Shanika shrugged. “Still, he’s your father. And like Mama said, you should show him some kind of respect.”
“To get respect, you earn respect; and maybe some money along with it. I don’t have any respect for a man who chases women instead of chasing a dollar.”
Shanika shook her head, then emptied her glass and put it down in front of her. “You’re too judgmental, Joseph.”
“Shut up, White Girl.”
“Mama,” Shanika said as Rina entered the kitchen. “See? You heard him, right? He called me ‘White Girl’ again.”
“I told you about that already, Joseph,” Rina said as she went to the sink and picked up the pot she had previously filled with water.
“Mama, what are you doing? I’m taking us out to eat, remember? You don’t have to cook.”
“You two go on ahead. I’m going to stay home with Peter. I’ll just fix us something light,” Rina said while putting the pot on the stove and turning on the burner. “You don’t have to worry about us.”
“Aw, Mama.” Joseph walked over and hugged his mother from behind. “Come on and go. Please? Listen, I can hear Papa snoring all the way in here. He’s back to sleep already. Please? Please?”
“Yeah, Mama,” Shanika chimed in. “We’ll probably be back before Papa even wakes up.”
“Well . . .” Rina hesitated. “I don’t know—”
“Good! It’s decided.” Joseph planted a kiss on his mother’s forehead. “Just leave Papa a note that you’re bringing him a doggy bag. Come on, old woman. Let’s get a move on.”
“Well, I . . .” Rina hesitated, then smiled. “Okay. I could use a break, I guess. Just let me change my dress.”
“You look fine, Mama. Or are you planning on picking up some man, since Papa isn’t coming?” Joseph teased.
“Oh, just hush now. It won’t take me but a minute,” Rina said while walking out the kitchen.
“Okay, so come on over here and have a seat and tell me what’s new in your life,” Joseph said, waving Shanika over to the table. “How’s the job hunt going?”
“Things are looking up. I told you about that job interview I have coming up in New York next week, right? I have a good feeling about it.”
Joseph nodded. “Paxon and White?”
“Paxon and Green.”
“I knew it was some kinda color. Are they flying you in?”
Shanika shook her head. “I’m taking the train.”
Joseph whistled. “Damn, that’s quite a haul. Are they paying for the train? Or your hotel?”
Shanika shook her head again.
Joseph looked at her for a moment, then sighed. How could someone so smart be so dumb, he wondered. His sister was smart as a whip, but she was constantly making bad decisions. Quite possibly, he knew, because there was always someone there to bail her out. “Nikkie, I wish you had taken my advice and done some summer internships while you were still in school. You’d have a job by now, or at least agencies flying you in to interview instead of you having to do all this on your own dime.”
Shanika cleared her throat. “Speaking of dimes—”
“Don’t worry, sis. I’ll cover you for your hotel and train fare.” He knew it didn’t make any sense trying to be coy about it, since she knew he was going to cave as he always did. As most everybody always did.
“Oh man, Joe . . . thanks.” She hesitated for a moment. “Um, do you think you might be able to help me out with something to wear on the interview? I really want to wear a business suit, but I don’t have one.”
“Yeah, well, you can borrow one of Ayoka’s since she won’t be able to wear them for a while.”
“Aw man—”
“Stop whining, White Girl.”
“To heck with you, Black Boy,” Shanika said as she poured herself another glass of the iced tea. “But, um, still. Thanks.”
Chapter Two
Thank Jesus for Nordstrom. And thank God Almighty for the fact that Ayoka had a Nordstrom credit card. Even though Joseph wouldn’t agree to buy Shanika a new suit, his wife understood exactly where Shanika was coming from when she said she wouldn’t feel confident going into an important interview while wearing a borrowed suit.
Shanika fingered the crisp white linen Ann Taylor suit she’d decided on, and wondered how Ayoka would feel about her also buying a pair of pumps to match the outfit. She paid for the suit, then marched over to the shoe department, confident that she could make the case with her sister-in-law.
