Till You Hear From Me: A Novel Page 7

“Thanks,” she said, laying the portfolio down gently and taking the seat Lu had just vacated. “You’re the Rev’s daughter, right?”

  West End was a small town in the middle of a big city. Everybody knew the Rev and even the people who had arrived after I went away to school and then to work knew he had a daughter.

  “That’s me,” I said. “Are you a photographer?”

  She nodded. “I’m a painter mostly, but I do a lot of photography, too. Some video.”

  “Is that some of your work?”

  Her hand fluttered over it protectively, although I don’t think she was even conscious of the gesture. “Yeah, I’ve been documenting the garden project at Washington ever since Mr. Eddie started it two years ago. They’re giving him an award for Black History Month, so I made a set of prints for them to hang in the main hallway right beside the basketball trophies.”

  This neighborhood has always been big on backyard gardens. A couple of years ago, after Blue Hamilton became the godfather around here, he started encouraging people to plant community gardens on any vacant lot he owned and now the West End Grower’s Association had plots all over the place, growing everything from juicy jumbo tomatoes to giant sunflowers. The Rev never liked to work in the dirt and my mother never had time, so Mr. Eddie taught me everything I know about making things grow. He had a real flair for it and the patience to show a young person how to do it right.

  “I think it’s great Mr. Eddie is getting an award.”

  “Yes,” she said, “but you know how he hates anybody to make a fuss over him. He’s threatening to boycott the ceremony.”

  That sounded about right. Mr. Eddie was notoriously shy. If the Rev craved the spotlight, Mr. Eddie was content to bask in reflected glory.

  “Can I see them?”

  “Sure,” she said, carefully untying the black grosgrain ribbon that held the thing together. I moved my glass out of the way to avoid even the possibility of a spill as she opened it.

  Aretha was a wonderful photographer. The very first image caught your eye and your heart and held you right where she wanted you. There was Mr. Eddie with a serious look on his face, standing in the center of a group of high school kids who were clustered around him wearing overalls and the sheepish, hopeful grins of people about to embark on a journey together. Some of them were holding shovels, and off to the right, you could see a pile of bagged manure from Lowe’s Garden Shop. Two girls were holding a sign that said “Booker T. Washington High School Garden Project,” and behind them, you could see the statue for which the school is famous, Dr. Washington himself pulling back the veil of ignorance from the face of a newly liberated bondsman.

  “That was the first day,” Aretha said. “There’s Lu right there next to Mr. Eddie.”

  Lu had linked her arm through his affectionately and I could see a great big Obama button pinned to the bib of her overalls.

  “She’s the one who got him to do it in the first place. They had a perfect plot of land to work with, but nobody had ever done a garden there, so when Lu asked about getting some other kids together to grow stuff, they told her she needed an adult volunteer to make sure they did it right, and a budget they could raise themselves since the school didn’t have any funds to support them.”

  There was loud laughter from the kitchen.

  “But you know Lu, right? She didn’t let that stop her for a minute. With the parents she’s got, she came out of the womb organizing people.”

  We could hear the group from down the hall coming our way. Princess Joyce Ann came first, still holding Lu by the hand, followed by Flora and Mr. Charles, who was still wearing his apron, and Miss Iona, who was not.

  “Are those the photographs?” Flora said, sitting down on the arm of the couch and looking over Aretha’s shoulder.

  Aretha nodded. “I just started showing Ida.”

  “You started without me?” Lu said. “Go back to the beginning, then!”

  Aretha laughed and carefully turned back to the first photo. “You’re getting as bossy as the princess.”

  Mr. Charles leaned over to take a closer look at the group shot and nodded approvingly at his friend’s photo. Mr. Eddie was the only person I had ever seen who could make garden overalls look elegant. Picture a sepia-toned Fred Astaire weeding a patch of perfect collard greens and you get the picture.

  “You made the old boy look good. Pretty soon, ol’ Ed’s gonna have to start signing autographs.”

  “Everybody told him those kids wouldn’t want to get their hands dirty, but you know Eddie,” Miss Iona said proudly. “He just went over there and started digging.”

