Pickaninny?

The smooth figure gliding a few steps in front of me could only belong to one person. The suit hung on his body like it was made while he stood. I quickened my pace to make the elevator with him. I stood by his side without saying a word. When the elevator cleared out a bit, he looked down at my silky head and spoke.

“Well, hello Miss . . .”

I looked up at him and smiled. “Johnston. How are you, Mr. Edwards?”

“I’m well, thank you. How’s all that research work going?”

“Great. Just fine.” I batted my eyes and threw him a half smile. “I know this is probably inappropriate, but are you free for lunch? I really think you could help me out with some of the basic information about your company.” I figured I had nothing to lose. I was already on the hit list. May as well have the Last Supper.

“Oh, I thought you already had all the answers.”

“Forgive me if I came off a little obnoxious. It’s a nasty habit I’ve been trying to break. Quick lunch, Mr. Edwards?” I gave him my shy humble pie face, the one that any pro could see through.

“Actually I am free for lunch. It’ll have to be early though. Eleven-thirty all right? I should wrap things up by then.” He peeled back his sleeve to let the light bounce off his crystal timepiece.

“That’s perfect for me. I’ll meet you in the lobby.” We stepped off the elevator and went in separate directions.

Sherri gave me a rehearsed “how are you” and went about her business. I gave her a full-scale “good morning” and knocked my knuckles on her station while I hummed and picked up my mail. I was feeling good for a change.

The best defense against self-pity is looking good. Fortunately, I had worn my gray silk and wool blend suit with the big lapels, the skirt tailored to show lots of leg action and a floral chiffon scarf to match. I had put special effort into my wardrobe, makeup, and, yes, even hair. I brushed the fresh sprouts down with a little cream and gloss. It was laid against my head in shimmering perfection. I even caught a few stares from Dominick as I was striding through. He couldn’t be more than twenty-five years old, and I was not trying to raise another boy into a man like I did Clint. I bet he had that Latino stamina though.

I had to catch myself from that fantasy. Lately no one had been safe from my vivid imagination, the kid who delivered the pizza over the weekend, one of the rec-center counselors where I hadn’t been spending enough time lately, and the worst was the young bagging clerk at Weis. I knew he’d busted me staring at his chest in that too-tight T-shirt he was wearing. I thought about calling Clint for a safe romp, but I didn’t know about it being too safe anymore since he’d been seeing Barbie. I really didn’t know where she’d been or who she’d been with.

I pulled out my envelope ripper and started my routine of opening all the mail at once and putting it in a pile then taking everything out of their envelopes, forming a new pile, and then reading everything in the stack. The process was halted when an envelope without an address or stamp caught my eye. On the front it simply read Venus Johnston in bold black letters. I took the small folded notepaper out. The drawing was in dark heavy felt pen. The round stick person with a huge head was probably supposed to be me. The little squiggly lines drawn up in the air coming from the round circle head were assuredly my hair. The word scribbled at the bottom said PICKANINNY. I looked inside the envelope for anything else that might have been put inside.

Suddenly, I felt scared. If it was meant as a joke, it wasn’t funny. I got up and shut my office door and leaned on it for a moment. I tried to think rationally, one by one, who could have sent it. The most reasonable choice was Ray. I couldn’t imagine anyone else feeling strongly enough about me to get this type of response. Clint, possibly. The thin line of love and hate could have been crossed. I stared at it again. I sat down at my desk and flattened it out completely, staring at it, waiting for it to tell me the story of its existence. The lined notepaper was cheap, it had perforated holes on the side, so it came out of someone’s notepad. I smelled it, the pungent odor of the ink was still there. I rested my elbows on the desk and laid my head in my hands. Who hates me this much?

I got up and marched up to Sherri’s desk.

“Who left this here, Sherri?” I held up the plain white envelope with my name on it. “Did you happen to see who left this?”

“No, I didn’t. Was it in your regular mail?”

“Yes, but it’s not mail, there’s no address or stamp on it, so it had to be hand delivered.”

