Babylon Sisters Read online

  The phone rang four times, and I was about to hang up and go in search of him in Amelia’s garden when he picked up the phone. He barely had time to say hello before I started babbling.

  “This isn’t working,” I said. “I thought I could take it, but I can’t. It’s just too much to deal with right now. I love my daughter, but this is driving me crazy!”

  He waited until I stopped to catch my breath, the same technique he always uses when Phoebe’s ranting about one thing or another. Was I ranting?

  “Are we talking about your new job or your old boyfriend?” he said calmly.

  “My job is fine,” I said. “It’s B.J. who’s driving me crazy.”

  “I talked to him this morning. He sounded pretty sane to me.”

  “You’re not listening to me.” I moved effortlessly from ranting to whining. “He’s not crazy. I am!”

  My voice tried to go up at the end, which would definitely have qualified as wailing, so I brought it back by sheer force of will and took a deep breath.

  “You’re not crazy,” Louis said. “High-strung, maybe, but you are one of the sanest women I know.”

  “Which doesn’t say much for your lady friends.”

  “What lady friends? You’re it, so you can’t go crazy on me.”

  “What about Amelia?”

  “She’s in another category,” he said. “You are, as always, in a class by yourself.”

  He was so sweet. He could probably hear the craziness in my voice. “What am I going to do?”

  “Tell me what happened.”

  “He . . . We . . .” What could I say to make Louis know what I was feeling? “I think I still . . . like him.”

  Louis was waiting for more, but that was pretty much it. “You still like him?”

  “Yes.” That lump had taken up permanent residence in my throat, so I swallowed hard around it. “More than I thought I would.”

  “I see.” Louis was hedging his bets.

  “I don’t think you do,” I said. “He apologized.”

  “For what?”

  “For all crimes, real and imagined.”

  “Did you accept his apology?”

  Why did the question finally make me cry? I wiped away the tear with the back of my hand. “He didn’t even know what he was apologizing for.” I sniffed loudly.

  “Sweetie?” Louis’s voice was so gentle. “Do you want me to come over?”

  “No, I’m okay.”

  “You don’t sound okay.”

  There wasn’t much I could do about that, so I didn’t say anything. I just sniffed again.

  “Are you still up for dinner with the four of us at Amelia’s on Monday?”

  It had seemed like a good idea at the time, but now the thought of spending another evening with B.J. seemed like torture. Louis and Amelia would just make it harder to sustain the lies and evasions. I could just see the three of us, who had no history of lying to one another in any combination, trying to talk with Phoebe’s phantom presence hovering over the proceedings, waiting to be invited to sit down.

  “I really don’t think I can handle it.”

  I waited for him to try to talk me into coming or to tell me how disappointed Amelia would be, or, worst of all, to say that I was just being silly, but he didn’t do any of those things, which is why I love him.

  “Today is Friday,” he said like he was checking his calendar to be absolutely certain. “Monday night is a long time from now. Why don’t you wait and see how you feel then?”

  “What’s going to happen in a couple of days?”

  “Who knows? What have you got to lose?”

  “My sanity?”

  “An overrated commodity, at best,” he said. “You’ll never miss it. Now forget about your troubles and come on over here and watch The Hulk with me on pay-per-view.”

  To test his theory, I did just that, and you know what? Two glasses of wine and a bowl of microwave popcorn later, I didn’t miss my sanity at all.

  38

  Miriam reported for work on Monday. Amelia’s letting her finish up her internship on half days so she can start spending mornings over here, since I’m swamped and could really use the help. She arrived with a large newsboy cap pulled low over her eyes, but when she took it off, her hair was neatly braided in cornrows that circled her head like ribbons. Without that awful wig, her beauty was even more obvious. I tried not to think about all those numbers B.J. had written in his notebook: 10 for 10.

  “Bravo,” I said, as she patted her hair shyly with her long, slender fingers, waiting for my reaction. “I love your braids.”