  He probably made it look so cool, they couldn’t resist, I thought.

  “Now the school board wants to use it as a citywide model,” Flora said.

  Aretha turned to the next photo and we all leaned forward to see.

  “I’m in there, too,” said the princess, pointing a chubby finger at herself, sans regal apparel, standing in the garden beside Lu, holding a tiny rake and smiling for the camera.

  “Wait until we get these up online,” Lu said. “Every high school in the city is going to want a garden!”

  “And who’s going to coordinate all that?” Flora groaned, as Aretha turned to another photograph that showed two boys talking earnestly to Mr. Eddie about something on the back of what looked like a seed catalogue. “We’re having a hard enough time finding somebody to take this job already without piling on more for them to do.”

  “You’re the one with the grand vision.” Aretha grinned and turned another page. “You have no one to blame but yourself.”

  “Look at Dad,” Lu said, pointing at a shot of a tall, sandy-haired man with a big Angela Davis-style Afro, spreading mulch between the rows of new plants.

  Flora smiled at her husband’s image. “What a faker! The man can’t keep a tomato plant alive and there he is looking like Johnny Appleseed.”

  “Where is Hank anyway?” Aretha glanced around like she might have missed him, an impossibility in the cozy room.

  “He’s in D.C. until Friday,” Lu said. “He’s been gone for two weeks.”

  Aretha shook her head in Flora’s direction. “If I didn’t know that man was madly in love with you, I’d swear he had a mistress.”

  “There are children present!” Lu said, covering her own ears, but Flora just laughed.

  “It’s only until June,” she said, draping her arm around her daughter’s shoulders affectionately. “Soon as Lu graduates, we’ll get on up the road.”

  “Daddy only took that job because I’m gonna be at Georgetown,” Lu said, rolling her eyes. “They can’t live without me.”

  “But we keep on tryin’!”

  “Well, don’t try too hard.” Lu grinned at her mother. “I’ll tell you when.”

  “That’s the only problem with raising princesses,” Flora said, and kissed her daughter’s cheek. “Always with the orders!”

  TEN

  A Perfect Morning

  TONI RAPPED ON THE DOOR LIGHTLY.

  “Come on in,” Wes said, pleased that she had been in the meeting to witness his performance. What’s that corny line from Mahogany, “Success is nothing unless you got somebody to share it with”?

  “Congratulations,” she said, holding up a bottle of champagne and two glasses.

  “Where’d you get that?” he said, noting that it was Dom Perignon and unable to stop himself from also noting that he hadn’t authorized any such expenditure.

  She set the glasses on the table and opened the champagne without asking for assistance. “You are my new hero.”

  She filled both glasses, handed him one, and raised hers in a toast. “And don’t worry. This didn’t come out of petty cash. I paid for it myself.”

  He laughed, touched his glass lightly against hers, and took a sip. She did, too.

  “You know me too well.”

  “Probably,” she said, sitting down on the chocolate-colored suede love seat and crossing her lovel
y legs, “but the point is, you kicked ass. Always one step ahead. Always got the solution to the problem. Always so smooth.”

  “You better stop, girl. You’re gonna swell my head.”

  “I could say something really dirty about that,” she said, laughing, “but I’m serious. You were great. Maybe the best I’ve ever seen.”

  Her praise sounded so sincere, for a minute, he almost believed it. “That’s the only way you get invited to catch a ride on the private plane,” he said, loving the offer.

  “It’s about time,” she said. “Now maybe you can finally join the Mile High Club.”

  “I am a charter member of the Mile High Club,” he said, sitting down beside her. “Besides, private jets are for punks. Anybody can do it when there’s nobody else around. The challenge is to get it done on the red eye to L.A.”

  She put down her drink and moved a little closer to him, reaching for his zipper without taking her eyes off his face. “If this goes well, you should make me a partner.”

  She pushed her hair behind her ears, as he spread his arms across the back of the love seat. This was shaping up to be a perfect morning.

  “Sometimes I don’t know if you’re sexually insatiable or just wildly ambitious,” he said.

