I hung my coat up in the living room closet, dropped my purse and overnight case on the sofa, and followed her into the kitchen.
“Are you okay, Mama? That housedress looks like it’s hanging off of you.”
She put the bag on a countertop and started taking the oranges and grapes out of it. “I’m just fine. Me and Elvira joined Weight Watchers. I’m glad to see that it’s workin’.”
Elvira was her friend from across the hall. “Weight Watchers! Mama, you’ve always been thin as a rail!”
“Maybe so but that’s the only new group down at the senior citizens’ place and me and Elvira is tired of just each other’s company.” She said this with a laugh. “We need some new blood.”
I didn’t believe Mama and made a mental note to get to the bottom of whatever was really going on. “Whatever happened to Bingo night at the local church for old ladies?”
She put the last of the fruit in the refrigerator. “Who you callin’ an old lady?”
She was only pretending to be mad.
“We’re tired of losing money at Bingo, so this is something different.”
“Well, all right then, but don’t get carried away.”
I followed her out of the kitchen, down the hall, and into her bedroom, where she took her customary seat in an ancient, white, overstuffed armchair. Mama had settled into a pattern of loneliness. When Elvira wasn’t around, she concentrated on a regular set of television programs with almost religious intensity. When I came over, it usually took her an hour or more to completely shift her focus onto my presence. I decided to use a few minutes of that time to call Alyssa.
“It ain’t me that you should be worried about, Jacqueline. You’re thirty-two years old and ain’t got no man that I can see. I still can’t figure out why you give Paul such a hard way to go when anybody with eyes can see he is crazy about you. If you don’t wanna end up all alone like me, you better get busy.”
No, I didn’t have a man and nasty sex dreams involving me and Victor didn’t count, although I had been smiling about last night’s episode all the way downtown.
“I’m working on it, Mama.”
“Good. I’d like to get a peek at a grandbaby before they put me in my casket.”
Mama had been talking about that casket and planning her funeral ever since I could remember. The details were seared into my brain: Her sisters from Memphis were to be seated in the back of the church behind her friends because they’d never bothered to get on a train and come see her; the choir had to sing “Jesus Keep Me Near the Cross,” and under no circumstances were they allowed to chirp one note of “Amazing Grace” because it was a song she detested; her casket was to be pink, not white; the dress she spent eternity in could not have one of those collars that went up to her chin and it had to be blue because it was a color that had always flattered her; most importantly, if my daddy showed up, I was to slap him silly.
I rubbed her short, gray hair and changed the subject before she could start reciting the grim details of her send-off once more. “What are you watching?”
The TV set was on and the volume was almost deafening, as usual.
“An old rerun of Columbo. The one where Johnny Cash murders his nagging wife.”
That episode was my all-time favorite Columbo. “I’ve got to make a phone call and then I’ll watch it with you.”
“Okay,” she replied, and then stared fixedly at the TV screen.
I used the kitchen phone to call Alyssa.
“Hello?”
“May I speak with Alyssa, please?”
“This is she.”
“Alyssa, it’s Jackie Blue. Are you all right?”
“I’m hanging in there, Jackie.”
“Paul gave me your number. I hope you don’t mind.”
“No. It’s kind of you to call.”
“I’m really sorry about what happened, Alyssa.”
“Thanks. I feel badly for Davina. She was really psyched about the project.”
I didn’t tell Alyssa that Elaine Garner had already stepped in to fill her shoes.
“Is there anything I can do?”
She laughed. “Do you know anyone who needs an editor?”
I thought for a moment. “Not offhand, but I’ll keep my ears open.”
She sighed. “Okay.”
I had a sudden brainstorm. “Alyssa, I’ve got piles of unread manuscripts in my office right now. Do you want a couple of freelance jobs until you find something?”
“Love to!”
“Good. Let me pull some stuff together and I’ll call you on Tuesday.”
“Jackie, don’t get into trouble on my account.”
