“Actually,
he gave the lots to other black families.”
“I
had no idea,” Peter said, almost as if whispering in church. “This door does
have history.”
“Moses
carved the picture of The End of the Line Station on the bottom of the door
because that shack represented freedom to him,” Georgina said. “But when Mr.
Rutherford broke their deal, I’m sure he felt victimized.” She rubbed her old,
withered fingers over the door. “I don’t blame him for being angry.”
“Does
Mr. Thomas know all this?”
“No,”
Georgina said, “but his wife Flavia was working on his family history back in
the eighties and she contacted me. I have the Rutherford family diary in
safekeeping and this is all laid out in painstaking detail. I gave Mrs. Thomas
some information, but not all. The door and the statue of Garfield Rutherford I
never mentioned. I’m sure Mr. Thomas and his daughter know nothing about it.”
“They
must be told,” Peter insisted. “They have the right to know.”
“Yes,
yes,” Georgina said, nodding. “We have been discussing that very thing.”
“How
long have you been talking about it?”
“Since
Mrs. Thomas contacted me for her research back in 1982.”
Peter
laughed. “That’s over twenty years, Georgina.”
“Yes,”
she said uncomfortably. “Charles and Jack agreed that the door should be given
back to the Thomas family, but I’m the one who hedged. That door has been at
The Old English Club from the very beginning, the very year it opened. I can’t
stand the thought of it being gone.”
“It
belongs to Mr. Thomas and Latesha, Georgina.”
“Yes,
of course, but can you keep this to yourself for the time being? I need time to
think.”
“I
trust you will do the right thing.”
She
forced a smile.
“What
about the cost of the plaques?” Peter asked, changing the subject. “Give me a
ballpark figure to take to him.”
“Anything
from the Thomas family has added worth to me because of the history,” Georgina
said. “It’s art.” She wrote in a checkbook with The Old English Club emblazoned
across it. “Ask Mr. Thomas to make the plaque for Jack. Eighteen inches long
and twelve inches high. Here’s my offer. If he accepts, we’ll discuss more
plaques.”
Peter
looked at the check. “One thousand dollars? That’s a very generous offer,
Georgina.”
“Generous?”
she said, shaking her head. “When my father died, as everybody here knows, he
left me over fourteen million dollars. I wouldn’t lose any sleep if I lost a
million dollars.” Georgina, usually a study in composure, suddenly took a deep
breath and seemed edgy with emotion. “I’m sorry about this situation, Peter,
really, I am. But that door means so much to me. Not to mention the photos.”
“Photos?”
“The
ballet program here has been running since 1899. At the end of every season,
the first year girls always have their pictures taken in front of that door. I
have the album that goes back over one hundred years.” She looked gravely into
his eyes. “The Old English Club is based on tradition, Peter, and I don’t want
to be remembered as the one who lost the door. But I’m not young anymore and
time is running out to make things right.”
Charles
shrugged. “We’re between a rock and a hard place. Legally, I’m not sure what
would happen, but morally the door belongs to Mr. Thomas and Latesha.”
“Benjamin
Thomas is a man of modest means,” Georgina said. “Several times Charles and I
drove by his house with the intention of raising this subject, but I could
never gather the courage. What I did do, though, is contact an expert from
Washington and had him come look at the door two years ago. It was done under
the strictest terms of secrecy.”
“What
did he say?”
“He
told me that African-Americana is highly sought and that the Thomas name has
achieved a preeminent position. Anything Moses Thomas made in particular is
gold in the collectors’ world. His doors especially are of great value. And
this one, according to the expert, is his best work.”
“How
much?” Peter asked.
“He
valued it at two hundred thousand dollars.”
“Good
God,” Peter said, flabbergasted.
“You
promised not to tell a soul,” Georgina insisted.
“I
won’t say a word,” Peter promised.
Charles
raised his bushy, gray eyebrows. “So there it is, Peter. We have The Old
English Club’s most cherished artifact, a tradition of little ballerinas being
photographed in front of it, an appraisal of two hundred thousand dollars, and
a man with little money. I believe you see the dilemma.”
“To
put it lightly,” Peter said thoughtfully.
“Once
he knows the history,” Georgina said, “we’ll be the last people he will sell
to. The door will be gone forever. I know it, and I wouldn’t even blame him.”
“So,
in the tradition of grasping for straws,” Charles continued, “we’re hoping
something acceptable to everyone comes out of this. But I do agree with you
that it should be his decision. If he wants the door, we have to give it to
him.”
“It
would only be right.”
“True
enough,” Georgina added, “but make the offer for the plaque first.”
“If
he doesn’t want to make the plaque,” Peter said, “I’ll bring this check back
and we’ll forget the whole thing.”
“Yes,”
Georgina said. “Either Benjamin Thomas does the work, or no one.”
