As they walked up the marble steps to the Detroit Institute of Arts, the cold spotlight of the moon caused her to squint. She could almost hear the clacking of the brittle limbs overhead as the autumn wind tossed the branches. Jason's cologne—the bottle she'd bought him on her last business trip to New York—was suddenly overpowering. She thought, too, that she could sense something uneasy in the way he guided her by the elbow into the Diaspora Ball.
No, she thought. It was her own insecurity. The long-coming surprise of a baby after two years of trying. The kind of doubts that a child can raise in even the most prepared couples.
Jason had been less than accepting when Nikki had presented him with the blue plus sign on the plastic stick. Maybe he'd been going along with her quest for a child because he'd come to believe that they'd never conceive. But the positive pregnancy test had called his bluff.
Suddenly, he'd been full of reasons why they shouldn't have a baby: He traveled too much; they didn't have enough savings; in Detroit, they'd have to commit to twelve years of private school, not to mention a nanny.
Nikki had listened to his rational arguments and smiled. At least he was thinking like a father, even if he wasn't sure he wanted to be one. Maybe what both of them needed was time to get used to the idea.
Since then, the baby had floated in the silent sea between them.
"Julie!" came Jason's greeting as he planted the customary kiss on an acquaintance's cheek. "Julie, you remember my wife? Nikki …"
Nikki smiled and offered a limp handshake. There was an effort at conversation—the Pistons, the mayoral election, the coming auto show—then on to another couple. Sipping club soda with a lime twist, Nikki soon found herself wandering away from Jason's salesman-like energy. She needed to breathe.
She found herself where she always ended up whenever she visited the art institute, even when she came there for Thursday night jazz or Sunday Brunch with Bach.
The N'konde, a nail figure from the Congo.
It was like no other artifact in the African collection. Standing nearly four feet tall and carved out of ebony, its features were oddly un-African—a jutting chin, sharp nose, and bony cheeks. Against the palette of the smooth, smoky wood were the figure's half moon eyes, as white and dazed as a mummy's. Nikki hadn't noticed the cowrie shell belly button before. Suddenly it seemed to gape open rawly, like the figure had just been yanked from an umbilical cord.
What always drew her to the N'konde was its torso, jabbed and jammed with rusted nails, screws, and blades. According to the placard, when two parties reached an agreement, they'd drive a nail into its body to seal the oath. If anyone broke the promise, the N'konde's spirit would punish him.
This N'Konde's body was a garment of promises, spikes sticking horribly from its chest, belly, shoulders, and even its chin. The figure's mouth was partially open in a punctured surprise, its jagged teeth guarding a deeper darkness.
Nikki gazed at it in horrified fascination, wondering how the parties had decided where to impale the figure to seal a deal. What were they doing now, their contracts hijacked to this glass case, their promises forgotten and unaccounted for?
The din of the party nearly evaporated as Nikki stood there, entranced. The figure seemed to want to tell her something. She was suddenly aware of the low-grade nausea that was her constant companion. Her head started to swim.
Then came the sound—a man's familiar laughter echoing in the empty exhibit hall.
"What else do you want me to do to you?"
Low murmurs. A woman's muffled giggles.
Nikki thought she had heard that same sexy bass in her own ear many times. "Jason?" she whispered, as the N'konde stared, eyes hard white.
Her heart began to pound. Spinning around, she saw no one nearby. Wobbling, she wondered if she'd dreamed the voices. She fought to tamp the bile gathering at her throat. Heading into the crowd, she hoped to make an escape. She was nearly to the door when someone grabbed her arm.
"Nikki? I didn't know you were here!"
It was her sorority sister, Terry Hines, dressed, as always, in shades of pink and green.
"Hey, Terry," Nikki managed foggily.
"Girl, are you okay?"
Nikki blinked twice. Try to get it together. "I—I'm pregnant."
As soon as it left her lips, she regretted the slip. Detroit was a small, big town. People were constantly cross-pollinating. Gossip took root quickly.
"WHAT???" Terry shrieked, her garnet lips shimmering against her dark honey skin. Then, lowering her voice conspiratorially, she asked, "How far along are you? Do you need to sit down?"
Before she could answer, Jason was at her side. "There you are," he said, exasperated. "I was wondering where you'd wandered off to!" He sidled up to her, lovingly planting a kiss on her cheek.
"My God, Jason, Nikki just told me!" gushed Terry, not catching the look of foreboding in Nikki's eyes.
Jason glanced from Terry's exuberant face to Nikki's miserable one, sizing up the awkward pause.
