Have Your Cake and Kill Him Too (24 page)

“I'm okay, Harry.”

“Busy?”

“Yes. And I've been trying to help a friend.”

Hargrave eased his bulk into a wing chair. He was an old lion—grizzled and ponderous but still full of potent strength. As crumbs of food tumbled down the front of his charcoal suit, he eyed me with a discerning glare. “What friend is that?”

“A friend,” I repeated, unwilling to say more. I perched on the footstool by his knee. “Actually, she's in trouble with the police.”

Harry stilled for an instant, on the alert. “Aha. Is she guilty?”

“No,” I said sharply. “But one reason she's a suspect is because she's black. Or do you prefer
African-American
?”

“Either one,” he said, frowning. “Surely the police have some evidence that she committed a crime.”

“Not much,” I said, perhaps allowing my frustration to show too obviously.

Harry's bushy brows rose, then descended sternly over his eyes. “I can't say as it's happened to me lately, but in my youth I might have been mistaken for a ruffian by the police now and then. And to tell the truth, I might have given them reason to think I was a troublemaker. We have to trust the system, Nora.”

Looking at him, it was hard to imagine the judge as anything but a dignified scholar who presided over his courtroom like an all-powerful potentate who tolerated no nonsense. I knew lawyers who dared not stand up in front of him without spending many hours of preparation in their law libraries.

“This particular situation is very unfair, Harry.”

He took a healthy bite out of a crust of bread spread with olive paste, and chewed thoughtfully before saying, “The racial divide is still great, isn't it?”

“Yes. My friend is in trouble. And I don't know what to do for her.”

“Does your friend have a lawyer?”

“She thinks she doesn't need one.”

Harry used a napkin to wipe his fingers before reaching into his breast pocket for a pen and a notepad. Carefully, he wrote down a name, then tore the page from his pad and passed it to me. “She should call this gentleman. I have a high regard for his abilities in this kind of matter.”

I accepted the paper. I did not recognize the lawyer's name.

“Nora,” said the judge, “there are two sides to racial profiling. It's universally condemned, yet universally practiced. But I've always felt that social change comes from people like you—young wives and mothers who want to raise their children in a better world.”

“I'm trying to figure out how to do that, Harry.”

“A little bit at a time.” Deepening his voice, Harry said, “A great man has said that racism is the biggest cancer of his lifetime. But just because he can't cure that cancer didn't mean he shouldn't attack it in small ways.”

“Martin Luther King?” I asked.

Judge Potter shook his head. “Charles Barkley.”

I smiled.

“I never read much philosophy,” Harry said, “but I do love basketball.”

When I returned home that evening, there was a note from Emma on the kitchen table and a phone message from Libby.

Emma reported that Keesa was happily spending the night with Lucy.

On the answering machine, still sounding wounded or perhaps hungover, Libby said, “Call me.”

After another beep, Richard's voice came on. “It's Richard,” he said in case I didn't recognize his voice. “Listen, I'm sorry about earlier. Can we have dinner tomorrow night? I made an early reservation.”

He named a restaurant I didn't care for. I wondered if I'd be able to swallow their food.

Without returning either call, I went to bed.

During my usual hour of upchucking the following morning, I wondered if any television network might consider giving a million dollars to the woman who survived the worst morning sickness. If so, I was definitely going to make the final four.

Emma pounded on the bathroom door and yelled something annoyingly cheerful.

My day was made complete when I saw Libby's minivan pull into my driveway an hour later. I groaned. I carried my bowl of Jiffy Pop onto the back porch. Emma was in the paddock with Mr. Twinkles, and they both ignored Libby, leaving me to cope on my own.

“I'm over my shock,” Libby announced when she climbed out of her vehicle. “I forgive you for getting pregnant at the wrong time.”

“Thank you, Libby.” I met her on the sidewalk and gave her a kiss.

