Babylon Sisters Page 15

  “I hear they have great espresso here,” I said, to lighten up the moment until he could collect himself.

  “I think I’ve had my limit”—he smiled crookedly—“but this is what I really want to tell you. They held us there for two weeks before they finally let us go—I still don’t know why—but lying there, night after night, watching my thirty-plus years rolling by, I realized I wasn’t perfect, but I wasn’t such a bad guy, except . . .”

  He looked at me so hard I had to look away. “Except one time. One terrible moment.” He reached across the table and took my hand. “I realized the only time I didn’t act like the man I want to be was the last time I saw you.”

  “B.J., don’t.” I withdrew my hand, but he didn’t stop talking. The truth is, I don’t think he could stop.

  “I promised myself that if I survived, I was going to make it right.”

  So I’m the vision that saved his life, sort of like a sepia-toned Kiss of the Spider Woman. I should have seen it coming, but I didn’t, and it was too late to pretend I hadn’t heard the words. They were echoing around inside my head like a gong. Suddenly, I was terrified of whatever he was going to say about that moment all those years ago. Pure panic drowned out my need to know what he was going to say next. I had thought I was ready for this moment, but I wasn’t even close. It was time for me to go.

  I stood up to go before I knew I was going to, reached for my purse, and took out two fifty-dollar bills, which would cover the meal and be enough for a nice tip. B.J. stood up, too.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Remember what I said about not looking back?”

  “Cat, listen I—”

  “No, you listen.” My voice was trembling. What was I so mad about? “I meant it, and if you can’t respect that, we’d better not see each other again.”

  His eyes searched my face. “There’s so much I need to say, Cat. I don’t know if I can promise you I won’t try to say it.”

  That really pissed me off. How was he going to show up after all this time and tell me he didn’t think he could play by my rules? “Well, when you decide, you call and let me know. Good night.” And I left him standing there and walked out.

  32

  The eleven-o’clock news was all bad, delivered live and in living color. There were wars and droughts and famines and fatwas, and everywhere you looked, terrified women, starving children, and streets full of angry men with guns. That was the world from which B.J. had returned, looking for understanding or absolution, neither of which I was prepared or obligated to offer him. I curled up in the corner of the couch that belongs to Phoebe when she’s home, watched the world go up in flames in one report after another, and tried to sort out my feelings on a story a little closer to home.

  If I wasn’t prepared to hear his confession or offer solace, what was I prepared to offer him? Some files on a story he could do in his sleep? Dinner once in a while when he came through town? Some kind of fake friendship that acknowledged only the fact of its former incarnation, but none of the nuances? How could I even call it a friendship when I had just spent an entire evening making what I myself had identified as chitchat, without once finding a way to say, Oh, by the way, we have an amazing daughter who looks just like you? At least he had tried to say something real. I had run like a rabbit. And a self-righteous rabbit at that.

  On the screen, wailing women in black burkas were huddling in front of a bombed-out shell that had been their house. There were children clutching their mother’s skirts, too terrified to cry, and men already shaking their fists at the camera and vowing revenge. Sometimes it seems like an endless cycle of violence and fear and the lies that lead to war. In those moments, the small crises of the heart pale to insignificance in the face of suicide missions and genocide and bombs that can be activated with cell phones, but the pain is still real. And doesn’t each small moment of personal truth lead to the next one and the next one until it becomes second nature and you couldn’t tell a lie if you wanted to? And wouldn’t that change everything?

  Maybe that’s where B.J. is now. Maybe that was why he wouldn’t lie and say he’d play by my rules even when I snapped at him for getting too close. Maybe that’s what makes his eyes so sad. He’s still trying to get to the truth in a time of lies.

  33

  I hadn’t heard from Sam since he came by, so I wasn’t sure what to expect when I arrived ten minutes early for our scheduled meeting. Just as he had done for my first visit, he met me at the elevator with a welcoming smile, but this time, I followed him down the hall to his suite of offices, which seemed to occupy most of the floor below Ezola’s throne room. He led me past an attractive, smartly dressed woman whom Sam identified as another Mandeville success story, and into his private office.

  “She used to be a maid?” I said, admiring the African sculptures that were placed around the room on small pedestals, each with its own recessed lighting. They were obviously the real thing, and the monochromatic color scheme in the rest of the room gave my eye ample opportunity to admire them.

  “Started with us when she was twenty-two, coming off a bad breakup with two kids and no degree. Seven years later, she’s working as my secretary.” He said it like there could be no higher calling.

  “So sometimes people do follow through,” I said, taking a seat across from the huge glass-topped table that was as close as he got to a desk. It looked more like another piece of sculpture, especially since there wasn’t a sheet of paper on it, or anywhere else. If I had been hoping to snoop around his office like he did in mine, I was out of luck. All his work space told me was that he had very good taste in art and liked well-designed furniture.

  He took the cream-colored leather chair behind the desk and smiled to acknowledge our recent exchange. “Yes, I suppose they do, but not enough to change the odds.”

  Before I could respond, his secretary rapped on the door softly and stuck her head in without waiting to be invited. “Miss Mandeville is on her way down,” she said. “They just called.”

