Till You Hear From Me: A Novel (7 page)

“Because, gentlemen,” he said, leaning back in his lovely leather chair. “Reverend Dunbar is my father’s best friend. I grew up in his church.”

Oscar’s mouth dropped open with surprise and Stan’s face flushed ever redder with surprise or delight, Wes couldn’t tell. It didn’t matter. At that moment, Wes was golden.

“Well, then,” Stan said, reaching in his pocket for a thick white envelope and placing it on Wes’s desk without comment. “I don’t mean to rush things, but we’ve got a plane going to Atlanta at midnight, don’t we, Oscar?”

Oscar nodded. “Twelve fifteen.”

“Can you be on it?”

Wes leaned over, picked up the envelope without comment, and slid it into the breast pocket of his dark blue suit. “Have your car pick me up here at ten thirty.”

“Done.”

Stan stood up then. “Oscar will continue to be our point man on
this. If we need to talk, Oscar can set it up within twenty-four hours.”

“He’s always got my numbers,” Wes said, turning to Toni. “Will you show our guests out, Miss Cassidy?”

Toni stood up gracefully. “Of course. Gentlemen?”

Oscar chuckled. “Bless you, young lady. I admire your boss’s security provisions, but we would never have found our way back to the parking deck alone.”

Toni offered him her dimpled smile and followed him out the door. Stan and Wes were a few steps behind.

“Two thousand and eight was tough,” Stan said. “I don’t intend to let anything like that happen again. I’m a man who likes to win.”

“That makes us even,” Wes said. “I’m a man who hates to lose.”

Stan slowed, stopped, looked at Wes, and blinked those watery eyes almost like he was on the verge of tears.
Here we go
, Wes thought.

“Oscar tells me you’re an Exeter man.”

“I’m an Exonian to my soul. Class of 1990.”

“Did you have a positive experience there?”

“Some of the best years of my life,” Wes said. “I hear your son is interested.”

Stan shot another quick glance at Wes, trying to read his tone. If he knew Junior was interested, did he also know the kid’s chances of being admitted on his own merit were slim and none?

“Yes,” he said carefully, hating the position in which his over-indulged son had placed him. “We’ve done all the paperwork and sent in references from some of his favorite teachers …”

Of whom I’m sure there are many
, Wes thought.

“I thought we were done with all that, then the admissions office told my wife it might
strengthen
his application if he had a reference from a distinguished alum.”

This was Wes’s cue to offer to write the letter, make the call, put his reputation on the line for a kid he’d never met who was probably
a spoiled little fuckup, but Wes couldn’t resist making Stan squirm just a little bit longer.

“I’ve heard they do take those things into consideration.”

Stan looked pained. “So it seems.”

Wes knew he could prolong Stan’s uncomfortable moment simply by asking the next logical question:
How are Junior’s grades?
But what was the point? It was a done deal. He was going to write a glowing recommendation and then whether the kid got in or not, Stan would owe him a favor for putting in a good word on behalf of his idiot son. Both men knew the only thing more valuable than a favor well done was a secret well kept. This had the potential to be both.

“I’d be happy to write a letter for your son if you think it would help,” Wes said, touching Stan’s shoulder lightly.

A look of relief and something else crossed Stan’s face. Probably
shame
, Wes thought. Stan’s definition of being a “winner” did not include having to ask a black man for a favor.

“I would appreciate that, Wes,” Stan said, knowing there was still one more embarrassing question he had to ask.

“No problem,” Wes said. “Is Truman Jarrett still running the shop over there in admissions?”

Stan nodded. “I’ll have my girl send the address over.”

Wes smiled. “No need to. I think I still remember it.”

At the door he saw Oscar glance in their direction. It was time to go, but he had to ask.

“Do I need to …”

Wes looked as if he had no idea what was coming next, although of course he did.

Stan bit the bullet. “Do I need to send over his transcripts?”

And here was the wonderful moment when a favor becomes a secret shared, Wes thought. In his world, that was as good as money in the bank. Or in a plain white envelope.

“That won’t be necessary,” he said and lowered his voice conspiratorially
even though Toni had engaged Oscar’s attention in the hallway and there was no danger of being overheard. “I know what to say.”

Stan’s gratitude was almost palpable. “Then you’re my man,” he said, extending his hand one more time, smiling his first real smile of the day, and heading for the door. “I’ll be in touch.”

Well, Mr. Mystery Money, that’s one more thing you’re wrong about
, Wes thought, watching Stan and Oscar follow Toni out into the hallway and back through the unnecessarily confusing exit path he’d created for their benefit.
I’m nobody’s man but my own
.

SEVEN

C
ATNAP, MY ASS
. I
WAS SOUND ASLEEP WHEN THE FRONT DOORBELL WOKE
me up with a start. I use the word “bell” loosely. What the Rev has is a door
siren
that makes an amazingly unpleasant, impossibly loud sound, that can best be described as a cross between an old-fashioned alarm clock and a fire engine. We have all begged him to replace it with some chimes, or even a less insistent buzzer, but so far, he hasn’t gotten around to it.

All that was, of course, beside the point. The question was why was he ringing his own doorbell at one thirty on a Sunday afternoon? The answer is, he wasn’t. When I went down and opened the front door, Miss Iona was standing there, all alone, beaming and wearing a beautiful dark green coat, a matching hat that clung to her salt-and-pepper bob at an impossibly sassy and undeniably stylish angle, and a pair of beautiful suede heels, also dark green, that clicked softly on the hardwood floor when she stepped in and threw her arms around me. Miss Iona was a power hugger. She grabbed you fast, squeezed you hard, and then stepped back to extend the appropriate greeting.

