A Meeting In The Ladies' Room (3 page)

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Authors: Anita Doreen Diggs

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ALL ABOUT MOMS
H
ell's Kitchen is a nickname for the area in Manhattan that stretches north from 34
th
Street to 59
th
Street and west from Eighth Avenue to the Hudson River. This is where I was born and raised. The funny thing is that I never heard the term “Hell's Kitchen” until I was a grown woman sitting in a job interview. The interviewer noted my address and said, “Hmmm, a Hell's Kitchen girl.”
We called our neighborhood “Clinton.”
It really doesn't matter what your community is called if you're poor. The people of Clinton were poor whites, poor Puerto Ricans, and a smattering of poor Blacks, which included me and Mama.
To be poor in an area where there is need and want spreading around you for miles in each direction is one thing, but to grow up poor in Clinton was another because we could see and smell the riches wafting over from Broadway, Sixth Avenue, Fifth Avenue, and Park Avenue. Some of our neighbors would sit on the stoop and talk about moving east when their ship came in, but Mama didn't. She never believed that a ship would come in for her and refused to waste time thinking about it.
Mama didn't like her lot in life but she accepted it calmly. In fact, she still lived in the same apartment that I'd grown up in. Mama refused to come stay with me, preferring to stick to familiar ground where she was the woman in charge. It made my chest tighten up every time I entered the shabby building.
As for me, I decided early on that no ship was going to pull up in front of the Radio City Station post office across the street from our tenement, so I would have to swim out to sea and jump on the first vessel that came into view. It took a series of dead-end secretarial jobs following college for me to land in the right industry. But once I was bitten by the publishing bug, I worked very hard, changed companies twice for career advancement, and finally got the position I wanted.
How I went from book editor to accused murderer is the stuff TV miniseries are made of. I've had a lot of time over the past few months to ponder this journey and the media has used up a lot of ink trying to dissect it.
I was born Jacqueline Naomi Blue, only surviving child (the first one, a boy, was stillborn) of Quincy and Mozelle Blue, in St. Clare's Hospital right down the street from the tenement. A year after my birth, Daddy ran off with Mama's best friend and we never heard from him again.
Mama raised me to keep my legs closed, my mouth shut, and to never betray a friend. She had come to New York from Memphis, Tennessee, and even though her family begged her to come home after Daddy left, she just couldn't. Apparently they had told her he was a no-good creep and she'd be sorry for running off with him. Since her parents had died long ago, Mama figured that nothing was left for her back in Memphis but three sisters who were waiting with mouths chock-full of I-told-you-sos.
She was only twenty years old when I was born but sorrow, bitterness, and shock have a way of aging a woman so that by the time Mama was thirty, she looked forty. She and I lived a pretty solitary life. She worked as a cashier for Met Supermarket from the time Daddy left until they tore the store down three years ago. I've been supporting her since then and I don't mind at all.
Mama has a picture of herself taken in Memphis about two years before Daddy came through town and swept her off her feet. Her eyes are glowing with hope, her hair swept up in an elaborate roll, the lips parted, showing perfect teeth.
She is still beautiful but the hope for her own life has been replaced by the pride she feels in my accomplishment.
Mama never told me that we were poor. It took a brief childhood friendship to teach me that.
There was one white girl in my fifth-grade class who was not poor. Her name was Mandy and she, too, lived in a single-parent household. Mandy's mother acted in TV commercials and received alimony and child support from Mandy's father, whose occupation I never knew. When Mandy invited me over to her house, which was on 55
th
Street between Eighth and Ninth Avenue, I had to beg Mama to let me go. I understand now that Mama was trying to protect me from the sting of racism. After my visit, I naturally invited Mandy back to play at our house. Her mother wouldn't hear of it and our friendship ended soon after.
Their place was huge. Until then, I had never seen an apartment with more than one bathroom. The ceilings were so high that I couldn't figure out how Mandy's mother changed the light-bulb. There was thick carpeting on the floors instead of cracked linoleum, pictures in heavy frames on the walls, and floor-to-ceiling bookcases, which held important looking volumes. But it was the air in that living space that made the greatest impression on me. Or rather, what was not in the air. There were no clouds of disappointment, anxiety, desperation, or bitterness in that air and I breathed deeply, trying to fill my lungs with it.
There are particular times in life that you can recall with crystal clarity, and I never forgot that moment in time when I stood in Mandy's living room with my little chest heaving up and down, trying to gather up enough of that air so I could let some of it out into our place later on.
I tried to explain Mandy's air to Mama, but she didn't understand.
On the way over to Craig and Annabelle Murray's house that Saturday morning, I knew that the air would greet me as soon as I entered their building. I now knew the smell for what it was—the odor of security.
