A Meeting In The Ladies' Room

by Anita Doreen Diggs

  About twenty people showed up. We all crammed ourselves into a back room that held supplies (I wanted to press my body up against Victor’s, but Paul’s beady eyes never left me) and didn’t speak a word until the last person arrived. That’s when Richard locked the front doors, pulled all the blinds and curtains down so it was impossible to see inside, and signaled for the group to come out. It seemed like a very slaves-sneaking-out-the-cabin-to-gather-secretly-in-a-group-down-by-the-creek type of event.

  Once we were released, I was enveloped in hugs, kisses, and handshakes before half the group headed for the bar to order drinks and the others to put their belongings in the empty chairs. Since we didn’t trust anyone, Richard was going to take food orders, mix drinks, and do all the cooking himself. I would have been beside myself if I were in his shoes, but he looked pleased to be a part of all the intrigue.

  I saw Paul fiddling with a CD player that was set up at the end of the bar counter and soon dance tunes from our teenaged years by artists like Rick James, George Clinton, the Brothers Johnson, Kool and The Gang, and Whodini filled the room and Richard’s Soul Food Diner began to rock.

  Joe sidled up to me.

  “Jackie,” he said, “I’m so sorry that all this is happening to you.”

  I felt a pang of dislike at the fascinated expression on Joe’s face; it had tell me all the sordid details pasted on it. I didn’t want to indulge his curiosity so I honed in on Tiffany Nixon’s totally unbalanced press coverage. “I’ve been keeping up with CNN and other papers,” I told him. “They are speculating about Annabelle’s relationship with her husband and reporting on other mysterious deaths that have occurred in that building since it opened. But Tiffany Nixon is supposed to be my damn sistah and she is not doing any of that.”

  As I was talking, I became conscious of some other emotion that was flickering around Joe’s sober mien. Jealousy. Before I could fully absorb this oddity, Elaine Garner joined us, drink in hand.

  “How are you holding up, Jackie?”

  “I think half of me is still in shock.”

  She nodded to show her understanding and played with the swizzle stick. “You ought to fight Tiffany Nixon right back. Get some of the Black activists to protest in front of her offices. If you’d like, I’ll give Frank Jenkins a call. He and I have never met, but his cousin Barbara went to Harvard with me.”

  Frank Jenkins was the fiery leader of a young group that called itself The New Black Warriors. Although I respected their work, I didn’t want to turn this whole thing into some horrible media extravaganza that made the networks rich but ended without an answer to the only real question that mattered: Who killed Annabelle, and why?

  “No, Elaine, but thanks for the suggestion.” Since my publishing career was ruined and I’d probably never see her again after tonight, I wanted to ask her why the fuck she had to mention Harvard every time she opened her mouth, but I restrained myself.

  Joe shifted from one foot to the other. “Did Annabelle know about the Black Pack?”

  “I doubt it, Joe. If she did, I’m sure she would have mentioned it to me,” I answered. “What difference does it make?”

  “Just wondering,” he mumbled. “I’m going to get some food.”

  I grabbed him by the arm so hard, he let out a yelp. “Not yet. Why did you ask me that?”

  “Jesus! Take it easy,” he shouted.

  I refused to let go. “Answer me!”

  A hand landed on my shoulder. I turned around, and it was Victor. He gave me a slow, sweet smile. The gap between his two front teeth sent me into a lather.

  Joe and Elaine skittered away like they were happy to get away from my sudden fit of temper.

  “Jackie, it’s good to see you.”

  “Thanks, Victor. Having you all here really lifts my spirits.”

  He patted my shoulder. “I hope this nightmare ends for you soon.”

  By now I was practically swooning. Suppose I went to jail in the morning and stayed there for the rest of my life, a victim of a terrible miscarriage of justice, having lost my last chance to go to bed with him? I wouldn’t be able to live with myself! And so, the words rushed out. “You know, Victor, I live right around the corner.”

  He threw back his head and laughed. “Jackie, Jackie, Jackie . . . what am I going to do with you?”

