Faithful

by Alice Hoffman

  That afternoon they go to the mall so Maravelle can look for something to wear. Her date is with the lawyer who handled the trans­action when the house was bought. Maravelle thinks he warrants a new dress. The mall is Shelby’s idea of hell, walking along with Dorian and Teddy, both now fourteen and ridiculously tall, over six feet. Jasmine and Maravelle duck into stores with names like Dressbarn and Forever 21. No one is twenty-one forever, Shelby knows that for a fact. She has turned twenty-five and will soon be graduating from college. A little late, but better late than never. Teddy is browsing through the Gap. He’s a clotheshorse and looks great in everything he puts on. He’s got a lethal grin and the girls are all wild about him. Unfortunately, he’s lazy and he can be selfish. As far as Shelby can tell he’s hanging out with a rotten crowd. Guys in fast cars pick him up without bothering to come to the door. “See you later,” he’ll call, but he won’t introduce his friends to his family. Dorian is more low-key; he’s the captain of the swim team and excels in just about everything. He and Shelby are having frozen yogurt. It’s filled with fruit and little mushy white things that have no taste.

  “This stuff is terrible,” Shelby says. “Why don’t people just eat ice cream?”

  “Because this is good for you,” Dorian says. “Low carb.”

  “Right, like I care about that.” Shelby loves this kid. He’s still a tender sweetheart even though he looks so grown up.

  “What if I told you something I don’t want my mother to know?” Dorian looks into his yogurt cup as he speaks.

  “Are you using drugs?” If anyone were to get into trouble she’d always thought it would be Teddy.

  “No!” Dorian looks seriously offended. “It’s not about me.”

  “Teddy,” Shelby says.

  They can see Teddy looking through racks of T-shirts. The boys are equally good-looking, only Teddy happens to know it. He has the kind of charm that makes people notice him.

  “No,” Dorian assures her.

  “Okay. Go ahead. I won’t tell.”

  “There’s a guy bothering Jasmine.”

  “Your mom moved here to get away from that crap. Is it someone she’s serious about?”

  Dorian shakes his head. “Used to be. He’s the guy from Queens she was dating. Marcus Parris. Jaz broke up with him but he keeps going after her. He’s coming out to the house when my mother isn’t around even if Jaz tells him not to. The other day she went out to scream at him. He got out of his car and grabbed her and she ran back into the house. The car’s out there almost every day. He’s got a blue Toyota. The windows are tinted black.”

  “Oh great,” Shelby says. “A gangster.”

  “And now Teddy’s hanging out with him.”

  Shelby watches Teddy through the window as he flirts with a salesgirl at least ten years older than he is. “They’re friends?”

  “Teddy thinks so. Marcus is using him to get to Jasmine.”

  Maravelle waves from the doorway of Dressbarn wearing a slinky red dress. Shelby gives her a thumbs-up.

  Dorian is tapping his feet, anxious. “I don’t want to get the cops or my mother involved. Am I supposed to beat Marcus up or something?”

  “No. Definitely not.” That’s all anyone needs. Dorian getting into the mix. “Let me think,” Shelby says.

  It’s not easy to think with the noise and crowds. Malls are all pretty much the same. They really could be anywhere. Maravelle and Jasmine signal to Shelby again. Shelby makes her way through the crush of shoppers. Maravelle has on a black and white dress that looks great on her. But it seems like something she’d wear to a parent-teacher conference, not on a first date.

  “This is the one, right?” Maravelle asks.

  “Sure,” Shelby says. She’s busy thinking about the gangster and the fact that she’s going to keep something this big a secret from Maravelle.

  Maravelle gives her a look. “You’re not lying?”

  “Actually I am. Get the red one.”

  “I told you the same thing!” Jasmine says. “Why do you only believe Shelby?”

  Maravelle gets dolled up, and they all watch through the window when she goes to meet her date. He comes to open the car door for her. He looks like he’s about fifty, more dating material for Mrs. Diaz than for Maravelle.

  “He’s not for her,” Jasmine mutters. “I don’t know why she’s bothering.”

  “What about you?” Shelby says, playing detective as smoothly as she can. “Anyone special in your life?”