“Do you have these in a size nine?” She pointed to the satin sling backs being exhibited on the display rack.
“I believe we have,” the smiling clerk answered. “Let me check real quick.”
Shanika sat down in a chair while the clerk disappeared into the back. Only two days before her trip to New York, she thought with a smile accompanied by an excited shiver. Her first outing to the Big Apple. And, if all went according to plan, her new home. She would take New York by storm. She was sure of that. Her name, her picture, and her exploits would be featured on the infamous Page Six of the New York Post—not because she’d be involved in any kind of scandal, but because she’d be one of the “beautiful people” who deserved mention in the media. She’d probably get more print than her PR clients. In fact, if they were smart, they’d want to hang out with her just to make sure they’d get play themselves. And she’d let them. After all, that’s what she would be getting paid for.
“We only have a nine and a half. Will that be okay?” The clerk was at her side holding an unopened shoe box. Shanika headed to the cashier’s desk after trying the shoes on.
“I mean, come on, do you really believe she wasn’t messing with him while he was still married to Jennifer Aniston?” the redheaded cashier asked another clerk, a Madonna look-alike, who was standing by the register.
“Well, Jennifer said she believed him when he said he was faithful during the marriage, so who am I to doubt it?” the clerk answered.
“Well, if you ask me, she only said it because it added to her vanilla image,” the cashier said with a shrug. “I mean, after all, Jennifer is the new Meg Ryan now. America’s latest ‘Little Sweetheart.’ ”
“Ooh, isn’t that the truth?” Shanika broke in as she put the shoes on the counter. “America loved ole Meg until they found out she was committing adultery with Russell Crowe.”
“Heck, can you blame her?” The cashier laughed as she rang up the purchase. “I’d cheat on my husband if Russell Crowe was trying to talk to me.”
“And if I was a man, I’d cheat on my wife with Angelina Jolie,” Shanika said with a giggle as she handed the young woman Ayoka’s credit card.
“Isn’t that the truth?” said the clerk standing by the counter. “I don’t even swing that way and I have to say I think she’s sexy as hell.”
“So exotic-looking,” the cashier agreed while swiping the card through the register without bothering to look at the name. Shanika waited until the credit card authorization information appeared on the digital display by the side of the register, then picked up the attached pen and signed Ayoka’s name.
“Here you go.” The cashier handed her a bag with the shoes inside. “You have a nice day. And don’t worry, I won’t tell Angelina Jolie you think she’s a floozy.”
“I didn’t say that.” Shanika laughed, and the cashier and other clerk joined in. She started to walk away, then turned back. “Oh, I forgot I had these in my hand.” She put a large set of ivory earrings on the counter.
“Oh, these are nice!” The cashier picked up the earrings to examine them more closely. “Are they a gift?”
“No, they’re for me. They match the shoes.”
“Yeah, but . . .” The clerk by the counter hesitated. “I don’t know. They look more like something a black person would wear, don’t you think? What do they call it? Ethnic?”
Shanika smiled and shrugged. “Well, I’m ethnic.”
“Yes, of course, we all are, but I mean—”
“African-American? Well, I’m African-American.” Shanika grinned.
The clerk and the cashier looked at her, then at each other, and then back at her.
“I am! Seriously!” Shanika laughed out loud.
“Wow! You could have fooled me,” the cashier said finally. She rested her arms on the counter and leaned for a better look at Shanika. “So you’re, um, biracial, huh? Is your mother
or father black?”
“Both.”
“But then . . .” The cashier stared at Shanika, then at the clerk as if for support, before turning back to Shanika. “But then how come you look white?”
“Well, I have white ancestry on both my father’s and mother’s sides, and I’m what they call a throwback. Both of my parents and my brother are light-skinned, but I’m the only one with skin this light. People mistake me for white all the time.” Shanika flashed a satisfied grin at the two women.
“I can see how,” the clerk said as she edged closer for a better look. “You just look like you have a tan. In fact”—she stretched her arm out next to Shanika’s—“you’re fairer than me, girlfriend.”
