Chapter Seven
Leticia hadn’t imagined that such a simple gesture as providingpastries for the morning coffee hour would increase her popularity with her colleagues, not to speak of her boss. When hardly a crumb remained and she began cleaning up, they relieved her of the job. She went back to her office and was trying to collect her thoughts before outlining her secondinstallment on African women when her phone rang.
“Langley speaking.”
“Hello, Langley. Did you save some cake for me?”
“Did I ... ? You ate a plate full in the coffee room. Aren’t you concerned that you’ll gain weight?”
“Absolutely not. My regular exercise takes care of the calories. Did you or didn’t you?”
“I did, but you’re—”
“I’ll be right there.”
He walked in wearing a smile of pure joy. “I don’t know when I’ve enjoyed a pastry that much.”
“If anyone sees you with these,” she said, handing him the scones and cake that she had stored in her drawer, “I’ll be accused of favoritism.”
He moved his left shoulder in a quick, almost imperceptibleshrug. “Big damn deal. If they don’t know how to curry favor, that’s their problem. Besides, I asked and you promised,so I must deserve it.”
She couldn’t help being amused at his childish behavior. “I had to apologize for my remark about chauvinism, and if you don’t change your ways I may find myself apologizing for having mentioned your ego.”
He bit into a scone. “Of course I have an ego. It’s part of being human. In fact, it’s only the second of three stages of early childhood psychological development. You’d like to see me without an ego? You wound me.”
That man was getting to be like a sprig of ivy. If you didn’t clip it, in no time at all, it would wrap itself around you. The problem was that she had no desire to clip him. He had becomeher favorite colleague. “Max, please get out of here so I can get some work done. I can’t knock out a piece in ten minutesthe way you seem able to do. I have to sweat over it.”
He stood and gathered his treasures. “If I hang around you, I’ll be an insufferable egotist. Woman, I sweat out every word. Thanks for the goodies. You deserve a kiss for this.” She didn’t have to reply, because he was on his way out when he said it. She wondered if his habit of leaving suddenly was meant to avoid acknowledging her reaction to what he’d said or done, and whether he did the same to other people.
“The less time I spend trying to figure out that puzzling man, the better,” she told herself, and got busy with the story that intrigued her more and more. She was discovering that although ignorance was a curse that could rob a person of numerous pleasures in life, including good health, it could also protect one from emotional misery and distress. She’d heard it said, especially in her youth, that what you didn’t know wouldn’t hurt you. And as she wrote of the condition in which some African women lived and the treatment that some of them had to tolerate, she could appreciate the truth of that proverb. For if they knew how many women lived in more pleasant circumstances, misery would be rampant among them.
She left early in order to shop for something to wear to an informal buffet dinner. She wore suits to work, and she figured she needed something softer. When she arrived at her apartment, Willa opened the door before she could put her key in the lock.
“The goodies were a rousing success,” she told Willa as she entered the apartment. “I mean there wasn’t a crumb left. They gave you rave reviews. Thank you so much.”
“I knew they’d love it, but did any of those nice men say anything special about them? Men love anything with lemon in it, and they do love scones. Did any of them want to come to dinner?”
“Willa, it wouldn’t be in good taste for me to get involved with a man at my office.”
Willa’s hands went to the bones that were stand-ins for hips. “Bunkum. You spend most of your time at the office. Where you gonna meet a decent man if you don’t meet him there? I’d say you could meet one at church, but I wouldn’t introduce a daughter of mine to any that I’ve ever seen at my church. Seems like the real nice ones don’t pay much attentionto the Lord these days.”
“I’m invited to dinner Friday with some big-shot journalists.I bought a new dress, and I want you to tell me what you think,” Leticia said to Willa. Then she went to her bedroomand changed into the sleeveless, burnt orange tissue-woolsheath that flared a little around the knee and showed just enough cleavage to give assurance that what was hidden was real. “Well, what do you think?” she asked Willa.
“What I think don’t matter. It’s what those men will think, and if you ask me, they’ll think plenty. It’s ladylike enough for your style, but, honey, as my granddaughter says, ‘it’s really rocking.’ You got it all right where you need it and not a bit more. It’s perfect. What kind of shoes you wearing?”
“Don’t mention shoes to me, Willa. I hate them. I’ll wear brown patent leather shoes with heels a lot higher than I’m comfortable wearing, but it’s just for a few hours.” She hoped that none of her male colleagues would be there to see her looking like a sexpot.