  Jasmine is in the midst of SATs. “I’m way too busy at the moment,” she says primly. No mention of Marcus. For a moment, Shelby feels stung. Jasmine has always confided in her, but not this time. Then she realizes that Jasmine may be scared; she’s protecting Shelby from knowing too much. Once Shelby knows what’s going on she’ll have to do something. But she does know, so she begins to plan.

  Fortunately there’s a basketball game at the high school, so the kids will be out of the house if the stalker shows up at his usual time, right after supper. When everyone is gone, Shelby positions herself at the front window. She plans on letting the guy from Queens know that if he ever bothers Jasmine again she will call the police. This is not an idle threat. The little white cat, Snowball, sits beside Shelby on the couch. Snowball is spoiled and snooty, but Jasmine loves her. Shelby has looked for the tattooed girl in Union Square, but lately there’s been no sign of her. Maybe she’s taken off for a city where life is a little easier, Portland or Seattle, or maybe she overdosed one rainy night on a subway platform. Of course it’s possible that she turned her life around and went back to New Jersey or Connecticut; maybe she rang the bell of her parents’ house and said, I just want to come home.

  Dusk is sifting down when the blue Toyota pulls up. Shelby can hear the music blaring. The windows of the car are indeed tinted black. Shelby pulls on one of Dorian’s sweatshirts, then, on impulse, takes the broom from the coat closet. As she goes outside she pulls her hood over her head. She doesn’t want to look like someone’s mother. Or even like someone’s mother’s best friend.

  The truth is, she wants to protect Maravelle. She knows how upsetting this would be to her. Maravelle met the kids’ father when she was sixteen, younger than Jasmine is now. He was married at the time, and soon enough he did to Maravelle what he’d done to his wife. If a man lies to one woman, he’ll lie to you, Maravelle once told Shelby. By the time she found out he was both a drug dealer and a cheater, she had three children. Her worst fear is that Jasmine will make the same mistakes she did.

  The leaves of the grapevine running along the garage smell sweet. Shelby has the broom under her arm, wooden handle pointing out so it appears lance-like. She crosses the street, pulse pounding in her ears. It’s a quiet neighborhood and dinnertime is finishing up in most households. Dishes are being washed and put away. Down the block, some children play in a yard and their lilting voices echo. The ­music’s bass line from inside the car is throbbing. It sends shivers down ­Shelby’s spine. Her breathing has quickened; it’s fight or flight. Because of the tinted windows she doesn’t know who she’s up against. She walks over to the car and raps on the driver’s window. Nothing. She does it again, heart pounding so hard it hurts. Her whole chest is burning.

  “I want to talk to you,” she shouts to the window.

  Her voice doesn’t sound the way she wants it to. It’s too soft.

  Shelby expects him to buzz down the window, but instead he opens the door and gets out. Marcus is older than she expected, in his twenties, nearly Shelby’s age. His hair is closely shorn and there’s a tattoo of a crown across his throat. He’s dressed up for the occasion, wearing a leather jacket and expensive jeans. But the car upholstery is torn, and smoke billows out when he opens the door. He’s been sitting there smoking weed. No way on earth he is getting anywhere near Jasmine, no matter how pissed off he looks.

  “
This isn’t a parking lot,” Shelby says. “I suggest you move along.”

  Marcus is compact, wiry, fueled by drugs. He’s also handsome in a hard-edged way. “Yeah? I don’t see any No Parking signs.”

  “People who loiter get tickets.” Good Lord, she sounds like the mean teacher in high school. No wonder he’s sneering at her.

  “Be smart, lady,” he says. “Leave me the fuck alone.”

  Marcus turns his back on her. He gets back in the car and slams the door. Shelby can see his shadow through the black glass. What the hell does he mean by calling her lady? He’s leaning back against the headrest. But he still seems coiled, ready for what happens next if Shelby dares to annoy him. She raps on the glass again, this time with the edge of the broom. As she does, Shelby feels the burning inside her chest flame, a sign she is about to do something stupid. She keeps tapping until he finally opens the door again.

  “What?” Marcus shouts.

  “I don’t want you to come here anymore. If you contact her I’ll call the police.”

  It dawns on Marcus Parris that Shelby is talking about Jasmine. This time he gets out of the car in a rage. Shelby takes a step back. Without thinking she holds the broom in front of her.