  “Fine,” Sam said, getting to his feet immediately. “Go meet her at the elevator.”

  I was confused. “I didn’t know Miss Mandeville was coming to this meeting.”

  “I didn’t either,” he said. “You must have made a terrific impression on her.”

  “Should I have prepared something?”

  Sam shook his head. “How could you? She likes to pop in sometimes, unannounced. Keeps everybody on their toes.”

  I’ll bet she does. When she really gets going, it’s probably a regular corps de ballet around here. Since Sam was standing, I stood up, too. I drew the line at a curtsy, but standing up to say hello to the boss was fine.

  Within seconds, Ezola opened the door for herself and stepped into the room like a force of nature. She was dressed exactly as she had been when I met her, down to the pearls and pumps, but her face was a storm cloud of disapproval. I hadn’t been here long enough to piss her off, so I assumed Sam was the one with the problem. I was wrong. She stalked up to me, put her large hands on her slim hips, and thrust her face much too close to mine for comfort. I took a step back and looked at Sam, who kept his eyes on Ezola.

  “Who do you think you’re playing with?” she said accusingly, but her voice was so light that it came out more as an indignant screech.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said. “And I don’t—”

  I was going to say, and I don’t appreciate your tone, but she cut me off. “I asked you a question.”

  And she stepped forward, again closing the space between us. I felt like I was back in the fourth grade, fleeing from my nemesis, the fifth-grade bully, but it was too far for me to run home, so I’d have to just tough it out.

  “I’m not playing with anyone,” I said, turning toward Sam so he couldn’t keep pretending he didn’t see my distress. “I’m trying to do my job.”

  Sam finally came from behind his desk and took Miss Mandeville’s arm. “Let’s al
l sit down,” he said, indicating a chair across from mine for his boss, who took it reluctantly, still giving me the evil eye. “I’m sure we can talk this thing out.”

  What thing? Every exchange with them was like a trip through the Twilight Zone. I hadn’t even sent in my first invoice, and this gig was already working my last nerve. Phoebe had better calm down and make her peace with me or I’d have to reconsider what I was prepared to do for tuition’s sake. I want the best for my daughter, but there are a lot of schools that don’t cost thirty-eight thousand dollars a year.

  I sat back down. Sam sort of perched on the edge of his desk and then turned to me.

  “Miss Mandeville would like to ask you about some of your other clients.”

  “Is there a problem?”

  “No problem,” he said. “We just need some information.”

  That was how she acted when there was no problem? I’d hate to see Ezola’s reaction if there ever was one. “I’ve given you a list of who they are. What kind of information do you need?”

  “I need to know what kind of business they’re in that has to do with prostitution!”

  “What?” I was now officially confused.

  “You heard me! Prostitution!”

  I heard her, all right, but I had no idea what the hell she was talking about. I sat back and looked from one to the other, hoping somebody was going to tell me what was going on.

  “It’s not the first time,” Ezola hissed at me. “Whenever you work with a lot of women, there’s always somebody sniffing around them, trying to see who’s looking for the high life without the hard work.”

  “Is that what you think I’m doing?” I said, too amazed to be offended.

  “Catherine,” Sam said when Ezola just glared at me and didn’t answer. “Miss Mandeville got a call this morning about your having dinner last night with a guy who’s got a pretty bad reputation.”

  He was talking about B.J. This was getting stranger by the second. “A pretty bad reputation for what?”

  “For trafficking in women.” Ezola spit the words at me like she’d just discovered my deep, dark secret. “As if you didn’t know. What a coincidence that you start working for me and get spotted talking to a pimp all in a few short weeks, but you know, I don’t believe in coincidences. Never have. I think you came here to try to use this organization for . . . God knows what!”

  This time I interrupted her. “I came here because Sam called and invited me, and for no other reason. I signed on with you because I thought what you were proposing was a good idea, and I still do, but this is ridiculous!”

  Ezola sat back and looked at Sam, who turned to me with that I’m on your side voice and a world-class shit-eating grin. “Who was he, Catherine?”

  “That’s none of your business,” I said. “But since it seems to have caused such a high degree of consternation around here, let me put your minds at ease.”

  I should have said warped little minds, but I was still trying to be professional. “I was having dinner with an old college friend of mine, Burghardt Johnson. He’s in town researching an article about the impact of immigrants on urban communities. Atlanta is one of the places he’s looking at, and I thought there might be a place in his story for your project,” I said, turning back to Ezola, who was still watching me, but seemed to have calmed down a little. “Your source, whoever it is, is misinformed.”

  Neither one of them said anything for a minute, and then Ezola had the nerve to smile. After all that ugly, now she was smiling like a Sunday-school teacher.

  She looked at Sam. “I told you, didn’t I?”

  He nodded. “Yes, you did, Miss M. You certainly did.”

  She’s “Miss M.” now?

  Ezola turned back to me. “I told Sam I knew it wasn’t true. I’m sorry, Catherine, but this is too important to leave anything to chance. I had to know.”

  “Next time,” I said, still pissed, “why don’t you just ask me?”

