A Meeting In The Ladies' Room (10 page)

Read A Meeting In The Ladies' Room Online

Authors: Anita Doreen Diggs

BOOK: A Meeting In The Ladies' Room
11.52Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
I recalled my conversation with Alyssa two months before:
Well, don't worry about me, Alyssa. I am going to help you regardless of what anyone thinks.
What about the rest of the Black Pack?
They're running so hard for cover, they might pass the ghost of Jesse Owens on the way.
If it had not been for me, the Black Pack would have kicked Alyssa to the curb and never mentioned her name again. I didn't really blame them then and I wasn't going to hold my banishment against them now. In fact, I felt badly about what they were going to have to suffer through in the coming weeks. In order to keep their jobs, they would have to repudiate me, denounce me, and hide any belief in my innocence in the presence of every single white person they encountered.
Dallas Mowrey was the type of Black who would wait until the subject arose before breaking into the old soft shoe. So would Joe Long.
Elaine and Rachel were the types who preferred to get their minstrel acts over with as quickly as possible. They would bring up the Jacqueline Blue matter first, practically disavow any knowledge of my birth, and endear themselves even more to their white coworkers and superiors.
Keith looked exhausted when he got off the phone. My salary and benefits would remain intact for the next eight weeks no matter what happened. After that, who knew?
20
MAMA
K
eith didn't hear my whole life story but he came pretty damn close. I left out my obsession with Victor Bell. It was too embarrassing to discuss, and besides, I'd sound like some kind of nut case.
It was almost seven
P.M.
when I left his office, and except for a short break to scarf down a pizza that his secretary called out for, we had been talking about the publishing industry and the people who worked in it nonstop.
Keith was convinced that unless the real killer was apprehended almost immediately, the district attorney would respond to the intense media scrutiny by asking the grand jury to issue an indictment against me. He would not allow me to appear before a grand jury, and I had to prepare myself for a grim reality—the police would issue a warrant for my arrest. He told me that he had friends in high places so I'd be spared a humiliating perp walk in front of the television cameras and only spend a few hours in custody before bail was granted. Since I had a job, an elderly mother, and was a native New Yorker, a case could be made that I was not a flight risk so I could get bail and remain free until my trial.
Arrested! My reputation would be ruined—I'd never get another job in my field and there was a good chance that Mama would be paralyzed by the shame. I nearly passed out in Keith's office. And how, pray tell, would I come up with bail money if the need should arise?
I dragged myself to Mama's house, wondering how I was going to tell her this terrible news.
When she opened the door to let me in, I was relieved to find Elvira there, which meant I had a short reprieve. They were sipping on cans of Colt 45. I kissed them both, threw my coat on an armchair, and grabbed a beer from their six-pack.
There was a tempting smell wafting from the kitchen.
“What did you make for dinner, Mama?”
“Meat loaf and scalloped potatoes.”
“Mmmm . . . any left?”
“Yeah.”
Mama peered at me closely. “What's the matter?”
“Nothing.”
Mama spoke directly to Elvira. “Do you believe this chile is gonna sit in that chair and let that lie roll right off her lips?”
In addition to being a gentle and thoughtful woman, Elvira was also tactful. “Now, Mozelle, maybe your daughter has a problem she don't wanna talk about in front of me. I should be runnin' along anyway. It's almost time for
Wheel of Fortune
to come on.”
In spite of all my balled-up anger and fear, there was still room in my heart for a lonely old woman who was putting off going to her empty rooms as long as possible. “Oh no, Miss Elvira,” I protested, “please stay a while. We can all watch the program together in Mama's room. It'll be good to have company while I eat.”
Mama gave me an approving smile and Elvira looked relieved.
The two women gossiped about their neighbors as I bustled about in the kitchen with a cyclone of unanswered questions roaring through my brain. Were Detective Gilchrist and his crew actively looking for someone other than me, or had the videotape and Tiffany Nixon's column persuaded them to stop searching? If I did get arrested, would I have to sit in a filthy jail cell until Keith called in his favors? Why was all this happening to me?
