His words were rational and, at the time, soothing but had little to do with day-to-day experience — like sitting in a car under the stunned gaze of little white children who couldn’t be more fascinated if they were at a museum of dinosaurs. Nevertheless, she flat out refused to be derailed from her mission simply because she was outside the comfort zone of paved streets, tight lawns surrounded by racially diverse people who might not help but would not harm her. Determined to discover what she was made of — cotton or steel — there could be no retreat, no turning back.
Half an hour passed; the children were gone and a nickel-plated sun at the top of the sky warmed the car’s interior. Taking a deep breath, Bride walked to the yellow door and knocked. When the female arsonist appeared she said, “Hello. Excuse me. I’m looking for Booker Starbern. This is the address I have for him.”
“That figures,” said the woman. “I get a lot of his mail — magazines, catalogs, stuff he writes himself.”
“Is he here?” Bride was dazzled by the woman’s earrings, golden discs the size of clamshells.
“Uh-uh.” The woman shook her head while boring into Bride’s eyes. “He’s nearby, though.”
“He is? Well how far is nearby?” Relieved that Q. Olive was not a young rival, Bride sighed and asked directions.
“You can walk it, but come on in. Booker ain’t going nowhere. He’s laid up — broke his arm. Come on in. You look like something a raccoon found and refused to eat.”
Bride swallowed. For the past three years she’d only been told how exotic, how gorgeous she was — everywhere, from almost everybody — stunning, dreamy, hot, wow! Now this old woman with woolly red hair and judging eyes had deleted an entire vocabulary of compliments in one stroke. Once again she was the ugly, too-black little girl in her mother’s house.
Queen curled her finger. “Get in here, girl. You need feeding.”
“Look, Miss Olive—”
“Just Queen, honey. And it’s Ol-li-vay. Step on in here. I don’t get much company and I know hungry when I see it.”
Well, that’s true, thought Bride. Her anxiety during the long trip had masked her stomach-yelling hunger. She obeyed Queen and was pleasantly surprised at the room’s orderliness, comfort and charm. She had wondered for a second if she was being seduced into a witch’s den. Obviously Queen sewed, knitted, crocheted and made lace. Curtains, slipcovers, cushions, embroidered napkins were elegantly handmade. A quilt on the headboard of an empty bed, whose springs were apparently cooling outside, was pieced in soft colors and, like everything else, cleverly mismatched. Small antiques such as picture frames and side tables were oddly placed. One whole wall was covered with photographs of children. A pot simmered on the two-burner stove. Queen, unaccustomed to being rebuffed, placed two porcelain bowls on linen mats along with matching napkins and silver soup spoons with filigreed handles.
Bride sat down at a narrow table on a chair with a decorative seat cushion and watched Queen ladle thick soup into their bowls. Pieces of chicken floated among peas, potatoes, corn kernels, tomato, celery, green peppers, spinach and a scattering of pasta shells. Bride couldn’t identify the strong seasonings — curry? Cardamom? Garlic? Cayenne? Black pepper and red? But the result was manna. Queen added a basket of warm flat bread, joined her guest and blessed the food. Neither spoke for long minutes of eating. Finally, Bride looked up from her bowl, wiped her lips, sighed and asked her hostess, “Why were you burning your bedsprings? I saw you back there.”
“Bedbugs,” answered Queen. “Every year I burn them out before the eggs get started.”
“Oh. I never heard of that.” Then, feeling more comfortable with the woman, asked, “What kind of stuff did Booker send you? You said he sent some writings.”
“Uh-huh. He did. Every now and then.”
“What were they about?”
“Beats me. I’ll show you some, if you like. Say, why you looking for Booker? He owe you money? You sure can’t be his woman. You sound like you don’t know him too good.”
“I don’t, but I thought I did.” She didn’t say so, but it suddenly occurred to her that good sex was not knowledge. It was barely information.
Bride touched the napkin to her lips again. “We were living together, then he dumped me. Just like that.” Bride snapped her fingers. “He left me without a word.”
Queen chuckled. “Oh he’s a leaver, all right. Left his own family. All except me.”
“He did? Why?” Bride didn’t like being classified with Booker’s family, but the news surprised her.
“His older brother was murdered when they was kids and he didn’t approve of his folks’ response.”
“Awww,” Bride murmured. “That’s sad.” She made the acceptable sound of sympathy but was shocked to learn she knew nothing about it.
“More than sad. Almost ruined the family.”
“What did they do that made him leave?”
“They moved on. Started to live life like it was life. He wanted them to establish a memorial, a foundation or something in his brother’s name. They weren’t interested. At all. I have to take some responsibility for the breakup. I told him to keep his brother close, mourn him as long as he needed to. I didn’t count on what he took away from what I said. Anyhow, Adam’s death became his own life. I think it’s his only life.” Queen glanced at Bride’s empty bowl. “More?”
“No thanks, but it was delicious. I don’t remember eating anything that good.”
Queen smiled. “It’s my United Nations recipe from the food of all my husbands’ hometowns. Seven, from Delhi to Dakar, from Texas to Australia, and a few in between.” She was laughing, her shoulders rocking. “So many men and all of them the same where it counts.”
“Where does it count?”
“Ownership.”
All those husbands and still all alone, thought Bride. “Don’t you have any kids?” Obviously she did; their photographs were everywhere.
“Lots. Two live with their fathers and their new wives; two in the military — one a marine, one in the air force; another one, my last, a daughter, is in medical school. She’s my dream child. The next to last is filthy rich somewhere in New York City. Most of them send me money so they don’t have to come see me. But I see them.” She waved to the photographs gazing out from exquisite frames. “And I know how and what they think. Booker always stayed in touch with me, though. Here, I’ll show you how and what he thinks.” Queen moved to a cabinet where sewing materials were neatly hanging or stacked. From its floor she lifted an old-fashioned breadbox. After sorting through its contents, she removed a thin sheaf of papers clipped together and handed it to her guest.
What lovely handwriting, thought Bride, suddenly realizing that she’d never seen anything Booker wrote — not even his name. There were seven sheets. One for each month they were together — plus one more. She read the first page slowly, her forefinger tracing the lines, for there was little or no punctuation.
Hey girl what’s inside your curly head besides dark rooms with dark men dancing too close to comfort the mouth hungry for more of what it is sure is there somewhere out there just waiting for a tongue and some breath to stroke teeth that bite the night and swallow whole the world denied you so get rid of those smokey dreams and lie on the beach in my arms while i cover you with white sands from shores you have never seen lapped by waters so crystal and blue they make you shed tears of bliss and let you know that you do belong finally to the planet you were born on and can now join the out-there world in the deep peace of a cello.