Babylon Sisters (18 page)

45

We talked and laughed our way through dinner as Louis greeted a stream of well-wishers. The timing of the announcement of B.J.’s series couldn’t have been better. The
Sentinel
was back in a big way, and anybody who thought this evening was going to be a fond farewell to another fallen soldier would have to think again.

Louis headed for the stage after a glowing introduction that recounted the founding and history of the
Sentinel,
the selfless dedication of Louis Adams Sr., and his unsung role in the local and national communities of black journalists. He accepted the plaque from AABJ’s president and waited for the applause to die down before he said his thank-yous. When he spoke, his voice was low and intimate, like it would have been if he had been talking to us over drinks in his favorite booth at Paschal’s. We leaned forward as if pulled by an invisible string so we wouldn’t miss a word.

“My father published the first issue of the
Sentinel
on August thirtieth, 1964, because he wanted to do something for freedom. He wanted to be the voice of a community in transition. A community that was realizing that its future depended on its willingness to come together and refuse to go along with business as usual. My father wanted us to get our news filtered through our own African-American eyes, because he knew that was the best chance we had of getting to the truth. Our truth. The truth of who and what and why we are.”

“Take your time, brother!” said a man from the back of the room.

“His mission was to tell the truth no matter what the consequences for himself, or even for his family, because he believed that without the truth, men and women are powerless to take control of their communities and their lives. Well, I still believe that, and the mission of the
Sentinel
was then, is now, and always will be, to tell the truth to the people. No matter who tries to silence us. No matter who would counsel that it’s better not to stir things up, or tell us the pursuit of truth is just a sixties dream that gets batted around every now and then by old radicals who can’t figure out what to do next. The pursuit of truth is not a black history moment. It’s a living, breathing quest, an endless journey that requires us to rise to the challenge by rededicating ourselves to the things that made the black press great—courage, clarity, and convictions.”

He was interrupted by applause. Miss Iona was looking at him with her hands clasped under her chin and tears sparkling in her eyes. Mr. Charles was her favorite escort, but Louis Sr. had been her soul mate.

“So I accept this award on behalf of my father, and I know if he were here tonight, he’d want me to tell you to do three things. Tell the truth to the people. Subscribe to the
Sentinel.
”

He looked over at Miss Iona beaming at him. “And do something for freedom today!”

People got to their feet in a standing ovation as Louis made his way back to our table, but before he sat down, he did one more thing for freedom. He stopped in front of Miss Iona and handed her the plaque, right in front of everybody, acknowledging for the first time what folks had been saying about her and Louis Sr. for years. Relieved at last of the need to pretend, the crowd roared its approval. I could see that Miss Iona was crying.

That’s the thing about the truth, I guess. Once you start, it feels so good, you just can’t stop.

46

There were two messages waiting when I got home. The first one was from B.J. to let me know he had some strong leads about Miriam’s sister and saying he’d call me as soon as he got back. The second one was from Phoebe. She had called at nine o’clock, knowing I’d be at dinner with Louis, leaving no chance for me to pick up. Her voice sounded the same way it always did when she was asserting herself against the
mother.
Determined, but a little shaky.

“Hey, Mom, it’s me.”

Like I didn’t recognize her voice from the first syllable of the first word. Like I didn’t hear the air moving before she spoke. “I wanted to say . . . I just . . . I don’t want to talk to you yet, but I just wanted to let you know the flowers got here.”

Then there was a long pause, and I heard my daughter sigh.

“Thanks, Mom.”

Then there was another long pause.

“Okay. I guess that’s all. Good night.”

I played it back twice to enjoy the sound of her voice. I wanted to call her and say,
That’s not all,
Baby Doll.
This is only the beginning.

