Postcards From Last Summer (31 page)

“I
can't wait to meet her.” Tara pressed her shoulder up to hold her cell to her ear while she caught a stack of bills from the ATM. “A baby girl!”

“Maisy Chayse Love,” Darcy said, sounding a little tired. “Chayse after my grandmother, the one who used to take me for tea at the Plaza. Everyone thinks she's very sweet.”

“What's she doing right now?” Tara asked as she tucked her wallet away and headed toward the subway.

“Sleeping. She tends to sleep all day and wants to party all night.”

“Just like her mother,” Tara teased.

“Not anymore. Honestly, when three in the morning rolls around and she stares at me and gives a little howl, I'm in no mood to party.” Darcy paused, yawning. “But I wanted to make sure you're coming tomorrow.”

“I'm on my way to meet Sharkey right now and we're headed out that way. Going to some church social tonight near Freeport, but we'll be there tomorrow. If you're up for it.”

“Looking forward to it,” Darcy said. “I'm glad Elle arranged for everyone to get together. I'd never be able to do it now; I can barely hold a thought for ten seconds. What was I saying?”

“I'll be there, and I'll take that sweet baby out of your hands while you go and take a nap or something.”

“Like that's going to happen.”

“I'm here to see John Sharkey,” Tara told the heavyset older woman who worked as the receptionist for the Harlem firm.

The woman, Zelda, Tara recalled from previous visits, eyed her suspiciously as if she'd never laid eyes on her before. “And you are . . . ?”

“Tara Washington.”

Zelda announced her over the intercom and told Tara to have a seat.

As Tara waited, people passed through the lobby—messengers and attorneys, some familiar faces for Tara. She decided to use the restroom and flipped her jacket onto the banquette but took her purse.

Inside the lavatory stall, she heard two other women come in, complaining about the heat and the fact that they'd used up all their summer vacation days. Then one of the women said, “What's with the white girl sitting in the lobby?”

Tara's hand froze on the stall door.

“Sharkey's girl.”

“That brother got him some white ass?”

“That's what I'm saying.”

“He ought to think about practicing what he's preaching.”

Tara felt cold inside. She knew they were talking about her; she'd been the only woman waiting in the lobby.

And the gossip was all so wrong. She wasn't white, and what would be wrong with John Sharkey dating a woman of another race? Wasn't he a proponent of equal rights for all people—not just African Americans?

That conversation haunted Tara all the way out to Freeport, where Sharkey pulled onto the lawn of a Baptist church, parking amid ranks of cars.

“What's this picnic about?” Tara asked as she negotiated the lumpy grass in her heels. “Since when did you find religion?”

“I was invited by a friend,” Sharkey said, smoothing the lapels of his tan suit coat. Tara followed him around to the side of the church, where she spied a banner that read:
COALITION FOR THE
ADVANCEMENT OF AFRICAN
AMERICANS.

“Sharkey . . . no! You've dragged me to one of your political arenas?”

“Just a little barbecue among friends,” Sharkey said, waving at someone over by the dessert table. “I just happen to be the guest speaker.”

And she'd thought her day couldn't get worse.

She suffered through the speeches and testimonials, the brothers patting each other on the back, and the call to drive racism and Satan to the dark corners of the earth. Finally, Sharkey was introduced, and she had to admit, he was a dynamic motivational speaker. But all the time he spoke, she found herself thinking of the sheen on his dark brown skin, the fine lines of his face and short-cropped 'fro. He was a classically handsome man, but what did people think when they saw him with Tara? Did everyone believe he was dating a white woman?

She wanted to believe that it didn't matter; who cares what people think! But in her heart, she cared. She wanted to fit in somewhere. She wanted to be just a little bit normal.

After the fanfare, their hosts insisted that they partake in the savory barbecued meats. Tara took a few of the smallest ribs she could find, and Sharkey grabbed a barbecued turkey drumstick. After a few guests socialized, she and Sharkey found a spot at the end of the picnic table and settled in to eat, Tara feeling positively wrung out by the events of the day.

She wiped barbecue sauce from her fingers, checking the crowd. “How soon can we leave?” she asked quietly. “I'd like to get to Elle's by midnight.”