  “You think you can tell me what to do?” her opponent says with real menace. “You can’t stop me from seeing her.” He looks Shelby up and down. The sweatshirt, the broom, the heavy black boots. “I’m a friend of the family and you’re nobody. Who are you anyway? The cleaning lady?”

  “I’m the person who’ll put you in jail if you bother her again,” Shelby says. “And you are not a friend of the family. The family fucking hates you.”

  Marcus smiles at her then, broadly, so that his dimples show. Shelby can see how Jasmine might have fallen for him, how he could have sweet-talked her, given her that gorgeous smile of his. She was likely head over heels before she had time to pick up on any of the warning signs, how possessive and controlling he is.

  “You’re crazy,” he says to Shelby. “You’d better stay out of this.”

  “She’s done with you,” Shelby tells him.

  “She belongs to me.”

  When Marcus turns away, Shelby hits him squarely on the back.

  He spins to face her and spits out, “You are one fucking crazy bitch.”

  Before Shelby can respond, he punches her. Shelby gasps, stunned as she wheels backward. At first she feels nothing but shock, then there’s the hot sting of pain as blood rushes from her nose, so much of it she can’t believe it’s coming out of her. She puts the broom between them and stabs at the air with the handle, trying to ward him off.

  “You think that’s going to stop me?” Marcus Parris smirks. Shelby is nothing to him, a fly, an annoyance, no more than that.

  They’re in a bubble of hatred, so it takes a while for Shelby to hear the wail of the siren. The cop car pulls up across the street and two officers are over to them so quickly it seems to Shelby that the whole world has speeded up. They grab the guy from Queens and shove him up against the car. There’s a thud when he tries to wrench away, and then Shelby sees the glitter of handcuffs. She’s dizzy and her face is throbbing. She thinks she may fall, but then someone’s arm is around her. It’s a woman. Mrs. Diaz.

  “Keep your head down.” Mrs. Diaz hands Shelby a tissue so she can try to stanch the blood pouring from her nose. “Are you faint?”

  Shelby nods.

  One of the officers comes over. “We’re going to call an ambulance.”

  “I don’t need it,” Shelby insists.

  “Hi there, Mrs. Diaz,” the officer says when he recognizes Maravelle’s mother from the ER. “It’s a good thing you phoned. She should get checked out.”

  As it turns out, when Mrs. Diaz pulled up from work, she saw the encounter in the street and immediately dialed 911. Then she went into the house to grab an ice pack, which she now hands to Shelby. “Hold this against your nose.”

  “Is it broken?” Shelby asks. “It was my one good feature.”

  The cop and Mrs. Diaz give Shelby the once-over. “Just bruised” they agree. “It was a warning punch,” the cop tells her. “You’re lucky. He had a gun in the glove compartment.”

  The guy from Queens, now restrained, is being held in the back of the police car. The officer takes down Shelby’s account of what happened.

  “He’s been stalking Mrs. Diaz’s granddaughter and she’s underage.”

  “But you’re the one he assaulted, so I assume you want to press charges.”

  “Yes,” Mrs. Diaz says. “She does.” The last thing Shelby wants to do is get more involved with the stalker, but Mrs. Diaz tells her, “If you take him to court and get the restraining order, then Jasmine doesn’t have to. Isn’t that right?” she says to the officer.

  “We could do it that way,” the cop says. He’s young, about Shelby’s age.

  “Fine,” Shelby says. “I’d like to press charges.”

  Shelby and Mrs. Diaz stand on the sidewalk as the officer returns to his car to fill out some paperwork.

  “I’ve seen that man parked out here before.” Mrs. Diaz shakes her head. “That’s why I try to come home around this time. Lucky for you,” she says matter-of-factly.

  “Very lucky for me,” Shelby agrees.

  The officer returns and has Shelby sign several documents, and then he asks her to come into the station to speak with the sergeant and give her sworn statement. Mrs. Diaz drives her there in a Subaru that is spotless inside and out. She waits in the parking lot while Shelby goes in to be questioned. Shelby is shaking and cold. Mrs. Diaz told her to give her address as Maravelle’s. That will be the address the stalker cannot approach without being immediately arrested. They’ll sit Maravelle down and tell her the whole story soon enough, but for now it is Shelby who must take care of this mess. She realizes she still has the broom in her hand. She’s been carrying it all this time, like a visiting witch. When the sergeant asks why she has her legal address in New York City and yet she wants the restraining order in Valley Stream, she says she is the maid. “I’m at that house a lot.” At least that much is true.