  “How about sexually ambitious and wildly insatiable?”

  “Works for me,” he said, wondering if she really thought her pussy was worth a partnership. It was good, he wouldn’t deny that, but no pussy is that good.

  “So do we have a deal?”

  There were times when truth was requested, but not required. This, Wes thought, closing his eyes, was one of those times.

  “Baby, we got whatever you want, and then some!”

  ELEVEN

  Our Most Recent Family Feud

  BY FOUR O’CLOCK, THE REV STILL HAD NOT ARRIVED AND I WAS SO nervous, I hadn’t been able to eat a bite, even though I was starving. Sunday supper was always a buffet at Miss Iona’s. Everybody served themselves and then found a place to perch wherever they could. Mr. Charles was good at putting a chair near every available surface so nobody had to balance a plate on their knees unless they wanted to. I had told my can’t talk about it yet fantasy job lie so many times I was starting to think my nose was actually growing like Pinocchio’s. It would have been bad enough if I had been lying to a bunch of strangers, but I had known some of these people all my life. They were my father’s friends and parishioners and comrades in arms and here I stood, smiling and hugging and lying my ass off.

  When Mr. Charles confided to me, as he sliced the perfectly pink honey baked ham in thin slices and arranged them on a big white platter, that the Rev was so proud he was about to bust, I fixed a shit-eating grin on my face and tapped my index finger to my lips to remind him that this was our secret. When Blue Hamilton turned those unbelievable turquoise eyes on me while his wife offered their congratulations, I was so grateful that their adorable two-year-old (christened Juanita, but known to all as Sweetie Pie) gave me an excuse to look away before he saw the truth.

  I’m not sure I was so lucky with Miss Abbie, who gave me a really concerned look as I babbled about having to help Miss Iona and excused myself as fast as I could, since it’s probably impossible to hide anything for long from somebody who makes a living looking through their third eye.

  “This is driving me crazy.” I burst into the kitchen like a madwoman, relieved to find Miss Iona alone making a pot of fresh coffee, but she held up a finger for silence. She was counting out the scoops and she didn’t want to lose track and have to start again.

  “He’ll be here in a minute, sweetie,” she said when she finished, guessing the wrong reason for my anxiety attack as she closed the coffee canister and flipped the switch to start the machine.

  “I know that,” I said. “That’s not what I’m talking about.”

  “Well, one thing at a time, sweetie,” she said, filling the silver sugar bowl. “I thought the Rev’s arrival was your big one for today.”

  “Everybody thinks I’m going to work at the White House,” I said, knowing I couldn’t blame her, but wishing more and more that I could.

  “We were just going on what you said. Honest mistake.”

  “What you said!”

  “I was acting in good faith on bad information,” she said calmly. “But the thing is, there’s no use crying over spilled milk.”

  “They keep congratulating me,” I said, sounding as miserable as I felt. “What am I supposed to say?”

  She finishing pouring the sugar and looked at me. Her smile was meant to be reassuring. “We went over this, remember? You just say you can’t talk about it until everything is confirmed. No biggie.”

  No problem. No worries. No biggie.

  “I can’t just keep lying all night.” I sounded like a whiny six-year-old again. I cleared my throat and tried to get a grip.

  “Okay, then I think you should tell them the truth.”

  “That I didn’t get the job?”

  Miss Iona nodded. “Exactly. Just spit it out.”

  “But I haven’t told the Rev yet. I don’t want them to hear it first.”

  She smiled at me. “Well, that takes us right back to our original plan.”

  I groaned.

  “Oh, sweetie, just relax. Say hello to everybody and keep moving before they have a chance to ask you anything except how you’re doin’.”

  “I’ll keep moving,” I said. “Right out the door and back to D.C. where I belong.”

