The Jewel Box (23 page)

“I won’t. But you’ve got to embrace your past one of these days.”

“One of these days, I just might.”

“Might what?” Patrice entered his room.

“Complete the stack of work on my desk,” I said before introducing Patrice and Beau.

Patrice returned to the pharmacy in high spirit. “I’m awed by Beau’s
bonhomie,
and his sincerity. He kissed my hand in gentlemanly French fashion. Not many white men his age would touch a black woman—much less kiss their hand.”

“Beau’s a special soul.”

“Before I left, he asked me to watch after you.”

“That’s my spiritual guide.” I smiled. “But I worry he needs someone watching after him.”

“He’ll be fine. I intuit he’s surrounded by people he guided in the past.”

“Well, I’ll always be there for him.” My eyes misted.

Beau stopped by the pharmacy after his release, and albeit dressed in simple slacks, white shirt and tasteful suspenders, co-workers commented on his debonair appearance and movie star swagger. Young and old women swooned. He handed me a business card for recently opened
Beau’s Place
and made me promise to bring Nikki by. “I’m counting on seeing you two soon, baby.” Beau’s voice boomed as he headed toward the elevator. There wasn’t another man on earth who could call me “Baby” and produce a smile so heartfelt it could light my face for hours. When I walked around the corner to my stack of paperwork, a
Jack of Clubs
card lay across it. Damn, Beau was good.

Sales of Elvis Presley records soared past the two million mark within days of his death, and it was rumored the king’s funeral cost forty seven thousand big ones. But life with Phil rolled along, while our marital rhythm continued like a bad song playing on the radio. One of those tunes you think you’ll never get out of your head until you die. We slept
in the same bed; however I mastered the fine art of faking sleep comas. Out of bed we continually engaged in an ongoing battle of caustic carnage, fighting about everything and nothing. I couldn’t stand the sight of him—much less his touch, and after painting our bedroom every therapeutic color available, I claimed his snoring stole my sleep, and then moved into the guest room. His requests for conjugal visits were denied. Even marriages with tremendous love have problems, so the demise of our loveless one was no surprise.

Putzing about in my flower bed, I barely heard the phone ringing over Nikki’s blaring stereo. Off with my gardening gloves as I walked inside to answer while my ten-year-old sang
Rock And Roll All Nite
at the top of her lungs along with Kiss. My preppy kid loved hard-rock.

“Hey, Blondie. I had a boy.” Gabriel proudly announced.

I couldn’t force even one syllable from my lips.

“Did you hear? I had a son.”

“Congratulations,” I cheerfully managed, while demonic creatures did cartwheels in my belly.

“I just wanted you to know. He’s healthy and looks just like me. Why don’t you bring Nikki out to the house so y’all can see him?”

“I’d love to. And as soon as Gloria or Victoria invites us, we’ll stop by. Congratulations on your new son.”

Gabriel was elated. I was torn. I was happy he had a son, but thought about the son I once dreamed of having with him.

From that call forward, I kept busy with Nikki and evening classes, which wasn’t easy since Phil and I were constantly performing medleys from
Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf
. The primrose path Phil led me down and I feebly followed, was overrun with thorns and stinkweed. We began divorce proceedings. Mother called long distance insisting I should be more giving, more tolerant, more subservient to men, yada, yada, yada. She ended by rattling a quote about a sharp tongue being the only tool that grows keener with constant use. Thank God it was her dime.

Fortunately, Beau and Patrice were always available to help me maintain a modicum of sanity while I went through a chaotic divorce with Phil, who would argue with his pet rock. I took no money from our joint savings, no home equity, no furniture or art purchased together, and even returned my wedding ring, but apparently Phil wanted a few vials of my blood as keepsakes.

“You and Nikki are spending a few weeks at my townhome until you find your own place,” Patrice insisted.

“Are you sure you can handle a pre-pubescent kid under foot that long?”

“I adore Nikki, and think she adores me. She confides in me on occasion.”

“Uh oh. We’re beginning to butt heads, so no telling what comes out of her mouth.”

“I’ll never repeat, but you’re lucky, Cherie. Now pack your bags and get over here.”

“But you’re studying for bar exams.”

“And neophyte Nikki can be my quiz master. I thrive on pressure and adrenalin.”

She didn’t have to ask twice. I removed Phil’s name from my personal savings account, took mine and Nikki’s clothing and personal items, jumped into my El Dorado, and left Phil with a beam of happiness surrounding me.

Living with Patrice proved two people who instantly connected on a spiritual level, hardly knew each other. Nikki and I arrived on a Saturday morning, which meant an introduction to
Soul Train
and mandatory dance lessons. I attempted moves that worked muscles previously unknown to me. Almost threw out my back. In thirty days we discussed background differences, racism of every nationality, and social obligation. We laughed and cried, realizing it would take more than our personal friendship to change world attitudes.

“I’m going to miss you both,” Patrice said, but hugged Nikki tighter than she did me as we left to move into our own home.

Unfortunately I saw Phil’s mug every day at the hospital. After working at Methodist for five years, the time to look for a new job had commenced.

15

“Guess you’re thirty-something, now,” Dad said via phone lines. He called once a year with birthday wishes—never on my actual b’day, and sometimes not even the month, but at least he called. Hearing his happy voice always made me smile, even when he rolled into “world expert” mode. After thirty minutes of listening to his solutions for the recent oil spill polluting the Gulf of Mexico and his prediction of serious problems for the US as a result of Iran voting to become an Islamic Republic, I tried to interject news about me. As usual, his listening abilities were hampered by something in his bloodstream. Ice clinked in his glass and when he turned his radio to window-shattering level, I gave up hope for a personal conversation. As luck would have it, Patrice rang the doorbell, offering an excuse to end the call.