The evening came and the Nettleson Town Car arrived for her promptly at six-thirty. She draped a brown velvet stole around her shoulders and left home with the feeling that, if she made the best of the evening, behaving as if she were one of them, she could be headed for a new and better life. But building relationships between her and other people,especially strangers, was not her forte as much as she strived for it. Once she stepped out of her professional role, she seemed to lack the skills needed to deal with people. She told herself that she could only do her best.
The car stopped inches from the steps of a big brick and stone house on upper Sixteenth Street Northwest in what she supposed was Silver Spring, Maryland, past the District of Columbia line. The house sat well back from the street on a large plot of land that hosted many trees, shrubs and flowers.The driver of the car walked with her to the front door and rang the bell.
“Thanks, Lawrence,” a young man of about seventeen said to the driver. “Miss Langley, I’m Drew Hopkins Nettleson. Broderick Nettleson is my stepfather. Come in. We’re glad to have you.”
“Greetings, Drew. I’m delighted to meet you,” she said. “I’ve been looking forward to this visit.” She wanted to spend time talking with the boy, to learn how one so young developedso much polish and self-assurance. Soon a tall, good-lookingand elegant woman rushed toward them.
“Miss Langley, I’m so glad to meet you. I’m Carolyn Nettleson, and I’m one of your fans. Your column in yesterday’sThe Journal did a service to women everywhere. Come on in and say hello to everybody. You’ve met my son. I have twin stepsons and Broderick and I have a daughter. That’s just by way of explanation. We consider all four of them our children. My grandfather may drop in after a while, or he may not. He can’t tolerate small talk, claims it makes him physically ill. That’s probably why he and Broderick get on so well.”
“Are you also a journalist?” she asked Carolyn.
“Oh, no. I’m a public school teacher and a commercial artist. Art is my first love, but I feel morally obligated to teach, because I have the credentials. Broderick is putting Jill, our daughter, to bed. She won’t go to sleep unless he reads somethingto her. Would you like me to take your stole?”
“Thanks. It’s rather cool outside, but very pleasant in here.” They took a few steps and encountered Broderick carrying his daughter in his arms.
“Jill says she’ll go to sleep without procrastinating if she can meet Ms. Langley. I told her she can hear about Africa some other time. I’m so glad you’re able to join us, Ms. Langley.”
“Thank you, I’ve been looking forward to it. I’ve met two of your children, and I hope I get to meet the twins.”
“You will. They don’t allow themselves to miss anything or anyone who comes here. I promised to put Jill to bed, so Carolyn will introduce you to our other guests.”
As if they’d been friends for years, Carolyn draped an arm around Leticia’s waist and walked with her into what seemed to be a great room. Its striking cathedral ceiling, massive stone and marble fireplace and floor-to-ceiling windowsmade the term living room too modest a word for it. A huge original Reardon hung between the paneled windows, and an Elizabeth Catlett sculpture rested on a grand piano.
“Ms. Langley, have you met Paul Faison and his wife, Darlene? Paul writes for—”
“I know,” Leticia was happy to say. “You write for The Maryland Tribune.”
“I do indeed,” he said, and she was beginning to wonder if a man had to have height and stunning good looks in order to be a top level journalist. “Thank you for knowing that. When did you join The Journal?”
She smiled because he spoke to her as if she were an equal, though if she ever reached his level, she’d gladly dance on the Washington Monument. “I began work there in the latter part of June this year.”
“Where had you worked previously? I’m doing the interviewing,”he said with a laugh, “so you’ll only have to tell this once. Everybody else is listening.”
She let her gaze sweep the group, smiled like a pro and said, “Nowhere. I only graduated from Howard in June. Oh, I’m as old as I look. I postponed entrance, and that accounts for the late graduation. I didn’t have to repeat courses. Honest.” She spread her palms outward as if in entreaty, bringing a laugh from the group.
“I’m sure of that,” Paul said.
“This is Paul’s publisher, Robert Weddington.”
“Glad to meet you, Ms. Langley,” Robert said. “If Rube doesn’t treat you right and Max can’t stand the competition, I’ll be waiting. I like your work. My son’s teething and irritable,so Lynn, my wife, stayed at home with him.”