She looked at the envelope again. “I’ve been here since eight-thirty, and no one hand delivered anything this morning. Someone could have put it in your box last night.”

I turned and walked away. I returned to my office and closed the door behind me. I wished it had a lock. I didn’t feel safe.

I took a chance and called John. He picked up on the first ring.

“John, I need to speak with you, now if it’s all right. It’s real important.”

“Sure, come on in.”

I put the picture back in the envelope and walked with it pushed up my sleeve. If I ran into Ray in the hall, I didn’t want him to see it in my hand.

John was sitting at his desk that reminded me of a toddler’s high chair set. His slightly curly dark blond hair was highlighted by the sun shining through the window behind him. It almost looked like a halo over his head. I knew better.

“Someone put this in my mail today. It was personally delivered. There’s no address, only my name. That means it was someone with access to our offices.” I laid it on his desk. He opened it slowly, turning the picture sideways, then back straight, not quite able to make out what it was.

“Pick-a-nin-ny. Is that what that says?” His face turned a crimson red.

“Yes.” I stood at his desk, but couldn’t keep the tough girl façade up and fell into the chair in front of his desk. “I asked Sherri if she saw anything or knew where it came from, but she has no idea. That is a racial slur, John.”

“I know the term, Venus. Unfortunately, there isn’t anything we can do about it without a witness. We just can’t point any fingers.”

“I think I know who did it.”

“Who?”

“Ray. He might still be angry that I rejected his sexual advances.”

John’s face started shading again just after he’d regained his normal pale beige tone.

“What are you saying, Venus? Exactly what happened?” He put up his hand. “Wait, hold that thought. Lenny, could you come in here please?” He released the intercom button and leaned back in his chair with his fingers holding on to the desk edge.

Lenny walked in a few minutes later. “What’s up? I’m kind of in the middle of something next door. Make it fast.”

“Go ahead, Venus.” John sent Lenny a preparatory glance.

“Ray Chambers made a sexual advance toward me about a week and a half ago. I didn’t say anything then, because he apologized and we basically agreed it was a mistake. But now I think he’s taking out some kind of revenge on me.”

John held up the picture. “Exhibit ‘A.’ Venus thinks he drew this and left it in her mailbox.”

“He’s the only person who could have done it,” I interjected, trying not to sound too pathetic, sitting there in my good suit and all, but it was true. Who else could’ve done it?

“Whoa, wait a minute,” Lenny let out an exasperated rebuttal. “There’s about twenty-five people who work in this company, not to mention the possibility of someone in the building. That’s another thousand or so suspects. Let’s not jump the gun.”

“Well, the other thousand or so people didn’t have me hauled up in the parking garage groping me.” His lack of understanding was frustrating.

“Venus, let us talk to Ray and find out what’s going on. Don’t mention this to anyone else. We’ll take it from here.” Lenny slipped the piece of paper in his coat pocket and went back to his meeting.

My head fell forward into my hands. I was good for at least two hours of tears, but suddenly remembered my lunch date with Tyson Edwards. Misery would have to wait. I stood up and brushed my suit out, as if I could remove all the nastiness that surrounded me.

“Will you let me know what happens, John?”

He filled me with assurances and escorted me out of his office.

When I rounded the corner, I could see Ray standing next to Sherri’s area. She was filling his ear and he was giving her the trust-me smile. I slipped into the ladies’ room, hoping he’d pass quickly. I couldn’t be late for my meeting with Tyson Edwards. I noticed myself in the bathroom mirror, pressed up against the salmon-colored door like some secret agent, and decided I needed to get a handle on things. I walked up to the vanity mirror and leaned in close to examine the efforts of this morning. I went in the stall and pulled off a piece of the cover sheet tissue and used it to press away the oil that had built up on my perfectly made-up St. John’s face. In an instant I was fresh, looking as good as I started out before all this trauma took place.

I took a deep breath and marched out of the bathroom, made the hard right around the corner and didn’t care if Ray was still there or not. When I finally had enough nerve to look up, I could see Sherri typing away, alone. I wanted to knock that fake hair bun off the back of her head, and ask her whose side she was on, consorting with the enemy. Instead I darted past her and into my own office, closing the door behind me. I grabbed my purse from under the desk and peeked to see if the coast was clear before heading back out. I walked toward the elevator, passing Sherri.