Mama and Elvira whooped and hollered throughout the game show. They played with such intensity, it was as though they were going to win the money themselves. Somehow I knew that Mama was not fooled by my attempts at joining in the hilarity as I shoveled food down my throat without tasting it.
I was right. The door had barely closed on the back of Elvira's heels when she took my wrist in a viselike grip and steered me back to her room.
She looked scared. “What's the matter, Jacqueline?”
“I have something to tell you, but the only reason I'm telling you is that if it does happen, you would read it in the papers and I don't want that.” I was babbling and moisture was beading up around my hairline.
“Somethin' bad is gonna happen?” Her eyebrows were furrowed.
“Might happen, Mama . . . might.” I patted her folded hands.
“Just tell me,” she whispered hoarsely.
I took a deep breath and said it fast. “Keith thinks the police might arrest me for killing Annabelle.”
“What?” It was a scream.
It took me almost half an hour to calm her down and explain it all.
After that, warmed by each other's company and united in our fear, Mama and I moseyed through our years together, reminiscing about the high points . . . my junior high school prom which Mama had insisted on attending, to my immense embarrassment . . . my high school graduation ceremony that had run more than an hour beyond schedule because the principal loved to hear himself talk . . . my graduation from the City University where Mama cried so loudly, she could be heard by the candidates crossing the stage to receive their diplomas. There were a few moments of merriment as we recalled my first boyfriend . . . a fifteen-year-old dweeb named Leo who was so afraid of Mama that he perched on the very edge of the sofa whenever he came over. Of course, he finally fell off and hit the floor one evening, and we broke up shortly after that.
We were fine until it was time for us to turn in for the night. Hugging each other, not knowing when I would be taken away or if Keith could really pull another legal miracle out of his hat and bring me back quickly, Mama and I were both overcome with emotion. She wept unashamedly and I bawled like a two-year-old until we tore ourselves apart and I went to lie down in my old room, knowing that both of us would toss and turn until dawn.
I heard sighs, whimpers, and bits of prayer coming from Mama's room all night long and went in several times to rock her frail body back and forth until she went back to sleep.
She was too depressed to get out of bed the next morning. I knew something was wrong when I didn't hear her bustling about right after sunrise. She was just lying there in her bed, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling.
“Mama, are you all right?”
“No, Jackie. If they lock you up, I ain't never gonna be all right no more.”
The dazzling March sunlight flooded her room through the Venetian blinds and illuminated every wrinkle on her face. When had her cheeks started to sink in? How had all the light fled from her eyes so quickly? She looked very elderly and completely beaten.
“Mama, please don't say that. I'm going to need you by my side to get through this,” I whispered hoarsely, attempting to control a sudden fear that my mother might die of heartbreak if she didn't sit up and put her feet on the floor.
21
TIFFANY NIXON STRIKES AGAIN
P
aul couldn't believe any of this. I called him as soon as Mama got up and started moving around. He took the day off and spent it at my apartment trying to console me, but I was inconsolable. It didn't help matters that once again, I was the star of Tiffany Nixon's column that morning.
WILL THE LAW APPLY TO BLUE?
by Tiffany Nixon
 
Ms. Jacqueline Blue has been suspended WITH PAY from her job as senior editor at Welburn Books, Inc., the 100-year-old publishing firm owned by the family of murdered socialite Annabelle Welburn Murray.
Keith Williams, attorney for Ms. Blue, responded with a terse “no comment” when asked about the suspension.
The authors in her care speak very highly of the beautiful and talented Ms. Blue. Hip-hop novelist Jamal Hunt said yesterday, “The only reason why I signed a contract with Welburn Books was to work with Jackie. She fights hard for Black authors who don't get the same amount of marketing dollars, foreign rights sales, or point-of-sale display units as their white counterparts.”
Celebrated romance writer Willow Van Silver dissolved into tears when told of Ms. Blue's suspension. “I'll take to my bed and not write another word until they bring my beloved Jackie back.”