Leticia noticed that an elegant woman around her age squeezed her way to the center of the group. “These guys are so big, Leticia, that I get lost whenever I’m in this group. I’m Allison Wade. Since Robert explained why Lynn isn’t here, I grant myself the right to explain that my husband, William N. Covington, Bill to most people, is on a government assignment.I’m glad to meet you. I get lost in this gang. No matter who’s here, every man is six four or taller.”
She liked Allison at once. “I’m glad to meet you, Allison. Yes. I’d begun to wonder if a man had to be tall in order to be a successful journalist. My male colleagues at The Journal are also tall.” An appraisal of Carolyn and Allison told her that she’d worn exactly the right thing, dressy but not too revealing.Drew offered her barbecued shrimp on a long toothpick and a maid or housekeeper followed with a dip and napkins.
“You’re in high school, I take it,” Leticia said to Drew after thanking him for the shrimp
“No, ma’am. I’m in George Washington University.”
“You don’t look old enough,” she said.
“I’m seventeen, ma’am. You can’t live in this house with my parents without learning a lot. I graduated early.”
“With honors, I’ll bet.”
“Yes, ma’am. Valedictorian.”
“Congratulations. At the expense of monopolizing you, I’m anxious to know how one so young has so much poise.”
He seemed pensive. “When you have to deal with ... things, you learn a lot and you get a lot of self-confidence.”
“Any parent who has a son like you is very fortunate.”
His eyes widened and a smile lit up his face. “Thanks, ma’am. Thanks a lot.”
She accepted the glass of chardonnay that Drew offered her later, took a few sips and decided she better hold it and pretendfor the remainder of the evening. She hadn’t learned to drink more than one glass with her dinner, and she didn’t think it wise to practice in the company of some of the biggest names in print journalism.
“What part of town do you live in?” Allison asked as they were serving themselves dinner.
“Woodley Road,” she said proudly, happy that she didn’t have to give her old address on Florida Avenue.
“Then we’re not so far from each other. Bill travels a lot, and I need someone to see a movie with when he’s away. My colleagues are men, and I sure can’t go to a movie with them. Would you go with me sometime?”
“I’d like that,” Leticia said, careful not to show the exuberancethat she felt. “Yes, that is, if it’s not about murder, witches, ghosts or vampires.”
Allison laughed aloud. “You’ll never catch me paying my money to be frightened to death. No indeed.”
At the table, the guests sat where they chose, and Leticia had Allison on her right and Robert Weddington on her left.
“What do you think of Max Baldwin?” Allison asked her. “I know he’s a fine writer, and he’s won some awards. I mean as a man, what do you think of him?”
Leticia was not going to bite that one. “He’s becoming my favorite colleague,” she said truthfully. “He’s very straightforward.I like that in people.”
Allison took a sip of wine and pushed her steak around on her plate. “I’m not prying. I was trying to find an opening,an opportunity to tell you that he’s single and a truly great guy. He and Bill are friends.”
“Really? Is Bill a journalist? I know he won an award for a book about diplomacy, diplomats or something like that, but—-”
“He’s a diplomat, but he’s happiest when he’s playing the guitar with a jazz combo, and he is very, very good at it.”
“I love jazz, especially classical jazz where the musicians interpret a melody. You know, like Armstrong, Ellington, Johnny Hodges, and others of that style.”
“I’ll keep that in mind for the next time Bill and his buddiesget together at home. They play for themselves, and that’s when the music is best,” Allison said.
“Would you mind telling me how you two met?”
“I got an assignment to travel with him and interview him for an article entitled ‘A Day in the Life of William Nicholas “Bill” Covington.’ At the end of the six weeks, he knew more about me than I did about him, but we made it anyway.”
“I hope you have some more to tell us about African women,” Robert Weddington said to her. “Otherwise, we’ll consider you a tease.”
“Thanks,” she said. “I’ll have two more installments. Joel said three’s enough.”
“He’s probably right. Whose idea was it?”
“I began with the subject of obesity among our women, then the differences in obesity between African and African-Americanwomen, and Mr. Warren liked the stories and wanted something of greater depth. But when I got to Africa, the data I found began to talk to me, and this series is the result.”
“You’re a bright woman, and Joel is to be congratulated for not making you stick to a topic that would be like comparinglemons and oranges. You went with your data, and that’s always the smart thing to do.” He was the third top-flightjournalist to tell her that, and she didn’t plan to forget it.