"The baby?" Terry prompted.
Jason was taken aback, but tried to conceal it. "OH!" he said, smiling uneasily. "Yeah! Imagine me—a dad!"
"We're not really telling people yet," Nikki said. "It's still early, you know …"
Terry's eyes grew large and she covered her mouth as if to cap a secret. "Of course," she said. "But I just know that everything will be fine."
"I'd better get you home," Jas
on said. "You look a little pale."
Nikki nodded, letting him lead her toward the door, his hand firm around her waist. Her body went limp against his, seeking forgiveness.
Outside, the night air had turned frosty, the flat moon giving the ground its luster.
"It slipped," Nikki said finally, as they waited for their car.
Jason nodded, but said nothing.
While they rode home, she glared at the sights along Woodward, the strange people with their nightshade business, shivering in the cold. She was tired, her bones heavy.
Jason noticed her trembling and turned up the heat. The fan only blew the freezing air harder and she reached up to close the vents. She could feel his eyes on her, but he said nothing to lighten the mood. The moon, yellowing as it rose, followed them home.
His silence humiliated her, and she wondered how he'd managed so quickly to turn the tables. Wasn't it he who'd just backed another woman against a display case and fondled her? Wasn't it he who'd suddenly been unable to come home on time like he used to, who always left her waiting, who wouldn't return her calls?
He pulled the Cadillac into their driveway, got out of the car, and walked around to her side to let her out. On the porch, he was about to put the keys in the lock, but instead he turned and looked at her.
"I don't want a baby," he said.
He stared at her, his eyes accusing her of ruining everything. But she stared back, her feet planted and steady, the queasiness fading into resolve.
"I do," she said back, the shivering now ceasing. "I do."
He lowered his eyes. For a long moment, he didn't speak. "It's cold out here," he said finally. "Let's talk inside."
He leaned to put the key in the door, but like a dark invitation, it swung open by itself. His eyes shot her a question: "Didn't you lock the door?" But it was too late.
Inside the house, the night moved.
PART III
SILENCE OF THE CITY
THE COFFEE BREAK
BY MELISSA PREDDY
Grandmont-Rosedale
"Oh, miss!"
"Miss!"
"Waitress, could we get some service down here?"
More cream, more ketchup. Tuna on toast, ham on rye, two slices of cherry pie. I slapped down one heavy white crockery plate after another like a blackjack dealer at a full table, my lace-up oxfords treading sideways, crablike, on the Coke-sticky linoleum floor behind the counter.
Welcome to the lunchtime shift at Cunningham's.
Clinking cutlery and the snapping of streamers attached to the store's giant fans created a background hum that sometimes made me strain to take in the orders for egg salad, iced tea, and Vernors.
It was August 1 of a sizzling summer and no one was ordering the patty melt.
Payday, no less. Which meant that every stool would be occupied for at least two hours straight, as the drugstore's flush-with-cash shoppers hovered like vultures and those seated pretended not to see waiting patrons' reflections fidgeting in the big ad-plastered mirrors that hid the kitchen from view.
Finally, around 2 o'clock or so, the counter was mostly clear and the pockets of my celery-green apron—our uniforms matched the tile on the store's façade—drooped with their welcome load of nickels, dimes, and the occasional quarter. I packed a tumbler with crushed ice, topped it off with water, and sipped.
Grabbing a copy of Photoplay from under the counter, I fanned myself for a minute before glancing at the bleached-blond starlet on the cover. That's when it dawned on me: It was two days now since Marjorie had been in for her customary coffee and cigarette. We had been kicking around some ideas for Saturday—maybe go to a show, maybe even ride downtown to check out the fall fashions just appearing in Hudson's showrooms.
I peered through the window, trying to catch a glimpse of her in the storefront manicure booth at Kay's Beauty Nook across the street, but the bustling sidewalk crowd blocked my view.
One of the redeeming features of this job—aside from the tips, which really were pretty good if you were fast on your feet like me and not above a little flirting with the guys and fawning over the women—was the movie screen–like view of this busy shopping district where Grand River sliced through Greenfield Road at a forty-five-degree angle.
Triangle-shaped Cunningham's jutted out into the intersection and the wide windows on both sides of my counter gave me a better view than Jimmy Stewart had in last year's Hitchcock hit, Rear Window.
Buses chugged up and disgorged patrons for the beauty parlor, the funeral parlor, dress shops and dentists, bakers and shoemakers and hardware merchants.
Not Detroit's most posh neighborhood, this westside district was far from the worst, either—just a solid Main Street– style shopping center about seven miles down Grand River from the city's skyscrapers.
