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“A second what?”

“They got a cook-housekeeper, but they want a maid-type person to help the husband. He’s a doctor. Nice people.”

“You mean like a nurse?”

“No. A helper. I don’t know. Bandages and iodine, I guess. His office is in the house, the woman said. So you’d live in. She said the pay was not all that good but since it was rent-free, that made all the difference.”

THE WALK FROM
the bus stop was a long one, hampered by Cee’s new white high-heeled shoes. Without stockings, her feet were chafing. She carried a shopping bag brimming with the little she owned and hoped she looked respectable in this beautiful, quiet neighborhood. The address of Dr. and Mrs. Scott revealed a large two-story house rising above a church-neat lawn. A sign with a name, part of which she couldn’t pronounce, identified her future employer. Cee wasn’t sure whether she should knock on the front door or look for one at the back. She chose the latter. A tall, stout woman opened the kitchen door. Reaching for Cee’s shopping bag, she smiled. “You must be the one Reba called about. Step on in. My name is Sarah. Sarah Williams. The doctor’s wife will see you shortly.”

“Thank you, ma’am. Can I take off these shoes first?”

Sarah chuckled. “Whoever invented high heels won’t be happy till they cripple us. Sit down. Let me give you a cold root beer.”

Barefoot, Cee marveled at the kitchen—much, much bigger and better equipped than the one at Bobby’s.
Cleaner too. After a few swallows of root beer, she asked, “Can you tell me what-all I have to do?”

“Mrs. Scott will tell you some, but the doctor himself is the only one who really knows.”

After a bathroom freshening, Cee put her shoes back on and followed Sarah into a living room that seemed to her more beautiful than a movie theater. Cool air, plum-colored velvet furniture, filtered light through heavy lace curtains. Mrs. Scott, her hands resting on a tiny pillow, her ankles crossed, nodded and, with a forefinger, invited Cee to sit.

“Cee, is it?” Her voice was like music.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Born here? Atlanta?”

“No, ma’am. I’m from a little place west of here, called Lotus.”

“Any children?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Married?”

“No, ma’am.”

“What church affiliation? Any?”

“There’s God’s Congregation in Lotus but, I don’t …”

“They jump around?”

“Ma’am?”

“Never mind. Did you graduate from high school?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Can you read?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Count?”

“Oh, yes. I even worked a cash register once.”

“Honey, that’s not what I asked you.”

“I can count, ma’am.”

“You may not need to. I don’t really understand my husband’s work—or care to. He is more than a doctor; he is a scientist and conducts very important experiments. His inventions help people. He’s no Dr. Frankenstein.”

“Dr. who?”

“Never mind. Just do what he says the way he wants and you’ll be fine. Now go. Sarah will show you to your room.”

Mrs. Scott stood up. Her dress was a kind of gown—floor-length white silk with wide sleeves. To Cee she looked every bit the queen of something who belonged in the movies.

BACK IN THE
kitchen, Cee saw that her shopping bag had been removed and Sarah was urging her to have something to eat before settling in. She opened the refrigerator and selected a bowl of potato salad and two fried chicken thighs.

“You want me to warm up this chicken?”

“No, ma’am. I like it just so.”

“I know I’m old, but please call me Sarah.”

“All right, if you want me to.” Cee was surprised by her hunger. Being a habitual light eater, and surrounded by hot red meat sizzling in Bobby’s kitchen, she was normally indifferent to food. Now she wondered if two pieces of chicken could even begin to dampen her appetite.

“How did it go, your meeting with Mrs. Scott?” asked Sarah.

“Fine,” said Cee. “She’s nice. Real nice.”

“Uh-huh. She’s easy to work for too. Has a schedule, certain likes and needs—never changes. Dr. Beau—that’s what everybody calls him—is very gentlemanly.”

“Dr. Beau?”

“His full name is Beauregard Scott.”

Oh, thought Cee, that’s how to say the name on the lawn sign. “They have any children?”

“Two girls. They’re away. She tell you anything about what your work here is?”

“No. She said the doctor would do that. He’s a scientist as well as a doctor, she said.”

“It’s true. She has all the money but he invents things. Tries to get patents for a lot of them.”

“Patterns?” Cee’s mouth was full of potato salad. “Like dress patterns?”

“No, girl. Like licenses to make things. From the government.”

