Carpe Bead'em (6 page)

“Come in. Let me fix you something to
eat.” She creeps back in to her apartment.

The hot plate sitting on the TV tray
next to her chair is full of dried-up pasta.

“I can turn the plate on. God knows you
need to eat.” She looks over at me, shaking her head. “No Italian in you at
all.”

“No, no. I just ate.” I lie, remembering
all the times my parents warned me not to eat anything Aunt Grace ever offers.
Little did they know she would be raising me and that I didn’t have a choice.
But I have a choice now. 

“Come here,” she commands, walking past
her chair and moving near the empty china cabinet.

The bottom drawer flies open. I duck at
the flying china plates that are being thrown at me.

“Hurry! Put those in that big bag of
yours,” she said in a small frightened voice.

Crap. I frown, looking over at my purse.
I shovel them in as fast as I can, trying not to look the fox in the eyes. I
swear it’s staring at me letting me know something fishy is going on.

The Jefferson’s theme song plays in my
head as I watch the roaches dance around. “We’re-a-movin’ on up…” Yeah! Moving
up in a Prada!

“Hurry. Faster, before he comes up
here.” She is quick.

I can hardly keep up with her. I’ll bet
a million dollars this is the fastest she has moved in a long time.

“Who, Aunt Grace?” I question.

My handbag straps begin showing signs of
strain. I swear I can hear my purse start to cry.
“How could you forsake me?
I have complimented so many outfits for you!”

“Jimmy. He’ll pawn everything I got if I
don’t watch it. Drinking money.” Icy fear is in her eyes.

I have never seen her so serious. I know
she means business.

I don’t try to convince her otherwise. Besides,
how much can this china be worth? Enough for a forty-ouncer from the UDF down
the street?  I don’t know what I am going to do with all of it. Carefully, I
put my bag on the floor, out of fear that the dishes might break.

I look around for crawling bugs. What
the hell am I thinking? I chuckle to myself. Her dirty dishes are in my purse, so
why not a few cockroaches on my sandals?

“Honey, Antonio doesn’t live here.” Aunt
Grace adjusts her wig leaving a few strands of her real hair straggling. “I’m
glad to see you so eager. I was always afraid you were a little-you know.” She
tilts her hand side to side gesturing homosexual.

Great!
My Aunt Grace thinks I’m a
lesbian.

“Who’s Antonio?” I ask warily.

“Duh, the nice knife salesman I want to
fix you up with.” There is a sparkle in her eyes. “Good Italian family. You
will make beautiful babies.”

“Stop right there.” I put my hand up in
the air. “Actually, I’m going to be living here for the next three months.”

“Honey, we don’t have any room, but I
could let you bunk with…”

“I have an apartment in Hyde Park,” I
say, interrupting any shenanigans going on in her crazy mind.

“Huh.” She shooes a cockroach away from
her hot plate. “You better watch it, little fellow, or I might cook you up.”

She continues to bat at the other
cockroaches that are starting to infest the pot, not noticing that her wig has
fallen off.

My old feelings of needing to escape these
surroundings are creeping back into my soul.

“I’m opening a store here for work and I
have three months to do it. I will be really busy, but I would like to spend
some time with you.”

I stand up, ready to get the hell out of
there. I am not going to explain what Gucci is. In her heyday, Aunt Grace was a
wealthy sought-out woman.

But after ninety-two years of life, with
four husbands, and one cockroach-infested building to her credit, she has
nothing. Hardly even her mind.

“Don’t leave so soon.” Her mouth is
tight and grim.

I stay longer than I anticipate. Much
longer.

“Aunt Grace, you should think about
moving.” I’d love to see her get out of here.

I peer out the window watching the sun
going down. Her neighborhood is ranked the number one most dangerous place to
live in Cincinnati. I’ve got to go and go fast.

She gives me the look she has given all
the relatives before me. She points her crooked finger hard to the ground. “This
is my home.”

“I’ll call you soon. Here’s my number.”
I hand her a piece of paper with my number.

I want to follow it up with something
like, “call me if you need anything, call in case of murder, or theft.” But I decide
to let her be. I know she’ll call under any circumstance. I pick up my Prada
with two hands.

We hug and I clink down the steps.

I get in my car and quickly lock the doors,
then place my hands on the steering wheel and stare ahead. The lump in my
throat is getting bigger by the second. My eyes tear up and I squeeze the vinyl
wheel. All my surroundings are seeping with memories I’ve been trying to
forget.

I remember walking up this street with
the police, the sound when they knocked on Aunt Grace’s door, and her arms wrapped
around me the way she did that day. I remember being scared, the same kind of
scared I feel right now.

Slowly I get myself together.

“Okay, you can do this,” I tell myself,
looking at my reflection in the mirror. I put the car in drive, and go north,
resisting the urge to drive back to Chicago.

I do a double take in the rearview
mirror at the lit up city behind me.
I’ve forgotten how pretty the Cincinnati
skyline is. So different from Chicago. Much tighter and smaller. The electric
company spells Cincinnati with lights from the offices. They’ve gone to great
lengths to build up the city and it’s definitely showing.
Despite Aunt
Grace and Uncle Jimmy,
I
am strangely excited, looking forward to exploring my old hometown.

I take another look in the mirror and
laugh. My emotions are going from one extreme to another.

Of course Hyde Park is a great suburb just
north east of the city. I never imagined myself living here. My friends and I
always teased the preppy kids who grew up here. I know that now it was only
envy. Because those kids were handed all the opportunities we had to work our
butts off for.