The Murrays lived on Manhattan's Upper West Side in an enormous, castle-like apartment building called The Dakota. It was built in 1884, boasted a fountain in its courtyard, and folks like Lauren Bacall and Yoko Ono are just two examples of its illustrious tenants.
One of several passenger elevators took me up to their eighth-floor penthouse. The door opened and I was in the vestibule of their apartment. Annabelle answered the bell. She was a tall, leggy blonde in her early forties who looked much younger and was proud that people frequently stopped her on the street asking for an autograph. Annabelle had once won a celebrity look-alike contest for her astonishing resemblance to the actress Daryl Hannah. She was wearing a hunter-green turtleneck sweater, matching slacks, and Prada loafers.
As she embraced me, she said, “Hey, Jackie, come on in! Craig has a big surprise for you!”
Annabelle was one of the best publishers in the business and during the five years I'd worked at Welburn Books, I'd had nothing but respect for her editorial judgment. After she coerced me into helping her husband with his biography of the great Black comedienne, Jackie “Moms” Mabley, I discovered that the old saying, “love is blind,” was totally true. Craig Murray had absolutely no writing talent and Annabelle was too in love with him to see it. The best surprise he could have for me was an announcement that he'd thrown his manuscript in the garbage. But of course I couldn't say that and expect to remain employed, so I summoned up a bright smile and replied, “This is so exciting. I can't wait to read the new pages!”
She marched briskly ahead of me through the foyer, a gigantic, unfurnished area with a polished wood floor and dozens of framed pictures of their three-year-old daughter, Dora, on the sea-green walls.
After taking my coat, Annabelle waved me on. “Craig is waiting for you in the library. I'll see you in an hour or two. Dora and I are going to Bloomingdale's.”
Craig is basically a nice guy but I couldn't tolerate his literary pretensions on a full bladder, so a quick stop in the bathroom was in order. I knew from my first tour of Annabelle's ten-room apartment that this bathroom, which was all pink—including tile, marble floor, octagon-shaped tub, and double-basin sink—was the guest bathroom and as I sat on the baby-pink toilet, I marveled at the fact that the space was bigger than my bedroom.
The library was exactly that. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves made up the four walls and there was a long conference-room sized table in the middle of the room with six chairs on each side of it. The floor had a red carpet which was the only hint of color in the very functional research-and-reading space. Craig was already seated, pencil behind his ear, shuffling papers around. He stood up and welcomed me with a smile that showed the huge gap between his two front teeth. He was a tall, gangly man with dirty yellow hair that hung to his shoulders, hippie style, who had been wearing jeans and a white tee shirt every time we met. That day was no exception.
“Craig, good to see you!” I waved him back down, sat across the table from him, and pulled my Filofax and a pen out of my tote bag to take notes. “I hear you have a surprise for me.”
He slapped the table and laughed. “Annabelle just can't keep a secret. Yes, Jackie, it's true. I've finished the last hundred pages of
All About Moms.
My wife has read them and pronounced me brilliant. Of course, she is prejudiced in my favor.”
He chuckled. I chuckled.
“So, I'm going to leave you alone to peruse this lengthy piece of prose while I rustle us up some grub, okay?” Craig slid the stack of paper across the table, gave me the thumbs-up sign, and left me alone in the library, closing the door behind him. It took me an hour to get through his latest twaddle and by that time, my annoyance had changed to heated resentment.
From the beginning, Craig's narrative had shown that he did not understand the humor of Jackie Mabley, life on the chitlin' circuit where she was forced to earn her living during the early years of her career, or why present-day African-American comics like Chris Rock and Eddie Murphy revered her.
Now, at the end of his book, Craig was blaming one of the funniest women in the world for “not reaching the white audience which could have made her a superstar because, instead of running after this golden purse, Moms preferred to pursue young black men, as evidenced by one of her most famous jokes:
The only thing an old man can do for me is show me which way a young one went
.
I felt like flipping one of the pages over and using it to write my resignation from Welburn Books. Instead, I opened my Filofax, blocked out a few hours of time to edit the pages, sent up a silent prayer for sister Mabley, and, like a good Corporate Negro, kept my eyes on the executive editor prize.
4
A THIN PINK LINE
C
raig and I munched on homemade pizza and drank cold Welch's grape juice in the Murrays' cavernous dining room. Although we made small talk about an assortment of innocent topics—the history of The Dakota apartment building, Dora's ballet lessons, carpeted versus wood floors, the Disneyfication of Times Square, jogging, new restaurants, yo-yo dieting, the latest releases from Welburn Books, and the like—we were surreptitiously killing time until Annabelle returned to lead the book discussion.
