Only the Strong (19 page)

“She gave me a brochure,” the girl said, “but I pitched it as soon as I got outside.” The girl looked 20, give or take. The baby on her lap sucked mindlessly on a lollipop. Round and sleepy-eyed, to Charlotte's practiced eye he was hardly ready for hard candy. She had half a mind to yank the sucker from his lips and perhaps delay the tooth decay he was certain to suffer. As soon as he got some teeth, that is.

“I wanted to tell that bitch, shit, this ain't your child. You should mind your own business,” Young Mom continued.

“I know, girl,” one of her cohort said. “Formula just as good.”

Charlotte couldn't hold her tongue any longer. “You should have listened to her,” she said.

Young Mom swiveled, incredulous. “Heifer, was I talking to you?”

Charlotte stared her down. “Do you know how many babies Dr. Noel has saved? Black babies?”

“My baby ain't hardly black. He light-skinded. Shut the hell up before I whup that ass.” Young Mom hoisted her baby, already the color of a Hershey bar, and handed him to her friend. She stood up, ready to brawl.

“No,” Charlotte said, removing her earrings and rising to the challenge. “
You
shut up, philistine.”

“I look like a Phyllis to you, bitch?”

The girl was tough but Charlotte held her own. She even had the upper by the time the girl's friends dragged her away, bruised and belligerent.

“My man gon' get you,” she yelled. “He just got out and he gon' get you! His name Bumpy Decatur! You watch and see!”

Charlotte barely blinked when Artinces later determined that her knuckles required a pair of stitches. But the doctor was mortified. “What were you thinking?” she demanded. “You're about to go to college. You're about to make something of yourself.”

“I know,” Charlotte said, but Artinces went on as if she hadn't heard her.

“Sometimes you just have to let things go. You just have to let them roll off your back. What were you fighting about anyway? What did she say to you?”

“You're right,” Charlotte conceded. “It was stupid.”

The two had first met when Charlotte proved herself a reliable and impressive volunteer in the pediatric ward of Abram Higgins Hospital, where Artinces had made her reputation and still reigned as a leading eminence. Late evenings, after rocking babies to sleep at Abram H., Charlotte typically wished Artinces good night, declined her offer of a ride, and headed off alone. In time, Artinces grew close to the girl—well, as close as Charlotte allowed—and found out she lived at the nearby children's home. She had never known her parents, she said, and had been in and out of foster homes for as long as she could remember. Charlotte was in the 10th grade then, with straight As and a strong interest in medicine.

Two years later, when Charlotte proceeded across the stage with diploma in hand, she looked out and saw Artinces standing
and applauding in the front row, as proud as any mother. The next day, Artinces invited Charlotte to move into her house.

After the fight on the bus, Artinces marched her new ward right down to the nearest car lot, where they discovered the Malibu. Charlotte barely concealed her deep pleasure at receiving the car, and nodded agreeably when the doctor assured her that the Malibu would not be accompanying her when she went off to school.

Charlotte had turned 18 that summer. She had wondered where she would go after the children's home kicked her out, and had felt forced to contemplate the relative pros and cons of highway underpasses and park benches. Instead, she found herself in an opulent room of her own, fortified by nutritious dinners and sporting a complete wardrobe that she hauled to college in a brand-new set of luggage. Decorating her dorm room with her newly acquired treasures, she gave herself permission to hope.

Now that she was back from school, however, Charlotte was more somber than ever. Artinces was perplexed, her patience challenged by the girl's long silences and fondness for vanishing into thin air. There had been some turmoil on her campus, including a student protest that drew the attention of heavily armed policemen. One student had been killed. Charlotte said she had been in the library at the time, far from the tragedy. Artinces surmised that the clash had troubled or even frightened Charlotte, but her efforts to get the girl to talk about it had so far yielded only shrugs and gloomy mumblings.