  “Maybe next time I will.” She stood up then, and so did Sam, but it was my hand she reached for and then held on to. “Sam tells me you’re doing some excellent work for us already.”

  He was nodding, back in my corner, but I had one more question. “Why were you spying on me?”

  She patted my hand and let it go. “I wasn’t. It was just a coincidence that someone saw you who thought your friend the journalist was someone else.”

  “I thought you didn’t believe in coincidence.”

  “Every now and then,” she said, heading for the door as Sam hurried to open it for her, “I’m wrong.”

  34

  “What was all that about?” I said angrily after Sam put Ezola on the elevator and came back.

  He was still grinning like this was the best afternoon of his life. “Don’t let it throw you. She’s always testing. It’s just her way.”

  “Just her way?”

  He nodded like nothing out of the ordinary had just occurred.

  “Well, that’s not the way I do business, and unless you can guarantee me that scene was an exception and not the rule, you can find yourself somebody else to join the team.”

  “Calm down, Catherine.” His voice was soothing. “She’s just nervous because this is a big move for the company and she really needs your help. She’s sailing on uncharted waters and it’s hard on her. She’s used to being in control.”

  “So am I.”

  “That makes three of us,” he said, smooth as silk. “But you’re right. She goes too far sometimes. This was one of those times.”

  That mollified me a little, but not much.

  “And who is this mysterious source that just happened to see me out with a friend and felt the need to report it?”

  “Who knows?” he said, still soothing me with that voice. “Miss M. is famous for her spies. What I want to know is how you’re going to get us included in that story Mr. Johnson is working on. That sounds exciting.”

  You have to give Sam credit for being single-minded. I had said B.J.’s name only once, and he was already on it.

  “I’ll talk to him about it and let you know.”

  “Is he any good?”

  “He’s the best,” I said without hesitation.

  Sam nodded his approval. “I’ll take your word for it. Is there anything else?”

  Miss Ezola’s tantrum had obviously eaten up all the time Sam had for this project today.

  “Nothing that won’t wait,” I said, gathering up my things.

  Sam stood behind his desk, but didn’t move to walk me out, which was fine with me. I’d had enough of both of them for one afternoon. When I stepped outside, the success-story secretary brushed by me without a word to usher in Sam’s next appointment, a hard-eyed man in a dark blue suit with his hair pulled back in a small ponytail.

  Ezola isn’t the only one who doesn’t believe in coincidence, I thought, after I had tipped the valet and was headed home. I flipped open my cell phone, dialed the Regency hotel, and asked to speak to Mr. Burghart Johnson.

  He answered on the second ring, and I could hear CNN on the television. “Hello?”

  “B.J.,” I said. “It’s Cat. Is four o’clock tomorrow still good for you?”

  35

  In less than an hour, B.J. was going to walk through my front door, and I was in a panic. He had been gracious about not bringing up my dramatic exit from the Peasant on Wednesday night, and agreed to meet me here so I could tell him about my bizarre exchange with Sam and Ezola. I had no idea why someone would be watching B.J. I didn’t buy Ezola’s coincidence explanation for one second, and I knew no one was watching me. The least I could do was let him know we had been observed and reported upon. What to do about it was up to him, but if somebody was accusing him of being a part of the very thing he was investigating, he had a right to know.

  The problem was, to quote Miss Iona, he didn’t need to know everything. But if he set foot in this house, he’d be surrounded by images of his look-alike daughter, and I wasn’t re
ady for that yet. I may have had to let him make his confession, but I didn’t have to jump ahead by making mine. So I had to de-Phoebe this house before he gets here. Starting with the living room.

  I grabbed the photographs off the mantel, the one framed on the wall by the bookcase, and the one in the silver frame from New Mexico. Where to put them? I already felt guilty, so I couldn’t just toss them in a closet or hide them in the pantry. She was my secret, but she’s still my Baby Doll and she deserves some respect. Upstairs! He wouldn’t be leaving the ground floor, so I’d put them in my bedroom for the time being and after he left, I’d put them back. I took the stairs two at a time and deposited the photographs gently on my bed, avoiding eye contact with the bright, open-faced images of my daughter. Why hadn’t I ever realized how much she looked like B.J.?

  Back downstairs in the kitchen, I stripped the refrigerator, which was crowded with snapshots from last summer. Here she is working in Louis’s garden. Now she’s back at the beach with Amelia trying to fly a kite. Here we are grinning outside the Fox Theatre on our way to see Erykah Badu work her magic, and again at a book signing with our arms around E. Lynn Harris. I took them all down, leaving the fridge looking strangely naked with only grocery coupons and a to-do list that was already two weeks old without one task checked off.

  In my office, there were framed snapshots chronicling our journeys to places she’d pick from the map and then study, so when we got there she knew everything and could teach me as we went along without realizing how much she was learning, too. There were still a few baby-in-the-bath pictures that I kept for my own pleasure, although they make Phoebe groan when she sees them. My favorite of them all is the one we took on the day she got on the train to Fairfield. She wouldn’t let us drive her, and she didn’t want to fly because she wouldn’t be able to see what it looked like on the ground between here and there.