Wings of Glass (8 page)

FATIMAH AND I
had an uneventful morning. After finishing our first two houses in record time, we ate our packed lunches in the car, then made our way through the ritzy historic section of town to the last house on our itinerary. I stood behind Fatimah on the covered front porch of a large, baby-blue Victorian.

She grabbed the brass knocker and slammed it down several times. Shooting the empty driveway a dirty look, she knocked again.

I studied the ornate posts that joined the railing to the shingled roof. A large stained-glass panel hung by thin chains in the front window. The design appeared to be some sort of coat of arms—a multicolored shield surrounded by an urn on each side overflowing with ivy. Sunlight glimmered off the red of the shield, bringing to mind rubies.

Fatimah tapped her foot. “She is better answer this time.”
She sat on the top stair and checked her watch again. “I give her five minute only.”

I sat beside her, looking out at the picket fence lined with rows of yellow roses and taking in their sweet smell carried by a warm breeze. “Fati, can I ask you a question?”

She turned toward me.

“How did Callie Mae get into the cleaning business? Was that how her husband made his money?”

She occupied herself by checking the levels of cleaning fluid in the caddy. She picked up a can of Ajax, shook it, and slipped it back in. “He was attorney and left her wealth enough to live on. She do not need the money.”

I waited for her to elaborate. Instead, she picked up the Windex bottle and turned the nozzle, then set it back in the caddy.

“So,” I said, leaning my elbows on my knees, “why does she do it?”

“I come to this country with no education. With some English and no money. She sponsor me through her church and try to get me job, but no one would give to me. So she make this one. Callie is a very good woman with kind heart.”

“So, we’re kind of charity cases,” I said, knowing what Trent would think about that.

She shrugged. “We make money for work. She make money. She is happy. Is good arrangement for everyone.”

“That’s really nice of her.” I picked a pebble off the step and rolled it between my fingers.

“Yes, is nice,” Fatimah said. “What is not nice is this woman. If she do not come, I spit on her house.”

Just then a long red convertible pulled into the driveway. A pretty forty-something brunette rolled down her window. Fatimah crossed her arms and glared at her.

“Oh, ladies, I’m so sorry. I forgot.” She stepped out of the car, pulled several department store bags from the backseat and slammed the door. “I’ve got company coming in a few. We’re going to have to reschedule.”

Fatimah stomped so hard the wood planks beneath my feet shook. “I tell you last time you must provide twenty-four-hour notice.”

The woman transferred two of the bags she carried to her other hand, evening out the load. “Try to remember you work for me, not the other way around. You tell Callie Mae I’ll discuss this with her privately.”

Fatimah’s eyes narrowed. “I tell her you cancel again without proper notice.”

The woman’s expression turned to stone as she walked toward us. “Maybe over in the jungle it’s acceptable for the help to talk to their bosses that way, but here in America, we have a thing called etiquette.” Her disdainful gaze moved slowly down the front of me. “If you speak English, maybe you could explain it to her.”

I couldn’t believe she actually said that. My face grew hotter than a frying pan.

Fatimah marched down the stairs, meeting her in the center of the closely clipped lawn. My stomach dropped,
thinking there was going to be a smackdown. Stopping abruptly a few feet from the woman, Fatimah stomped her foot again. “You are a rude woman. I will not come back to your house again.”

The woman threw her nose higher into the air. “That’s right, you won’t.” She stepped around Fatimah, then stopped and turned around. “Here’s some friendly advice for you. If you want to make it in this country, you need to know your place.”

Before my mind could catch up with my mouth, I pointed a shaky finger at her. “And here’s some friendly advice for
you
. The Union won the war.”

She sneered at me. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means slavery was abolished in this country.”

She opened her mouth to say something, but I cut her off.

“If I were you, lady, I’d shut it,” I said.

Her face turned paler than the whitewalls of her tires. Fatimah chomped her teeth at the woman for good measure, then grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the car.

“What was that about?” I asked as I buckled my seat belt. My anger melted, and all I could think about was the possibility I might have just cost myself the job. A job I needed in so many ways and for so many reasons.