  I could think of at least five things that would make the editors of Playboy magazine blush but my bold invitation had taken all my energy.

  By this point, we were gazing into each other’s eyes and my tongue was tied.

  He leaned down and whispered into my ear. “Sure, I’ll stay with you tonight. But, let’s not leave together and start a new round of talk. What’s your address?”

  I told him.

  “Okay. When the party is over, just go home and wait up for me.”

  How was I going to live through the next three hours?

  The urge to immediately shove every single one of the seven Black Pack members and their guests out the front door almost overwhelmed me.

  Alyssa couldn’t even pretend to have a good time. She was crying softly as she hugged me. “Jackie, I just want you to know that I’m in your corner. I have a new job now, and it wouldn’t have happened without your help.”

  I squeezed her back in delight. “So, Pam Silberstein hired you at Hamilton Welsh & Hamilton?”

  “Yes, I’m the new senior editor. But Jackie, I don’t want to talk about that. Isn’t there something I can do to help you out of this crazy situation?”

  “Even if there were, Alyssa, I wouldn’t let you get involved in this.”

  She jerked her chin stubbornly. “If you call on me for help, I’ll be there. No matter what anyone else thinks about it.”

  Those were almost the same words I’d said to her such a short time ago, and I had to blink back tears.

  “Thanks, Alyssa.”

  She held onto my arm as I started to move away and looked directly into my eyes. “I’m not letting you go until you promise to keep in touch.”

  “I promise. By the way, Pam Silberstein is one of the smartest and nicest people I’ve ever met. Stick with her—she’s real cool.”

  Alyssa nodded and melted into the crowd.

  I mingled, joked, and accepted affirmations of faith for a while and then my feet started to hurt so I took a seat at the bar.

  “Are you having a good time?” asked Paul, parking himself on the stool beside me.

  I crunched a potato chip and nodded. “This is wonderful, Paul. I don’t know how to thank you.”

  He swallowed and cleared his throat. “By staying out of jail. A weekly trip up to Bedford Hills is not how I want to spend the rest of my life.”

  Bedford Hills was New York State’s maximum security prison for women.

  There was moisture at the corners of his eyes, so I jabbed him in the stomach to lighten things up. “Oh, come on, Paul. I could write a string of best sellers with that kind of time on my hands.”

  He laughed. “Yeah. And Elaine Garner could be your editor.”

  “I’m sure that’s what they taught her at Harvard.”

  He finished the joke. “That’s right. Make the money. After all, this is a business.”

  We giggled like children.

  Dallas wandered over. “Seems like the party is really over here in this corner,” she grinned. “What’s with all the gaiety and merriment?”

  Paul filled her in and she whooped with laughter.

  “Penelope Aaron can be your agent. All the Black talk she has picked up over the years will come in real handy in the visiting room,” Dallas said.

  “Those women would kick her ass into infinity if she walked up in there spouting that shit,” I said flatly.

  Dallas took me by the elbow and whispered in my ear, “I need to talk to you alone.”

  We excused ourselves and left Paul at the bar.

  “What is it, Dallas?”

  “Joe Long called me today. He wanted to know if you had ever t
alked to me about Victor. I had no idea what he was getting at.”

  “So, what did you say?” I asked calmly.

  “I said no and he hung up on me. What did he mean, Jackie?”

  A long time ago Dallas caught me up in a real trick bag. What happened was this: The editor-in-chief of Urban Girl magazine contacted me, looking for a book deal. She didn’t have a definite idea in mind but the circulation of her magazine was over a million. I knew that she had a powerful platform to sell huge numbers of any book she did write. So, I did my homework and came up with a few ideas. At that time, Dallas and I were tight so we went over my list of concepts together. The bitch stabbed me right in the back. The next week I called Urban Girl but it was too late. The editor-in-chief had signed with Dallas, who lured her with the ideas that she had stolen from me.

  “Dallas, stop fucking around and tell me what you think Joe is up to.”

  She blinked twice. I stared her down.

  “Okay. Haven’t you noticed that Joe is always up in Victor’s face or trying to imitate him?”

  “No.”