Satisfied that the Malibu was secure, Charlotte let herself into the house. She put the doctor's dinner on a tray and carefully carried it up the long, winding staircase. When her knock went unanswered, she opened the bedroom door enough to see her benefactor dozing peacefully. She tiptoed in and set the tray on a table, in case she woke up hungry.

A
RTINCES STEPPED OUT OF THE CAB
. The heat waves rising from her serpentine path made the front porch seem farther away than usual. She stopped and took a breath. Behind her, the ever-vigilant Wendell Reid, standing alertly next to his taxi, called to her.

“You all right?”

“Yes, I think so, Mr. Reid,” she replied, turning around. “I'm fine—”

She squinted through the thickening ribbons of heat. Mr. Reid was no longer present. Instead, it was her father. “Pepper Pot,” he said. “My little Pepper Pot.”

Artinces felt embarrassed to be standing in front of him holding the two Aldo's shopping bags that had suddenly appeared in her hands. They were full of naughty underthings. She hoped he wouldn't offer to carry them.

“Daddy,” she said, “what are you doing here?”

She clutched her bags. What if he found out what was inside? She'd explain that the lingerie was just an indulgence. After spending all day serving as a model of dignity and decorum, she
needed to unwind a bit, take the pressure off, and fine silk helped her relax. Just one of her harmless diversions—like sleeping with a married man. But that couldn't be helped, right? She couldn't help herself. Like catching a cold.

“Aren't you happy to see me?” Luther Noel frowned and hooked his thumbs in the shoulder straps of his overalls.

“Of course, Daddy. I just wasn't expecting you, that's all.”

Her father looked over her shoulder and gestured with his chin. “Were you expecting them?”

Artinces turned, following his gaze. The three women stood directly in her path, close enough to touch her, as brown and silent as they had been in the backseat of her car. Two of them stared back at her. The third, her dark braids half-unraveled, raised her long-fingered hands and shoved Artinces squarely in the chest. She grabbed the doctor's shoulders and began to shake her.

“You're dreaming,” a vaguely familiar voice declared. Artinces exhaled, dimly aware of the pillow beneath her head. As she slowly stirred to consciousness, her relief turned to fear. She was aware of a presence in her room. It had to be the three women. Seizing her again. Shaking her shoulders. She moaned and pulled away.

“Dr. N. Dr. N. It's me, Charlotte.”

Artinces opened her eyes. Charlotte held her shoulders, concern on her face.

“You were making so much noise. I came to check on you. Bad dream?”

“I guess so.”

“What was it about?”

“I can't recall,” Artinces replied, the three women still vivid in her memory. She shook off the covers and sat upright. “What time is it?”

“Late,” Charlotte said. “You slept right through the delivery men. They brought you flowers.”

“So early?”

“Like I said. It's not early. I'll slice you a grapefruit and make you some tea while you get ready.”

“No need, Charlotte. I'll grab something on the road. And just put the flowers in a vase.”

Charlotte chuckled. “Umm, I don't think we have enough vases.”

Still puzzling over her dream, Artinces had nearly forgotten Charlotte's comment by the time she made it downstairs. Then she saw that nearly every visible surface of the first floor was covered in flowers. Roses, lilies, orchids. Daisies by the dozens. The grand piano was buried beneath a mountain of zinnias. She half-expected to hear the hum of bees as they circled the blossoms. The library next to the parlor was so stuffed with tulips and gladioli that her bookshelves were almost completely hidden. Only a bust of Dr. Charles Drew, secure on its pedestal, peeked above the blooms. In the kitchen, perched on a stool surrounded by more flowers, Charlotte smirked and handed Artinces the accompanying card. “From a Grateful Patient,” it read.

“What's the occasion?” Charlotte asked.

“It's just a thank-you.”

“Some thanks. You must have saved his life.”

Artinces had insisted on discretion. It was just like him to push her boundaries. Every time she believed they'd reached an understanding, an acceptable rhythm, he'd start making trouble. Saying things like he couldn't help himself and neither could she.