Sharkey tore a hunk of meat from the turkey leg. “Let's not be rude. I know you didn't want to come here, but it's the sort of thing you need to do if you're going to be with me.”

Tara felt stung. Not only had he dragged her here unknowingly, he was now punishing her for not liking it? “I didn't know that being your social secretary was a requirement for dating you. But then I also didn't know I was scandalizing you at the firm.” When he gave her a curious look, she went on. “I overheard the receptionist talking with someone. They think you're dating a white girl. And they think it's wrong.”

“What do they know?”

“Apparently, they know a few facts, and they've got some very strong opinions for you.” She couldn't believe he could just slough it off. “Aren't you going to defend me? Don't you think it's wrong of them to gossip—to judge me that way?”

He kept his eyes lowered, picking at the huge turkey leg. “Really, I don't know what you expect when you dress white and surround yourself with those lily-white friends of yours.”

Tara couldn't have been more blindsided if he'd hoisted his turkey leg and whacked her in the head with it. “They're my friends, and what the hell does that mean—dress white? Would you prefer that I put cornrows in my hair and squeeze into something two sizes too small to show off my big black ass?”

He gave her a stern look. “Would you pipe down?”

She lowered her voice but refused to be silenced. “Or maybe I should just strap on an apron and stay at home in the kitchen, where I can refine my recipe for fried chicken, black-eyed peas, and collard greens.”

Sharkey laughed. “You caught me on that one, and I am duly chastised. Your friends are very nice people, but I think there's a subliminal pull going on here. Your friends are pulling you away from the issues of people of color. You can make all the excuses you want, but I see you avoiding the Black Caucus, staying away from the community meetings in Harlem, steering clear of events like this. You're not on board, Tara. Now when are you going to stop hiding among your white friends and take a stand for your people?”

“My people?” Tara clenched her fists in frustration. “First off, I think you're hammering a little too hard with your message. I don't think equality is something you can pound into people; social change comes in small growth spurts. It's a long-term process, a growing awareness.”

“So you think we should slow down the message?”

“No, but I don't think you should badger people and guilt them into concessions. And I don't think you should label me as the enemy because I'm not on board with all your choices. You know, when my ancestors were singing ‘Follow the Drinking Gourd' and looking to the sky to chart their escape from the South by finding the North Star, they couldn't have anticipated the complexity of issues that would evolve from their freedom. I have to admit, I envy them their concrete struggle for freedom.”

“Now, don't diminish our cause. The current struggle is concrete, too.”

“But you act as if every issue is clear, as if it's all black and white. Don't you see the gray areas?” Tara asked. “The way some individuals use race as an excuse to cash in on lawsuits? The irresponsibility of so many black fathers who fail to be there for their children, let alone support and teach them?”

Sharkey's nostrils flared. “Easy for you to criticize, from your cushy home.”

“How about the way I am treated by blacks and whites because the color of my skin makes them unable to determine my race?”

“Back to that.” He nodded knowingly. “Your own personal race card. Maybe that's why you don't truly understand the plight of African Americans in this country. When you look white, people are going to treat you better.”

“That's not fair,” Tara said defensively, but though she protested she knew that no apology could undo the damage. Sharkey, a man who pledged his life to fight for fairness, was being totally unfair toward her.

She stood up from the table, folding her napkin neatly. “Whatever my skin color, I'm still a person.” She leaned close, lowering her voice. “And though I used to be your girlfriend, that doesn't give you the right to treat me as anything less.”

And with that, she straightened her back, held her head high, and walked away from John Sharkey.

“A
nd baby makes six,” Mary Grace McCorkle said as she snapped yet another shot of the friends posing in the rose arbor.

“Let's take a few.” Darcy held her pose on the wicker chair beside Lindsay, who held the bundled baby Maisy as if she were juggling a precious vat of liquid gold. Tara stood behind them, her hands reassuring on Darcy's shoulders as Elle and Milo clowned around on either side, displaying a progression of goofy faces.

“Such a lovely group,” Lindsay's mom proclaimed, checking Darcy's camera. “You've only got a few shots left.”