  “Well, he does.” Dallas took a sip of her drink. “Joe has a crush on Victor.”

  I burst out laughing. “Joe is gay?”

  Dallas shrugged. “He must be in the closet. I’ve known him a lot longer than any of you and he has never had a girlfriend. You’ve been so busy mooning over Victor that you haven’t noticed Joe was clocking the brother, too.”

  “I have not.”

  Dallas waved away my denial. “Girl, please. Half the fun of the Black Pack meetings is watching your face and Joe’s eyes when Victor walks in that door.”

  I was embarrassed from head to toe.

  “Victor is an attractive man but there is nothing going on between us,” I said stiffly. “You can tell Joe that if he calls you again.”

  Dallas nodded without real interest and strolled away in search of juicier gossip.

  Finally, it was over.

  Paul helped me into my coat. “Come on, I’ll walk you home. I may as well crash at your place anyway. I need to help Richard clean this place up first thing in the morning.”

  I threw the back of my hand against my forehead in an Oscar-winning gesture of despair. “Not tonight, Paul. I really need time alone to think.”

  He wrapped a scarf around his neck and sucked his teeth. “Girl, you better come on. I’m not trying to stop you from thinking and no way am I riding that subway to Brooklyn tonight if I don’t have to.”

  By now we were out on the sidewalk. He put an arm around my shoulder and we started to walk. I was beginning to get pissed off. Paul was not my man. The man I wanted was coming over. Why should I have to lie and scheme to entertain someone in my own home? When we reached the corner, I stopped.

  “Paul, you cannot come home with me tonight. I don’t want to talk about it. That’s just the way it is.”

  He looked puzzled. “Did I do something wrong?”

  “No. I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?” I stood on my tippy-toes to kiss his cheek.

  There was hurt and confusion in his face but he kissed me back and crossed the street toward the subway.

  Oh, God. It was like beating up on Bambi.

  I practically ran around the corner. The apartment was tidy but I had to change the sheets, the towels, and find something seductive to wear. It had been so long since I’d been to bed with a man—five years and three days at last count—that there were no teddies, lacy stockings, or garters in my wardrobe.

  I took a hasty shower, almost scalding myself in the process, toweled myself off and bumped my toe painfully on my way out of the bathroom. “Ow!”

  Naked, I ransacked my bureau and closets. The best I could do was a black slip with no panties on. After dashing on far too much White Diamonds perfume, I was ready. Except I wasn’t. Not really. I paced the floor in black stiletto heels, wringing my hands. Suppose he was used to thin women and I was too fat? Would he groan and collapse with a hernia while trying to lift me? On top of that, I had come on to him like a Penthouse Pet, and now he was probably expecting a superstar performance from me between the sheets. Worse, suppose he wanted oral sex? The only time I had ever done it was in my fantasies. I might bite down on him too hard, causing a terrible, gaping, bloody wound in his penis that would take twelve stitches to close!

  By the time the downstairs doorbell rang, I was in such a state that I needed a drink to calm down but there was no time to get one.

  I stepped to the intercom box to answer the summons. My mouth was dry as I pushed the TALK button. “Who is it?”

  “Me.”

  I buzzed him in, patted my hair, slid my hands down the sides of my body, and glided toward the front door. There was a knock. I unlocked the door, released the security chain, and there stood Paul.

  I was shocked and alarmed. “What are you doing here?”

  His eyes were hard and flat. His moustache quivered beneath his nose. His body was rigid. The arms held tightly against his torso with the hands balled into fists. When he opened his mouth to speak, it was like watching a trapdoor unlock.

  “Is this the outfit you wear for deep thinking?” he sneered.

  “Paul, I . . .”

  He cut me off. “Don’t bother making up another lie. The next time you’re in trouble, call Victor.”

  He gave my trampy little outfit a withering glance and fled back down the stairs. I closed the door and rummaged around in my kitchen cupboards for a half-empty bottle of rum that I’d left there a long time ago. My hands were trembling. I turned the bottle up to my lips and took a long swallow. The liquid burned its way down to my nervous stomach.

