Revenge of a Not-So-Pretty Girl (20 page)

“She’s still getting ready,” I say. “Says you’re too early.”

“That’s ’cause I couldn’t wait to see her again.”

“Really?” I don’t even try to hide my disbelief. “So what exactly is it you like so much about her?”

“What’s there not to like? She’s sassy. She’s strong. She’s a good woman. She’s beautiful.”

And there you have it. He might as well have listed the beautiful part first. I mean, I understand that men are drawn to beauty, but Mama is as mean as a snake. And she was downright awful to Jerry over at Uncle Paul’s. But I guess that’s the thing with pretty women. When they act up, people just excuse it as them being spirited. I say something not half as harsh as Mama and everyone gets all up in arms.

Mama finally comes out, but there’s no gown in sight. She’s wearing her blue pantsuit, which isn’t as atrocious as it sounds. It’s pretty fitted, so it shows off her curves and makes her long legs look even longer.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, Jerry, but you were early.”

“My apologies,” he says. “I gotta remember you women need your time to get pretty. And boy, did you ever do a good job of it. Guess I was just a little eager to see you. Can’t fault a man for that.”

“Faye, why don’t you make Mama a drink, then join me and Jerry at the table.”

“Yes, Mama,” I say, and I hang back to make her drink.

“Mmm-hmm, you sure do look nice in that suit,” Jerry says as he follows Mama through the wooden beads and into the kitchen, his eyes never once leaving her behind.

I also use the cheap rum for Mama’s drink. Once I’m done, I take a big swig, then refill it before heading into the kitchen. When I get to the table, Jerry’s looking all anxious and hungry, like a little mutt waiting for feeding time. And he’s still telling Mama how pretty she looks and how pretty she smells. Mama just takes the drink from me, gulps it, and keeps this tight-lipped smile on her face.

“Look at this silverware,” Jerry says. “I gotta say, Jeanne, you got some beautiful taste. And the plates, whoo-hoo. And I love the way you decorate. I mean, even the place mats are tasteful.”

And I’m thinking, is this guy for real? It’s our chipped, scratched-up everyday plates. And the place mats are plastic, with pictures of the natural wonders of the world on them. And they say it in big, garish letters—
SEVEN NATURAL WONDERS OF THE WORLD
. Actually, we’re down to five wonders, since two of the place mats have turned up missing.

“Look at this. Grand Canyon, Great Barrier Reef, Victoria Falls. You ever been to any of these places?” he asks Mama. She shakes her head as she lights up and puffs on a cigarette.

“Pretty woman like you. If you were mine, I’d take you around the world in style.”

When Mama puts the food on the table, the man acts as if he has never seen chicken before. I don’t think he could be any more impressed if Mama roasted up a pterodactyl.

“Ooooooh-weee, Jeanne. Mmm, look at that. You know I like my chicken just the way I like my women. Spicy, hot, and brown. Can’t wait to have a taste. Ooooooh-weee.”

Same thing with the Pillsbury crescent rolls I popped into the oven.

“Woman, you baked some bread? Smells like a little slice of heaven.”

“It’s out of a can,” Mama says.

“Well then, you opened that can just right, ’cause these the prettiest buns I’ve ever seen.” Then he puts his hand over his mouth as he directs his next few words at Mama. “And I’m not just talking about the ones on the table.”

I’m about three seconds from choking on my own very limited supply of saliva. I can’t stop staring at him. I’ve never seen somebody’s lips that glued to somebody else’s ass before. Not even Sylvester Young in class. And Sylvester compliments Sister Margaret Theresa Patricia Bernadette on how nice she looks every day, which is ridiculous since all she ever wears is the same oversized gray sweater, which makes her look like an enormous possum.

Anyway, Jerry cleans his plate. Every grain of rice is gone. And a chicken leg and wing and thigh and neck bone. He eats all the meat clean off. And the grease around his mouth is now about as thick as the grease surrounding his hairline. It’s all pretty disgusting, really. And when Mama gives him the cake, from the box, he acts as if he’s being fed manna from God.