“What are you talking about?
“Marlene Rashker fucked up big-time, so she is covering her ass. I’ve heard some strange lies about myself over the past few days. Don’t get tainted with my brush.”
I was curious. “Are you going to sue them?”
“My parents want me to but I really shouldn’t have blurted out Davina’s instructions in the meeting that way. I could have told Marlene in private.”
“And without witnesses, she would have taken that project away from you.”
“You’re right, but I really don’t want to get tied up in some big, legal circus.”
“Well, don’t worry about me, Alyssa. I am going to help you regardless of what anyone thinks.”
“What about the rest of the Black Pack?”
“They’re running so hard for cover, they might pass the ghost of Jesse Owens on the way,” I replied.
We both laughed and then I went back to rejoin my mother.
For the next two hours we watched the beleaguered singer struggle to be free of the wily, relentless detective.
It wasn’t until after Lieutenant Columbo discovered the crucial piece of evidence that would hang his prey, Johnny Cash accepted his impending doom with remarkable grace, and the credits started to roll that I started telling Mama about the afternoon I’d spent with the Murrays.
She made a “humph” noise and got up. “Sounds like the husband’s got a real nice hustle goin’ for hisself. He plays aroun’ with pens and pencils while she brings in the butter. What kinda sorry-ass man is that?”
Mama’s kitchen was large. There was enough room for two people to move around in comfortably. I sat down at the round kitchen table that had been there since I was a child.
I chuckled at her dead-on portrait of Craig. “He is a man who doesn’t see any reason why he should work when his wife’s family owns a company that nets at least twenty million dollars a year. Even if he did go and get a nine-to-five, whatever he brought in would look like nothing. I guess he figures, why bother?”
“Do she boss him aroun’?”
“She didn’t used to, but it looks like that is changing. Is there anything in this house to drink, Mama?”
She was cutting up the chicken. I could see the strain on her face as she pulled and tugged.
“You mean liquor?”
“Yeah.”
“Nope. Me and Elvira drank the last li’l bit of rum night before las’.”
“I thought y’all were supposed to be dieting,” I teased.
“Dieting, baby, not dying.”
I kicked off my shoes and shuffled to the refrigerator in my sweat socks. There wasn’t much in the liquid department: a pitcher of water, a pitcher of red Kool-Aid, and one lone can of beer.
“Annabelle was sure wearing the pants in that house yesterday.” I told her about the scene with Dora.
“So he can’t even know what’s wrong wit his own chile?”
“Looks that way,” I agreed, and chugged half the beer before sitting back down.
“Well, it ain’t your problem. Did your work go all right?”
“Let’s just say that Moms Mabley is about to die all over again. Craig is . . . oh, never mind. I really don’t want to rehash the whole thing. It’s just too sad for Black folk.”
She pulled at the breast of the
chicken. “Did you keep your tongue at the bottom of your mouth?”
“Yeah, and I don’t feel good about selling out like that.”
“Someday we won’t have to, baby.”
“If you say so, Mama. By the way, it looks to me like you need a new set of sharp knives.”
“I can make do with these for a while longer.”
“No way. You’re going to give yourself a nasty cut real soon. I’ll make a note in my Filofax to drop by Bloomingdale’s tomorrow evening.”
“What’s that?”
“What?”
“A Filowhatever.”
“An organizing system in book form with tabs for daily appointments, tax records, notes, various lists and stuff. Wait, I’ll show it to you.”
A search of my handbag, overnight case, and Kate Spade duffel bag yielded nothing. I racked my brain trying to remember the last time I’d seen it, and then it hit me.
“Oh, Mama! I left my Filofax in Annabelle’s library. This is a disaster!”
“Jackie, Vietnam was a disaster. This is just bothersome,” she responded dryly. “Pick up the phone and call her. She can bring it to you tomorrow.”
I slumped onto the sofa and started rocking back and forth. “What if she reads it? Aw man, Annabelle will know all my personal business.”