The room darkened and she looked toward the only source of light. Seeing two fiery blazes approaching, she decided that the moment belonged to some pranksters. But the room light returned, and she saw two young boys, obviously twins, of about eight years who were dressed like Robin Hood and who carried desserts. “What a delightful way to serve cherries jubileeand baked Alaska,” she said to her table mates.
“Right,” Robert said. “Carolyn always has at least one clever gimmick, and she always serves two desserts. Way to go.”
By the time she left the Nettleson residence, the others had dispensed with formality and begun to call her Leticia. For her, calling Broderick Nettleson and Paul Faison by their first names was tantamount to calling her late father “Hank,” his nickname. But she managed it and got a feeling of belongingfrom the more intimate atmosphere and the camaraderiethat it created.
That weekend, she completed the final installment on the African women and collected as many newspapers as she could find to get ideas for future columns. She wrote a thank-younote to Carolyn Nettleson and, with nothing more planned, sat on her balcony trying to read a short story. However, she didn’t want to read or do anything else alone. She missed Kenyetta, for she always called her cousin with she was in a blue funk. But the hurt Kenyetta had meted out to her over the past five years seemed stronger and more piercing and she didn’t want to be around her cousin. Still, she hated the loneliness, the raw, empty feeling that she didn’t seem able to banish. The answer to this is to get rid of some of this free time I have every weekend.
The following Monday afternoon, she received a call from Allison Wade. “I belong to Windmills, a service club,” Allison told her after their greeting. “The group consists of men and women who work to raise funds in order to help people who can’t help themselves. If I give a party for the group at my house, everybody pays to attend, and that includes me. We support programs for the homeless, soup kitchens, children of incarcerated women and such. Most of the people are interesting.We meet once a month for dinner at Pratt’s Clubhouse, and we give each other moral support. In one of our fund-raisers,we women paid twenty dollars to learn to belly dance, and the men paid fifty to watch. It was very successful. Would you like to join? The only criterion is that you dedicate yourselfto helping the less fortunate.”
“I’d love it, Allison. Just tell me when and where.”
Leticia imagined that years would pass before she recoveredfrom her introduction at Windmills as the journalist who rocked Washington with a story on the plight of African women.
“Do you think you could write some comedy skits for our next big fund-raiser?” the president asked her at the first meeting she attended.
“I’ve never done that, but I can try.” The notion suddenly took hold of her, and she couldn’t wait to try her hand at it. After she got home that night, she wrote on the back of an envelope,
One night, a man said to his wife, “I’m going out. Don’t wait up.”
“Okay, but how long will you be gone?”
“Long enough to take care of business.”
“Good,” she said. “That’ll give me more than enough time.”
“Time for what?”
“To take care of business.”
She considered that one to be fair, but she wasn’t sure she’d find it amusing if anyone else had written it. She tried again and liked that one, though she’d cleaned it up from her original idea. Leticia could hardly wait to get an opinion about it.
The next morning, she went directly to Max’s office withoutstopping at her own.
“Hi,” he said, but his casual tone belied the startled expressionon his face.
“Max, look at this, please. I’m writing comedy skits, and I want to know if these are funny.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, half frowning and squintingas he did so. “Okay. Have a seat. This may take a while.”
“It’s only about a dozen lines altogether,” she assured him.
“Yeah, but I have to switch moods.”
“You have to ... gosh, I interrupted you, didn’t I?”
“You don’t think I was sitting here waiting for a reason to break out laughing, do you?”
“I’m sorry, Max. I shouldn’t have barged in like this. Maybe some other time.” She sounded dispirited, but she’d been counting on his saying that the pieces were funny.
“Sit back down. You asked me to read it, and I will. I’ll give you my honest opinion.”
Chills shot through her. What if he thinks I’m a donkey’s ass for writing this? She’d been in the process of sitting, but cut it short and reached for the sheet of paper. “Thanks, Max, but maybe I don’t want your honest opinion.”
He leaned back in his chair, gazed at her for a while as if searching for some rare thing, and then he laughed aloud. Laughed and laughed until she thought he might be hysterical.“Max, for goodness sake. Nothing’s that funny.”
He looked at her with one closed eye. “That’s what you think. Since when have you been afraid of me? And for heaven’s sake why?” He leaned forward, snatched the paper from her hand and said, “Everybody who knows me knows I’m sweet as sugar, a real pussycat.” And with the speed of a NASCAR engine, he sobered. “I’d never intentionally hurt you, Leticia. Don’t you know that?”