  “Bravo,” she said, smiling happily. “I love them, too.”

  We went over her duties—answering the phone, answering routine e-mails, helping with research, and, of course, keeping up with our search for Etienne. But I didn’t have to tell her that. Then I gave her a quick tour of the house, since she was going to be working here and I wanted her to be comfortable. I told her she was welcome to anything in the refrigerator. She was still painfully thin and I was already making plans to fatten her up.

  We finished up in the kitchen, and when I asked her if she had any questions, she pointed to the refrigerator door.

  “Is that your daughter?”

  I nodded. “That’s Phoebe. She’s away at school.”

  We stood there looking at Baby Doll’s laughing face, and Miriam smiled, too.

  “You must miss her.”

  “I do,” I said. “She’s all the way up in Massachusetts.”

  I might as well have said, She’s summering on Mars. Massachusetts was another world to Miriam, who had never even seen snow.

  “But you talk to her on the telephone?”

  “Sure,” I said, “but she’s mad at me right now, so I haven’t talked to her lately.”

  I heard myself speaking in a tone that made light of the situation, but Miriam looked confused and concerned.

  “Your daughter is mad at you?”

  She couldn’t get her mind around the idea of it. How could she? With her own mother so far away, maybe even dead, the idea of such an estrangement was inconceivable.

  “Not really,” I said, trying to gloss it over. “She just thinks she is. I’m sure we’ll talk soon.”

  “And then she will be happy again,” Miriam said softly. “It is hard for a daughter to be so far from her mother.”

  It dawned on me that I had been so busy with how hard it was on me, I hadn’t really focused on how hard it must be for Baby Doll.

  “Yes,” I said. “I know.”

  My new assistant had a way of saying things so simply sometimes that you couldn’t get around them. The question was, Why would you even try?

  39

  On Monday afternoon, I called Louis and told him I’d see him tonight at dinner. Not because suddenly I wanted to, but because there was no way I was going to tell Amelia I was blowing off dinner at her house because I was afraid to sit at the table with B.J.

  Afraid of what? she’d say in typical Amelia fashion, and what could I say? Of telling the truth? Of not telling the truth? Of him asking why I haven’t returned any of his three phone calls so far? Of not being the full-grown, in-control, in-demand, always-on-top-of-things free woman I know myself to be?

  None of those reasons would strike a chord in Amelia, who seems to lack the gene for lying. That will immediately endear her to B.J. They’ve never met, but I have no doubt they’ll like each other. Louis already likes him, so he and Amelia will be busily telegraphing their approval of allowing him into Phoebe’s life while I try to figure out whether to let him into mine. Their combined positive psychic energy will be a powerful challenge to me as I try to be myself without being my real self. Whatever that means.

  It took me forever to get dressed. It was like picking a costume for a character I was agreeing to play. Eliminate all colorful ethnic clothes and unique jewelry that might draw the question that must be answered with these words: My daughter gave it to me fo
r my thirty-fifth birthday. Or My daughter and I bought identical ones in an outdoor market in Sri Lanka. Those were unnecessary lies that would sap my energy, distracting me from the one lie that had to be maintained a little longer. So I finally settled on a green silk tunic and a black satin skirt that was cut perfectly for a person like me with a small waist and hips to spare. I put on my chunky turquoise necklace, more for luck than for looks, and enough Jamaican silver bangles to scare off the evil eye with their jangling, and a pair of sandals with just enough heel to make me feel like a grown-up. Turning around in front of the mirror, I finally liked what I saw. The pile of discarded pants, skirts, tops, and a dress or two that lay scattered on every available surface seemed a small price to pay for looking like I wanted to look—cool, calm, and collected. None of which I was, but presentation was half the battle, and I had a date for dinner.

  40

  When I walked up on the back porch and slipped out of my shoes in deference to the house rules, I could see Amelia in the kitchen taking something out of the oven. I waited until she set the hot pan down on the top of the stove before I tapped on the back window and waved.