“Will you be out for the rest of the day?” She spoke audibly, but I pretended not to hear her.

I tightened my jaws in order not to give her the tongue lashing I felt she was due. The elevator opened and I stepped in and moved to the corner, feeling foolish trying to dodge her scrutiny.

There was no trace of Tyson Edwards in the lobby. I looked at my watch and realized I was fifteen minutes early. Waiting in the parking lot would lessen my chances of being seen by anyone from the office. As I rounded the corner, I heard my name being called. I turned around to see Ray walking quickly toward me. I bolted through the steel door that led to the parking garage.

“Venus,” he called out louder from behind, causing me to stop in midstep. Why was I running from him? If anything, I felt like clawing his eyes out. He should’ve been running from me.

“You’re a hard lady to catch up with.”

I turned and met his eyes with contempt. “I didn’t hear you calling me. I’m kind of late for an appointment.”

“Well, let me walk you to your car.”

“That’s all right, what can I do for you?” I stood firm.

“I just wanted to know if everything was working out okay, see how you’re doing with the suggestions Lenny and John made yesterday. I wanted you to know I had nothing to do with that. They came to me out of nowhere and had me run those reports. That’s why I couldn’t get back to you on your messages. I was on a time line.”

He kept his hands shoved deep into his pockets to show he was harmless. “That’s all I wanted to say.”

He was waiting for a sign that I believed his bogus excuse.

“Okay, well, I gotta go.” I looked at my watch and turned toward the direction of my car. I knew he was still standing there. I listened intently, but still heard no footsteps but my own.

“Venus,” he called out. “Come see me when you get back from lunch.”

I raised my hand and gave a parade queen wave.

“Sure thing. I can’t wait,” I mumbled to myself.

My car was stuffy when I got inside. I checked my watch again. Eleven-thirty on the dot. It was already time to go back, but I waited a few more minutes to make sure Ray was completely gone. These new pumps I was wearing had logged some miles today, I thought as I trotted back through the steel door and inside to the lobby.

“There you are.” His words were slow and mellow.

Slightly out of breath, I was unable to speak back to the handsome creature, acknowledging him only with a smile.

Tyson Edwards touched me lightly on the elbow. “I guess you know I didn’t park here this time.” He led me outside where I gratefully inhaled the fresh cool air. He waved his hand and a black Town Car pulled up. He opened the rear door for me and I scooted in to the farthest side. He got in after me and took a seat, bumping knees with me. I left mine there. I didn’t want to be rude.

“The Hyatt, Kevin.”

I looked out the window and mouthed the words “oh no” to myself. I hoped he didn’t think we were going to have that kind of lunch.

He must have read my mind. “They have an exquisite restaurant there.” He spoke, instantaneously alleviating my fear.

“Oh.” I kept looking out the window. The heavy scent of his cologne filled the air. I didn’t dare touch anything, or roll down the window. I took short necessary breaths.

“You like seafood?”

“Uh huh.” That was an intelligent answer.

“This place makes the best seafood.” Within minutes we pulled up to the curb, where a young valet opened his door. This was the same place the AAPA awards dinner was held. I felt somewhat better for having a clue.

He guided me by my elbow. His touch was doing sinful things to my body. I was already in a bad state of needing a fix. Feeling him so close opened up off-limit zones. I couldn’t tell if the cold air had put my little friends at attention, or if it was him. Either way, the fabric of my suit was brushing against my bra sending miniature sparks. The maître d’ showed us to a wine-red velvet booth that seemed to engulf our bodies. It was almost the size of a small private room. I sat first while he took off his jacket, revealing his lilac shirt under the darker plum silk tie and matching suspenders.

He slid in across from me.

“Your menu, sir.”

“That won’t be necessary. We know what we want.”