“What kinda stuff did you write down in a book that anybody could get a hold of?”
“Everything, Mama,” I explained that Filofax had the dates my menstrual periods started and ended on the calendar sheets, nasty comments about various people in the industry on the diary pages, affirmations designed to help me keep my temper in check at the Monday editorial meetings, childish sketches of hearts with my name entwined with Victor’s in the middle of them, cleaner’s tickets, laundry receipts, recent cancelled checks, and . . . oh God in heaven, all my notes relating to the Moms Mabley project . . . the things I’d said about Annabelle’s husband!
By the time I finished, Mama was standing in the middle of the living room floor with her mouth hanging open. “I thought you had betta sense than this.”
“Mama, I have to call Annabelle right now so she can find it before the cleaning lady throws it away or something.” I headed for the phone.
“No! Don’t call her!”
“But, you just said . . .” I spluttered.
“If you call her on a Sunday afternoon, she’ll have time to find it and read it. Why don’t you give her a ring tomorrow morning before she leaves for work and tell her you’re droppin’ by to pick it up. She’ll be so busy runnin’ aroun’ gettin’ her li’l girl dressed and pullin’ her own self together for work that she won’t have time to wonder what’s in it.”
I bit my lip. What Mama said made sense. But how was I going to sleep, knowing that it was in the Murrays’ possession?
6
ANNABELLE AND THE FILOFAX
The next morning I was so determined not to let Annabelle know my Filofax was in her house that I didn’t even call ahead to let her know I was coming. The doorman in the lobby of Annabelle’s building called upstairs and then waved me on inside.
The door opened on the eighth floor and Annabelle was standing in her vestibule, waiting for me. She was wearing a navy blue pantsuit, a pearl necklace with matching earrings, and black pumps. Her face was flushed, the forehead creased in a frown, the eyes red-rimmed. It was clear that she had been weeping. Had she and Craig been fighting? She crossed her arms across her chest and fixed me with a what-the-hell-are-you-doing-here stare.
My voice came out squeaky. “Good morning, Annabelle. I’m sorry to bother you so early in the morning, but I just realized that I left my Filofax in your library on Saturday.”
She blinked twice. “Oh, is that all?”
What had she expected?
“Yes,” I chuckled insincerely. “I have no idea what my appointments are for the day. Isn’t it amazing how missing one item can louse up your whole schedule?”
“Wait right here,” she said shortly.
I waited, hoping that she wouldn’t mention my show of ire the last time we were together.
She was back with the book in less than a minute. “Here you are,” she said, thrusting it toward my chest. “Are you feeling better?”
What a dumb-assed question.
I seized the book, wondering if she had read it. “Yes, I’m very well this morning, thank you.”
Her eyes met mine and she smiled. “Good. I’m glad we’re friends again.”
Friends?
A long time ago, Paul and I had discussed quitting our jobs and opening our own publishing house. We had become discouraged when research indicated that we needed at least one million dollars to get the project off the ground. It was time for us to sit down and talk about it again. In the meantime, if Annabelle wanted to believe that I wasn’t pissed off to the bone, that was fine with me. I smiled back at her and got back into the elevator. Before the door closed, I waved and said, “See you at the office.”
She waved back and her expression was so innocent that it was clear she had not been aware of the appointment book before my visit. I opened it and gasped. Jamal Hunt was due in my office in five minutes. When the elevator door opened, I broke into a run, straight past the startled doorman and out onto the street, where I waved frantically for a cab.
The driver chose to go down Columbus Avenue, and I didn’t notice it until we were smack-dab in a bumper-to-bumper, rush-hour traffic jam. After haranguing the driver to no avail and racing through my building’s security checkpoint, I vaulted into the reception area of Welburn Books, looking breathless and agitated.
