The Black Stiletto: Stars & Stripes (12 page)

Afterward, Jimmy was quiet and flustered. I think he was scared, too. “Don't worry, Jimmy, I won't tell anyone if you won't.”

“No, ma'am.”

“It's our secret, okay? And that's the only time, all right? Just forget about it.”

He stared at me and finally nodded.

I got dressed and left the locker room. My heart was still pounding and I nearly collapsed on the gym floor because my legs were so weak. I was in a daze, but I made it to the cash register counter and sat down. Before I knew it, Jimmy came out dressed. He timidly walked across the gym to the front door. He stopped and looked at me. I smiled at him and said, “Good night, Jimmy. Happy birthday.”

He swallowed hard and replied, “Thank you, Miss Judy. Good night.” I got up off the stool and unlocked the door for him. Then he was gone.

I don't know if I made a huge mistake, dear diary. How many white girls have relations with Negroes? I'll bet not many! Was I
awful? Had I sinned? Did I do something really, really bad? I'm sure everyone I know would think so.

Of one thing I am certain, though. As I climbed the stairs to my room, I was aware of feeling better than I'd felt in a long time. All warm and satisfied and happy.

Why should that be considered wrong?

A
PRIL 24, 1960

Jimmy's been avoiding me like the plague. I say hello, smile at him, and try to engage him in conversation. I want us to be like we were before, but he averts his eyes, mumbles an excuse, and moves away from me. Now I feel bad about it. I hope he'll get over whatever it is that's bothering him. Maybe I shocked him so badly that he doesn't think he can relate to me anymore. I guess I'm a progressive young woman when compared to most girls in this city.

I've been tempted to go down to Chinatown to see if I can find Billy. Or I could go looking for Tommy Cheng and his little band of Flying Dragons. What I wouldn't give to see all of them trussed up and dressed in striped prison clothes! But a little voice inside me— that old intuition again—tells me I shouldn't bother. That voice has served me well, so I suppose I should listen to it. Still, it haunts me. Billy was so distraught when we said goodbye. As a tribute to him, though, I still practice what little
wushu
he taught me. I'm still developing my own style, combining it with what I know of boxing,
karate
, and
judo
. Maybe someday they'll name a martial art after
me
, ha ha.

Lucy's been real nervous lately. The wedding is in a couple of weeks. With all the arrangements and catering and details and money involved with such an event, it makes me never want to go through it. But then again, if I found the right man—who knows?

I told Lucy she needs to take a break and get her mind off of it, so tonight we're going to see
Ben-Hur
again. It won the Oscar for Best Picture, as I knew it would. We both want to see that chariot race again!

The good news is I went to see a shrink. I never did say anything to Carol about it. I found Dr. Kessler on my own by looking at my health insurance's website and finding a provider. I knew nothing about him, but he was conveniently located and that sold me. He was in his forties, and he seemed to understand what I was going through. I told him about the stress I was under from dealing with a mother with Alzheimer's, a new job, and all the trivial crap that comes with being a middle-class suburbanite. When I described the panic attacks, he wrote stuff down in my chart and nodded like he'd heard it all before. He asked me questions about my mother's illness and its timing. I asked him flat out if Alzheimer's was hereditary. He said, “It can be,” but he also told me not to worry about it. What I was experiencing now had no relation to Alzheimer's. I had an anxiety disorder.

I'm sure it was all the Black Stiletto's fault. It's like what Freddie told my mom in her diary—knowing my mother's secret was a burden. But I didn't tell Dr. Kessler that.

He prescribed an antidepressant that had a strong antianxiety component. The bad news is that it takes about a month to kick in. Only then will we know if it's the right medication for me. Dr. Kessler said every case is different and requires a custom-made treatment plan. Sometimes doctors and their patients have to experiment with different drugs to see which one works the best. That said,
Kessler thought the one he gave me would do the trick because I had a surprisingly common malady.

That evening, I decided to call Gina. We hadn't spoken in a while and, miracle of miracles, she picked up. Nine times out of ten I got her voice mail.