She turned over the ignition. “This is the three time she does this.”

I stole a glance at the woman as she set her bags on the porch, freeing her hands to unlock the front door. “You’re kidding.”

“True.” She slid the gearshift into drive. “This is a woman who, all her life, never been tells no or given the whip.” She hit the brakes and glared back at the house. “I give her the whip if I ever see her again!”

Fatimah’s temper reminded me of Trent’s right then, and it made me want to flee. When she turned to me, my stomach knotted as my fingers reached for the door handle. A peculiar look came over her as she studied me. “I not really give her the whip, Peeny. Do not be worried. I just say words. I do not do more than yell. Promise. I never do.”

I hadn’t realized I was holding my breath until I exhaled.

When we started down the road, she reached over and patted my arm. Her fingertips were rough as sandpaper. I made a mental note then to buy myself some latex gloves so my hands wouldn’t end up the same way. “Do not ever be afraid of me, Peeny. I am good woman. I have my temper, true, but it does not have me.”

We drove to the food bank, where Callie Mae stood out front sweeping debris from the walkway. As we pulled along the curb, she gave the car a double take. When Fatimah leaned toward me, I rolled down my window so they could speak.

Callie Mae dropped her broom on the grass and headed toward the car. “Let me guess.”

“She do it again!” Fatimah yelled so loudly it made my ears hurt.

Callie Mae leaned into the window. “Well, that’s that. Three strikes, she’s out. Please tell me you didn’t spit on her
house.” Her breath smelled like she’d just chewed a piece of spearmint gum, and her skin glistened with perspiration.

Fatimah hung her head in shame. “No, I do not. But I should!”

Callie Mae’s expression remained neutral. I figured now was the best chance I’d get to admit what I’d said before she found out from the woman. With my eyes focused on my wringing hands, I forced out the words before I could lose my nerve. “She said something about Fatimah and the jungle. . . . I’m so sorry, Callie, but I lost my temper and told her to shut up.” I closed my eyes and waited for the guillotine to drop.

Surely not even Callie Mae was so understanding as to allow her customers to be treated that way.

After a few seconds of silence, I snuck a glance at her.

Her expression remained unreadable. “Listen, ladies, I appreciate you not yanking out her hair, which is what I might have been tempted to do.”

When I think of grace, Manny, I always remember Callie Mae’s response that day.

You’d have thought Fatimah would have been satisfied with not getting fired or fussed at, but the look on her face was indignation rather than relief. “You will make her pay. I and Peeny should not have to miss money because she makes rude behavior.”

Callie Mae scratched her eyebrow. “I agree. But I hate to tell you, Fati, I can’t make her pay. We can only refuse to work for her.”

Fatimah grabbed the steering wheel and stared straight ahead through the windshield at the tree-lined road.

Callie Mae glanced down at her watch, then at Fatimah. “You know, it’s only one. No sense in y’all going home so early.”

Fatimah looked at her askance, the beginnings of a smile forming. “We bowl?”

“We bowl,” Callie Mae said, turning her gaze to me. “Penny, you like bowling?”

The only thing going through my mind right then was that if Trent found out I’d been bowling instead of working, I’d never hear the end of it. I unlatched my purse and peeked in to make sure my car keys were still there. “I should probably go home.”

Callie Mae leaned her elbows on my open window. “Why? You’re scheduled for another three hours, anyway.”

I felt myself flush as I stammered, “Trent’s vision still isn’t good and . . .”

She stared at me for an uncomfortably long time. “He’ll be fine, just like he is when you’re working. Besides, a wife who lets herself unwind now and again makes for a better wife. You’d be doing it as much for him as you. You’re wound up tighter than Ginny Elizabeth’s girdle.”

“Who?” I asked, confused.

Callie Mae gave her own cheek an admonishing slap. “Never mind.”

“She cannot bowl,” Fatimah blurted. “Look. She is too skinny to hold up a ball. It will tip her.”

I scrunched my mouth at her. “I do so know how to bowl, and I’m not that skinny.” I was no pro, but I could hold my own.