47

The first story in B.J.’s series was a passionate overview of the refugee problem and an equally passionate promise to make it real for readers by putting a face on it. To illustrate what he meant, B.J. had written about a family of six from Guatemala, none of whom spoke English, who rented a broken-down house in Vine City and paid three times what they would have paid anywhere in the city because of an avaricious landlord who took advantage of them in every possible way. He showed the tremendous profits being made off of people’s misery and named the absentee landlord, a well-known local businessman. The article was an eye-opener, and it achieved Louis’s main goal: it got everybody talking. The issue sold out on the newsstands in two days. B.J. was due back from Miami tomorrow with the second installment, but tonight I was taking myself out to dinner alone.

Dusk was already turning into dark, and the streetlights flickered on as I walked down Oglethorpe. Chanterelle’s Restaurant is a well-kept West End secret. Tucked away on an unassuming side street with Laundromats, union halls, and the new Krispy Kreme as nearby neighbors, the small storefront establishment serves up what can only be described as
gourmet
soul food. While the offerings may resemble the menu familiar to anyone who frequents black-owned restaurants—macaroni and cheese, baked chicken and dressing, barbecued ribs, collard greens, and candied yams—the skill of the owner/chef is such that in his hands, they become something succulent and special.

The chicken is perfectly tender and delicately flavored. The corn bread dressing smells of celery and sage and practically melts in your mouth. The vegetables are never soggy, the collards are spicy without being too hot, and the banana pudding and red velvet cake are tied for best dessert
ever.
On busy afternoons, the chef himself is likely to be standing behind the steam table, pointing out to newcomers that it’s
sauce,
not
gravy
he’s spooning onto that creamy mound of mashed potatoes they’re holding out in his direction. He was as demanding and temperamental as any chef in a French five-star restaurant, and his clientele as patient as any long-suffering Parisians, and for the same reason: the food was just that good.

The streets were full of people shopping, heading home, hanging out. Traffic stopped at a pedestrian crosswalk to let an old woman cross without rushing, and the open door of the barbershop I was passing released the voices of laughing black men into the street. A young couple passed by dressed in the strange combination of skintight and supersize that defines their generation’s fashion sense, and two women wearing the red and black colors of the Shrine of the Black Madonna greeted me with a friendly “Good evening, sister,” as they hurried toward their destination. I felt so content and pleased to be where I was, I almost broke out into Mister Rogers’s tune about
it’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood.

I didn’t see Louis sitting on the other side of the room, deep in conversation with B.J., until I had picked up my order, found a table, put my napkin in my lap, and reached for my fork, which I promptly dropped into my mashed potatoes. What were they doing here? I didn’t even know B.J. was back. Didn’t he say he would call me? Did he call me? He didn’t say
when
he would call me, but all that dancing in the dark and talking about
ghost-free zones
at least implied a call when the plane touched down, or while he was walking through the concourse at the airport, maybe even waiting at baggage claim, which always takes a while, but not after dinner at Chanterelle’s. Plus, it’s right up the street, so a call to say, “I’m back, and would you like to join us for dinner?” wouldn’t have been out of the question.

But none of that had happened, and because it hadn’t happened, I couldn’t just take my tray and squeeze in at their table. Even worse, for some weird reason, it was suddenly embarrassing to be caught having dinner alone. What had been a perfect evening of enjoying my own company now seemed vaguely pathetic, even in these postfeminist years when everybody knows
it’s okay.
As I sat there trying to decide if it was too late to get my order to go, Louis looked up, saw me, and waved. B.J. followed his eye and smiled with real pleasure.

I waved back and smiled with real confusion that I hoped was invisible to the naked eye. I had no reason to act like a petulant high school girl who had just busted her steady at the malt shop. B.J. and I were in the process of figuring out who and what we were. The old rules did not apply, and the new rules weren’t even in place yet. All I could do was try to stay in the moment and remain calm.

Louis left B.J. to hold their table and came over. I stood up to hug him before we cleared the aisles and sat back down. Chanterelle’s fills every available space with chairs and tables. The crowded aisles between them don’t permit much table hopping and hovering.

“Hey, sweetie,” Louis said. “Eating alone?”

