Rufus and Jewel lived in the apartment beneath ours. Jewel was tall and thin with skin the color of creamed coffee. Easily the prettiest woman on the street, she walked with a straight back and had once been a catalog model. Pages from Sears and Kmart ads were displayed in the built-in bookcase of their living room: Jewel in active wear; Jewel in evening wear; Jewel in underwear. A dark-skinned Barbie, she was just about perfect, on catalog pages and in life, until she smiled to reveal a gold-capped front tooth.
Everything in their half of the house shined. The sofa was copper and gold velour, the tables were smoked glass, the air smelled of cocoa butter and marijuana. I baby-sat for Jewel’s one-year-old son and she paid me in gifts of purses, perfume, and Avon holiday edition soaps.
Jewel’s baby was fat and bronze and had a sloppy wet smile. My baby sister was about the same age but so well-loved that by the time I got hold of her, Rachel had tired of cooing. Jewel’s baby, on the other hand, giggled and drooled, ate up the attention. And so while Rufus and Jewel went out dancing, I held on to his warm flesh while running my hands along cool glass tabletops.