“Welcome home, darlin’,” she said. “Tell me I didn’t wake you up at this hour of the day!”

“No, I was just …” Of course she didn’t wait for an answer. She took off her coat and dropped it on the coatrack, revealing a dress of the same dark green wool. This was clearly one of Miss Iona’s famous churchgoing ensembles. She liked everything to match and on this day, she had achieved her goal and topped it all off with the gravity-defying hat.

“The Rev’s on his way to Madison,” she said and rolled her eyes. “Black History Month waits for no man! Eddie’s driving him, of course, so I’m charged with being the official greeter and with getting you over to my house in time for supper. That way you can see everybody at one time and the Rev will have to be on his best behavior because we’ll all be there watching him.”

I wondered briefly what the Rev would look like on his best behavior, but when I opened my mouth to respond, a big yawn came out instead.

Miss Iona raised her eyebrows. “I
did
wake you up, didn’t I?”

“I was up late,” I said. “Sorry!”

Her eyes twinkled at me and she lowered her voice. “Anything you can talk about?”

“Nothing like that,” I said quickly, wishing I had never uttered the words “White House” to Miss Iona or anybody else. “Just some freelance work to hold body and soul together.”

She looked disappointed, but regrouped fast. “Well, go on upstairs and throw some cold water on your face or something and I’ll make a pot of coffee. Can’t have you yawning at my guests.”

“How many people are coming?” I said, heading for the stairs and wondering if a public reunion was the best way to go to bring out the best in what was probably going to be a fairly awkward moment, no matter how well Miss Iona had been able to smooth the way.

“Just the usual suspects,” she said. “My Charlie, of course.”

She always referred to her husband as
my Charlie
in a tone that was equal parts affection and ownership. He loved it.

“Flora and Hank Lumumba, if he’s in town. He’s traveling all the time now. Doing something mysterious. Politics or something. I hope they’ll bring their daughter, Lu. She’s going to Georgetown in the fall, so you should know her anyway. Abbie and Peachy were here from Tybee for the weekend, so they’re coming by before they head back to the island. Probably Blue and Regina Hamilton, you remember them, right?”

Blue Hamilton was a former R&B singer who had been West End’s unofficial godfather for the past ten years or so. He was the reason West End was always a peaceful oasis, no matter what went on beyond its twenty or so square block borders. I was already away at school when the neighborhood got hit bad with the crack epidemic and a sudden rise in unemployment and homelessness. Women were being robbed and raped like it was a sport. When a member of Blue’s band had a sister assaulted and murdered on her way home from the grocery store, Blue decided something had to be done. He organized the men in the neighborhood, guaranteed the safety of the women, and required the children to have respect for their elders and a sense of responsibility for their futures.

I had met him and his wife, Regina, a couple of times and been struck by their obvious affection for each other. They are one of those couples who always seem to prefer each other’s company no matter how many other people are around. The rumor is that they knew each other in a past life, but how can you prove something like that? Of course, West End is full of visionaries, clairvoyants, and prophets of all kinds, so there’s no reason to doubt it either.

“I remember them,” I said.

“And of course your father and Eddie when they get back from Madison.” She shook her head with a rare show of impatience. The smooth brown feather on her green felt hat trembled delicately.
“Isn’t that just like a man? The gathering is in his honor in the first place and he’s going to be the main one walking in late.”

“In the Rev’s honor?”

“No, Mr. Eddie, but you know he won’t let anybody else drive your dad, so what are you gonna do?”

This was a classic case of Iona overload. I hadn’t even had a chance to ask her how the Rev reacted when she told him I was coming and we had already moved on to one of the Sunday gatherings for which she was rightfully famous. Sometimes she and Mr. Charles cooked everything themselves. Sometimes it was potluck, but even then, Mr. Charles always cooked a ham or a big turkey and Miss Iona always made a big pan of mac and cheese to start things off.

“What
I’m
going to do,” I said, “is take your suggestion, go splash some water on my face and then come back down here for a cup of that coffee you promised me before you thrust me right back into the never-ending West End social whirl without some caffeine to fortify me.”

She laughed. “You talk more like your father every day!”

Hoping that wasn’t true, I hurried back upstairs to wash my face, brush my teeth, and run a comb through my hair. I have always been a low-maintenance girl and being on the road for almost two years straight required that I learn to go from jumping in the shower to walking out the front door in fifteen minutes flat, and I got good at it.

The Rev hates that I wear my hair so short. He’s definitely of the
women’s hair as crowning glory
school, but I think it’s really because I look more like my mom this way. One of the worst arguments I ever heard between my parents was when she cut her shoulder-length pageboy into a curly cap of natural ringlets. He accused her of doing it to spite him. She accused him of being a male chauvinist pig and it went downhill from there.

As I straightened the neckline of my dress, I realized I hadn’t even taken off my pearls when I lay down. They were part of my protective campaign coloration and now they’re just a habit, I guess. I met lots of new people every day when I was on the road and it was my job to make them comfortable with our candidate. Some of them had heard really scary things about Barack, but nobody’s afraid of a smiling woman with a strand of pearls around her neck. Ask the first lady.