“Yep,” I said. “When did B.J. get back?”

“Last night,” Louis said. “We’ve been working nonstop. This new piece is going to blow them out of the water.”

“Last night?” He’d been here all day and never called me? This couldn’t be a good sign, but if it was a bad sign, what was it a bad sign of?

“Around midnight. I picked him up so you couldn’t make him a better offer.”

Louis was grinning, but I knew he wasn’t kidding and I grinned back. Why was I already keeping score? It was
still
a perfect evening.

“Well, do you plan to keep him out all night, too?”

“I’ll try not to,” he said.

“I’d appreciate it. How am I ever going to be absolved if I can’t get a minute to make my confession?”

“Point well taken,” Louis said, leaning over to kiss my cheek. “I’ll send him right over.”

Like I was going to tell all over baked chicken and collard greens.

B.J. waited for Louis to return to their table before he came over and sat down in the empty chair. “Hey, Cat.”

“Small world,” I said. “How was your trip?”

“Better than I hoped. I’ve got a guy down there who remembers Miriam and her sister. He was the one who made the arrangements with their mother.”

“Are you sure?”

He nodded. “I need to talk with Miriam to confirm some things as soon as possible, but it looks legit. The people who took her sister seem to have really strong ties to Atlanta, and she may be scheduled to come through here again in a few weeks as part of some kind of circuit.”

“A circuit?”

“My source says you can tell when they’re bringing in women because they secure the houses differently.”

“So nobody can get to them?”

“So they can’t get out. They board up the windows and redo the locks so you can only open the doors from the outside.”

“They lock them in?”

“Ten or fifteen at a time. If they start making trouble, the guys who are guarding them threaten to set the place on fire.”

I resisted the impulse to ask him what kind of man would burn women alive for being
troublemakers,
but there was no answer to such a question, so I didn’t waste our time pretending there was. “Miriam will be at my house tomorrow,” I said. “Can you meet her there around four?”

“Sure. Will you stick around so she’ll have someone there she knows?”

“Of course.”

“Great,” he said, glancing over at Louis, who was conceding their table to two people hovering nearby with fully loaded trays and hungry expressions on their faces. “I guess we’re being evicted.”

Was that it? “Welcome back.”

He looked at me and smiled again. “We’ve got some last-minute stuff to do down at the paper, but Louis swears we won’t be long. Would you like to have coffee or something later?”

This “remaining calm” thing works like a charm if you can just remember to do it. “I’d love to.”

“I’ll call you when I’m headed back this way.” Then he kissed the same cheek Louis had previously bussed, and they headed out the door.

Louis’s mother may have been her husband’s wife, but the
Sentinel
was her husband’s dream, and he had passed it to his son along with those long legs and that lopsided grin. There was no way to compete with that, and I wasn’t even going to try. Why should I? I had dreams of my own to think about, and a little plate of heaven to sustain me while I did. And when you think about it, if that isn’t a perfect evening, I can’t help you.

48

This time, I had decided to leave Phoebe’s pictures around in their usual places. He would have to ask me who she was, and, surrounded by her smiling face, I’d be powerless to deny her. Even if I did, all he’d have to do was look at her to know the secret I’d been keeping all these years, and then I’d have to break down and let it all out.

It wasn’t that I didn’t want to tell him. I literally couldn’t find the words. I needed an opening line to introduce the subject in a gentle, nonconfrontational way that
eased
us into the conversation. I needed a few short sentences that would state the facts, take my best shot at an explanation, and offer him the option of a face-to-face meeting with Phoebe, but only if they both wanted it.

The fact was easy:
We have a seventeen-year-old daughter.
The offer of a meeting was easy because unless they both agreed, it never had to happen. It was the explanation part that was, as my father used to say, kicking my ass like I stole something. I knew I had to explain, but how? For a long time, I thought it all went bad when I decided not to have the abortion and I didn’t tell B.J., but I think now it was before that. It was when I tried to make the decision not to have her based on who I
thought
he was and who he
expected
me to be. I don’t remember asking myself what I
wanted
until they called my name at the clinic, and I couldn’t step forward.