I recognized Jamal Hunt immediately, even though his author photo hardly came close to doing him justice. He was a young man in his mid-twenties with a bronze complexion, square jaw, high cheekbones, and, when he realized who I was, his full lips parted into a sexy grin. Jamal stood up and held out a hand for me to shake. He wore a dark brown suit, crisp white shirt, and a beige tie. I was a little puzzled because his outfit seemed at odds with the edgy, hip-hop fiction which had earned him such notoriety.
“Mr. Hunt, I apologize for keeping you waiting. I was stuck in a traffic jam.”
“Apology accepted, Miss Blue,” he replied smoothly. His voice rumbled like a bass drum. He picked up his coat and briefcase to follow me through the beige-carpeted corridors, which were already buzzing with office-type activity. He looked at the gilt-framed portraits of long dead Welburns that lined the ivory walls. “Who are these folk?”
“My boss’s ancestors. Welburn Books is a family-owned firm.”
He whistled. “They must have major dollars.”
I smiled and waved him into my office.
We were just settling down when my assistant, Asha, appeared in the doorway. “Good morning, Jackie. I’m going to the cafeteria. Do you want anything?” She was a tiny young woman whom I had hired straight out of Hampton University two years ago. She had a pretty, heart-shaped face and wore her shoulder-length hair in dreadlocks. I made the introductions; she sucked in her stomach and thrust out her chest when Jamal turned that megawatt smile on her.
“Would you like some coffee or tea, Mr. Hunt?” I asked.
“No, but thank you—and please call me Jamal.”
Asha left, closing the door behind her.
Even though Dallas had cautioned me that dealing with Jamal would not be easy, I had not dwelled on it. Most novelists were lonely people who lived inside their heads, and, like many editors, I knew that the best way to deal with them was just to listen when they were suffering from writer’s block or needed to kvetch because their books had not set the world on fire. I was kind and patient with all my authors—those whose books were sinking into oblivion were treated exactly the same as those whose books were flying out of the stores.
A new relationship with an author always held the prospect of lifelong friendship. Jamal waited for me to wade into the waters of getting-to-know-you small talk. I encouraged him to talk about how he ha
ndled the writing process and then launched into some funny stories that other writers had told me about things they had done in an effort to cure writer’s block.
He sat with his legs wide open, the way young men in their twenties seemed to do these days, and used his hands a lot to make his points.
Jamal chuckled a few times and then abruptly changed the topic to what was really on his mind. “What has Dallas Mowrey told you about me?”
“Not a whole lot,” I answered carefully.
“Somebody told me that she goes around saying she does the writing for me.”
This conversation could quickly degenerate into petty he said, she said bullshit and my in-box was stacked with work that needed my attention. “Jamal,” I said firmly, “let’s use this time to discuss taking your career to the next level.”
“Fine. Exactly how much advertising, publicity, and promotion money is Welburn going to invest in my next book?”
Gulp. “I really don’t know the exact amount, Jamal. However, I will say that we will mount an aggressive campaign to get the word out about it.”
He waved away my bureaucratic piddle-paddle with a languid gesture of the wrist that made me smile. “Stop. Please. Why don’t I tell you the plot of the book and you let me know what you think?” Jamal spent the next half hour walking me through a thriller involving race, robbery, deceit, and espionage set in the world of 1980s hip-hop that was absolutely Byzantine in its complexity.
“So,” he concluded, “do you think A Time to Chill will be a best seller?”
All of Jamal’s books were best-sellers because he was a shameless media hound who made sure that every publication, no matter how small, knew about the work he was doing.
Before I could answer, Asha opened the door without knocking. “I’m sorry, Jackie, but the editorial meeting is about to start.”
Jamal glanced at his watch and stood up. “I’ve taken up enough of your time. Thanks for seeing me, Jackie. I look forward to working with you.”
I bid him adieu and shook his hand. “Asha will show you to the elevators.”
The door was now wide open and I could see my colleagues filing past, clutching manuscripts, notes, and books. I grabbed my stack of projects and joined them.
A Meeting In The Ladies' Room Page 4
