Messalina: Devourer of Men (20 page)

A large truck is parked in the alley between Preston’s and the neighboring paint store.  Some teenage boys are unloading chairs and pedestals. The young artists are here to help direct how they want their paintings and sculptures exhibited.

Then I see my brother Theo come out wearing faded jeans and a Colorado State sweatshirt with the arms and collar cut out. And although the Afro is back in style, my brother could really use a trim. He sees me and waves, but doesn’t stop. 

Stepping inside Preston’s, you’re greeted with the aroma of spice and old books—the spice comes from either incense or my mother, Ivory, whipping up some exotic dish in the back kitchen. When she’s not teaching modern dance at her studio, Mom is on her quest to create the perfect curry, the best chili, or the most delicious soup in the world. Since it’s summertime, ’tis the season for Mom to invent the world’s best barbecue sauce. As a result, today the store smells of things being grilled and smoked to fork-tender perfection.

I walk through the front door and the little brass bell tinkles over my head. On the ground floor, bookshelves are stocked with hard-to-find titles any freethinking liberal would desire. If Dad doesn’t have it—he can get it. Upstairs is a multi-purpose area where local talent exhibit their work under track lighting, be it art, literature, music, or theatre, with the help of an archaic, but reliable, stereo system.

At the moment, Dad is behind the counter checking out a customer and hands the woman her book with the receipt hanging out as a bookmark.

“Now, you come back tomorrow and see these kids’ work. It’ll blow your mind. Here, take these flyers and tell your friends.”

I grin at the way my dad gives his customer about fifty handbills and the customer takes them as if getting change. But the amazing thing is that this customer will probably tell all her friends.

One of the reasons Preston’s is so successful is because Dad and Theo have an eye for talent and enough personality that would have made Johnnie Cochran look reticent. Dad’s CPA background helped finance the business, but Theo’s MBA helped them expand. Together, they make the perfect team.

“Hey, Li’l Bit,” Dad says with a smile when he sees me and comes around the counter with his arms open wide for a bear hug.

“Hi, Daddy,” I say and kiss his cheek.

“How’s my little girl?”

“Fine.” I blush. If he knew what his “little girl” has been doing, even with his open mind, he’d change his pet name for me—to one that rhymes with “slut,” I should guess.

“The set up is going well,” he says. “Theo and our young artists are getting things in order upstairs. Bev’s trying to get even more reporters to come.” He pulls me closer and whispers, “There’s a good chance the mayor will attend.”

I’m not surprised. Beverly, can organize volunteers or form a coalition in her sleep. I sniff the air. Dad smiles.

“That’ll be your mother grilling tuna to go with the Mexican cornbread.”

“What’s on the menu tomorrow?”

Dad shrugs. “It could be kabobs or quesadillas.”

“What do you want me to do?” I ask, taking a look around. The store has its share of patrons browsing the aisles despite preparations for tomorrow’s event.

“Go help LaRue with the book displays. She’s in the art section.”

I leave in time for him to serve another customer and I hear Beverly before I see her.

“Yes. I need your staff photographer here by 6pm tomorrow for the reception.”

Her words trail away after her. She’s a vision wrapped in blue with a scarf around her long, slender neck leaving the scent of
Escape
in her wake.

I saunter toward the art section, taking time to browse. Even though the store is less than twenty minutes from my apartment, I hardly ever get the time—or take the time—to visit. For a “small” bookstore, the selection is huge. The last time I asked, Theo said their inventory had nearly ten thousand titles. “And we’re going into print-on-demand,” he informed. Theo always looks to the future.

When I was a child, all I had to do was grab a book and go off to what my parents dubbed “Eva’s Corner” at the rear of the store. That’s where my late grandfather’s overstuffed armchair and a Tiffany-style lamp waited for me. In the wintertime, the corner is warm and cozy because of a nearby radiator, and in the summer, diffused light comes through the window, but not enough to make the area too warm.

The walls that aren’t hidden by bookshelves hold artwork, some of which are tagged for sale. The other pieces come from my parents’ collection. In the children’s section, there is a wall with the words “The Refrigerator” painted in black letters. Beneath, the wall supports a bulletin board that resembles a giant refrigerator door, and on the floor is a work area where small children can color and draw while the adults shop. When they’re finished, the kids can put their work “on the fridge.”

As I near the art section, I automatically steal a glance down one of the fiction aisles. At the end is a giant, solid-wood door with a brass knob and handplate. On one of the panels words are carved and stand out in gold lettering. I can’t read it from where I stand, but I know what it says.

Adult Interests Section. Must be 18 to enter.

            Yes. My dad’s store has an “adult” section where one man’s porn is another man’s erotica. Years ago, when I was a child, the door was painted lime green, evocative of the song and the movie. Now, the door is highly polished dark oak and more refined to correspond with the changing attitudes of people to sexually explicit material. But does it show the change my own family has towards the subject? They never stop reminding me of my status as “the baby.” 

When I was five years old, I got caught behind the green door and my butt caught fire afterwards. The whole experience told me never to open that door because what’s in there is something I need not concern myself with. I think the tears that followed blurred away most of my memories of the room, but I vaguely remember the yellow glow coming from the Spanish-style hanging lamp and a nude woman painted on black velvet. One of my dad’s eight-track stereos was there along with a stack of tapes by Isaac Hayes, Marvin Gaye, Barry White, and Miles Davis.

I remember tobacco smoke mingling with incense and hushed, muffled footsteps on the burnt-orange shag carpet. As I stared open-mouthed at the issues of
Playboy
,
Penthouse
, and
Hustler
, I didn’t notice my dad coming up behind me ready to tan my hide.