Having Phoebe was something I did because of who I really was, and I’ve never regretted it for a single second, but still needed an introduction to the subject at hand. I looked at Phoebe’s picture on the freezer door as I took the coffee out to make a fresh pot and tried to imagine the exchange.

Him: What a lovely young woman. Who is she?

Me: Oh, that’s our daughter, Phoebe. She is lovely, isn’t she?

That was no good. I tried again.

Him: What a lovely young woman. Who is she?

Me: You remember that procedure you couldn’t go to with me? Well, I couldn’t go either.

That was even worse.

Him: What a lovely young woman. Who is she?

Me: B.J., we need to talk.

The worst opening line in the history of relationships. This was what I got for not watching soap operas. Those girls know how to confess every possible transgression, from extramarital affairs to switching babies at birth, without even breaking a sweat. How do they do it?

The phone rang as I took down two cups from the cabinet over the sink. “Hello?”

I was glad to hear B.J.’s voice on the other end. It was almost ten thirty. After eleven is too late for coffee and true confessions on a weeknight.

“Cat? I’m sorry to be so late calling.”

“That’s okay. I just put the coffee on.”

“That’s the thing,” he said. “Louis just reworked the whole front page.”

Phoebe’s photograph smiled back at me from the refrigerator door, and I felt a wave of frustration.
Damn!
It was harder to tell this secret than it had been to keep it. But B.J. didn’t know that. He thought he was just coming by for coffee, not to be a major player on
Days of Our Lives.

“How much longer do you think he’ll be?”

“There’s really no telling,” he said. “Can we get together tomorrow?”

Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow . . .

“Sure,” I said, as the smell of coffee I wasn’t going to drink filled the kitchen. Now
that
was pathetic. Amelia’s question bounced around in my brain:
What do you want to happen?
I knew exactly what I wanted to happen. “How about dinner? I’ll cook.”

“You don’t have to do that,” he said.

“I want to,” I said. “Besides, how else can we be sure we won’t run into any more of Ezola’s spies?”

“Good thinking,” he said. “Am I still meeting Miriam at your place at four?”

“Absolutely,” I said. “She’s expecting you.” She had been so excited to hear that there were new leads on her sister.

“Thanks, Cat,” he said. “I’m sorry I couldn’t make it tonight.”

“Tell your boss I’m going to send a union organizer down there if he doesn’t stop these terrible hours you’re working.”

“I’ll be the first one to sign up.”

I could hear the smile in his voice, and I was glad I hadn’t been petulant about his change of plans. I wondered if it was possible to be in love with a man and develop a vocabulary free of the responses that make every conversation a minefield of hurt feelings, half-truths, and dashed expectations. The more I sidestepped all that and went right to the truth, the better I felt.

“Good night,” I said.

“Good night.”

There was no need to waste a whole pot of coffee, so I poured myself a cup. It wasn’t until I went back to the refrigerator for the cream that I realized I was going to have to take Phoebe down one more time. B.J. was coming here at four to interview Miriam. I couldn’t leave the pictures around for that.

Him: What a lovely young woman. Who is she?

Me: That’s our daughter, Phoebe, but go on and do this interview and I’ll fill you in later.

That would never do. I’d have to put them away, find some reason for him to leave the house for a little while after he talked to Miriam, put them back up, and then greet him for dinner like they’d been there all the time, or confess I’d been taking them down and putting them back like a set designer who couldn’t make up her mind. Neither option particularly appealed to me, but I figured Miriam deserved B.J.’s undivided attention tomorrow and de-Phoebe-izing the house one more time was the only way to guarantee she got it.

So I put down my coffee and apologized to my daughter one more time with the guilty parent’s favorite rationalization:
This hurts me more than it hurts you.
She didn’t believe me for a second.