“We'll use the whole roll,” Darcy told her, feeling as if they'd better get it all down in a snapshot before the earth spun round again and sent them all careening in different directions. She'd had that odd awareness since Maisy's birth, the sense that everything could change in a single moment, and it made her anxious about the future . . . her future.

Since the birth Darcy felt like a ghost of herself, as if her body was going through the motions of life but her soul was floating off in some distant place, waiting to find some meaning in all of it.

The maternal feelings never did kick in at the hospital, and Darcy had struggled on trips to the nursery with other new moms who could find their infants immediately and swore that the bald, skinny baby bawling in its blankets was the best thing ever created. But Darcy's eye didn't go to her daughter automatically, and when she did find her among the row of infants she was horrified that the little girl to her right was so much prettier and the infant on her left always slept so soundly. And what were those red splotches across her face? Pink bumps with white pus? Infant acne, the nurse said. Definitely unattractive.

Although her friends made a fuss over Maisy's perfection, Darcy just didn't see it. The baby made her tired. The baby wanted to nurse all the time, or so it seemed, and when Darcy tried to soothe her to sleep at night Maisy fixed those luminescent dark blue eyes on Darcy and howled furiously, as if she recognized Darcy's total incompetence as a mother, as a person, and could only proclaim it in a catlike shriek.

You've called my bluff,
Darcy wanted to tell the baby, and she had to wonder what was wrong with her, what critical element was missing from her composition, preventing her from loving this little howler she'd created.

“Ma, you need to get into a few shots,” Lindsay called out, and Mary Grace handed Milo the camera and gently snatched the baby from Lindsay, cooing to her softly as he snapped a photo. Mrs. Mick was a godsend—a living pacifier.

“And that's the end of the roll,” Milo announced.

“Good, because I'm starving.” Elle directed the group toward the patio. “Go on and open the wine. I'll put the fish on the grill and Milo's going to toss a salad.”

As they headed out of the rose arbor, Tara slipped an arm around Darcy's waist. “How's it going, Mommy?”

“I don't know what the hell I'm doing,” Darcy admitted. “I think Maisy hates me, and I can't say that I blame her.”

“Getting any sleep?” Tara asked.

“Here and there. Elle's a big help when she's here, and Mrs. Mick is, like, the dream nanny. I'm not complaining. I've got more support than most new mothers, but somehow I just have this horrible feeling that everything I do is wrong.”

“I've had a similar week,” Tara told her. “Sharkey and I broke it off.”

“What?” Darcy was surprised. “I was wondering why he wasn't here.”

“He dropped me at my parents' last night,” Tara said, “and I don't expect to ever see him again. Which might not be a bad thing.”

Darcy and Tara took chairs close to each other, and while Lindsay and her mother cajoled the baby, who was starting to fuss, Tara shared the details of her issues with Sharkey. As she listened, Darcy found it hard to imagine functioning in the dating world again, setting limits, dealing with unfulfilled expectations. But through it all, she felt for Tara, who had been treated unfairly.

“I'm glad you broke up with him,” Darcy said when Tara had finished her story. “You're way too good for him.”

“And now that it's over,” Lindsay added, “I gotta say, he always made me a little uncomfortable, waving those apple martinis around and asking so many questions. I felt like he was going to sue me for some injustice I didn't know I'd committed.”

“Sharkey can be intimidating,” Tara agreed. “He doesn't realize that I won't let you guys get away with anything.”

“You are our voice of reason,” Lindsay agreed. “But the way he treated you . . .” She reached into the blanket and raised one of Maisy's tiny fists. “It's just wrong!” she said in a baby voice, shaking the fist.

“Who can understand the mind of a man . . .” Darcy leaned back in the chair, searching the voluminous blue sky for answers. A line of lacy pink clouds skirted the western horizon over a golden sunset, and east, over the ocean, the blue deepened into gradations of mysterious darkness. Yin and yang.

“Do you miss Kevin?” Tara asked.

It was the first time one of her friends had mentioned that Kevin hadn't been around since Maisy was born. He'd slipped into the hospital briefly, dropping off flowers and taking a peek in the nursery, but he didn't seem capable of embracing fatherhood if he couldn't be a full-time father, and Darcy understood. He'd met a girl on Staten Island, he was planting the seeds of a new life that didn't involve Darcy or a newborn baby a hundred miles away. She didn't begrudge him his freedom; the decision to have the baby had been hers alone.