However, an executive at Welburn Books, who prefers to remain unnamed, expressed dismay that the temperamental Ms. Blue has not been arrested. “Although Jackie had a real chip on her shoulder and was constantly getting into fights with people in the industry, I was still shocked to see her on television running away from the murder scene. Why hasn't she been arrested and charged with this terrible crime?”
Why indeed?
We were huddled together in anxiety on my sofa. Paul read the article out loud and then threw the paper across the room. None of it hit the opposite wall. The pages just flew up in the air and fluttered around the room in a black-and-white shower before landing in various places on my pale green carpet.
“What the fuck is her problem?” he screamed in frustration.
The tears streamed down my cheeks and I hugged a cushion tightly to my chest.
Paul gathered me in his arms and rubbed my face gently. “Don't cry, baby,” he said. “I'm going to see you through this, no matter what.”
But I wasn't crying out of fear that Paul was going to split. I was crying because Tiffany Nixon was the first person who had ever called me “beautiful.”
22
VICTOR
I
had no intention of just sitting around waiting for the ax to fall on my head. It was time to hit the streets and start doing some detective work. The first thing I did was head back to The Dakota. The doorman, a middle-aged white man with thinning hair, watched my approach with suspicion. I gave him a smile but he remained stoic.
“Sir, my name is Jacqueline Blue.”
“I know who you are.”
“Okay. What is your name?”
“Walter.”
“Walter, I need your help. What happened to Mrs. Murray was terrible but I didn't do it. I figure that someone else she knew and trusted had to enter the building after I left.”
“There was only her sister.”
I was desperate. “Isn't it possible that you were busy on the phone and someone sneaked past you?”
“Yes, it is possible, but then we'd have that person on the videotape. There was no one.”
“Can you think of anything unusual that happened that morning? Something that just doesn't seem to make sense?”
“I'm going to have to ask you to leave, Ms. Blue.”
“Please help me.”
He picked up the phone. “I'm calling the police.”
I fled.
By the following morning, Keith knew all about my visit and he was furious. He was screaming so loudly that I had to pull the phone away from my ear.
“Are you crazy?”
“What do you expect me to do? Sit here until they slap the cuffs on me?”
“I don't care what you do. Take up knitting, go to the gym and hit a punching bag. Whatever. But you stay away from everyone and everything connected with this case.”
“Can't I at least talk to Craig about the Moms Mabley book? You said yourself that he didn't do it.”
“Jackie, if you can't follow my orders, I will walk off this case and not look back. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes.”
So over the next few days, I spent my time deep cleaning my apartment, holding Mama's hand, and visiting museums and art galleries. My home voicemail system was chock-full of calls from concerned and curious authors, agents, editors, and members of the Black Pack, but I was too depressed to answer their greetings.
Paul usually stopped by after work and stayed until it was time for me to go to bed. I felt guilty that in spite of everything Paul did for me, all of his loving kindness and attempts to make me laugh, I still felt nothing but friendship for him. It occurred to me that I should tell him so and not waste any more of his time (Rosa with the Crooked Nose was getting tired of his neglect and was threatening to kick him to the curb), but my need for someone besides Mama and Elvira to talk to was far too great for me to give him the honesty and consideration he so richly deserved.
It was Paul's idea to have a Black Pack party to lift my spirits. I was lying facedown on my bed as he massaged my back when he brought up the idea.
“Are you crazy? They won't show up because if there is a cameraman outside B. Smith's snapping pictures, they'll catch hell at work,” I muttered lazily.
Paul's strong fingers worked my tightened muscles. “I don't care about what happens to them.”
“I can't face anybody right now.”
“Maybe you could learn something that will help your case. Someone might have overheard vital information that they don't even realize is important.”
That made sense to me. “All right, but I still say they won't show up.”
Paul stood and rubbed his hands together cheerfully. He'd finally succeeded in giving me hope. “I will get the Black Pack to come.”
“How?”