  It’s dark when she comes out of the station. Mrs. Diaz flashes her headlights so Shelby can find her car. Shelby’s nose is puffy and swollen but the blood has stopped. All the same, Mrs. Diaz insists they stop at the ER.

  “Totally unnecessary,” Shelby says.

  Mrs. Diaz doesn’t listen. “Which one of us works at a hospital?”

  Because Mrs. Diaz is a beloved employee, the triage nurse has Shelby examined in no time. She is given a prescription for painkillers and told to keep ice on her swollen nose.

  “I told you I was fine,” Shelby tells Mrs. Diaz.

  She intends to take the train back into the city, where her dogs are waiting for her, but Mrs. Diaz insists she spend the night. When they get to Maravelle’s house, Shelby phones her neighbor, the waiter who works nights, and asks him to take the dogs for a walk before he leaves. She’ll be back in the morning. Then she sits out on the porch, waiting for the kids to return from the basketball game. To Shelby’s surprise, Mrs. Diaz opens the screen door and brings out two tumblers of rum and water on a tray. Both glasses have plenty of ice. They sit side by side on the wicker couch.

  “This is better for you than a Vicodin,” Mrs. Diaz says.

  Maravelle’s date pulls up, and she gets out of the car and waves to them.

  Mrs. Diaz looks displeased. “That man is not for her. He’s too old.”

  “You should date him,” Shelby suggests.

  Mrs. Diaz laughs. “I’d teach him a thing or two.”

  “What are you two doing?” Maravelle asks as she comes up to the porch. “I’ve never even seen you talk to each other.” She looks more closely. “What happened to your face, Shelby?”

  “That Marcus boy from Queens happened,” Mrs. Diaz sa
ys. “Only he’s a grown man.”

  They tell her everything, including the part when he asked if Shelby was the cleaning lady. Maravelle embraces her friend. “This is the kind of thing you can never repay,” she says.

  “I’ll think of something.” Shelby grins. There is still blood caked on her face, and Mrs. Diaz offers her a napkin.

  It’s the end of the evening, and soon Jasmine and the boys are shambling down the street, goofing around, teasing one another. “Our team won,” they call when they notice everyone out on the porch. They stop horsing around when they see Shelby’s condition and race up the porch steps.

  “What happened to you?” Jasmine says, upset. She kneels down beside Shelby to get a better look. “Oh my God! Is your nose broken?”

  The grown-ups have decided there’s no reason to make Jasmine any more worried than she has been. The monster’s been sent away, fended off with a broom. Shelby wants Jasmine to enjoy her youth in a way she didn’t, so she says the first excuse that comes to mind. “I fell off a bike.”

  “Shelby, you don’t ride a bike,” Teddy says, suspicious.

  “Yes she does.” Maravelle has pinched Shelby’s drink and takes a sip before Shelby can grab it back.

  “It’s something you never forget how to do,” Shelby adds.

  “Apparently you do,” Teddy says, with a grin. “If that’s really what happened.”

  “She fell headfirst.” Mrs. Diaz turns to Shelby. “You need to practice your riding. Get a helmet. I wouldn’t want to see you in the hospital.”

  Dorian’s brow is furrowed. He’s got a What’s wrong with this picture? expression on his face. He knows his grandmother can’t stand Shelby, but there they are sitting side by side, both with drinks in their hands. “There’s nothing to worry about,” Shelby tells him, just as she insisted when she rescued the monster that turned out to be Pablo. Dorian understands that she’s taken care of the problem. He leans over to kiss her cheek before he and Teddy go inside. Jasmine has plopped herself down on the painted wooden porch floor. The night is inky, but through the dark the forsythia in the yard glows with a deep, yellow light. Up and down the street the neighbors are watching TV, putting their children to bed, saying good night. Maravelle runs her hand over her beautiful daughter’s head, then goes inside for the rum.