Brunch at Ruby's, page 2
Between the bookstore and taking care of the house and his card club (a bunch of old men sitting around talking about old women), he seemed busy. Like always, he said he was fine; he didn't need my help, don't bother him.
One of our neighbors took it upon herself to watch over Daddy and the house, water my mother's roses, check the mail—basically be a busybody, but she was my lifeline. One evening, I'd just come home from work, was changing out of my business suit to meet Marcus for dinner when I heard my cell phone ringing. I thought it was Marcus, egging me on to hurry since I was already late. I let it go to voice mail.
In the shower, something niggled at me. I felt like I needed to check my messages. I wrapped a towel around myself and found my phone plugged into the charger on the kitchen counter.
Four missed calls read the display on my Blackberry. I dialed into voice mail and was greeted with urgent messages from the neighbor. I knew it was about Daddy.
Around dusk, she'd said, he was marching down the street in his Ford uniform—dark blue slacks, light blue shirt with the Ford emblem over the right front pocket. He wore socks but no shoes, and he was shouting for Lorraine. Lorraine, my mother, had been dead for four years.
I flew home and checked him into a hospital. At first glance, the doctors thought it could be stress. Repressed grief, maybe. Daddy thought everybody was crazy. He said he was fine, worrying about him was a waste of time, and he didn't need anyone watching over him. He didn't want to stay at the hospital, and he didn't appreciate nurses poking and prodding him.
“Go on back to Philly,” he'd said when I brought him home. “I don't need you here. Get on back to your life.”
I went back to Philly, back to my job, my apartment, my handsome boyfriend. I was looking forward to introducing him to Daddy, and we were talking about moving in together.
A few months later, I called for our regular Wednesday night chat. He didn't recognize my voice. He was distant and slow to answer questions and confused about my reminder to set the garbage out for pickup. The garbage has been picked up every Thursday morning next to the driveway for as long as I've been alive.
I called the neighbor for a report. Daddy was not fine. He didn't know where he was half the time and where he was going the other half. Worst of all, Gladwell Books, the biggest Lorraine Gladwell keepsake possible, was on the verge of collapse. Daddy hadn't opened the store in weeks.
I flew home and took him back to Dr. Crawford. I've been here ever since.
A knock at the kitchen door interrupts a spirited session of bickering about who is losing. Jessie is wearing her usual uniform of khaki slacks and a faded short-sleeved polo with the Atlanta Rehabilitation Services logo over the left breast. Wisps of gray hair peek out from under a short curly wig, brushed and fluffed to a brilliant shine and impressive height. She carries a black leather bag with her, which holds games, music and anything she feels she might need for the day.
The first year with Daddy, I tried to make it on my own, but I realized, quickly, that if I didn't get some help, I might kill him. Accidentally or otherwise. His illness and general, obstinate nature make him grumpy and argumentative. Because his decline has been so markedly slow, he knows that he's sick, that his condition is incurable, his symptoms uncontrollable. That doesn't make accepting his Alzheimer's diagnosis any easier. It is a violent internal struggle that presents itself in the habit of throwing things. Or disappearing.
The first four nurses, my father chased away. The last one, I fired myself. Jessie has been with us for the last two years. She is an old school nurse who doesn't take much of anything from anyone, including Bernard Gladwell. She's all business from the minute she walks in the door until she leaves for the day. Daddy is on a schedule, and she keeps him active. They play games, go for walks, and she takes him to his appointments when I can't. He grumbles and argues and calls her his babysitter, but she has a way of being bossy and direct in a motherly way. She's a lot like Mama, actually. I suspect that this is why they get along.
I tip my head at Jessie. Daddy doesn't acknowledge her, but he never does. She drops her bag onto the couch and, propping her hands on ample hips, takes in the scene like we aren't always in this spot, doing this very thing every morning.
“Well, who's winning?” I nod my head across the table to Daddy, who is squinting at the cards he's holding close to his face. “How's he winning, and he can't even see?”