“Hi, Dad!” She sounded perky, like the Gina I've known her whole life. While she had a
terrifically
good attitude during her recovery after the assault, she did go through some periods of “blue,” as she called it. It didn't help having a jaw wired for six weeks.

“Hey, why don't you come home for Thanksgiving?” I asked her. The holiday was the upcoming Thursday.

“I can't, Dad, I've got rehearsal.” She had a small part in a play. Apparently, being cast rarely happened to freshmen at Juilliard. “But I'm coming for Christmas, you know.”

“Yeah, I can't wait to see you.”

“Are you all right, Dad? You sound funny.”

I didn't want to worry her. “I'm fine, honey. Just tired. Working hard, you know how it is.”

“How's Grandma?”

“She's fine. I'm sure she misses you.”

“Does she even remember who I am?”

“Of course. I read her your letters when you write, and she has your pictures on her dresser. She knows who you are.” At least I thought she did. You never really knew with my mom.

“Hey, did you get the news there?”

“What news?”

“Guess what,” Gina said, grimly, “that rapist struck again. Another student at Juilliard got attacked and
killed
a couple of days ago.”

Great, just what I needed to hear. “No, I didn't hear about it. I haven't been paying much attention to the news. Geez, Gina, you need to get out of that city,” I said. “Your mother and I worry about you.”

“It's okay, Dad, I'm a lot more street smart now,” she said. “The
girl that was attacked was coming home late from a party and was really drunk. She was all alone.”

“Did you know her?”

“No. But the police called me and asked me to come to the station today to look at mug shots, like I did before. I was going to call you and Mom and tell you about it; you beat me to it.”

“What happened?”

“I saw Detective Jordan again.” I remembered him. He was the African-American NYPD guy in charge of Gina's investigation. “He said they think the same man who attacked me was the killer of this other girl. They showed me some of the same pictures I saw before, but also some new ones. Dad, I think I picked out the guy! I'm pretty sure I recognized him. He's white, in his twenties or maybe early thirties. But when I pointed him out to Detective Jordan, he simply nodded and said the man was just a person of interest and had an alibi for the nights in question, but they had to be verified. I asked what the man's name was, but Detective Jordan wouldn't tell me.”

“How did he leave it?”

Gina lowered her voice. “
Well
, I asked for some coffee. He left the interview room and the mug shots were sitting there in a manila folder on the table. I snuck a peek at the back of the picture and got the guy's name and address! Ha!”

“Gina! Whoa!” That totally freaked me out. My anxiety level shot up exponentially. “What were you thinking? You could get in big trouble doing that.”

“Nah, I didn't get caught.”

“What good could that information do you, Gina?” Surely she wasn't thinking of—she wouldn't—

“Oh, nothing, I just wanted to have a name for the face.”

“Well, you let the police handle it. There's no reason for you to get involved unless they want you to testify or something. All right?”

“Sure.”

“Promise me?”

“Dad! What do you think I'm gonna do? Go all Black Stiletto
on him?” She laughed and I nearly shit in my pants.
What the hell made her say that?

“What did you say?” I demanded a little too strongly.

“Dad, geez, I said, ‘you want me to go all Black Stiletto on him?' You know the Black Stiletto? She's that lady from the sixties who put on a costume and fought crime like a superhero.”

“I know who you mean, Gina. And don't you
dare
think about doing something like that!”

“Oh, right, Dad, don't worry. My X-ray vision isn't working too well these days, so I gave my costume to Goodwill.”

“Gina, it's not funny.”

“Dad, are you crazy? No one would do that
now
. That was a long time ago. I can't believe you would even say that. You weren't
serious
were you?”

I didn't know what I thought. Yeah, I guess I was serious.
Considering her bloodline
—

“Never mind, Gina,” I answered. “Just be careful.”

I didn't feel any better after saying good night to my daughter.

Right then and there I decided that Gina must never know the truth about her grandmother.