  She waved back, her hands encased in big, yellow oven mitts, and motioned me inside.

  “Hey, neighbor,” she said, extending her cheek for me to kiss while she basted a beautiful peace of steelhead trout topped with slices of lemon and Amelia’s own special blend of herbs. It smelled as good as it looked, and it was immediately obvious that even if B.J. and I were going to have another couple of hours of sublimating sex drive for appetite, the evening still wouldn’t be a total loss.

  “Hey, yourself,” I said. “What can I do to help?”

  She was wearing tight black pants and a white sweater that draped a little on one side to reveal a perfectly toned shoulder and create a flattering angle for her graceful neck. Her little Afro was newly cropped, and her skin was glowing like the pearl earrings that were her only jewelry.

  “Nothing,” she said. “This trout has another twenty minutes, and everything else is just about done.”

  She spooned a clear, buttery broth over the fish where it rested on a rack. Amelia loves to cook and her kitchen is the biggest room in the house, with the stove anchoring one end and the breakfast nook at the other.

  “You met B.J.?”

  She nodded. “I like him.”

  “I knew you would.”

  “Cute, too.” She slid the pan back in the oven and closed it. “Also seems to have some sense, although I just met him, so I don’t know how much is substance and how much is charm.”

  “He’s a good guy,” I said.

  “With an abundance of the aforementioned charm.” She took off her oven mitts, hung them on a hook beside the stove, and turned back to me with the barest suggestion of a frown. “So tell me again what the problem is?”

  She was already lobbying, and I hadn’t even gotten in the door good.

  “Timing,” I said, having anticipated her question and the answer most likely to satisfy her, and me, until I could figure this out. “It’s all about the timing.”

  “Is that it?” Her face brightened immediately. “Timing?”

  I nodded.

  “All right, then. That I can understand. How do you like the table? Those are the last of the sunflowers.”

  As usual, once Amelia had an answer that satisfied her, she moved on. The round table in the breakfast nook was set for four of us with Amelia’s bright blue Mexican dishes and a tall vase full of sunflowers that seemed unaware that they were the last of the lot. Two thick, red candles and boldly designed, brightly colored linen made things look friendly and festive. I relaxed, realizing nothing weird was going to happen in my girlfriend’s kitchen. These were not just my friends. They were my best friends. How safe could I be?

  “It’s lovely,” I said. “I can’t believe you did all this without my help.”

  “B.J. is the one who needs your help,” she said, peeking into a pot on the stove and releasing a fragrant promise of something spicy into the air.

  “How do you figure that?” I said, hoping he hadn’t confided in her about his blanket apology the other night.

  “Louis is trying to talk him into coming to work for the Sentinel.”

  “What?” He couldn’t live here. Where was I supposed to stash his daughter?

  “Go on in there and see for yourself. He’s been lobbying like crazy ever since B.J. walked in the door.”

  “Aren’t you coming?” I sounded like a kid on the first day of school who just realized Mommy was leaving.

  She grinned at me. “I think you know everybody. Go on! I’ll be in there in a minute.”

  She was back at the stove, and I didn’t want to distract her in the last few minutes, when the meal comes together or falls apart based on the skill and focus of the cook. I patted my turquoise necklace for luck and headed down the hall in a house I know almost as well as I know my own. Amelia is a hard-nosed lawyer out in the world, but her house is a soothing space where rooms seem to flow into each other as effortlessly as she moves through her pool. Jason’s upstairs bedroom remains his domain whenever he comes to visit his mother, but the rest of the house is all about white rugs, floor pillows, white couches, and candlelight.

  Tonight was no exception. The cozy living room was lit with white pillars on mirrored trays, and their mild vanilla fragrance mixed with the smell of the roses wafting through Amelia’s open windows. They were probably the last of the season, too. Even in Atlanta, fall has to finally come into its own. Beside the front door, Louis and B.J. had obediently left their shoes. As I walked into the room to greet them, my bare feet didn’t announce my arrival. From where they sat at opposite ends of the couch, their backs were turned, and they were so focused on their discussion neither one saw me.