I’m figuring all that complimenting and sweet-talking is going to get on Mama’s last nerve, but she just sits there
twirling her hair and smiling. And she talks to him a little, not mean-like, but kind of civil, almost. She even asks him if he wants something a little smoother to drink. He says yes and they move on into the living room, where she breaks out her good bottle of Myers’s Original Dark.

I start cleaning up the dishes, still not able to grasp what’s going on before me. When I finally make it back to my room, I close the door and try watching a little TV, but every five minutes, I hear a loud “Hey, hey, huh, hey, hey, huh” come from Jerry. And he’s still laughing and carrying on as I climb into bed.

*  *  *

I wake up really early, probably on account of my brain short-circuiting all through the night as it tried to make sense of all the craziness. I notice the ice bucket and glasses and almost-empty rum bottle as I walk past the living room on my way to the bathroom. Wonder what time Jerry finally removed his lips from Mama’s butt and crawled out of here. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t of his own accord. Mama probably had to physically remove him.

I reach my hand forward to push at the bathroom door, when it just seems to open by itself, and my eyes catch sight of an image I don’t think I’ll ever be able to expel from my brain: Jheri curl Jerry, standing there, dressed in Mama’s striped robe. And it’s not quite closed all the way.

“Oh, hey there, Junior,” he says as he fumbles to tighten the belt. “You have pretty good timing. ’Cause Uncle Jerry’s all done here. All done.”

I’m pretty sure I’m in shock because, despite the bizarre
image on display before me, the only thought going through my mind is, When did Jerry become my uncle?

“Uncle Jerry?” I mumble.

“I’m an only child, so I’ve never been able to hear those words. But since I’m fixing to be spending a lot more time with your mom now, I think Uncle Jerry will have a real nice flow to it.”

“Yeah, well, to be honest, I think I prefer Jerry. Or I could call you Mr. Adams.”

“Oh, no need to be that formal. Whatever you feel comfortable with. Guess I’ll just have to wait a little longer to hear how Uncle Jerry sounds.”

When I finally get into the bathroom, I turn on the cold water and stick my head under it.

It’s not until
a couple of weeks later, toward the middle of May, that we get our first really nice day of the year—our first day without overcast skies or too much wind or a heavy chill in the air. I’ve been spending most of my afternoons at the old lady’s place, doing chores for her, drinking tea, and talking about random things. Not in a million years would I ever have thought that things would work out like this between us.

Today at school, Keisha goes into stalker mode, trying to get me to go shopping with her and Nicole.

“Seriously, Faye. I mean, I guess I understand you not coming to my house. I understand you not wanting to run into Curvy one on one again, but you can’t possibly have anything against shopping,” she says, hovering over me as I stand at my locker. “Year-end ceremonies are just around the corner—”

“They’re six weeks away. That’s not around the corner. That’s like through the woods and over the hills in the distance,” I interrupt.

“You’re such a smart-ass,” Keisha says as she shakes her head. “Look, with final exams and the weather getting warm, those six weeks are gonna go really fast. And the last day of school is the only time we get to dress up and wear whatever we want. You don’t start looking for an outfit now, it’s gonna creep up on you and you’ll be panicked that you have nothing to wear. Come on, Faye. It’s gonna be great.”

“Great how?” I ask. “It’s not like there’s gonna be some big celebration at Madison Square Garden or down at the Brooklyn Academy of Music, like the seniors have,” I continue as I load the books I’ll need for homework into my bag. “Middle periods of the day, they’re just gonna pile us into the auditorium. The same auditorium we get piled into for every boring assembly. And they’re gonna give us certificates saying we completed our freshman year studies. Big deal. It’s not like we can get a job for having it. Then they’ll say stuff about what we have to look forward to sophomore year. Blah, blah, blah. That’s it.”