“Oh. Is there any more chicken, please? It’s real good.”

“Sure is, honey.” Sarah smiled. “I’ll fatten you up in no time if you stay here long enough.”

“Was there other seconds working here? Did they get let go?” Cee looked anxious.

“Well, some quit. I remember just one who was fired.”

“What for?”

“I never did find out what the matter was. He seemed just fine to me. Young he was and friendlier than most. I know they argued about something and Dr. Beau said he wouldn’t have fellow travelers in his house.”

“What’s a fallow traveler?”

“Fellow, not fallow. Beats me. Something fierce, I reckon. Dr. Beau is a heavyweight Confederate. His grandfather was a certified hero who was killed in some famous battle up North. Here’s a napkin.”

“Thanks.” Cee wiped her fingers. “Oh, I feel so much better now. Say, how long have you been working here?”

“Since I was fifteen. Let me show you to your room. It’s downstairs and not much, but for sleep it’s as good as anything. It’s got a mattress made for a queen.”

Downstairs was just a few feet below the front porch—more of a shallow extension of the house rather than a proper basement. Down a hall not far from the doctor’s office was Cee’s room, spotless, narrow, and without windows. Beyond it was a locked door leading to what Sarah said was a bomb shelter, fully stocked. She had placed
Cee’s shopping bag on the floor. Two nicely starched uniforms saluted from their hangers on the wall.

“Wait till tomorrow to put one on,” said Sarah, adjusting the pristine collar of her handiwork.

“Oooh, this is nice. Look, a little desk.” Cee gazed at the bed’s headboard, then touched it with a grin. She shuffled her feet on the small rug lying next to the bed. Then, after peeping behind a folding screen to see the toilet and sink, she plopped on the bed, delighting in the thickness of the mattress. When she pulled the sheets back she giggled at its silk cover. So there, Lenore, she thought. What you sleep on in that broke-down bed you got? Remembering the thin, bumpy mattress Lenore slept on, she couldn’t help herself and laughed with wild glee.

“Shh, girl. Glad you like it, but don’t laugh so loud. It’s frowned on here.”

“Why is that?”

“Tell you later.”

“No. Now, Sarah, please?”

“Well, remember those daughters I mentioned being away? They’re in a home. They both have great big heads. Cephalitis, I think they call it. Sad for it to happen to even one, but two? Have mercy.”

“Oh, my Lord. What a misery,” said Cee, thinking, I guess that’s why he invents things—he wants to help other folks.

The next morning, standing before her employer, Cee
found him formal but welcoming. A small man with lots of silver hair, Dr. Beau sat stiffly behind a wide, neat desk. The first question he put to her was whether she had children or had been with a man. Cee told him she had been married for a spell, but had not gotten pregnant. He seemed pleased to hear that. Her duties, he said, were primarily cleaning instruments and equipment, tidying and keeping a schedule of patients’ names, time of appointments and so on. He did his own billing in his office, which was separate from the examination/laboratory room.

“Be here promptly at ten in the morning,” he said, “and be prepared to work late if the situation calls for it. Also, be prepared for the reality of medicine: sometimes blood, sometimes pain. You will have to be steady and calm. Always. If you can you’ll do just fine. Can you do that?”

“Yes, sir. I can. I sure can.”

And she did. Her admiration for the doctor grew even more when she noticed how many more poor people—women and girls, especially—he helped. Far more than the well-to-do ones from the neighborhood or from Atlanta proper. He was extremely careful with his patients, finicky about observing their privacy, except when he invited another doctor to join him in working on a patient. When all of his dedicated help didn’t help and a patient got much worse he sent her to a charity hospital in the city. When
one or two died in spite of his care, he donated money for funeral expenses. Cee loved her work: the beautiful house, the kind doctor, and the wages—never skipped or short as they sometimes were at Bobby’s. She saw nothing of Mrs. Scott. Sarah, who took care of all her needs, said the lady of the house never left it and had a tiny laudanum craving. The doctor’s wife spent much of her time painting flowers in watercolor or watching television shows.
Milton Berle
and
The Honeymooners
were her favorites. She had flirted with
I Love Lucy
, but hated Ricky Ricardo too much to watch it.