Craig apparently knew quite a bit about my work. He made it clear that Annabelle respected the passionate way I shepherded the books in my care through the maze of individual fiefdoms that were the marketing, art, and subsidiary rights departments. He tactfully avoided the fact that I focused exclusively on books by African-American authors, but it wouldn't have bothered me if he had mentioned it. It was my choice—one that I'd made eight years before while working as an editorial assistant at Brigsbay Press.
He told me what I already knew from the office grapevine—that he had come to New York from a small town in Wisconsin thirteen years ago with dreams of becoming a famous painter. He had met Annabelle Welburn when she attended a reception in his honor at a small art gallery downtown in Soho. They married six months later and he continued the struggling artist bit for five more years before giving it up to write biographies of unsung Americans. What he did not tell me—but what I already knew—was that he wrote two books, one on Sylvia Plath and the other about Allan Ginsberg, which had been rejected by every publishing house in the country—before picking on poor Moms Mabley.
Craig had now entered the fantastic world inhabited by white folks like Penelope Aaron. Folks who had been pegged as talentless in their own community but knew that their color made them top shelf in the Black arena. There was no doubt in my mind that as a white man writing about an unexplored Black subject, Craig would get a lucrative book deal even though he didn't understand the subtleties, nuances, or cultural markers of what he was writing about. I stuffed bitterness into my mouth with every single bite of pizza.
Craig and I were still there when Annabelle materialized. I was struck again by her feminine mannerisms and youthful, almost ethereal, beauty. Dora trailed behind her and stood motionless as Annabelle kissed her husband, waved at me, and then flopped into a chair.
Dora was a pretty child who didn't resemble either of her parents. She had an olive complexion, thick, black, curly hair which fell to her shoulders, and dark brown eyes. I remembered Annabelle's difficult pregnancy so I knew that Dora wasn't adopted but she definitely resembled a little Gypsy.
Craig, wearing a look of concern, waved his daughter closer to the table. “What's the matter, Pixie?”
Dora didn't move. “Mommy says I have to go to the doctor's again. I don't want any more needles.”
Craig looked anxiously at Annabelle. “What doctor has Pixie been going to? What is she talking about?”
Annabelle gave her child a shut-the-fuck-up-or-die look and said, “We'll talk about all this later, Dora. It is impolite to make a guest feel uncomfortable in your home. Now say hello to Jackie.”
The last thing I needed was to be in the middle of some family drama. Thankfully, Dora heeded her mother's words by giving me an obedient little wave, which I returned.
“Are you hungry, Dora? There is plenty of pizza left,” Craig said, smiling.
Dora shook her head and ran from the room.
Annabelle turned her attention to me. “What did you think of the ending?”
I chose my words carefully. “It needs some work, but have you ever seen a manuscript that didn't?” I chuckled and took a sip of grape juice.
Craig looked unhappy. “How much work?”
“A few tucks here and there.”
Annabelle nodded. “Okay, tell Craig where to tuck.”
I took a deep breath. “Craig, you might want to rethink one thread of the narrative that some readers might find offensive. In other words, you seem to feel that Moms Mabley should have changed her entire act into one that would appeal to white audiences.”
No one said anything, so I took a huge gulp of grape juice and plunged on. “You also might want to take another look at the idea that Moms Mabley used up a lot of energy pursuing young Black men, which adversely impacted her career.”
“Do you find that offensive as well?” Craig asked mildly.
Moms was pleading with me from heaven to help keep this ridiculous thesis from ever seeing the light of day. “It just isn't true,” I said flatly.
Annabelle's mouth had stretched into a Thin Pink Line. A line that Blacks from the Big House to the Boardroom knew all too well. The line meant that I had only seconds to get back in My Place or there was going to be trouble.
I understood the Thin Pink Line but Annabelle should not have used it in this instance. She had four other senior editors on staff and the only reason I had been chosen over them was because Moms Mabley and I were both African-American. It made perfect sense and there was absolutely nothing wrong with it, but to pick me for my Black sensibility and then give me the Thin Pink Line when I delivered it was totally absurd.
“There is nothing in Craig's research to support such an assertion,” I said calmly. “What happened was that Craig gathered some material that he interpreted in the wrong way because he didn't understand certain cultural nuances, but I can fix it for him.”
Craig said, “Well, if Jackie Mabley did not become a superstar because of her own uncontrolled lust for young men and a refusal to create material that whites could relate to, what do you say is the cause of her failure?”
“Well, first of all, I don't consider Moms Mabley a failure, but racism certainly played a huge part in her life.”
Annabelle shook her head so hard that for a moment the silky, blond strands formed a swirling halo around her head. “We don't want to fall back on that old saw. I also feel that if Craig writes that Miss Mabley's problems were due to racism, that will diminish her as a woman.”