I gave a polite smile and didn’t argue while he ordered for both of us. I couldn’t help but feel like Cinderella, although this wasn’t a date, merely me trying to make a business contact. I was networking and needed to keep a clear perspective. If I could stop staring into his soap opera star face and do a reality check, I’d be fine.

“So, Miss Venus. What kind of great ideas do you have for me today?”

“Thought you’d never ask.” I scooted in close so he could hear me. “If I may continue from the last time we met.” I laughed shyly. “I know I told you about separating the lines of cosmetics and hair products to be marketed to different groups, but let me break it down for you. If you took the same product and packaged it four different ways, you’d have four times more probability of it being sold.”

“I’m listening,” he said with a smile that sent darts through my body, whipping around and ending in my first chakra.

“It’s that simple.” A warmth moved through me, causing my thighs to squeeze together. Networking, that’s all. “The same product marketed to teens, young adults, eighteen to twenty-five, women twenty-five to thirty-five, and then your over-forty market. Same product with four different looks. Sure I wear my favorite color lipstick that I’ve been using since college. But what’s going to happen when I think this color is outdated for me, too young? I’m not only going to change to a new color, I most likely will switch to a new brand. One that says, this is for you, more mature, more elegant. You see?”

He clasped his hands together over the table, making his wedding ring visible, a thick gold band with three midsize diamonds slanted through the middle.

“It makes sense. I like it a lot. So what are you doing spending your time as a number cruncher with all this creativity running through your veins?”

“I ask myself that daily. I love my job, don’t get me wrong. I just think it’s time for me to move on. I’ve discussed it with them. I wanted to be the account manager on your project, but it wasn’t doable.”

“Oh yeah?” He tilted his head to the other side and squinted through his low thick lashes.

“Yes. I thought I’d be perfect for this account. Believe me when I tell you, St. John’s has a lot of my money.” I rattled off on my fingers all the products I’ve used faithfully. “I swear, I just cut off at least two feet of hair, all by-product of St. John’s.”

He laughed. “You did what? I don’t believe you.”

“I’m serious. Look.” I pulled out my wallet and showed him my DC driver’s license. It was a picture taken three years ago, but it still represented my story.

“Wow.” He spoke under his breath. “Impressive.” He slid the wallet across the table.

“Wow, what?” I asked.

“Just wow.” He was squinting again. “You had it going on. What made you do that?” He pointed to my hair.

“Disenchantment, you could say.” I snapped my wallet closed and put it in my purse.

“So you took it out on your hair, huh? That is something I will never understand about women. Even being in this business, I can’t figure out why women’s global world outlook is attached to their hair.” He raised his arms to the shape of the world. “If something happens in a woman’s life, the first thing she does is change her hair. A new job, a divorce, any little tragedy, and the hair gets it.” He started laughing in a low chuckle.

I laughed with him but I was still reeling from his first response. I had it going on.

“It’s your hair or your life.” I played along. “Come out with your hands up.” I subsided the laughter long enough to think of a sensible answer. “Honestly, I think it has a lot to do with how we grow up. Little girls get it on a regular basis, you know, every day they’ve got to do something with their hair, ponytails, barrettes, you name it. We’re fussed over by our mothers for the special events. Taken to the beauty shop before we can walk good. And it just goes on and on. Every stage of our life is defined by how we look.”

“Boys, too. Little boys have to sit in the barber chair, get a little something something taken off the sides, special occasions, Easter Sunday. Women aren’t the only ones that went through that. Come on. This is something untouchable. It’s bigger than the both of us.” He cracked himself up.

I accepted the second glass of wine he poured. “Seriously though, I think black women have it the worst. We hate our hair, starting from the day our mothers sigh in exasperation in our little baby ears, “what am I going to do with all this nappy hair,” then come the braids, the pressing comb, the relaxers. After every experiment is exhausted, we’re still left hating our hair. We sit up and watch those “bouncin’ and behavin’” commercials with the little blonds shaking their heads, and we wish that it was us, but it’ll never be. Then there’s companies like yours that do the same, except with black models who’ve spent hours being made over, truly over, and it becomes our goal to live up to those standards.”