She taps him on the shoulder, and he nearly jumps out of his skin. “Mistah Gladwell! Where your glasses at, old man?”
Daddy shakes his head, grunts a little, plucks a card from the stack and plays it. She heads for the flight of steps that lead to the second floor. “They're probably on his nightstand. You know how he gets those headaches without them.”
A few minutes later, silver wire-framed glasses appear at Daddy's elbow as she passes the table on the way into the kitchen. He glances at them, picks them up and puts them on.
“I'm headed out in a few minutes,” I tell her. “So, it'll be just the two of you for lunch.”
“How romantic.” Sounds of cabinets opening and closing and items being taken out of the refrigerator waft from the kitchen. “Bernard! You want a hot ham and cheese sandwich? You got some potatoes about to go bad in here. I can fry them up like potato chips.”
“I don't care,” he mumbles.
I swallow back a little guilt, watching them fall into their daily routine.
My Corolla sedan shares garage space with a slowly rusting Ford Mustang, kept under an enormous tarp. The ’66 raven black hardtop, restored from the ground up by his own two hands, was Daddy's pride and joy. He named it Lorraine, and when he would talk about Lorraine, we were never sure if he meant the car or his wife. Sometimes when Daddy disappears, I find the indigo blue plastic unceremoniously dumped on the cement floor and him in the driver's seat, his fingers roving the five gauge instrument panel, gripping the gear shift, caressing the leather seats. I wish we could take her for a spin, but she hasn't run in years.
I was sure I would be excommunicated when I parked my Toyota in a Ford man's garage. Daddy didn't even refer to it by name. “That foreign junk you drive,” he called it.
I slide into my foreign junk and back out of the garage, watching the wide mouth close before pulling into the street. I reach for the radio dial and flip through the FM stations. It has been a long and stressful month, and I need to be around people that understand me. And remember my name.
Debra and her family lived a few houses down the street. Maxine and her mother, Inell, lived a few blocks away. Max intimidated me, mostly. She was easily the prettiest girl in our third-grade class. She had long hair that she religiously washed and pressed every Saturday night. Her skin was the tone of light brown sugar, her eyes almond-shaped and hazel, in sharp contrast to Debra and me with cocoa skin and dark brown eyes. Max always had lip gloss that smelled like strawberries. Debra and I could only wear Vaseline on our lips.
Once, while my mother was twisting my hair into braids, I told her I wanted to get my hair pressed and wear it straight like Maxine. She clicked her tongue and rolled her eyes at me in the mirror. “Don't compete with Maxine. She will always win that game.”
Debra, her high school sweetheart, Willard, and I went to Georgia State University. Max decided not to go. “It's boring,” she said when asked why she wasn't applying to colleges. She flipped her hair and sashayed away in one of her new designer outfits. She had a job at the uppity, rich people mall, and her whole check seemed to go to her hair and wardrobe. Maxine already had everything she needed: a job, a car, money, and endless attention from men–and I don't mean the boys we went to school with. I mean grown men.
Maxine went to school, though. Real Estate school. When she earned her first commission check, she knew exactly what she wanted to do with her life.
A stark white streak zooms past me as I get out of my car at Ruby's. I don't even have to look up to know that it's Maxine in her brilliantly bright white Maserati. She's a self-made woman, owns her own real estate firm and sells big houses to rich people. Debra is a middle school principal, married to a high-profile accountant with a perfect child and a house in the suburbs and a Mercedes Benz.
Then there's me, in a dusty piece of foreign junk, trying my hardest to keep a neighborhood bookstore afloat and my father from wandering into the street in his underwear.
Chapter Three
Maxine
* * *
I coast into the parking lot at Ruby's slowly, so as not to kick up rocks and mar the paint on my car and honk as I pass Renee. She waves without even looking, pulling at the jacket of that purple Juicy Couture sweatsuit she wears all the time. The one she thinks hides those ten pounds she's picked up.