  I wasn’t kidding and she knew it. These all-is-forgiven moments never go the way you hope they will and I was getting more freaked out by the minute. Every time the doorbell rang, I jumped about a foot in the air. These people probably thought I had St. Vitus’s Dance or something. In the last two hours I’d had plenty of time to consider how things could go wrong. What if he’s still as mad as he was the last time we talked and as inflexible as my mother said he was the last time they did? What if he won’t speak to me at all unless I apologize in front of everybody, which I couldn’t possibly do and maintain a shred of self-respect so I’d have no choice but to defy him in front of everybody and show myself to be a rude and ungrateful child? What if he caught sight of me, turned on his heel, and just walked away? What if he couldn’t even stand to look at me?

  I figure that one is a lot less likely. The Rev loves words. Silent gestures are open to interpretation and the Rev likes to be clear, even if it might mean a public airing of our most recent family feud. I pinched the bridge of my nose again, a habit that provides no relief I can ever identify, and sighed. Even the smell of the peach cobbler that would be dessert as soon as the coffee was ready didn’t soothe me. How could it? Mr. Eddie had already called to say he and the Rev were on their way. Now I’d have the White House lie, the current feud, and the Rev’s reaction to worry about, all at the same time.

  “Listen, sweetie,” Miss Iona said, peering at me now with real concern. “Calm down. Right now, I know it seems like a big mess, but in less than an hour, it’s all going to be over.”

  I was going to tell her that’s exactly what I was afraid of when the doorbell rang. Showtime. Why had I ever agreed to this? I glanced at Miss Iona’s back door, wondering if it was too late to make a run for it. Through the kitchen door, I could hear greetings being exchanged and almost feel the energy level rise to meet the Rev’s boom as he claimed the space, his voice rolling down the hallway in waves.

  “Brother Larson, I hope you didn’t let these Negroes start without me,” he said. He was greeted by the laughter of people who had started and finished without him in the sure and certain knowledge that there was still plenty for their favorite pastor whenever he arrived.

  I looked at Miss Iona, unsure of what I was supposed to do next. That six-year-old was in charge again and I was rooted to a spot between the stove and the refrigerator, waiting for instructions. Miss Iona didn’t hesitate. She pushed open the door and called to him.

  “Stop fussing, Rev, and come and get
this plate I got in the oven for you,” she said. “Eddie, you the guest of honor, so I’ll bring you out yours.”

  That elicited more laughter.

  “Look like you slippin’, Rev,” I heard Mr. Charles say. “You better learn how to grow somethin’. Otherwise, Ed got all your thunder.”

  “I’m growin’ the future,” the Rev shot back, his voice getting closer. “And don’t you forget it.”

  I took a deep breath. I would have prayed, but at that moment the only prayer I could remember was the Now I lay me down to sleep one, which wasn’t really appropriate. I didn’t have time anyway. Miss Iona held the door open and my father stepped into her kitchen like the force of nature that he was. He had on a dark blue suit and a white shirt that still looked fresh even at the end of a very long day. Against the dark brown of his skin, his collar almost glowed. I couldn’t see his shoes, but I knew they were shined to a high gloss, just like I knew Mr. Barlow had cut his hair yesterday morning like he did every Saturday. Even in the midst of all those good cooking smells, the Rev’s Old Spice held its own and all that mattered was that he was still my daddy, and I was still his little princess, no matter what my mother said, and no way we were ever supposed to let a crowd of fast-talking Chicago Negroes come between us, even if they are undeniably fabulous. Politics is one thing, but even in Obamamerica, blood runs thicker than water.

  “Now what’s all this about me having to eat in the …” He started to tease her, but his eyes fell on me and he froze, speechless, which was probably a first. Then he did the one thing that hadn’t occurred to me during the last two worry-filled hours: He wept.

  TWELVE

  A Bunch of Dinosaurs

  FIGURING HER WORK WAS DONE, AT LEAST FOR THE MOMENT, MISS Iona eased out of the kitchen, rejoining her guests with promises that cobbler and coffee were on the way and leaving me to walk into the Rev’s open arms with a few tears of my own. We just stood there for a minute or two, grinning and crying and generally making a spectacle of ourselves. I laid my cheek against the vest of his Sunday suit and he squeezed me tight enough to make up for the ridiculous five months we’d been apart.