I remember my father’s advice. “Find
something you love and you won’t fail.” He was right. I love everything about
fashion. Even though
I’ve
been grumbling about my three month stint back home, I know it’ll lead to
bigger and better opportunities in my life. I can feel it. Now that I’m here in
Hyde Park, it feels good.

The GPS guides me into the driveway of a
cute stone cottage. I check the address in my package to make sure I’m at the
right place.

Apartment?

This is no apartment. It’s the cutest
house I’ve ever seen. The cobblestone walkway is shaded by two large oaks. The
red door is framed by a trellis with the most gorgeous purple wisteria vine
lapping over it.

The smell of fresh paint tangles my nose
when I open the door. Dark-stained hard-wood floors continue throughout the
house. An inviting gas fireplace has built-in wooden benches nestled on both
sides.

The cherry red kitchen
is cozy with the
white washed cabinets and stainless steel appliances.

“If I
must
live here for three
months, I guess this will do.” I slide my hand along the brown granite counter
top, I laugh out loud.

Oh, yeah, this feels good.
 

The double French doors from the kitchen
open up into the brown office with built-in bookshelves. The stairs leads to
two bedrooms, each with their own bathroom. The closet size is small. Thank
goodness I didn’t bring my entire wardrobe.

The small backyard is enclosed by a
privacy fence, a grill and some patio furniture on the small slab of concrete.

I unload and unpack every box but one. My
feng shui stuff. It’ll have to wait until tomorrow. I’ll work on my bagua and
try to
figure out where
to put my precious Buddha.

All I can think about is how torn I am,
wishing I was back in Chicago with my friends, but glad to come back to
Cincinnati on my own terms.

Finally I go to bed.

Chapter Twelve

It is way too quiet to sleep. I pick up
the clock and drop it back down.

Two a.m.? 

I long to hear the honking cabs and
ambulance sirens I’m sure are going off in the streets of Chicago at this very
moment.

My skin is sticky, and my thin t-shirt
is clinging to me from the damp air.
Something I don’t miss about Cincinnati
is the summer humidity.

My mouth is dry and with no one else
around, I head downstairs for water. I have never walked around in a shirt and
underwear before. For obvious reasons, one being that I lived with Lucy for
like the past decade, and two, her boyfriend Beck is like a roommate now.

I float down the stairs with a little
giddy up and enjoy my freedom. It is very liberating standing in
my
kitchen, in
my
house, all alone drinking a tall glass of ice cold water
in only my panties and t-shirt.

I can’t help but wonder about last
night. It seems so long ago. How long did Bo stay at my apartment after the
party?

I go back upstairs and read his
note—again. It is scribbled, not a take your time love note.

Hallie,

Please give me a call as soon as you get
settled in Cincinnati.  It’s really important that I talk to you.

Bo

What on God’s earth did he have to talk
to me about or tell me?  I rack my brain for reasons and reach for my cell
phone, but the clock stops me. How can I call Bo in the middle of the night? I
always complain about Aunt Grace’s phone calls and now I’ve almost done the
same thing.  

I take a closer look at his scribble.

Maybe I should take it to one of those
hand writing analysis people. I know they will say something like, “the way he
dotted the ‘I’ in Hallie shows he’s really in love with you.”

I laugh at the idea, but stop. What if I
do take it to a handwriting analyst? My spirits lift and I run my finger
slightly over his name.
Bo.
  I already miss running behind him. I
dreamily fall asleep, visualizing the back of his head.

I haven’t sleep this good in years. I
stretch my arms, ready to stick to my commitment—the marathon.

Jogging in Hyde Park Square more
distracting than the city. There are many more boutiques, restaurants and bars
than I remembered. I spend more time window-shopping than jogging.

I throw my hands in the air when my
mouth begins to water at the Café Beginnings Coffee Shop sign. It is just
around the corner from the house, which is dangerous.

“You new to the area?” the barista asks
when I walked in
.

“Not really. Well sort of.” I hesitate,
torn by conflicting emotions.

I know if I’m confused, she’s confused.
She flings her straight brown hair out of the way of her glasses. I wonder if
she is trying to figure out if I’m a nut off the street or just nuts.

“I’m from the west side.” I make my cute
little gangster “west side” gesture which doesn’t get a smile out of her.

“But moved to Chicago after college. Now
I’m back here for three months. For work.”

“
Okay
, welcome back.” She put her
hand over top the counter for me to shake. “Addy, barista and fellow transplant.
I knew I hadn’t seen you before. Everyone stops in to get a cup or just say hi.
As we say here at Café Beginnings: Here's a cup that honors the hands of a
farmer, the craft of an artisan roaster, and the distinguished tastes of our
patrons. We welcome you to Café Beginnings. As you sit, sip, and savor, or
grab, go, and guzzle, our wish is that you too enjoy your part of the story.”

Damn!
Even if the coffee isn’t good,
her speech sure sold me on coming back.

She finds out every single detail about
me in minutes
,
it seems to be her gift.
I can’t tell you one thing about her. She introduces me to every single person
that walks through her door. “This is Hallie from Chicago.” She emphasizes the
a
in Chicago.

Not only is the coffee good, the
atmosphere is awesome. The green clap board house beckons you to sip coffee
from the front porch
as you
watch the pedestrians stroll by.  Patrons sit on the deck or out on the patios
discussing
their plans
for the day. Another couple is catching up on the week’s activities while some
read the paper or simply enjoy their coffee.

I want to explore more of Hyde Park. As
a teenager, you couldn’t have paid me to go in Hyde Park Square. Now I’m
excited about living, however temporarily,  less than a mile away.