“Keesa's still at my house. Rawlins is in charge. The twins think she's the best thing since formaldehyde. For some reason, she knows everything about autopsies.”

The thirteen-year-old twins, Harcourt and Hilton, had already signed up for Forensic Summer Camp, three weeks of stomach-turning adventure in the lab of a local community college.

Except for an enormous pair of sunglasses and the slight wince when I kissed her, Libby seemed back to normal after yesterday's episode of speed demonism. I asked, “How are you feeling?”

“A little hungover,” she admitted. She removed her sunglasses and revealed a remarkably dewy complexion. “But much better today.”

She wore a pair of powder blue stretch pants with racing stripes down the legs and a matching jacket, which was unzipped just enough to show today's T-shirt, which read HOTTIE in sequins. The pedometer still clipped to one pocket confirmed she hadn't given up on her diet yet. Cheerfully, she held up two fingers. “Nora, I have two words I want you to consider seriously.”

“Just two?”

“Demi Moore.”

“What?”

“What would you think about a calendar photograph of just you and your stomach?”

“Libby—”

My sister grabbed my arm and pulled me off the porch to her minivan. “Demi Moore was on the cover of a magazine when she was something like eighteen months pregnant—absolutely
huge.
You and your belly might be just the thing for our calendar!”

“Libby, I'm hardly showing at all—”

“We'll wait a few months! The bigger the better. You'll be gigantic in no time!” Libby flung open the side door of the van and dragged out two bulging cardboard boxes. “See what I brought for you? Books, some videotapes and—look—my favorite maternity clothes!”

I swallowed a moan. It was starting already, and I had nearly seven long months of sisterly advice to endure.

“I won't need these clothes,” Libby said, “at least not for a while. Just make sure they're laundered before you return them.”

“Libby, with five children already, don't you think you could safely give these things to the Goodwill now?”

“You never know what fate may bestow. Here! My favorite shirt! Isn't it adorable?”

Against her body, she held up a pink tent printed with a huge arrow pointing down and block letters that announced the word EXIT.

“Never in a million years am I going to wear that,” I said.

“You wait,” she predicted. “Someday this will be the only thing that fits and you'll be desperate.”

“I'll have to be desperate and brain-dead.”

“Here.” She handed me a stack of videotapes to carry. “You can look through these while I carry everything inside. You shouldn't strain yourself, you know.”

I should have guessed my sister's collection of informational materials might include a tape entitled
Zen Mama's Workout.
Beneath that classic I found
War Cry: The Victory of Vaginal Delivery
and
The Natural Eroticism of Breast-Feeding.

“Don't you have anything normal?” I asked when we had taken everything but the exercise contraptions into the kitchen. “What about Dr. Spock? Or a nice, sensible nutrition chart?”

She waved airily. “That stuff's common sense. What you need is enlightenment!”

I read the title of the next videotape. “What did you find enlightening about
Making a Myth or a Mister
?”

“It has some excellent information about choosing the gender of your baby, depending upon your sexual position at the time of conception. I have so much knowledge and experience to share with my sister! Have you thought about a midwife? An underwater delivery? Maybe some meditation techniques to enhance your childbirth experience? And what about foods to plump up your placenta! I can't wait to see you get rounder!”

I stacked the videos on the table. “Look, Lib, I've got to tell you the truth. The doctor warned me to be careful.”

“Don't worry! Getting a big stomach is natural!”

“No, I mean this pregnancy is delicate.” I summoned the courage to speak the truth and said, “That's why I haven't told many people yet. I want to be sure I can hang on to this baby.”

“Oh, honey!” All sympathy, Libby made a grab for my hand. “I know you had a miscarriage once before. It happens. I had two.”

“I know, but—”

“So it's not uncommon in our family. Mama lost three. But honey, you have to think positively! Visualize!”