The next day after work I went to see Mom. Maggie was working, so it would give me a chance to see her too if she wasn't very busy. Things are going splendidly between us, I think. It's helped that I did what she suggested and saw a doctor. We've started sleeping together. I usually go over to her house in Deerfield. She's stayed at my place only once, the first time we had sex. I couldn't believe it at the time. I felt so lucky. Too bad my anxiety had to put a damper on things, but it was still a very nice evening. I wasn't sure if our relationship would continue in that vein until Maggie invited me to her house a couple of nights later. It's actually convenient for me, because my job isn't far. So I keep a toothbrush and some other toiletries over there now.

It's so weird to be dating again.

I arrived at Woodlands and went to the dementia unit—you have to punch in a code to get inside—and found Maggie in the common area. She stood at the nurse's station as she wrote on a clipboard.

“Hey, you,” I said.

“Hey, you, too,” she said. She rarely smiled when she was in work mode, but she gave me a warm one.

“How's Mom today?”

“Hmm, I had to prescribe some medication, Martin. Her blood pressure has been elevated the past couple of days. She's been complaining of pain, although she couldn't really put it into words. We figured out from her behavior that she's having headaches. Have you noticed her rubbing her head lately?”

“Geez, no, I haven't seen her in a few days. Is it serious?”

“I don't think so, but we need to watch her. I don't like the way that blood pressure looks. Want to see her?”

“Sure.”

Maggie accompanied me to Mom's room. As usual, my mother sat in the rocking chair facing the TV. A reality game show was on. She was already dressed for bed. The staff usually helped her put on a nightgown and robe right after her dinner.

“Hi, Judy, look who's here!” Maggie said brightly as we walked in.

I also spoke in my “everything-is-wonderful voice.” “Hi, Mom, how are you doing?”

The strangest thing happened. Mom turned to me and looked at me with those dark eyes that once displayed such a spark. She furrowed her brow and actually
flinched
. “Oh!” she said, as if I scared her or something.

“Mom, what is it? It's me, Martin.”

“Judy?” Maggie asked as she sat on the bed beside the rocking chair. “Does your head still hurt?”

Mom answered, “No,” but she continued to stare at me as if I was an alien.

“This is your son, Martin,” Maggie said. “He's come to see you.”

Tears came to Mom's eyes and she turned back to the television, although she focused her eyes past it. “I'm sorry,” she said in a whisper.

“What are you sorry about, Mom?” I asked. I moved closer and squatted in front of her. Once again, Mom reacted by shying away from me, drawing back in her chair.

“No—” Her voice was almost a whimper. It was heartbreaking.

“I'll be right back, Judy,” Maggie said to her. “Come on, Martin.” She stood and gestured for me to follow her. At the door she said, “Your presence is upsetting her.”

“No kidding. That's never happened before.”

“It could be she's aware that she knows you but can't grasp who you are, so it frightens her. Don't worry, it's typical.”

“It looked to me like she thought I was going to hurt her. Maggie—”

She put a hand on my shoulder. “Maybe you should go. She hasn't felt good today, so that probably has something to do with it too. Tomorrow she'll be just like she was before.”

“I hope so. Should I say goodbye?”

Mom had resumed her Whistler's Mother pose in the chair. I'm not sure she knew we were still in the room.

“Looks like she's calmed down. Why don't you try again tomorrow?”

“You won't be here, will you?”

“No, but get Jane or someone to come in with you.”

I nodded and we left the room. Maggie said, “I'm sorry about that.”

“It's not your fault. It's kind of upsetting when your own mother is afraid of you, though.” Actually, my mom's response was similar to what she did when I once asked her about the Black Stiletto. Maybe for some strange reason,
I
remind her of the Black Stiletto now.

Maggie told me what I already knew—that Alzheimer's patients in Mom's advanced stage are unpredictable. They can be lucid one
day and totally out of it on another. I sensed it was something else, though. My mom's intuition is highly developed. She knows what people are feeling. I believe that in her own special way she empathizes with my anxiety disorder. She perceives something's wrong with
me
and she doesn't know how to handle it.