Montgomery Wards' cupola, revolving door, and ritzy awnings lent the neighborhood a bit of big-city flair, while across the street Federal's and Woolworth's appealed to the budget trade.
The busy intersection pulsed with secretaries and factory workers, housewives from the nearby neighborhoods, teachers and students from the schools down the block. On a clear day you could almost see the Penobscot building, but a lot of my customers felt no need to trek downtown. It was all right here.
I'd come to Detroit a couple of years ago to nurse a sickly cousin. She was long gone, but I was still behind this counter—mostly 9 to 6, sometimes the late shift. With that wide-angle view I could spot the regulars on their predictable rounds, like the players in my own private movie.
The daily drama unfolded with the breakfast trade.
There was Mrs. Boyd, the raven-haired pet shop lady, who showed up promptly at 9:15 every weekday for her poached egg, wheat toast, and tea. Woe betide the cook if her yolk was broken.
Today, she was exchanging small talk with Mr. Giles, the head floorwalker on Wards' second floor. While awaiting his daily oatmeal and cream, he'd snatch a napkin from the chrome dispenser and polish the walk-to-work perspiration from his steel-rimmed spectacles. I often maneuvered to seat them side-by-side, envisioning a romance between the animal-loving widow and the courtly merchant, but so far my meddling had only spawned dry comparisons of inventory ledgers.
The neighborhood beat cop, Mick—short for the less pronounceable Michlewandoski—took his usual turn through the store and then stopped to exchange news with the security guard from the bank across the street. Mick's report was usually pretty tame—a broken window, a bit of shoplifting—and I had the impression he liked it that way. As always, the guard was late and wolfing his ham and eggs in order to take up his post by 9:30.
Missing today was Carl Strachan, who managed the Thom McAn shoe store down the street and stopped in most mornings for a BLT. Blessed with the leading-man looks of John Gavin and a healthy helping of offhand boyish charm, he capitalized on both and the result was possibly the liveliest love life west of Woodward. Most of us single women who lived and worked around the intersection had been lured once or twice by the salesman's spiel.
Carl, as he constantly bragged, kept a boat docked down in Wyandotte. While a sail on the breezy, cool Detroit River sounded like heaven, I could never quite bring myself to accept. There was something sly about the way he knelt in the shoe store, turning what should have been a two-minute fitting into a stealthy caress of my nyloned feet and ankles. Girls who did set sail with Carl said he dropped the Cary Grant act once they were beyond swimming distance from shore, and made it clear he expected a lot more than a goodnight kiss for his troubles. Some were dismayed at his brutish insistence and their own vulnerability out on the choppy waters. Others had the night of their lives on the blankets in Carl's floating love nest. Myself, I didn't fancy becoming just another notch on his mast.
There were plenty of other curiosities among my customers, but you get the general idea. And the passersby on the street, whose names I never knew, rounded out the cast.
There was the sultry brunette who spoke only Russian but
showed up twice a week to Kay's for her shampoo and set; the gaggle of gossips who never failed to check out the weekly dress sales at Lerner's and Three Sisters; the harried-looking mothers dragging redfaced kids up the narrow stairway to the dentist's chair.
Gingham-dressed cleaning women emerged each morning from Woolworth's with a fresh supply of Bon Ami and ammonia; efficient church ladies bustled in and out of Holy Cross Lutheran. Veiled mourners trudged up the steps at Bishop's. Brylcreemed delivery boys jostled doting grannies who clutched string-tied cardboard cake boxes from Ralph's Bakery.
Weekdays around 4 o'clock, you could set your watch by the cluster of tool-and-die men who wiped greasy fingers on bandanas as they pushed their way into Leonard's Bar &Grill for thirty-cent bottles of Stroh's and bloody-rare ground rounds.
And Tuesday through Saturday, there was Marjorie's Doris Day–platinum bob bent over a customer's bright talons in the window at Kay's.
"Okay if I take my break now?" I asked the cook. He nodded, so I stepped around the counter and pushed through the glass doors onto the simmering sidewalk.
Inside the salon it was even steamier, the hair dryers fighting a losing battle with the humidity. Kay was doing a manicure on a longtime client at Marjorie's station. She was clearly rusty, fumbling in exasperation with the unfamiliar tools and supplies.
"Is Marjie sick or something?" I asked.
Kay wielded her emery board laboriously, not looking up. "This is the second day she's missed without calling. I don't know if she's sick, but I can tell you one thing: She's fired."