She decided against asking Charlotte how she knew the flowers were from a man and not from thankful parents. And of course she couldn't tell Charlotte who that man was. She couldn't tell anybody.

Forced to borrow the Malibu, Artinces dropped Charlotte at Abram H., where she worked as a summer fill-in at the registration desk.

“Don't forget to wait for me,” she reminded her as they pulled up to the yellow-brick complex. “I'll come get you. I don't want you picking fights on the streetcar.”

“You mean the bus,” Charlotte corrected. “The streetcars are all gone.”

“Oh yes, that's right,” Artinces said. North Siders had conducted a bus boycott just four years ago, more than a decade after Rosa Parks had launched a similar movement farther south. That was just like black folks in Gateway, always slow to come to a boil.

“I used to catch the streetcar all the time. Long time ago. Ride all the way to the South Side,” Artinces said.

“The South Side? What's over there? Were you seeing a white boy or something?”

“
What?
No.”

Charlotte looked openly skeptical. “Then where did you go?” she asked.

“To the botanical garden. I loved the flowers.”

Charlotte smirked again. “Now you got your own botanical garden right in your front room. And the kitchen. And the dining room. And the entry hall.”

“You exaggerate, young lady. Beautiful as those flowers are, they're dying already. At the botanical garden, the flowers were alive. The ones I admired are probably still there, still blooming.”

Both women were silent for a moment.

Charlotte opened her door. She turned to Artinces.

“You know, Dr. N., a man who gives you all that might expect something in return.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah, he might want to engage in certain kinds of activities. You have any questions about that, I'll be happy to explain.”

“Get out of here, Charlotte. We're both about to be late.”

Charlotte flashed a smile. Artinces had forgotten how lovely it was. “Nobody can write you up for being late, Dr. N. You're the boss. See you later.”

Half a block from her office on Kingshighway, Artinces turned into the White Castle parking lot. Inside the cramped restaurant, onion-scented mist floated above the heads of the customers. Artinces tried her best to ignore it as she waited to order her coffee.

“Morning, Doctor.”

She looked up into the smiling face of Lucius Monday. The sign painter was born and bred in Gateway City, but he had something of the ancient and exotic in his face. His spectacularly bloodshot eyes, the result of years of living inside a bottle, remained a robust shade of crimson despite a half-decade of sobriety. His beard, surely one of the most impressive in town, was a dusty blend of black and white, flanked by scars deeply embedded in his slate-black cheeks. Artinces could easily picture him as a tribal chieftain, running through a rainforest naked except for a loincloth and a
bone through his nose. It was wrong, she knew. Plenty of other folks had confessed to similar thoughts about Lucius, but that didn't make her feel any less guilty.

“Hello, Mr. Monday,” Artinces said, smiling. “How are you today?”

“Just fine, ma'am.” He bowed and tipped his painter's cap.

“I'm surprised to see you here instead of at Stormy's. Don't worry, I won't tell Mrs. Monday.”

Lucius laughed. Artinces heard the distant rumble of drums, in spite of herself.

“The rest of the crew is next door,” he said, jerking a thumb toward the window. “I'm grabbing everybody some coffee while they stock up.”

Artinces saw Reuben Jones and the other men of the Black Swan on the lot of the paint-supply store. Reuben's Rambler station wagon was backed against the loading dock with the tailgate open. He wrote on a clipboard while the others loaded heavy drums of paint into the back.

The painters had been the most honorable of her contractors when she built her new offices five years ago. Other workmen could barely contain their amusement (or was it skepticism?) as Artinces oversaw the demolition of a crumbling clothing store and pursued plans for her own establishment. Reuben and Lucius were exceptions, working hard and never failing to respond with a quick “yes, ma'am.” She singled them out for special praise when the
Gateway Citizen
photographer came out to cover her grand opening. Artinces insisted that he get a shot of the enormous mural the men had painted according to her design, a delights-of-the-garden panorama featuring the faces of black children smiling as they emerged like blossoms from an abundance of green leaves.