He could knock the wind out of her faster and more easilythan anyone she knew or had ever known. “I ... I guess so. It’s just that ... when I think I understand you, you turn another page.”
Max made a pyramid of his ten fingers, supported his chin with them and searched her with his large, all-seeing eyes. “I see. You’re full of surprises, too, lady. It hasn’t occurred to me that you want to understand me. Nobody here does. It’s assumed that I’m tough, uncaring and concerned only with my next award. So I act the part.”
He had effectively jerked the rug from beneath her. She didn’t want to feel compassion for him or any other man that she worked with, but she sensed in him a kindred soul. “Oh, Max. Please don’t talk this way. Look, I’d ... I’d better go on to my office while you read that. Thanks so much.”
To her amazement, he said nothing, only redirected his gaze to the paper on which she had written the few comic lines. What kind of life does he have, and why is he so ... so different?The question took over her mind as she tried to get back to work, but she could say truthfully that she didn’t want the answers.
He phoned her a few minutes later. “Leticia, the first one is funny only if the comedian can deliver it. The second would be hilarious if the preacher called the secretary something stronger than ‘old hag.’ If I were writing it, he’d call her a bitch. Nobody expects a preacher to say that, and it would be funny.”
“You think I have any talent in this sphere?”
“Absolutely, but you can’t tie your own hands. You’re very ladylike, but comedy rarely is. Let it hang out.”
“Thanks, Max. I ... thanks a lot.” She hung up and didn’t move for a good ten minutes. Something was going on, and she couldn’t put her finger on it. She was developing a friendship with Max, and she would never have believed that she could be on equal terms with a person like him—accomplished,sophisticated, aware of his place in the scheme of things. Maybe she was making progress. Was she more self-assured because she’d held her own with the Nettlesons and their guests? She lowered her head into her hands. Was she ever going to stop feeling inadequate in social situations? While in college, she’d thought that her looks and poor clothes held her back socially. But as she thought back to her college days and compared herself to other girls there, she knew that the problem lay within her.
Renewing her vow to change, she telephoned the president of the service club later that day and told her that she would try to write some funny skits for the fund-raiser. “I’ve writtena couple for a stand-up comic, and I think they’re pretty good.”
“They don’t have to sound as if Woody Allen wrote them. We need about twenty minutes. And, Leticia, we’re so glad that you want to be active.”
“Thanks, Margo. I promise to do my best.” Thereafter, she spent at least two hours each evening writing comedy routines. She wanted to show them to Max, since only he knew she had an interest in writing comedy, but she couldn’t gather sufficient courage. If the routines were off the mark, he would say so.
She decided to spend more time watching people as a source of inspiration for her skits, but in three working days, the funniest thing she saw at the office was two of The Journal printers walking backward as they observed three very pretty and voluptuous journalism students on a field trip that includedwatching the production of a newspaper. The two men, coming from opposite directions, plowed into each other and were sent sprawling on the floor.
After a lot of thought, she gave some of the skits to Margo Overstreet, who claimed to have been named after Margo Channing, the role Bette Davis played in the movie All About Eve.
“If you don’t think they’ll work out,” she said to Margo, “I have more than enough responsibilities to keep me overworked.Who’s going to do the acting?”
“Why, we will, of course. Nobody who comes to see us will be expecting Bill Cosby or Steve Harvey. All we want is money for our projects.”
Margo then asked Leticia if she’d like to meet for brunch one Sunday. “I love brunch, because the good ones offer you everything you can think of eating. How about it?”
“Sunday coming is free,” Leticia said. “Would that be a good time?”
Margo arrived at the Willard for brunch looking fit for the cover of Vogue, but Leticia soon discovered that the woman was anything but stuffy.
Margo chewed on a piece of smoked sturgeon, swallowedit, put her fork down and looked at Leticia. “Your columnon African women changed my life.”
“How? What do you mean?” Leticia asked her, startled.
“I decided that if I didn’t want sex, I was going to say no. Those poor women don’t have an alternative, but I have. Recently I told my husband no, for the first time in these six years we’ve been married. He asked me if I wanted to talk about it. It seems he’d felt all along that something wasn’t right, and he tried to correct it, but he needed my cooperation,and I was faking it. He talked to me, telling me what I meant to him, how and what we could have together if I’d let him teach me. So I cut out that puritanical crap and ... well, we’ve been on a honeymoon ever since. These days, he doesn’t have to ask. I hate to think what I’d have kept on missing if I hadn’t read that column.” She raised her wineglass. “Here’s to you, Leticia.”