Paul grinned. “By providing guaranteed secrecy, plus free food and booze for them, their spouses, and significant others. We'll have a good time.”
Free food? I suddenly knew what he was thinking. “Don't drag poor Richard into this. He is trying to make a go of his new restaurant and feeding all these folks might put a dent in his budget. It isn't fair to your brother.”
He knelt on my hardwood bedroom floor and started massaging my bare feet. “Don't worry about Richard. We'll work it out between us.”
Paul was going to pay for the party out of his own pocket. I felt it in my gut and I felt a sudden rush of sadness for him. Why couldn't I love this wonderful man?
Keith loved the idea, too, and so, the following Friday evening, the Black Pack meeting was held at Richard's Soul Food Diner.
There was a huge sign on a wooden stand outside the restaurant that said
CLOSED FOR PRIVATE PARTY
.
Just in case the press had somehow got wind of the gathering, the group waited until dark and then snuck in unobtrusively one by one, at least ten minutes apart.
About twenty people showed up. We all crammed ourselves into a back room that held supplies (I wanted to press my body up against Victor's, but Paul's beady eyes never left me) and didn't speak a word until the last person arrived. That's when Richard locked the front doors, pulled all the blinds and curtains down so it was impossible to see inside, and signaled for the group to come out. It seemed like a very slaves-sneaking-out-the-cabin-to-gather-secretly-in-a-group-down-by-the-creek type of event.
Once we were released, I was enveloped in hugs, kisses, and handshakes before half the group headed for the bar to order drinks and the others to put their belongings in the empty chairs. Since we didn't trust anyone, Richard was going to take food orders, mix drinks, and do all the cooking himself. I would have been beside myself if I were in his shoes, but he looked pleased to be a part of all the intrigue.
I saw Paul fiddling with a CD player that was set up at the end of the bar counter and soon dance tunes from our teenaged years by artists like Rick James, George Clinton, the Brothers Johnson, Kool and The Gang, and Whodini filled the room and Richard's Soul Food Diner began to rock.
Joe sidled up to me.
“Jackie,” he said, “I'm so sorry that all this is happening to you.”
I felt a pang of dislike at the fascinated expression on Joe's face; it had
tell me all the sordid details
pasted on it. I didn't want to indulge his curiosity so I honed in on Tiffany Nixon's totally unbalanced press coverage. “I've been keeping up with CNN and other papers,” I told him. “They are speculating about Annabelle's relationship with her husband and reporting on other mysterious deaths that have occurred in that building since it opened. But Tiffany Nixon is supposed to be my damn sistah and she is not doing any of that.”
As I was talking, I became conscious of some other emotion that was flickering around Joe's sober mien. Jealousy. Before I could fully absorb this oddity, Elaine Garner joined us, drink in hand.
“How are you holding up, Jackie?”
“I think half of me is still in shock.”
She nodded to show her understanding and played with the swizzle stick. “You ought to fight Tiffany Nixon right back. Get some of the Black activists to protest in front of her offices. If you'd like, I'll give Frank Jenkins a call. He and I have never met, but his cousin Barbara went to Harvard with me.”
Frank Jenkins was the fiery leader of a young group that called itself The New Black Warriors. Although I respected their work, I didn't want to turn this whole thing into some horrible media extravaganza that made the networks rich but ended without an answer to the only real question that mattered: Who killed Annabelle, and why?
“No, Elaine, but thanks for the suggestion.” Since my publishing career was ruined and I'd probably never see her again after tonight, I wanted to ask her why the fuck she had to mention Harvard every time she opened her mouth, but I restrained myself.
Joe shifted from one foot to the other. “Did Annabelle know about the Black Pack?”
“I doubt it, Joe. If she did, I'm sure she would have mentioned it to me,” I answered. “What difference does it make?”
“Just wondering,” he mumbled. “I'm going to get some food.”
I grabbed him by the arm so hard, he let out a yelp. “Not yet. Why did you ask me that?”
“Jesus! Take it easy,” he shouted.
I refused to let go. “Answer me!”