“You come,” Fatimah stated. “You come or we will know you are too gentle for games.”

Even though I saw through her ploy, I still took the bait. “I’m going to kick your butt so bad, you won’t be able to sit down for a year.”

Fatimah narrowed her eyes at me, then gave Callie Mae a questioning look.

With a grin, Callie Mae said, “That means she’s in.”

JUST IN CASE
Fatimah wanted to stay longer than I could, I drove my own car to Lucky Lanes. Callie Mae said she had to take care of one last thing at the food bank and then she’d meet us.

I scanned the front of a long brick building with two giant bowling pins stuck to the side of it. My gaze paused on a public phone beside a newspaper vending machine. For the umpteenth time, I wondered if I should call Trent to tell him where I was, but decided against it. As long as I made it home the same time as always, it shouldn’t matter. Even with the decision made, I couldn’t shake the sick feeling in the pit of my stomach that had nothing to do with pregnancy.

Sliding the key out of the ignition, I watched for Fatimah.

As her Buick rattled into the sparsely occupied lot, I stepped out of my car and waited for her to park. When the brightness of the sun suddenly faded, I glanced upward, surprised to see that a blanket of clouds had blown in, when just moments ago
there had been none. It never ceases to amaze me, Manny, that life, just like the weather, can change on a dime. Mama used to say, hope for sunshine, but pack an umbrella.

Fatimah pulled alongside me, waving as if we hadn’t seen each other in days.

“Nice of you to show up,” I said as she shut her door.

“Why is that nice? I tell you I come.” With a twist of her key, she locked the door.

“It’s just a joke,” I said.

“A not funny joke.”

Eyeing the clouds, I rubbed my arms to warm them from the sudden chill.

She just stood there staring at me as if I were the one who’d been here before and should take the lead.

“Well,” I said, “we’re here.”

She blinked at me dully. “Very good. You are as wise as you are beautiful.”

Considering she’d just called me a fat pimple-face the other day, I was beyond the ignorance of taking that as a compliment. “And you’re as . . .” When I couldn’t come up with anything witty to finish my sentence with, she laughed.

“I’m glad I’m so amusing.”

This made her laugh harder. “I am glad too. You make days shorter.”

She walked to her trunk, opened it, and pulled out a pair of bowling shoes. Slamming the trunk, she said, “I do not make use of shared footwear. My aunt become very ill from foot worms.”

I’d never heard of such a thing, and still haven’t, but I figured they probably dealt with all sorts of things in Africa we didn’t have here. “They spray the shoes with Lysol or something to kill the germs,” I said, mostly to make myself feel better since I’d be the one renting.

She wrinkled her nose. “I do not make gamble with my health.”

I could have said not using a doctor for her pregnancy was a bigger gamble, but I was in no mood for listening to her make loud yelping sounds with her fingers stuck in her ears.

When she started toward the building, I followed. We passed a group of white-haired men in matching polyester team shirts. When one of them smiled at me, I looked away.

Fatigue was hitting me more and more often each afternoon, and that day was no exception. Unfortunately, I made the mistake of mentioning it to Fatimah.

She turned around and pooched out her bottom lip. “Poor Princess Peeny. You should not have to work so hard. Please, have a sit in your car and rest. I will roll your ball for you, then bring you here a snack and return with news if you have won the game.”

I stopped abruptly, planting my feet on a painted white parking line. “Oh, I knew you’d understand, Fatimah. Thank you. If they have burgers, I take mine well done.”

She swung around. “You cannot sit in car!”

Finally, it was my turn to laugh. “See, Fati, you’re not the only one who can be funny.”

Her eyebrows dipped and then she shocked me by
plopping down right there on the pavement. As I gawked at her, she set the shoes she carried on her lap and crossed her arms in defiance.

I glanced around to see if anyone was watching, then looked down at her. “What are you doing?”

She turned her face toward the road, away from me.

Sitting there like a child, in the middle of the blacktop, she looked ridiculous. “Get up. You know how stupid you look?”

She jerked her head toward me, her eyes full of fire. “I will get up after you make apology.”