“I know that’s right, child,” the cashier joined in. “Ain’t that right?”
“For real,” the clerk answered.
Inwardly, Shanika rolled her eyes, though she kept her smile plastered on the outside of her face. What was it with white folks that once they find out they’re talking to an African-American they have to try to use what they thought was African-American vernacular? She picked up the earrings and handed them to the cashier. “So, can I purchase these at this counter or do I have to go to the costume jewelry counter?”
“No, you can buy them here.” The cashier rang up the purchase. “That’ll be fifteen dollars and ninety-nine cents. Will you also be placing these on your card?”
Shanika nodded and handed her the card.
“I’ll need to see some ID, please.”
Shanika did a double take. “I beg your pardon,” she said slowly.
“It’s store policy,” the other clerk broke in quickly. “We’re required to ask all customers making credit card purchases to show ID.”
Shanika stared at her coldly. “She didn’t ask me for it a moment ago.” Despite the unspoken part of the sentence, they all knew what she meant: “She didn’t ask me for it a moment ago when she thought I was white.” Damn, I shouldn’t have played my hand until after I bought the earrings. This wasn’t the first time something like this had happened, and she should have anticipated it. She hadn’t come to make a scene or to make some kind of a political statement; she just wanted to buy an outfit for her interview. Yes, with someone else’s credit card, but if it didn’t make a difference when they thought she was white, she’d be damned if they let it make a difference now that they knew she was black.
Shanika turned back to the cashier. “Give me my credit card back, and I’d like to speak to the manager.”
“That won’t be necessary,” the clerk said hurriedly. “Jeannie’s a new employee, and she must have forgotten to ask for your ID, but since she didn’t ask you before, I agree, there’s no reason to ask you now.”
Shanika pulled out an emery board from her purse and began to furiously swipe at her nails. It was a habit of hers. Whenever she was angry, or gearing herself up for a confrontation, she’d pull out an emery board and go over her nails. “I’d like to speak to your manager,” she repeated without looking up at either the cashier or clerk.
The clerk sighed, and then nodded at the cashier, who then picked up a telephone near the register and intoned, “Mrs. Wiles, you’re needed at the shoe counter.”
“I’ll talk to you after lunch, Jeannie,” the clerk said before hurrying away, leaving the now noticeably nervous cashier to fend for herself.
It took about three minutes, but finally an approaching voice asked, “What seems to be the problem?”
Shanika looked up to see a middle-aged woman with ebony skin, flashing dark eyes, and a purposeful stride nearing them. Shanika wouldn’t have been able to hide her smile if she tried, and she didn’t. This was in the bag. She dropped her emery board back into her purse.
“Mrs. Wiles—” the cashier started.
“Mrs. Wiles,” Shanika interrupted her, “I’m a longtime Nordstrom customer who has now run into a serious problem.” She put her hand out for a handshake.
Mrs. Wiles didn’t hesitate in physical action, but Shanika felt the familiar rake of the eyes as the woman shook her hand. White people may be normally clueless about her ethnicity, but African-Americans went by the good old “If there’s enough of a question for you to want to ask, there’s no reason to ask.” Still, many—like the woman now in front of her— studied hard to be sure, trying to pick up on clues like her clothing, her tone, or the people who were around her. And quite often, if she was surrounded by white people, they hesitated even longer.
“My name is Ayoka Jenkins”—Shanika paused long enough to confirm the satisfied “I knew it” in the woman’s eyes before continuing—“and I made a credit card purchase with your cashier a moment ago and was not asked for an ID. I realize now it’s because she thought I was white. But once I happened to mention that I’m black to this same cashier, I’m suddenly asked for credentials.”
“Really?” Mrs. Wiles turned and looked at the cashier, her full lips squeezed almost into a tight line. The cashier visibly shivered under the withering look. “Is this true, Jeannie?”
“Mrs. Wiles, I—”
“I’m not trying to cause any trouble,” Shanika continued, “but I think it’s wrong that I be penalized because I’m openly proud of my heritage, and offered the information unsolicited.” Shanika paused, then decided to go ahead and pound nails in the cashier’s coffin. “It all started because she thought these earrings were too ethnic.”