A hand landed on my shoulder. I turned around, and it was Victor. He gave me a slow, sweet smile. The gap between his two front teeth sent me into a lather.
Joe and Elaine skittered away like they were happy to get away from my sudden fit of temper.
“Jackie, it's good to see you.”
“Thanks, Victor. Having you all here really lifts my spirits.”
He patted my shoulder. “I hope this nightmare ends for you soon.”
By now I was practically swooning. Suppose I went to jail in the morning and stayed there for the rest of my life, a victim of a terrible miscarriage of justice, having lost my last chance to go to bed with him? I wouldn't be able to live with myself! And so, the words rushed out. “You know, Victor, I live right around the corner.”
He threw back his head and laughed. “Jackie, Jackie, Jackie . . . what am I going to do with you?”
I could think of at least five things that would make the editors of
Playboy
magazine blush but my bold invitation had taken all my energy.
By this point, we were gazing into each other's eyes and my tongue was tied.
He leaned down and whispered into my ear. “Sure, I'll stay with you tonight. But, let's not leave together and start a new round of talk. What's your address?”
I told him.
“Okay. When the party is over, just go home and wait up for me.”
How was I going to live through the next three hours?
The urge to immediately shove every single one of the seven Black Pack members and their guests out the front door almost overwhelmed me.
Alyssa couldn't even pretend to have a good time. She was crying softly as she hugged me. “Jackie, I just want you to know that I'm in your corner. I have a new job now, and it wouldn't have happened without your help.”
I squeezed her back in delight. “So, Pam Silberstein hired you at Hamilton Welsh & Hamilton?”
“Yes, I'm the new senior editor. But Jackie, I don't want to talk about that. Isn't there something I can do to help you out of this crazy situation?”
“Even if there were, Alyssa, I wouldn't let you get involved in this.”
She jerked her chin stubbornly. “If you call on me for help, I'll be there. No matter what anyone else thinks about it.”
Those were almost the same words I'd said to her such a short time ago, and I had to blink back tears.
“Thanks, Alyssa.”
She held onto my arm as I started to move away and looked directly into my eyes. “I'm not letting you go until you promise to keep in touch.”
“I promise. By the way, Pam Silberstein is one of the smartest and nicest people I've ever met. Stick with her—she's real cool.”
Alyssa nodded and melted into the crowd.
I mingled, joked, and accepted affirmations of faith for a while and then my feet started to hurt so I took a seat at the bar.
“Are you having a good time?” asked Paul, parking himself on the stool beside me.
I crunched a potato chip and nodded. “This is wonderful, Paul. I don't know how to thank you.”
He swallowed and cleared his throat. “By staying out of jail. A weekly trip up to Bedford Hills is not how I want to spend the rest of my life.”
Bedford Hills was New York State's maximum security prison for women.
There was moisture at the corners of his eyes, so I jabbed him in the stomach to lighten things up. “Oh, come on, Paul. I could write a string of best sellers with that kind of time on my hands.”
He laughed. “Yeah. And Elaine Garner could be your editor.”
“I'm sure that's what they taught her at Harvard.”
He finished the joke. “That's right. Make the money. After all, this is a business.”
We giggled like children.
Dallas wandered over. “Seems like the party is really over here in this corner,” she grinned. “What's with all the gaiety and merriment?”
Paul filled her in and she whooped with laughter.
“Penelope Aaron can be your agent. All the Black talk she has picked up over the years will come in real handy in the visiting room,” Dallas said.
“Those women would kick her ass into infinity if she walked up in there spouting that shit,” I said flatly.

Other books

Alien 3 by Alan Dean Foster
Moving Day by Meg Cabot
Mission: Earth "Disaster" by Ron L. Hubbard
The Story of God by Chris Matheson
The Glass Harmonica by Russell Wangersky
Swept Away by Robyn Carr
The Maid's Version by Woodrell, Daniel
Consigning Fate by Jacqueline Druga
Valentine's Candy by Melissa L. Webb