Someone honked from the road. I turned, relieved it was aimed at another vehicle rather than us. “What do I have to apologize for?”

“For insulting me,” she said coldly.

“Insulting you? I was only making a joke, just like you did.”

She shrugged. “My joke was funny. Yours was unkind.”

“It was not unkind. It was funny.”

“The most not-funniest joke I have ever been told,” she said. “When I was a child, my schoolmates ridiculed me, and now you do so too. You are no friend of mine, Peeny Taylor. I will not bowl with you or work with you ever again. Leave from my sight.”

Stunned, I stared down at her, unsure what to do. I needed this job. She’d worked under Callie Mae for years. If one of us had to go, it was going to be me. Still, I’d spent most of my adult life telling Trent I was sorry for things I didn’t do. The thought of doing so now to her was more than I could
bear. “I’m not apologizing.” I sat down beside her, crossing my arms right back.

She said nothing for a moment, then finally stole a glance at me. Red veins marked the outermost corner of her eyes. “Look at yourself. You are like baby.”

“And how do you think you look?”

She slapped her knee and grinned. “Ha! I got you again, Peeny. I am the winner. You cannot beat me, true!”

I felt like the biggest fool when I realized she’d been joking. I squinted at her. “I hate you.”

Pushing herself off the ground, she said, “I do not care so long as you hate me while you bowl.” She reached out her hand to help me up.

With a spring in her step, she practically skipped to the entrance. We hadn’t seen Callie Mae pull up, but somehow she was already inside, opening the door for us.

“How did you get in here?” I asked, confused. “We didn’t see your car pull in.”

Third Eye Blind belted out “Semi-Charmed Life” from the loudspeakers while balls hitting pins sounded like cracks of thunder in the background.

“Side entrance. What were you two clowns doing out there?”

The place smelled of Lysol and feet. I gently elbowed Fatimah. “Determining I was funnier.”

Fatimah voiced her disagreement with a “Ha!”

My eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness as I surveyed the long row of lanes. A family with two small boys occupied one
lane, another two were taken by college-age couples, and the final being used was by a group of half a dozen guys about my age.

Callie Mae’s gaze settled on me. “If I were you, I wouldn’t get into a spitting contest with that woman. She can’t stand to lose.” She nodded toward an empty lane in front of us. “We’re number eleven.” I glanced over at where she indicated. The lane was lit and ready to go, with a long black bumper spanning the length of each gutter. My eyebrows lifted. How bad did she think I was?

“You will pay me for a full day,” Fatimah demanded rather than asked.

Callie Mae rolled her eyes. “Fine. Now I’ve sunk so low I have to pay friends to play with me.”

I cringed at the thought of losing part of a day’s pay, but it wasn’t like it was Callie Mae’s fault that lady cancelled last-minute. I couldn’t let her think she needed to buy my friendship. “You don’t have to pay me for the last house. It wasn’t your fault.”

The smile she gave me melted my heart because I could see in her eyes that I’d touched hers.

“I knew you would say that, sweet Penny. Do you know how I know? Because we’re cut from the same cloth, you and me.” She turned to Fatimah. “That goes for you, too. That means we’re the same.”

Fatimah twisted her mouth. “Yes, clearly we are twins of three.”

Callie brushed something only she could see from her
jeans. “They’re called triplets, Einstein, and I mean on the inside.”

“You barely know me,” I whispered around the lump trying to form in my throat.

She set her soft hand on my cheek the way my mother used to. “Believe me, Penny, I know you.”

For reasons I couldn’t wrap my mind around until much later, my eyes began to well. Manny, no one had even pretended to know me in a very long time. The Bible says in heaven we’ll know just as we’re known. Guess that desire he created in us makes us all long to have someone really “get” us, or at least try to.

She gave my cheek a soft tap. “You two pick yourselves out a ball.”

When Callie Mae walked toward the lane, I joined Fatimah at a rack by the door. Without even bothering to test the holes out, she snatched up a bright orange bowling ball.