Darcy pulled her blond hair back and twisted it in a knot. “I was just thinking about how some men and women are like oil and water, that they just can't ever mix well. We can coexist together, but that's the best we can hope for. So I guess the answer is that I'll probably miss certain things about Kevin, but right now I don't have the patience to give him attention.”

“What a shame, the baby not having a father,” Mary Grace said thoughtfully.

“But she has plenty of love,” Darcy said firmly, surprised by the conviction in her voice. “Look at all of you, so many aunties and her uncle Milo. It will be enough.”
It has to be.

As if to argue against the motion, Maisy let out a howl.

“I think it's feeding time.” Darcy propped up the back of her chair and reached for the baby as Lindsay brought her over. Darcy adeptly lifted half of her loose batik print shirt and nestled the baby onto one breast. Maisy could be very vocal, but when it was time to eat she got right down to business.

“I'm going to see if Elle and Milo need any help getting things on the table,” Tara said, and Mrs. Mick followed her inside.

“I still can't believe I missed the delivery.” Lindsay flopped a lounge chair flat and stretched out beside Darcy, staring at the sky. “I figured I'd be safe, holed up here. But no, you had to go into labor in the city.”

Darcy smiled. “Believe me, I'd much rather have taken the short ride to Southampton Hospital. I don't think anyone believed how fast it happened, but the doctor thinks I was probably having back labor long before I knew what was going on.”

“Christ, how many types of labor are there?” Lindsay shook her head. “A million ways to torture a woman.”

“So how's the book going?” Darcy asked, yearning for conversation that didn't involve baby stuff.

“I'm just polishing right now. Three chapters and an outline for a romance.”

“Really?” Darcy said. “Did I miss a beat? I thought those sickening sweet, pat characters were ruining your days?”

“Jorge thinks it's a good way to start, so I'm knuckling down and giving it a shot. I'm planning to bring it in this week.” Lindsay pressed her hands over her eyes and sucked in a deep breath. “If it sucks, at least I'll know I was rejected by the best of them.”

“He'll love it,” Darcy said encouragingly, “I know he will.”

“We'll see. At least with this done, I'll be able to meet Zack at the gym over lunch again. I haven't seen him all week.”

“Not even at night? Why don't you plan a dinner?”

“I've been writing at night. Besides, every time we go out to eat Zack obsesses over the carbs in the rolls or potatoes, or the amount of fat in the salad dressing or meat. Not the best dinner conversation.”

Darcy laughed, trying not to jostle the baby. “I am so glad I won't have to deal with boy problems for a while.”

“What do you mean? It's not like you've entered a convent or anything. In a few months, Maisy's going to be taking bottles and rice cereal. She'll be walking in a year, and you'll be back on the Hamptons party circuit, falling in love with someone new.”

“It won't be the same.” Darcy shook her head as a tiny vision of the future opened up for her—her future with Maisy. “And you know what? That's not a bad thing.”

Looking down at Maisy, her body so tiny Darcy could support her with one arm, Darcy found it hard to imagine that she'd outgrow this onesie in a few months, that the small pink booties Mrs. Mick had knitted for her would become too small for her chubby little feet.

And yet . . . she knew it would happen. Just as the seasons would change, Maisy would grow and insinuate herself more and more into Darcy's world, until Darcy would find it hard to remember life without her.

You're a part of my life now, little one,
Darcy thought as Maisy gave a little kick. Caressing the pink bootie, Darcy finally got it, full force.

She was a mother. Maisy depended on her. A brand-new, miniature girl was in her hands now, and she couldn't fuck up Maisy's world the way she'd screwed up so many things in her life.

It was an ominous responsibility, and yet it was the most hopeful twist of fate Darcy had ever experienced.

As Maisy finished sucking, Darcy supported her head and patted her back.

“I love you,” Darcy said softly, rubbing her soft little back.

Maisy let out a million-dollar burp, and Darcy smiled. It was all good.