“It was Rhonda who said they were ethnic,” the cashier protested.
“But it was you who all of a sudden decided I needed to show ID when I said I was African-American,” Shanika snapped at her before turning back to Mrs. Wiles. “Like I said, I don’t want to cause any trouble, but—”
Mrs. Wiles held up her hand. “Ms. Jenkins, you have my most sincere apologies. It is indeed store policy to ask for ID when customers make credit card purchases, but it’s an all-around policy, I assure you, not a random policy.” She shot the cashier a dirty look.
“If you’ll be kind enough to give Jeannie your credit card again, I’d like to have her add one hundred dollars to your account for your inconvenience. I hope that will be okay?”
“That won’t be necessary,” Shanika answered, hoping the ante would be raised to maybe five hundred.
“Please. I insist,” Mrs. Wiles said.
Oh well, one hundred dollars is good enough. Shanika nodded, and handed the cashier Ayoka’s credit card again.
“Er, excuse me, Mrs. Wiles,” the cashier said nervously. “I had just rung up the earrings—”
“The earrings are on the house, and after you’re finished with this transaction, call for someone to relieve you. I’d like to see you in my office immediately. And tell Rhonda I’d like to see her, too.”
Mrs. Wiles smiled at Shanika. “Again, Ms. Jenkins, my sincere apologies, and I hope this little incident won’t further mar your shopping experience here at Nordstrom.”
Shanika nodded absentmindedly. Now that I’m one hundred dollars to the good, I might as well see if I can find a clutch bag to go with the suit and the pumps.
She only took a few steps toward the handbag department before she stopped. It would be selfish of her to use the money to buy something for herself. After all, it was Ayoka’s card, and she’d already spent about $150 on the suit and pumps. No, the right thing to do would be to give the card back to Ayoka, thank her, and tell her about the hundred-dollar credit to her account.
Or, I could buy a handbag for Ayoka. I know she loves accessorizing, but she’s so sweet to everyone that she seldom buys anything for hersel
f. And she always says she loves my taste. I’ll buy it for her, that way she won’t feel guilty.
It only took her ten minutes to pick out the perfect clutch bag. She marched over, presented the credit card to make the purchase, and then hurried out the store, proud that she had picked out such a wonderful bag for her sister-in-law.
Of course since it also matches my new outfit so well, I’m sure if I ask, Ayoka won’t mind me borrowing it for the interview, Shanika thought happily. All together a very productive shopping day.
Chapter Three
The train from Detroit to Chicago took six hours, and that was bad enough, but the second leg of the trip—from Chicago to New York City—was almost twenty hours. As she struggled with her luggage up the steps at Penn Station, Shanika cursed herself for not insisting that Joe spot her an airline ticket rather than a ride on Amtrak. True, she had waited until the last minute and the airfare would have cost $350, which was more than twice the train fare, but she wouldn’t be so bone-tired now. And so damn sweaty. And aggravated. Thank God the interview wasn’t until the next day. She’d have some time to rest up at the hotel room her brother had reserved for her.
“Excuse me. Can you tell me where the taxi line is?” she asked one of the many police officers milling around the depot. “I was told it was right outside the station, but I don’t see any signs.”
The officer—a beefy dark-haired man of about forty, with a bulbous red nose—looked her up and down before answering. “They closed it down because of the president. You’ll have to walk down the street and hail a cab.”
“The president?” Shanika’s shoulders sagged, and she placed her two suitcases on the platform floor. “They closed the taxi line because of President Bush?”
The officer nodded. “He’s in town so we’re taking extra security precautions. Just walk a couple of blocks in any direction. You’ll be able to catch a ride.”
Shanika looked at her luggage and chewed her lip while the officer strode away without a backward glance. Damn, she thought, why did I have to pack all this stuff? I shoulda listened to Joe. Now I gotta haul all this crap while I look for a cab.
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