“Try
to convince him,” Charles said hopefully. “Independent of our dilemma with the
door, that plaque would be a great surprise for Jack. And it would look great
in the clubhouse. We would be starting a new tradition and enhancing our
history.”
“I’ll
do my best.”
“I’ll
leave it in your capable hands,” Georgina told him. “The check has no expiry
date.”
“Okay.”
Peter
thoughtfully walked back toward the tennis clubhouse with Georgina and Charles,
but stopped when he saw his mother. She spoke with Charles and Georgina for a
moment and then followed her son back to his truck.
“What
was that all about?” she asked.
“They
just wanted to show me one of the buildings I’ve never seen.”
Mrs.
Elsworth nodded knowingly. “They’re grooming you, Peter.”
“Grooming
me?”
“Yes,
it’s obvious they want you to become president here someday. You’re handsome
and well-spoken. You’re the club champion, you have strong bloodlines, and
you’re well-liked. The slipper fits, Peter, and they’ve got their eyes on you.”
“You
have a good imagination, Mom,” he said, dismissing the theory with a shake of
the head. “I’m going home now. Want a cup of tea?”
“Sure.
I’ll follow you.”
At
his residence, Mrs. Elsworth insisted on the mandatory inspection. She walked
through the door and was pleased with what she saw. “Very good,” she said,
giving her seal of approval. “I don’t think I have anything to worry about.”
“Who’s
been telling you that all these years?”
His
mother suddenly hugged him. “Thank you so much for beating the dickens out of
Tess and Martin. I loved every second of it, especially when she fell flat on
her rump. That was so worth it! Did you see how red her face was? She looked
like a beet!”
“You
played well,” he told his mother. “I’m sure you would have beaten Tess in
singles today.”
Mrs.
Elsworth laughed, but suddenly her expression drastically changed. She walked
to the bookshelf, stared at the photograph of Peter and Latesha as if it was a
coiled cobra, then picked it up with a look of disbelief. Her face drained of
color. “Who’s this?” she asked, turning to him with an inquisitorial stare.
“Latesha.”
His
mother glared at him and raised her voice. “Latesha who?”
“Latesha
Thomas.”
“And?”
she asked, again looking at the photograph. “How did you come to have your
picture taken with a black?”
“I
don’t have time right now,” Peter said with obvious aggravation.
“I
have time,” Mrs. Elsworth said, laying the picture face down on the bookshelf.
Peter
stood it up the proper way. “I told you that I don’t.”
Mrs.
Elsworth’s lower lip quivered. “Oh, yes, you do.”
“Oh,
no, I don’t.”
“Are
you dating her?” Mrs. Elsworth asked aggressively, as if accusing her son of a
terrible crime.
“No,
but that’s not by my choice.”
Mrs.
Elsworth shook her head. “Don’t you ever even think about it!” she warned with
a lethal scowl. “I would be very, very unhappy.” She glared at him with eyes of
ice. “You aren’t going to see her again.”
“I
don’t know if I will or not.”
“I
do.”
“You
do what?” he asked sarcastically.
“Listen
here, Peter,” his mother said in a no-nonsense voice. “I nearly died giving
birth to you. The whole pregnancy was a nightmare and I could never have
another child. I sacrificed everything for you.” She paused a long time to
control her breathing. “Nearly dying to give you life, that I can forgive.” She
held up the picture with the most determined expression he had ever seen. “You
dating a black is something I could not forgive.”
“She’s
not ‘a black,’ mom, she’s a woman. A very accomplished woman.”
“Don’t
see her anymore,” Mrs. Elsworth commanded. “I mean it, Peter. I will cut you
out of the will and I will never talk to you again.”
“Really?”
Peter shot back. “You feel so strongly about black people that you would never
even speak to your own son again if I dated her?”
Mrs.
Elsworth narrowed her eyes. “You’re young and maybe you want to try something
different, but under no circumstances are you to bring a black into my home or
into my life. It’s not going to happen, Peter.”
“It’s
not your choice,” he said, meeting her stare with unwavering eyes. “It’s hers.”
Mrs.
Elsworth suddenly slapped him across the face. Hard. The sound resounded in the
room and Peter turned away, wincing. He raised his right hand to his cheek and
looked at his mother with great anguish. The moment she did it, Mrs. Elsworth’s
expression changed from sheer anger to deep regret, but what was done was done.
“I’m
sorry,” Mrs. Elsworth muttered, holding her hand to her mouth. “Don’t do this
to me, Peter. Don’t bring her into my life.”
He
stared at his mother, his left cheek glowing. “It’s not your life we’re talking
about,” Peter said, “it’s mine.”
Mrs.
Elsworth looked frantic. It was the first time Peter could ever remember them
having an intense argument, and she had never struck him. Every night, when he
was a little boy, she would tuck him in, read him a story, kiss him on the
forehead, and say good night. That was always their relationship, and always he
was the apple of her eye. Now his face stung, but that was nothing to the
anguish his mother was feeling. Tears flowed down her cheeks as she turned and
walked out the door, almost as if she was in a delirium.