One day, a couple of weeks into the job, Cee entered Dr. Beau’s office a half hour before he arrived. She was always in awe of the crowded bookshelves. Now she examined the medical books closely, running her finger over some of the titles:
Out of the Night
. Must be a mystery, she thought. Then
The Passing of the Great Race
, and next to it,
Heredity, Race and Society
.

How small, how useless was her schooling, she thought, and promised herself she would find time to read about and understand “eugenics.” This was a good, safe place, she knew, and Sarah had become her family, her friend, and her confidante. They shared every meal and sometimes the cooking. When it was too hot in the kitchen, they ate in the backyard under a canopy, smelling the last of the lilacs and watching tiny lizards flick across the walkway.

“Let’s go inside,” said Sarah, on a very hot afternoon that first week. “These flies too mean today. Besides, I got some honeydews need eating before they soften.”

In the kitchen, Sarah removed three melons from a peck basket. She caressed one slowly, then another. “Males,” she snorted.

Cee lifted the third one, then stroked its lime-yellow peel, tucking her forefinger into the tiny indentation at the stem break. “Female,” she laughed. “This one’s a female.”

“Well, hallelujah.” Sarah joined Cee’s laughter with a low chuckle. “Always the sweetest.”

“Always the juiciest,” echoed Cee.

“Can’t beat the girl for flavor.”

“Can’t beat her for sugar.”

Sarah slid a long, sharp knife from a drawer and, with intense anticipation of the pleasure to come, cut the girl in two.

W
omen are eager to talk to me when they hear my last name. Money? They snigger and ask the same questions: Who named me that or if anybody did. If I made it up to make myself feel important or was I a gambler or thief or some other kind of crook they should watch out for? When I tell them my nickname, what folks back home call me, Smart Money, they scream with laughter and say: Ain’t no such thing as dumb money, just dumb folks. Got any more? You must have mine. No end of easy talk after that and it’s enough to keep a friendship going way after it’s dried up just so they can make lame jokes: Hey, Smart Money, gimmee some. Money, come on over here. I got a deal you gonna love
.

Truthfully, other than getting lucky back in Lotus and some street girls in Kentucky, I’ve had only two regular women. I liked the small breakable thing inside each one
.
Whatever their personality, smarts, or looks, something soft lay inside each. Like a bird’s breastbone, shaped and chosen to wish on. A little
V,
thinner than bone and lightly hinged, that I could break with a forefinger if I wanted to, but never did. Want to, I mean. Knowing it was there, hiding from me, was enough
.

It was the third woman who changed everything. In her company the little wishbone
V
took up residence in my own chest and made itself at home. It was her forefinger that kept me on edge. I met her at a cleaner’s. Late fall, it was, but in that ocean-lapped city, who could tell? Sober as sunlight, I handed her my army issue and couldn’t take my eyes away from hers. I must have looked the fool, but I didn’t feel like one. I felt like I’d come home. Finally. I’d been wandering. Not totally homeless, but close. Drinking and hanging out in music bars on Jackson Street, sleeping on the sofas of drinking buddies or outdoors, betting my forty-three dollars of army pay in crap games and pool halls. And when that was gone, I took quick day jobs until the next check came. I knew I needed help but there wasn’t any. With no army orders to follow or complain about I ended up in the streets with none
.

I remember exactly why I hadn’t had a drink in four days and needed to dry-clean my clothes. It was because of that morning when I walked over by the bridge. A crowd was milling there along with an ambulance. When I got close enough I saw a medic’s arms holding a little girl vomiting
water. Blood ran from her nose. A sadness hit me like a pile-driver. My stomach fell and just the thought of whiskey made me want to heave. I rushed off feeling shaky, then I spent a few nights on benches in the park until the cops ran me off. When on the fourth day I caught my reflection in a store window I thought it was somebody else. Some dirty, pitiful-looking guy. He looked like the me in a dream I kept having where I’m on a battlefield alone. Nobody anywhere. Silence everywhere. I keep walking but I don’t find anybody at all. Right then I decided to clean up. To hell with the dreams. I needed to make my homeboys proud. Be something other than a haunted, half-crazy drunk. So when I saw this woman at the cleaner’s, I was wide open for her. If it wasn’t for that letter, I’d still be hanging from her apron strings. She had no competition in my mind except for the horses, a man’s foot, and Ycidra trembling under my arm
.