After getting my finger stuck in half a dozen, I finally found a medium-weight black one that fit well enough. When I brought it over to the lane, Callie Mae was standing there looking as serious as I’ve ever seen her with a sweatband across her forehead, gleaming white bowling shoes, and a hand towel shoved into the back pocket of her jeans. She rolled her head and shook her arms like she was getting ready to either run a marathon or remake Olivia Newton-John’s “Let’s Get Physical.” “Ladies, go grab your shoes; I’m going to warm up. Mama’s fixing to bust a rack today.”

Feeling like I was in the twilight zone, I walked over to
the shoe rental counter. An oily-haired girl asked my shoe size without so much as looking up from her magazine. Before handing over my ugly red-white-and-blue size sixes, she pulled out a large aerosol can and sprayed the foot holes so long a cloud shrouded her. I had to turn my head to keep from choking on the fumes. I set the tennis shoes I’d been wearing on the counter for collateral.

As I picked up the rental shoes, someone grabbed my wrist and I jumped.

“Listen, Peeny,” Fatimah said, looking over her shoulder like someone might be listening. “You must let Callie Mae win. She is crazy for this game, but she plays more awful than someone born with no limbs. I tell you the truth, she must win.”

“Why?”

She let my hand go. “For same reason my Edgard sends poetry to magazines. She does not know she is no good.”

“That’s silly. She’s a grown woman—she can handle the truth.”

One of the men from the group of guys asked to exchange his shoes for a half-size larger. When he winked at us, Fatimah gave him a lemon face and ushered me farther down the counter away from him. “Why must she know? She spends up her life making for other people’s happiness. This makes her happy. Understand?”

I didn’t really. It seemed out of character for Callie Mae, and downright bizarre, but I certainly didn’t want to upset someone who’d been so good to me. “So, the bumpers aren’t for me?”

“She thinks they are for me.” She headed back toward the lane, and I followed. Twenty feet or so from Callie Mae, she stopped and turned around. “Tonight, neither of us will make fifty.” She gave me a severe look. “True?”

I paused to do the math. That would be about four pins a frame. It would take some really bad bowling to pull that off. “I’ll do my worst,” I said.

Fatimah and I set our balls on the holder and sat down at the small desk in front of the lane. While Fatimah typed in our initials on the digital scoreboard, I watched Callie Mae’s ball ricochet wildly from bumper to bumper and take down the center pins leaving a 7-10 split.

Fatimah smiled. “Wonderful!”

Callie Mae blushed. “Well, it wasn’t a strike, but I’ve done worse.”

When she walked over to us, Fatimah gave her a high five so loud it had to have stung.

Callie Mae slid a small pouch of chalk from her front pocket and rubbed it between her hands. “Okay, Penny, warm-up’s over. You’re up first.”

I hit the reset button, then picked up my ball. Not only did I have to manage to hit half the amount of pins I normally would, but I’d have to do it without the option of a gutter ball. Without bothering to put my fingers in the holes, I bent my knees like a child would do and rolled it as softly and off-center as I could. What seemed like a half hour later, the ball finally crept its way to the pins. It barely tapped them when the front two slowly teetered back and forth and
eventually fell. Relief filled me. Two. If I could keep that up, Callie Mae would
have
to beat me.

The Bee Gee’s “Night Fever” started to play as I aimed to take my second shot. Hands slipped around my waist, and I screamed. I turned to find the same guy from the counter standing behind me. “Easy there.” Dimples sunk deep into his cheeks as he smiled. He reeked of cigarettes and beer. “I was just going to help you improve your aim.”

Manny, I didn’t see a flirtatious young man who might have only drunk once a year at his get-together with old college buddies. I saw Trent. I thought of all the times he was out with his friends, and how he probably came on to some unsuspecting woman just like this man was doing to me. “Get your hands off me,” I said. “You think you can just smile at a girl and that gives you the right to touch her?”

He backed up. “I was just trying to be helpful. You look like—”

I gave him the dirtiest look I could manage. “I don’t care how I look to you.”

That poor guy slunk back over to his group of friends, who were now howling with laughter.