“I have been, believe me. But I—look, I'm not ready for all this.” I indicated her videos, magazines and books, and an item of equipment that involved two rubber balls and a length of string that I didn't dare ask about. “I know you're being kind. But I—I don't want to jinx it. And I don't think I can stand the onslaught of your crackpot—I mean, enlightened advice for the next six or seven months.”

“Six months? Nora, I plan to be right at your side until this child goes off to college!”

I choked back a scream. “Libby—”

“For starters,” she said, shaking her finger at me, “you have to eat more than just popcorn! I have lots of recipes for healthy food that you'll be able to swallow, I promise. And you must increase your daily Kegel repetitions immediately. Promise me you won't neglect your inner muscle tone!”

“I—”

“Your lover will thank you someday. Where is Richard, by the way?”

“I—he's not here at the moment.”

A long silence ticked by while Libby studied me with suspicion. At last, she said, “Richard
is
the father of your baby, isn't he, Nora?”

I still didn't know who was listening to the microphone that was undoubtedly planted in my kitchen. So I said, “I need your help, Libby.”

“Anything!”

“I need to go to the Cupcakes Saloon.”

Her eyes got round as if she'd just heard she was on her way to meet Mickey Mouse for the first time. “You're not toying with me, are you, Nora?”

“No, I need a ride to Cupcakes.”

Libby shrieked with glee. “You're kidding! Cupcakes! With the dancing girls and down-home hot wings? Why didn't you call me before I left my house? I have to change my clothes! I look like an Avon lady on my way to Curves!”

“You look fine. Besides, Cupcakes won't be open for business yet. I'm going to talk to ChaCha Reynolds. I just thought you might like to look around a little.”

Her eyes alight, my sister grabbed my coat and hustled me into it. “Well, hurry up, for heaven's sake! Let's get going!”

During the whole trip, she babbled like a kid on her way to her first birthday party.

By the time we arrived at Cupcakes, I felt sorry for ChaCha. Libby was going to give her a truckload of ideas on how to improve business.

“Don't you think the dancers would like to see my exercise tape for pole dancing?”

“Pole dancing?” I asked, and immediately regretted my mistake.

“For strippers! It's the latest thing in exercise. Even Jude Law recommends it! But it's really artistic, too!”

As I'd guessed, the restaurant wasn't open when we parked in the lot, but we saw a couple of young girls dash through a side door. Libby and I bailed out of the minivan and ducked into the cool darkness of the club on the heels of the early-arriving employees.

Thrilled to find herself inside the infamous saloon, Libby choked back a squeal. “I'm getting goose bumps!”

She didn't notice the janitor sweeping the floors or smell the disinfectant being used to scrub down the bar. The chairs stacked on top of tables didn't diminish her enthusiasm. And the forlornly empty air hockey table, home to a bucket of water catching drips from the ceiling, did not dim the glamour for her.

It was the Cupcakes who drew Libby across the floor like a hungry fish to a juicy bug. The girls were stretching their limbs, sipping from plastic water bottles, dressed in sweatpants and sports bras with their hair in ponytails. Two stood side by side practicing a dance step over and over. They all oozed the healthy, limber athleticism of racehorses, but seemed bored by their surroundings.

“Hi, girls!” Libby called, and bounced across to them.

I let her go.

“Hey,” said one of the Cupcakes. “Are you the new dance captain?”

“I do have a few suggestions,” Libby said. “Have you girls heard of the stripper's two-step?”

I went along a dark hallway and found a door marked with ChaCha's name. The door stood partially open and I heard noise inside. I knocked softly and pushed the door open without waiting for a response. “ChaCha?”

To my surprise, I found her huddled in her chair and wheezing into a paper napkin. Elbows on the desk, face planted in the napkin, she was crying. Not just a soft, ladylike kind of cry, but a full-blown bawling jag.

“ChaCha?”

She snorted and spun around in her chair, teary eyes wide, nose red, face blotchy. After a loud hiccough, she said, “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I'm sorry to disturb you. Are you all right?”