Leticia patted Margo on her arm and worked hard at not showing how dumbfounded she was. “Margo, I’m flabbergasted. Hearing that makes me feel that enduring those mosquitoes,sand flies, roaring lions and other inconveniences was more than worth it. I feel kinda proud.”
“There’re lots of women like me, or like I was, and I hope something shakes them up. Have you had a chance to talk with Jeannine? She’s a stockbroker. She won’t ask you for your patronage, and she probably doesn’t need it, but she’ll give you some tips on investing, and if you follow them, you’ll soon have a good little nest egg. We have lawyers, physicians, professors, public school teachers, musicians, actors,travel agents, and women in several other fields as members of our local branch. Allison Wade was our only writer until you joined us.”
“When will you give the members a chance to read my script?”
Margo’s face darkened, and she poked her tongue into her right cheek. “Leticia, you do not give thirty women the right or the opportunity to make suggestions on the outcome of anything. You’ll get thirty different and incompatible responses.I plan to tell them when to come for the rehearsal tryout. That’s that. Democracy is for reasonable people.”
A grin altered Leticia’s face. “Is that Margo or the wine talking?”
“Margo. When the wine talks, you may not want to be there. I believe in being candid, Leticia. So tell me, when I inviteyou to dinner, should I invite an eligible male, or can you bring your own?”
“I don’t have one right now, Margo. He dropped me, dated my cousin and best friend, and now he wants me back.”
“I hope you told him to go to hell.”
“In so many words, I did.”
Margo sipped more wine. “Girl, you should have told him in exactly those words. I’ll bet he was a really sharp-lookingstud, perfect from head to toe. One of those dumped me and, instead of crying my eyes out, I fell right into the arms of my husband. Thank you, Jesus.”
Leticia chuckled.
“When you come to our house, you may bring a guy if you want to, but I don’t entertain by gender numbers.”
Leticia left Margo with a feeling that she may have found a niche. If even a few of the other women in the service club were like Margo and Allison, women who knew their strengths and were not ridden with envy, women who enjoyed the companyand moral support of their sisters, she’d come home.
Still glowing from the first brunch she’d ever eaten, the wine and the kindred soul she discovered in Margo, Leticia hadn’t been in her apartment ten minutes when the phone rang. She answered it and heard Kenyetta’s voice.
“Hey, girl, you still pouting? You really should have gone to that wedding. A lot of people asked about you, including Mark. I told him you didn’t come because you were mad at me. Let’s go to the movies tonight. There’s an old one that I’ve heard about for years and never saw. The Red Shoes. It’s about dancers. You’ll learn something about ballet.”
“I don’t care to learn about ballet from the movies, Kenyetta, and I didn’t go to that wedding because I did not get an invitation,so you shouldn’t have lied. I just got home, and I’m not going back out today.”
“Then why don’t I bring some barbecued ribs and potato salad over and we eat supper together?”
“I just finished brunch at the Willard, and food’s the last thing I want to think about. I want to get out of these clothes. Bye.” She hung up, and for once, she had no guilt feeling about it. She’d felt great when she left Margo. But the more she was in her cousin’s company, by phone or otherwise, the more she had to fight for her self-esteem. Kenyetta was a downer.
When the phone rang immediately, she knew that Kenyetta had something more to say. “You’re back with Wilson. I know you are.”
Leticia took a long deep breath. “You listen to me, Ken. Wilson harassed me, begging to continue with me where he left off when he took up with you, and without so much as telling me good night. I wouldn’t have him back if he crawled on his belly like the snake he is. I deserve better and more from a man. I’m not surprised that you think he’s what you deserve. At least he’s single, and after years of taking what’s left from a married man, Wilson must look like heaven to you. Please leave me alone about Wilson Gallagher. I don’t give a damn what he does or who he does it with. Good-bye.” Leticia hung up and suddenly raised her arms and whooped. She’d told Kenyetta what she thought. How sweet it was!