An only child whose parents were long deceased, Patrice asked me to attend her distant cousin’s funeral, wanting my companionship and saying I would appreciate the experience.

“I’d better clue you in, before we head out.” Patrice looked inside my fridge. “Black funerals are like huge family reunions.” She curled into my overstuffed chair with a huge box of leftover Valentine chocolates she found. “Relatives from every state in the union will show up ready to party like its New Year’s Eve.”

“Party?”

“You know, grilling, eating, drinking, dancing, and singing before and after services.”

“White people do similar things, Patrice.”

“I’ve attended several white funerals, and never once set eyes on a coffin mourner.” Patrice munched on her second dark Bordeaux. I loved how she embraced her body, eating sweets whenever she pleased, not just on special occasion—and especially not out of stress, like me.

“Death is painful for the living.” I reached over, snagged a raspberry truffle, and popped it into my mouth. “All nationalities mourn, Patrice. Some just do so quieter than others.” Guilt crept in, filling my head with god-awful visions of truffle induced ass dimples.

“Showing grief for the deceased is Old World—and I can assure you my kin hired professional mourners to attend and do their thing. But upbeat, spiritual music somewhat counteracts the whooping, hollering, passing out, and flinging of bodies over and occasionally into the coffin.”

“Sounds like fun.” I grabbed my purse.

“Just don’t feel obligated to buy if anyone claiming to be my dearest relative tries to hawk their latest album. Well-heeled blondes are perceived as easy marks by con artists.”

Patrice displayed reverent grief during the service, but I found myself in awe of people unabashedly showing sorrow for the passing of a loved one. And I partied with everyone else.

On the drive home, my kindred spirit and I chatted about my fear of transitioning from Methodist to the Ray and McCreight law firm.

“Why not try a female psychologist for a change?”

Apparently I wasn’t the feminist I thought, seeing as how this idea never crossed my mind. Lady Freudina, here comes your next head case.

I actually liked my new therapist. She promptly advised me against intimate relationships with men, especially attorneys. She didn’t deem me emotionally ready to play with big boys, and said lawyers she knew rarely played in honorable fashion. I liked her, but I wasn’t a Stepford Wives patient. Before you could say strobe lights and disco fever, I was doing the hustle with Randall, a friend of an attorney. Close, but no counsel. Investment banker Randall was a tall yet chunky, fair haired Texan who lived up to his introductory line, “What I don’t have in looks I make up for in personality.” He owned a couple of deep dimples that grooved his cheeks,
but I was a bit leery of charismatic men after watching news accounts of Reverend Jim Jones persuading nine hundred cult members to join him in Guyana for poison punch. Still, after Phil’s incessant insults Randall’s compliments had me spellbound.

Randall wore Stetson hats similar to those worn by the cast of
Dallas,
and never went anywhere without his boot-size cellular phone. He introduced me to Eggs Benedict, Cartier jewelry, Bob Mackie clothing, and sad but true, New York discos. I learned to shake my groove thing a bit better than I had on that tiny Jewel Box stage, but Tina Turner’s shimmy queen title wasn’t in jeopardy. Randall always arrived for dates with gifts ranging from Fauchon chocolates to Rolex watches. Occasionally he included Nikki in our evenings of elegant dining and lavish shopping sprees, insisting she should become accustomed to the finer things in life. I didn’t want him spoiling her, but I was busy getting accustomed to those things myself.

“You’re all grown up.” I shook Gilles hand. He was tending bar for his dad at Beau’s Place on weekends. Beau claimed “pre-college experience,” but old wise one was utilizing his strapping, handsome son to bring in female fans.

“Nice to see you,” Gilles said, obviously not remembering me from his youth.

“You too.” I had to catch my breath. What a gorgeous man he’d grown into.

“Be sure to bring Nikki tomorrow.” Beau handed me directions to his new digs.

“She wouldn’t miss it. She’s a sappy Vinny Barbarino, JohnTravolta fan.

“Well, I hope she’s lucky enough to see and talk to him.”

“I’ll let you guys get back to work.” I leaned across the bar, gave Beau a peck on the cheek, and waved at Gilles who was busy entertaining a troop of young ladies.

A couple weeks later, Nikki and I visited Beau at 2016 Main, a swanky high-rise in downtown Houston, hoping to see stars while they shot scenes for
Urban Cowboy.
We failed to see, much less interface with any celebrities,
but being with Beau was delightful. And bittersweet. Distance and conflicting schedules would take a chunk out of our time together.

Patrice accepted an in-house counsel position with a law firm in Manhattan—without consulting
moi
. In her desire to see the world, she only applied to large firms offering travel. I dreaded her May departure. My summer of ’79 would definitely lack close female friendships. Unlike some chicks who won’t leave home without an entourage of girlfriends, I never easily bonded with those of the feminine persuasion. Go figure.

a

On my tenth date with Randall as I nibbled pâté de foie Strasbourg truffle at La Colombe d’Or, he mentioned his upcoming trip to the Orient (where he traveled often), before reaching across the table, taking my hand, looking into my eyes, and murmuring through perfectly capped teeth, “You look like a Bottecilli Angel. Not only are you gorgeous, you’re something I think could be my everything, so no place but in the middle of that is where I want to be.”