  I took two steps in and stopped. Should I clear my throat? Go out and come in again? I was definitely going to have to work on my entrances. This one was undeniably underwhelming.

  “I’m already working on a story,” B.J. was saying. “I can’t just drop it because your reporter can’t find the thread.”

  B.J. had heard Louis’s thread lecture almost as many times as I had.

  “Then give me the one you’re working on!”

  B.J. sighed. “I can’t do that.”

  “Why not? You said yourself nobody’s waiting for it. You’re doing it on spec, hoping somebody will bite on the basis of your reputation, but it’s a new world, brother. Nobody much cares about real news except me and you. All the black newsmagazines except Jet are out of business, and even if you get it published in one of the white ones, they’ll bury it. At the Sentinel, I can promise you page one.”

  “Right next to your editorials?”

  He was actually considering this. Were they both crazy?

  “In the prime spot,” Louis said. “Above the fold.”

  B.J. didn’t reject the offer outright, so I used the moment to announce myself and hopefully change the flow of this conversation until I could get Louis alone. “Am I interrupting something?”

  They leaped to their feet like the gentlemen their mamas and daddies raised them to be and turned to me in tandem.

  “How could you?” Louis said, coming around to kiss me on the cheek.

  I smiled at B.J. “Amelia said you might need some help in here.”

  He smiled back with no hint of annoyance at my ducking his phone calls since we’d watched the sunset. “She got that right.”

  B.J. was wearing dark pants and a well-cut black shirt. His bare feet were long and slender, with perfect toes that had never been squeezed into cheap shoes. Burghardt’s people traced their family to the same tree that produced W.E.B. Du Bois, which is where B.J. got his first name. They couldn’t remember when they hadn’t had money.

  Louis was dressed in a white linen shirt from Mexico that I know for a fact to be a gift from his goddaughter. The man may be a saint, but he’s still clueless. He poured me a glass of white wine from
the bottle resting comfortably in a silver ice bucket on the coffee table.

  “I’m the one who needs help! If I can get this Negro to write for the Sentinel, people might buy it, or even better, subscribe to it. We’ll be back on our feet in no time.”

  “Back in the black?” I said.

  “Exactly,” Louis said. “Talk to him!”

  “How am I supposed to live in the meantime while we’re still in the red?”

  B.J. said “while we’re still in the red.” Not “while you’re still in the red.” Louis heard it, too. His lobbying was working, so he upped the ante.

  “You know I’m not going to let you starve, brother,” he said. “Six months is all I’m asking. I’ve got a great big house and plenty of room. We can pay enough to feed you and pay any expenses associated with this story, including”—he paused dramatically—“underwriting your trip to Miami and a round-trip ticket to L.A. when you get back to take care of things there until you relocate.”

  Louis was speeding right along. How did he get from one story to relocating the man permanently before Amelia had time to serve dinner? Phoebe’s shirt was working its spell, and it was all too fast for me. Louis was looking at B.J., waiting for an answer, but B.J. was looking at me.

  “I won’t need to go back to L.A.,” he said. “I brought everything I need with me.”

  “Travelin’ light?” I said, since the intensity of his gaze required some response, although that was probably not it.

  “Old habits are hard to break.”

  “So is that a yes?” Louis said. “Tell me that’s a yes.”

  “What’s a yes?” Amelia said, walking into the room before B.J. could answer.

  “I think the Sentinel has a new star reporter,” Louis said. “Ask him.”

  Amelia turned to B.J. “Are you sure you want to do this? I’ve heard the editor over there is impossible.”

  “He’s worse than that,” B.J. said. “But I can handle him.”

  “So is that a yes?” Louis said again. “Or are we still negotiating?”