“Evadne!”

I jump at the sound of my name and spin around to see my sister-in-law, LaRue.

“Girl, you look spooked. What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.”

She glances over my shoulder to see if she can spot what intrigued me, but she can’t. “Dad says you’re here to help me with the displays.”

“Yeah. Give me a minute to holler at Mom.”

I choose another aisle to go down to reach the kitchen where I find my mom, Ivory, cutting vegetables for a salad. She’s with her granddaughters, Maia and Tess—also twins. This scares me. Theo has twin daughters, Beverly has twin sons, and now everyone looks at me to make it a trifecta. When we researched our family tree, we discovered twins come from
both
sides of my family. However, the odds of two-out-of-three siblings having twins are not common, so Theo, Bev, and their families participate in genetic studies.

            My mother lives up to her name. She’s not what you’d call “high yellow,” she’s paler than that. She has “good hair” and hazel eyes that skipped a generation only to manifest in all of her grandchildren.

“Hi, Mama.”

“Auntie Evie!” the girls chime and jump off their stools to charge at me. I put my arms around their shoulders. Each have their long, black hair brushed to a gloss and caught in two braided ponytails. They are eight and their cousins are fourteen, but they all act like brothers and sisters; and when they clash, it’s amusing to see the girls forming a united front against the boys.

            “Hi, Eva,” Mama says, slicing some carrots. “Do you want to chop these cucumbers for me?”

            “Nah. I’m supposed to help LaRue.”

            Mama presses her lips together. “You just don’t want to cook.”

            I give the girls a nudge and they go back to their workstations on either side of their grandmother. “You have two helpers right here.”

            She gives me a quick glance up and down, appraising me.

            “That scoop neck makes you look too full up top, Evadne. You should stick to a square neck.”

            “Really, Ma? I hadn’t noticed.” She’s too concentrated on her task to see me roll my eyes. I drop off my purse and hurry out of the scullery before she can nit-pick about something else. I was never slim or athletic like her or Bev and she has always made sure to point it out. She’s never accepted the fact I have hips, boobs, and a bottom, and the more I try to hide it, the more attention I attract.

Finally I join LaRue as she forms a pyramid of books by Henry Louis Gates, Jr., Sister Wendy, and Michael Wood, to name a few. I roll up my sleeves and get to work.

            “This here is our theory pyramid,” she explains without looking up. “Our coffee table pyramid will go over there.” She jerks her head over her right shoulder.

            LaRue comes from Mississippi. She’s about six feet tall and has hair going nearly to her waist and it’s natural—a tribute to her Choctaw blood, along with her suede-colored skin. She met Theo on a flight to Chicago when she was a flight attendant. I smile to myself, secretly thankful she didn’t work on the flight Jared and I took to Dallas.

            “You look like the cat that swallowed the canary.” LaRue gives me a conspiratorial look. “What’s his name?”

            “What makes you think it’s a
he
?”

            LaRue puts her hands on her narrow hips. “Child, please. You look as if someone greased you up and tossed you naked into the Broncos’ locker room.”

            Warmth rushes to my cheeks and LaRue’s dark gaze notices.

            “So I repeat: Evadne Cavell, what is his name?”

            “Never mind his name.” I frown.

I’ve kept the “men” in my life away from my family out of shame because how can I introduce someone whose name I don’t even know?  The one time that I have a man whose name I can divulge, I still can’t. After learning about Sarah, why waste their time getting to know someone who may not be around long? But my sister-in-law grins.

“See! I knew it. You should know better than try to keep something like that secret.”

            “Why do women insist they have radar to detect this sort of thing?”

            “It’s not radar,” LaRue says, picking up an armful of books. “It’s a God-given talent.” She looks me over again. “Just by standing next to you I can tell you’ve been making up for lost time.”

            I step away from her and her deep-throated laughter is like a knowing slap on the back, as if to say: you’ve been up to the Devil’s business. Women
can
tell. I think men can, too, but won’t admit it. Jesus Christ, did Dad sense it too? My stomach lurches at the thought.

            “Calm down, girl.” LaRue giggles. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

            “What secret?” Beverly says as she comes from around the corner.

            “Eva’s got a beau.”

            I cut out LaRue’s tongue with a glare, but she just laughs.

            “Ooh, Eva,” Beverly squeals. “Is he coming to the show tomorrow?”

            I shrug and stack more books.

“What’s his name? What does he do?”

I sigh in defeat. “His name is Jared Delaney and yes, he’ll be here tomorrow. Maybe.”

            “Hey, I think I’ve heard of him.” Bev says.

            “You probably have. He’s a graphic artist.”

            “Bank?” LaRue smiles knowingly.

            “He’s not a starving artist, if that’s what you mean.”

            I get back to work. My “secret” is now shared and I don’t feel any less relieved. I’m sick of living in a shell for my family’s sake of propriety, but I haven’t decided how I feel about this whole situation between me and Jared. One thing I do know is that I can either play to the status quo or break the mould.

But how?

Chapter ten

“Meant to be”

Jared picks me up at six o’clock, which is early for a dinner date, but late for a Sunday. I meet him at the door wearing a deep-purple satin slip dress, strap-up heels, and with my hair piled loosely on my head. I’m dressed to look hot while keeping cool and his smile says mission accomplished.

            “That color really suits you.” He wears black slacks and an aubergine-colored linen shirt that complements both my dress and his eyes. He reaches for my hand and draws me near. His lips brush mine softly before kissing my neck and bare shoulder.

            “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather stay in?”

            “I’m sure.” I step out of his embrace and he looks concerned until I give him a smile. “This way, we’ll talk . . . and nothing else.”