Ruby's Soul Food café is a neighborhood staple, the perfect spot for after- church gatherings on Sunday and the occasional weekday evening when a plate of hot catfish and hush puppies would hit you just right. Back in the day, it was where we went for sodas after school, for group outings on Friday nights and post-movie, pre-make out point Saturday night dates. We spent so much time there that Ruby, the restaurant's founder, is practically an adopted grandmother. We don't see her much, but when we do, it's an event. It's only fitting that Ruby's is where Debra, Renee and I have met for brunch every month for the last four years.
I brush the wrinkles from my dress as I step out of the car and pick my way through the gravel parking lot, cursing Richard, the General Manager of Ruby's like I do every month when I have to trudge through dust and rocks just for brunch.
Stepping inside Ruby's is like a step into the past. Silver stools still line the front counter; the old-style cash register still sits on the counter next to the front door, over which a small bell still tinkles to announce new arrivals. The linoleum floors are dull; the shine buffed out of them after so many years of being mopped twice a day.
Ruby's holds twenty tables indoors, another ten outside, another eight at the front counter, so a busy day is a madhouse. Today the place is packed.
Four men seated at the front counter lean back and give me the once-over, head to toe. I nod to each of them as I pass, a leather bag on my arm, designer shades clutched in my palm.
“Gentlemen,” I greet them, nodding before spotting Renee and Debra seated on a bench that resembles an old church pew painted yellow to match the sunny décor. I sit next to Renee, who is on the phone, and reach across her to tap Debra on the knee. She's staring into space and hasn't even noticed I've arrived. “What's up, Deb?”
Her head pops up, and she sucks in a breath as if I'd crept up behind her. “Hey, Max. I didn't see you come in.”
“I can see how you missed her,” says Renee, ending her call and tucking away her phone. “You've been studying that crack in the floor pretty hard.”
Debra half-smiles, drawing lines around her mouth. “I guess I have some things on my mind. Ready?”
After so many years of faithful patronage, we always get the same table when we come for brunch–the big booth in the back corner with the tall sides. Loyalty has its privileges.
Our waitress is a former student of Debra's. I half listen to their animated chatter as we are led to our table and take our usual seats. Debra sits on the outside, Renee and I on the inside, as close as we can get without elbowing each other.
We always order the same thing at Ruby's. Renee gets the shrimp and grits with sausage. Debra is our health nut, so her usual is an egg white omelet with roasted vegetables, chicken apple sausage and her splurge–fried potatoes. As for me, when it comes to comfort food, I like it fried. Serve it up with lots of whatever I order on the side with a knife and fork. I don't eat with my hands. My usual is chicken and waffles with butter and so much syrup, my food practically does the backstroke.
Our waitress knows the drill and bounces away to place our orders. A busboy arrives with glasses of water for the other two and a bottle of Perrier water for me. I break the seal and pour myself a glass.
“Renee, how's Bernard doing?”
She grimaces as if the topic is distasteful while dropping a lemon into her glass. “He's about the same.”
“The same is good, right? He's not getting worse?”
“I guess. But even the good days are hard to manage.”
“It's that bad?” Debra asks, coming out of her stupor.
“I don't know if it's that bad. I'm that tired.” She relaxes against the cushion of the booth, playing with the zipper on her jacket. “Half the time, he doesn't know who I am. The other half, he's yelling at me. If I leave him alone for five minutes, he turns a room upside down. Stuff turned over, drawers emptied, things everywhere.”
“Maybe he's looking for something,” I suggest.
“Apparently, he doesn't remember what he's looking for. Guess that's why he hasn't found it.”
“Is Jessie still there?”
“Yeah,” she answers, but with a weary sigh. “She'll be retiring soon. What if he gets really bad, really fast? What if he forgets how to use the toilet? I don't think I can change my dad's diapers.”
Renee holds the wide-eyed stare of panic. I reach out to give her a reassuring pat on the shoulder but pull back with a frown at the texture of the cheap crushed velvet jacket. “I thought I told you to throw this purple thing away.”
Renee laughs, but I sense tension and frustration melting away. “You're not the boss of me, Maxine. It's comfortable, and it's what I want to wear. I'm not you.”