Truth is, I wish we could just wear our uniforms to this event. The great thing about having uniforms is that everyone is equal in the wardrobe department. No one can really show anyone else up fashionwise. And since the uniforms fit so poorly, no one looks that much better than anyone else, with the exception of Charlene Simpson, whose uniforms fit as if they’ve been tailored to every bend and curve of her body.

With real clothes thrown into the mix, I’m presented with quite a dilemma. See, none of my clothes are all that
spectacular to begin with, and with my extra-special stick-figure build, none of them fit particularly well either.

“It’s not like it’s a black-tie event or anything,” Keisha says. “All you need is a nice dress, so why not come to Macy’s with us?”

“Look, even if I wanted to, I couldn’t. I have an appointment,” I say as I grab my jacket from my locker.

“What kind? You’ve been so secretive lately about what you do, I’m beginning to think you don’t like hanging out with us.”

“I love hanging out with you, Keisha.”

“Then is it Nicole?”

I guess I pause a little too long.

“It is Nicole. What? You don’t like her? But she’s so cool.”

“I never said she wasn’t. It’s just that you two have a different kinda thing going, with shopping and clothes and jewelry and getting your hair and nails done. And you have boyfriends, and well, that’s not really me. So when it’s the three of us, sometimes I feel like I don’t really fit. When it’s just you and me, it’s more about stupid things that I can relate to better. You know, music and videos and stuff happening at home and school.”

I leave out the part about being embarrassed that I can’t afford any of the things they can. See, they get actual allowances—substantial allowances that they can save up and buy some really nice stuff with. Now that I seem to have developed an allergy to ripping people off, the only thing filling my pockets is air. I suppose I could go with them and act like it doesn’t bother me to only be able to look while
they stock up on new clothes and cassette tapes and posters, but what fun is that?

“I never knew you felt that way,” Keisha says.

“It’s stupid. It’s me. You guys just go have a good time.”

“So do you really have an appointment, or are you just saying that to get out of hanging with us?”

“I really do have one. It’s with a friend.”

“Who?”

“No one you know. It’s someone from my neighborhood.”

“You mean those girls, Caroline and Gillian?”

“No. Not them. Another friend.”

“Well, what’s her name?”

“Evelyn. Evelyn Downer. Look, she asked me to come over. Said there’s something she wants to share with me and I told her yes, so I can’t go back on my word now.”

“Fine,” Keisha says. I can hear the disappointment in her voice. “If you promised.”

“Okay, well, have fun shopping,” I say before walking off.

*  *  *

For the first time since I’ve been coming to the old lady’s apartment, the door opens almost immediately when I knock. But it’s not Ms. Downer who’s standing there. I’m looking into this white man’s face. He’s wearing a blue sweater-vest and dark slacks, and he has on these little round glasses. I can’t decide whether he’s a professor or a cop.

“Ms. Downer is expecting me,” I mumble.

“Then you must be Faye?”

“Who are you?” I ask.

“Bill Franklin. Archivist,” he says as he opens the door wider. “Come on in.”

“Um, I can just go if she has company.” But before I can finish, he’s pulling me into the apartment, closing the door behind me, and putting his arm around my shoulder like I’m his long-lost friend.

“You’re an archaeologist?” I ask as he guides me along.

“No. Archivist. Historian. Film buff. And you’re just in time.”

“In time for what?” But he doesn’t say anything. He just walks me into the living room, which is all dark on account of the thick drapes being closed. He sits me down on the puffy purple couch, next to the old lady, then hits a button on her videocassette recorder and takes a seat in a nearby armchair.

“What’s this?” I whisper to her.

“You’ve been very curious about who I used to be” is all she says.

Before I can even finish taking off my coat, this loud, bold music comes from the television. And the screen is black-and-white with little scratches and dots and glitches shooting across. “RKO Pictures” pops up, then a couple of guys’ names, then the name Evelyn Ryder and the title
Lady in the Blue Fedora
. And this woman comes gliding onto the screen, all graceful and regal. When she smiles, there are these wonderful sparkling white teeth. And her hair is swept up under this big hat, with a couple of curls dangling from the sides.