That Tuesday night at the Windmills monthly meeting, sixteen of the group’s thirty members wanted to try out for Leticia’s comedy routine, and the chair ruled that the remainingfourteen would determine the final cast with their applause. Shivers raced through Leticia’s arms and legs, and her belly seemed headed for her feet as she watched in horroras one person after another butchered her lines. She admittedthat the four receiving the loudest and longest applause represented the best of the lot, but what a lot! Rehearsals began immediately, but she knew she wouldn’t have the stomach to watch any subsequent practices.
The next morning, for want of other comfort, she knocked on Max’s office door. “Come in.” It sounded like a growl, so she knew he was busy and didn’t want to be disturbed, but she needed to vent.
“I know you’re busy, but—”
“But you’re going to disturb me anyway. You could at least have brought us some coffee.”
“Since you’re not going to run me out, I’ll get us some. Cream, sugar or both?”
“Neither. Thanks.”
She got the coffee, and as she was about to knock on Max’s door, Joel passed. “I wouldn’t disturb him if I were you. He’s in one hell of a foul mood this morning.”
When she put her hand on the doorknob, Joel frowned and shoved his hands in his pants pockets. “You’re going in there anyway?”
She winked at Joel. “You have to know what makes the cookie crumble. Max loves coffee.”
“Well, I’ll be damned.” He walked on, shaking his head.
“What’s eating you?” Max asked her after savoring a long sip of coffee. “This is just what I needed.”
She told him about the skit and the characters chosen to perform it. “Max, I worked so hard on that routine, and not one of those people has the slightest knowledge of acting. They read like second graders pointing a finger at every word.”
“I can imagine that would be upsetting, but after they memorize the lines and rehearse a few times, it’s bound to be better.”
“You had to be there. In life, there are some situations so bad that you don’t even pray over them. Honest!”
“Yeah, but I don’t like to think like that. I take the view that I can fix it, and if I don’t cure it, I at least make it better. Every time.”
She knew her face reflected her surprise, but his reaction to it didn’t warn her to be cautious. “I’m not surprised. Friday night before last, I met some people who said nice things about you. One in particular literally praised you.” From his expression, she knew he’d shifted from lighthearted to very serious, but she didn’t see a reason to stop.
“I was out of my league, Max, so I mostly listened. One, who you know well, said you’re a fine person and a top level writer and asked me what I thought of you as a man.” He sat forward, looking more anxious than she would have imaginedhe could be. She ignored that. “I said you’re my favorite colleague, and you’re straightforward. As I think of it now, I might have said that you may be the most honest person I’ve ever dealt with.”
He drained the coffee cup and threw it into his wastebasket. “I already told you that if I take seriously what you say about me, I’d be such an ass nobody could stand me. Go back to your office before I do something stupid. Thanks for the coffee, and for dumping on me. You made my day.” She scrutinized him to see if she’d hurt or displeased him, but she couldn’t read his emotions.
“Go on,” he said, waving toward the door. “Scat. I’ve got to work, and your presence sure as hell isn’t conducive to that.” After she returned to her office, she remembered that he hadn’t asked her where she was when others spoke of him or who said what she quoted to him. She didn’t believe for a second that Max lacked self-confidence, but she had a difficult time believing that he had so little interest in what was said of him. Recalling his serious expression when she began to relate the conversation at Broderick Nettleson’s house, she phoned him.
“Baldwin.”
“Max, this is Leticia. You didn’t ask me where I was Friday before last or who the conversationalists were. Don’t you want to know?”
“I figured that if you thought I should know, you’d tell me. It was enough that nobody said anything bad about me, or at least that you didn’t say they did.”
“I was at Broderick Nettleson’s house, and those singing your praise included Paul Faison, Robert Weddington, and Allison Wade.”
“Get outta here! I should have known it; that’s my gang. I was giving a lecture in Boston, or I’d have been there. How’d you meet the Nettlesons?” She told him and added, “I’ve been on cloud nine ever since.”
“Don’t genuflect to that crowd, Leticia. You were there because you belong. The Nettleson affairs are very small and very select. I’m happy for you. You may run into Joel at one of these things, too.” A long pause ensued. “Thanks for the details, Leticia. Your telling that gang I’m your favorite colleaguemeans a lot to me. They think I’m all investigative journalism and no heart, but that’s because they only see with their eyes. Talk later.”
“They only see with their eyes?” What else were they supposed to see with? She wished he wouldn’t drop those cryptic remarks on her and then walk away or hang up. If he could see with something else, she’d like to know about it.