“You sure aren't,” I mumble. I don't even care that she heard me. She ignores me anyway. “Debra?” I lightly kick her under the table, bringing her out of another stare into space. “What's up with you today?”
“I'm fine,” she says, brightening. “Just work, you know. School starts up again in a few weeks and Kendra has so much going on with the band and Willard is…” Her arms move back and forth as she rubs her palms over her thighs. “Willard is busy. The business tax deadline is coming up, and he's working long hours.”
“When isn't Willard working long hours?” Renee asks, a rhetorical question because we all know the answer. Working to provide is one thing. Working yourself to death is another.
“I know; it's the same every year, but now my workload is heavy. I worry about Kendra being raised by the Internet. Or her friends. You know how grown some of these little rich girls can be.”
Renee and I nod. Our eighth-grade class had two girls in a close race between labor and graduation.
Three plates land on our table. My chicken is still sizzling from the fryer. I cut my food into bite-sized pieces. “Is that all? You seem real quiet today, Deb. It's not like you.”
“Things could be better but I'm alright,” Debra mumbles, around a mouthful of omelet. “How are you doing?”
“Well, you remember last month, I was trying to unload that place up in Sugarloaf? Next to some football player, what's his name?” I stop cutting and try to remember, but my mind is blank. If I go to a football game, it's not to watch the game, it's to meet the players and I've already had my picks off of the Atlanta Falcons team. “Anyway, I finally sold it to some pro golfer.”
“Tiger?” Renee asks, a spoonful of grits and shrimp halfway to her mouth.
“Wouldn't I have called you if I was selling a house to Tiger Woods?” Renee shrugs and goes back to her lunch. “So, after I sold that house, he started sending his friends to my office. If it's not golfers buying homes, it's football players selling them. Property up is being snapped up like hotcakes at a church breakfast and going for millions.” I spear a piece of chicken and waffle and quickly chew and swallow.
“So Donovan is selling all of them?” Renee asks.
I nod, proud. “My agents have showings scheduled every day this week.” I sigh, smiling into my plate. Men, money and food—my three favorite subjects.
“Sounds like business is good,” says Debra. “You've done really well for yourself, Max.”
“And did I tell you girls that I dumped James last week?”
“You know you didn't.” Renee stifles a laugh. “What was it this time? Was he only worth a billion dollars? Did he only have one Ferrari?”
“You joke, but those things tell a lot about a man.”
“Sure,” Debra interjects. “That he has a lot of money that he likes to waste on things he can't take with him when he dies.”
“Well, you might as well have fun while you're here. I swear, Debra. You're so morose today.” I turn toward Renee so I can share the story with the both of them. “There were a few things. First, he's old. James is in his mid-50's so night out for us ends with him snoring at ten o'clock. And that wouldn't even be so bad if it wasn't for the other stuff. Like his height.”
“His height?” Renee and Debra squeal in unison.
“Wasn't he going to take you to Italy next summer?” Renee asks, spooning more grits into her mouth. “Maybe you'd better run after Mister Short Man.”
“The man is five foot ten on lifts. I wear heels, tall heels. If I'm looking at your bald spot when we walk to the car, it's just not going to work. I'm not even that tall–”
“You're almost six feet tall in heels!” Debra sputters, not even trying to hold in her laughter.
“That's exactly my point! But… it's not just that. He was short in other places.” I twist a lock of my hair around my index finger, looking at first Debra, then Renee, and back to Debra.
Renee sucks in a sharp breath and sinks back into the worn fabric of the booth. “Noooo,” she whispers.
“And he was self-conscious about it.”
“He had a little dick complex? Ugh, that's the worst.” Debra huffs and crosses her arms.
“How would you even know what a little dick looks like?” Renee asks. “You have had one frame of reference since you were fifteen and not to pry, but I'm sure you wouldn't still be with Willard if that was a problem.”
Debra's jaw falls open and hangs there, slack. “Whatever,” she finally shoots back, trying not to laugh. “I watch Oprah.”