Say what?
My heart was pounding and I focused on the way Mama relied on me to pay for her rent, utilities, food, medicine, and social activities, the thousands of dollars I owed on my five charge accounts, and the fact that there was no other place for me to work at my trade where I wouldn't encounter this same type of bullshit. I focused on these things and then pasted on my Corporate Negro smile. The Thin Pink Line disappeared, and Craig stopped frowning.
“Perhaps you're right, Annabelle. I didn't think about it that way.”
Craig grinned widely. “This calls for a celebration. Why don't I uncork a bottle of chilled champagne?”
I stood up and stretched. “That sounds wonderful, but I promised my mother a visit today. I haven't seen her in almost two weeks.” The lies flowed smoothly from my lips.
“We can drink rivers of champagne after you sign your first publishing contract, my dear,” Annabelle said. “Right now, I have to make some phone calls.”
Craig shrugged, although he was visibly disappointed. “Okay, I'll go in and see what's eating Dora.”
“No!” Annabelle shouted. “Dora is probably sleeping by now. Besides, I need you to run out and get some eggs. We're having omelets tonight.”
It occurred to me that Annabelle was keeping some secret concerning Dora away from her husband but I didn't care what it was. I picked up my purse and was about to leave when Annabelle stopped me.
“Jackie, I need to have a word with you alone, okay?”
Craig came around the table and gave me a kiss on the cheek. “Thanks for everything, Jackie. I'll remember you on the acknowledgments page.” And then he was gone.
The acknowledgments page! Jesus! There had to be a polite way to discourage him from doing that.
“Sit down, Jackie.” Annabelle gave me a generous smile. “Would you like some more juice?”
I declined.
“Jackie, as you know, the executive editor spot at Welburn Books has been open since Casey Esau left a few months ago.”
Yes! Here it was. I was about to be promoted!
“It has been difficult for me to make a decision. You and Astrid Norstromm are both incredibly talented editors who work very hard. However, my decision is to be announced tomorrow at the editorial meeting but I wanted you to hear it from me first.” She hesitated and looked down at her hands and I knew before she said it. “I have decided to promote Astrid because she works in a wider variety of categories.”
Astrid Norstromm was a white woman and, like me, she edited all types of fiction and nonfiction. The only difference was that all her authors were white. Mine were all black.
Annabelle waited for me to say something, but I didn't dare open my mouth. There was no way for me to control what would come out of it and Mama's rent still had to be paid.
“I know you're disappointed, Jackie.”
When she stopped talking I was going to make my escape and head straight home and get back into bed.
“Please don't quit on me, Jackie. You're a valued member of the staff and I promise that you'll get a sweet raise during the next evaluation period.”
Evaluations took place each June. Therefore, the “sweet raise” was six months away.
“Annabelle, I really have to be going now.” I got up and stomped out of her apartment before she could say another word.
If I'd known that Annabelle had already decided to give Astrid the job, I would have held my ground and fought harder for Moms Mabley. Instead, I'd sold her out big-time and this knowledge stuck in my craw.
I took a cab back uptown, turned the ringers on my phone to the OFF position, climbed into a nightgown even though it was barely dusk, and went to sleep.
Sometime later, I felt a presence in the room. Peering through the shadows, I realized it was a Black man, about six-feet-one, broad-shouldered and stark naked. My first instinct was to scream, and then I realized it was Victor.
He laughed and it was a deep, throaty sound. “Hey, Jackie, sorry I scared you.”
“Baby, that's quite all right.”
He smiled, revealing the strong white teeth with the gap in the front which I loved so much.
I could barely breathe.
He leaned over and kissed me on the lips and there was a long moment of silence as we locked eyes.
My hands reached up to caress his face and my fingers traced his wide forehead, the velvety smoothness of his skin, eyes, and nose.
“Victor,” I whispered. “You don't know how long I've yearned for this night.”
“I'll know real soon,” he replied, “because you'll tell me in the song you're about to sing.”
He slid easily between the sheets and turned me to face him.
Slowly, Victor began to touch my stomach through the nightgown. Gently his big, dark hands moved up to stroke my hefty breasts. Then with exasperating self-control, he moved back down to my thighs, parting them, teasing the flesh.
“Victor,” I arched my back, breathing his name softly over and over again.
“Just relax, sweetheart.”
Victor swayed over until he was on top of me. I could feel his erection against my pubic hair, yet he only tongue-kissed me while running his fingers through my long braids. His tongue tasted sweet.
I took hold of his erection and my hand went up and down, “Victor, I want you to rip my gown off.”
He did and the way I sang put Aretha Franklin to shame.

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