“Oh, so now you’re trying to blame the companies that make the product. I think you’d fit into that category, Miss Johnston.”

“Guilty as the rest of the world. I don’t deny that the advertisers are partly responsible, but we’re just trying to give the companies, like yours, what they need to sell their products. And what sells is what’s popular and beautiful. I didn’t make the social rules, I just live by them.”

“Till now?” He pointed slightly to my hair.

“Yes. I’ve rejected the system and I’m darn proud of it.”

“Are you really? Do you really feel better? Does it make you feel prettier, smarter, even sexier?”

I had to think for a minute. I didn’t have a good reply. In all honesty, I was fighting daily to feel good about myself, but I didn’t know if it had anything to do with my hair, the weather, the stars aligned with Mars and Saturn, losing Clint. I just didn’t know.

“That’s a loaded question, Mr. Edwards. Let’s just say I’m proud. I did something I wanted to do without thoughts of repercussion. That alone is a rush, to take charge of your life and to stop doing what’s acceptable and pleasing to everyone else. I admit I don’t enjoy being dismissed and ignored by the opposite sex now that my hair is gone. Just like your remark, ‘I had it going on,’ as if now I don’t exist or I’m invisible.” I spoke with total disdain. “No, there’s nothing fun about hearing something like that. It doesn’t make me feel desirable or sexy knowing that you see me with such shallowness. But I’m learning. Every day I receive a lesson that teaches me that I can’t let what others think define me.”

After I stopped talking, I identified the culprit, the empty wineglass, sitting in front of me. When my eyes crept up to meet his to form my apology, it surprised me that his expression was neither shocked nor appalled. In fact, he looked completely impressed.

“You’re right, I’m sorry for insulting you.” He said sincerely, sliding his hand out to shake mine, “Tyson Edwards. Nice meeting someone truly as beautiful as yourself.”

When he attempted to refill my glass, I slid my hand over the top. We ate and talked more.

I couldn’t help but think how lucky his wife was. I’d seen her in pictures in the Essence magazine. In the shadow of his flawlessness, she was an average-looking woman. She had soft round features, very likable. Still, nothing compared with her better half. He asked me what my background was, where I went to school, and all that name-dropping stuff I never was any good at. I explained my beginnings, from a small suburb in Southern California, with a mother who stayed home all her life and a father who worked in his same social worker position for thirty years until he retired. Tyson, like me, would never know that kind of stability in one career. We both agreed that was an extinct ideology.

He spent the rest of the lunch talking about himself and his upbringing in Virginia. He painted the perfect Cliff and Claire Huxtable scenario, but I could see he was dealing with some deeper memories that probably weren’t so perfect. He spent a lot of time staring down at his plate when he spoke of his doctor father and schoolteacher mother. I matched him story for story in the area of life’s lessons, going to school where I was told by teachers not to try too hard, that they understood if we didn’t do so well, meaning me and the other five percent of minorities that made up the school population. That only served as fuel to make me try even harder. My sweet reward was the “A” they had to mark across my page. I ended up attending the University of Southern California with a full academic scholarship.

He talked of being the all-city pro in his high school for basketball, only to be cut from the team after the first year in college. We agreed the real world was a lot different from the one our parents painted for us. Too many dreams, and not enough resources to make them come true.

Although he admitted to having everything a man could want with his position and status in the business arena, he’d always have to prove himself. It was known he had only attained his success by association. If he hadn’t married the heir of St. John’s, where would he be? It was most evident in the way he flashed, made sure you saw the gold, the Benz, and now chauffeur-driven Lincoln Town Car waiting out front. He wore his insecurity literally on his sleeve, back, and wrist.

The afternoon ended much too soon. He told me he would see what he could do about influencing John and Lenny without stepping on any toes. I knew he would. His car dropped me at work, and he reiterated his goal to see me on the St. John’s account. I gave him a thumbs-up and watched his shiny car drive off. Why did all the good ones have to be married already? I inhaled deeply and began mentally preparing myself for the tension in the office. It was only two. I still had a full day ahead before I was through.