  Feeling better, I decided not to worry about Paul until morning. I would call him then and say the right words that would turn us into friends again. Yes, I was wrong for lying to him but he had no right to pull the jealous shit that he’d done. He just needed time to cool off and he’d be able to see that.

  I placed the bottle on the coffee table along with a bucket of ice and a liter of Pepsi. I dimmed the lights and put a Maxwell CD on the stereo to complete the seduction scene. I had just repaired my lipstick when the downstairs doorbell rang again.

  This time it was Victor.

  He eyed me appreciatively as I took his coat and hung it up. “My, don’t you look delicious.”

  We settled in on my sofa, drinking and talking shop until Victor raised the subject of Annabelle’s murder.

  “So, have there been any new developments in the police investigation?”

  “I don’t know. Why would they share anything with me?”

  He crossed one leg over the other. “It just seems like someone had to see something on the morning it happened. Maybe something very important that didn’t mean anything at the time.”

  “Maybe I should hire a hypnotist to refresh my memory,” I replied playfully.

  “That’s a great idea, Jackie. You could . . .”

  I cut him off there and moved in closer. “Victor, we can talk about murder tomorrow morning if you want to, okay?”

  There was nothing else to say. It was time to DO, and we both knew it.

  The silence grew uncomfortable, and I wondered why he didn’t make a move. He drummed his fingers on the coffee table and hummed along to the music until I was about to shake him like a rag doll.

  I stood up, placed my hands on my hips, and gave him a seductive smile.

  “What’s going on?” he asked.

  Stand your punk ass up, is what I wanted to say.

  I was exasperated beyond belief. “Victor, what part of ‘there is a healthy woman wearing a thin slip with nothing on underneath, staring at you with lust in her heart’ don’t you get?”

  He coughed. “Do you want to lay down?”

  No, you dumb fuck. I want to play ice hockey.

  “Yes,” I said sweetly.

  This was definitely not my dream encounter. The brother was turning out to be less Richard Roundtree in Shaft and more Jethro in The Beve
rly Hillbillies. His behavior was unfathomable . . . either he was gay, stupid, or had a tiny little weenie that he was too embarrassed to show me. My crush on Victor Bell was fading.

  “Lead the way,” he said.

  All the lights in my bedroom were off but we could see each other in silhouette by the light streaming in from the hallway.

  There wasn’t much in the way of foreplay but I didn’t really care. Victor’s unclothed body was magnificent. He pulled the straps of the slip and I wriggled out of it. Gently, he pressed me back on the bed and hovered above me on his knees, licking my breasts, shoulders, stomach. His muscles rippled every time he moved. I pulled him around the waist and our bodies melded together.

  “Victor, Victor!” My breathing was ragged and my pulse was racing.

  He made a sudden move with his hand and the framed picture of me, Annabelle, and Denzel fell off my nightstand. It hit the hardwood floor and the glass made a little clink sound as it broke. Victor murmured, “I’m sorry,” as he reached over me and picked it up. He looked at the picture and groaned. His erection deflated.

  I took the picture from his hand and threw it across the room. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll get a new frame.”

  He nodded and stroked himself for a few seconds as I kissed him all over the face and chest.

  “It’s not working,” Victor replied desperately.

  And “it” certainly wasn’t. I reached down and touched his dick. It was as limp as a used dishrag.

  He pushed me off him and lay flat on his back. “I’m sorry.”

  Concealing my frustration, I pulled the sheet over our nakedness and put some pep into my voice. “The night is young, handsome. Don’t worry about it.”

  “Forget it, Jackie.” He sounded disappointed.

  I laid my head on his chest and my fingers played in his pubic hair. He lay still as stone. “Victor?”

  “Yes?”

  “Would you kiss me?”

  He gathered me up in his strong arms and pressed his lips to mine. That wasn’t good enough for me. I managed to part them and stuck my tongue right into his warm mouth. All of a sudden, Victor tossed the sheets aside and leaped from my bed. I watched miserably as his perfect body ran away from me and into the bathroom. I could hear him retching and coughing through the closed door.