Chapter Seven
The
next day Latesha awoke in a state of agitation so strong that she felt almost
ill. There seemed to be a dense fog hanging over her, swallowing her, and
destroying all sense of equilibrium. On the wall, directly above her bureau,
was a picture of her mother and father on their wedding day. Just below it,
next to her jewelry box, was the bag of jellybeans. Latesha felt a tremendous
urge to throw them out, and twice she carried them to the garbage pail, but she
couldn’t bring herself to do it. Instead she took the bag and put it in her
bottom drawer with junk she had collected over the years.
“I
never asked you to come into my life,” she whispered.
Then
she walked to the kitchen where she met her father.
“Big
show tonight?” Mr. Thomas asked her, awake uncharacteristically early.
Latesha
shrugged listlessly.
“You’ve
got a great chance,” Mr. Thomas offered, hoping she would reply in some way.
“No,
I don’t!” she snapped, her expression brooding and distant. “It’s a desperate
move and we both know it.”
“You
have a very good chance, honey.”
Latesha
ignored her father, quickly got ready, then left the house without saying good
bye.
She
stayed at the university all day and did not call home. She ate her supper in
the cafeteria, and then went to the auditorium an hour before the show. Only a
few people were scattered about, most of them arranging props or performing
final sound checks. But about thirty minutes before the show, large numbers of
students started to arrive, chatting loudly and settling into chairs. Latesha
felt incredibly nervous and kept quietly singing the words to her song. She sat
in the back row, close to the middle. Her right leg would not stop shaking.
Every
time someone walked through the doors, Latesha would glance to see who it was.
At one point she saw a tall man with blond hair and her heart pounded, but on
closer examination she realized it was not him. Five minutes before showtime,
the room filled to capacity. It became obvious to her that Peter was avoiding
her and had decided to skip the contest.
Though
Latesha had specifically asked Peter not to speak to her and not to acknowledge
their relationship in any way, she was profoundly disappointed that he did not
come. Maybe he had wanted to perform, and perhaps his friends had eagerly
anticipated it, but she had scared him away. She felt terrible.
As
the master of ceremonies came onto the stage, the back door opened once again
and Latesha snapped to see who was going to enter. Her heart skipped a beat
when she saw three men, followed by Peter. She swallowed hard.
Latesha
liked looking at him and because there were so many people, she felt safe in
watching his every move. He scanned the audience and looked in her direction.
Suddenly their eyes met. She wanted to turn away but couldn’t, and, to her
surprise, he waved. It was a slight wave, a cautious wave, and it was
accompanied by only the tiniest smile. To her greater surprise, Latesha
spontaneously waved back. Then she quickly turned her head and ignored him,
determined that this man become a stranger, no matter what.
The
host walked up to the microphone, made a few jokes, and eventually announced
the ten different acts and the order in which they would be performing. Latesha
would be the eighth act and Peter’s band, The Windows, was last on the bill.
Realizing they had some time to wait, Latesha relaxed in her chair and peeked
in Peter’s direction. He was sitting across the room. She could feel his
presence as surely as if he was giving off a powerful electric charge.
The
first few acts took no more than five minutes each and represented a mixed bag
of talent, sprinkled with a number of dreadful songs and dances. Everyone
watched the acts with interest, applauding with genuine enthusiasm for the best
and offering a mercy clap for those performers who were utterly devoid of
talent.
The
announcer walked onto the stage after one particularly bad rendition of a
classic Sinatra song. “They did it their way,” he said.
Everyone
laughed.
The
host looked over his list. “Now we have Beechwood’s own Latesha Thomas.” He
folded a clipboard under his arm and leaned over to the microphone. “Give it up
for Latesha Thomas!”
The
audience clapped. She shyly got out of her seat and strode to the stage,
sitting on a stool behind the microphone and looking very nervous.
A
moment later the music started playing and Latesha began to sing, at first
tentatively, but soon she settled in and her pretty voice resonated throughout
the room. As Latesha sang the song, she thought about her conversations with
Peter, especially when he told her about what he was seeking in a relationship.
His words had deeply touched her, more deeply than the words of any man who had
ever sought her favor.
When
she finished, the audience loudly clapped. Latesha shyly acknowledged the
applause, bowed slightly, then left the stage through a back door. She emerged
a short time later from the side door and walked to the back of the room. But
instead of taking her original seat, Latesha stood alone in a dim corner not ten
paces from where Peter sat. She was watching the stage when Peter turned and
looked directly at her. She looked at him.
He
stood up and casually approached her. “You were very good,” he said softly,
stopping beside her and looking at the stage.
“Thank
you,” she murmured. She was not rude, but she was not overly friendly.
He
cleared his throat. “Could I stand here with you and watch the next act? Or
could we sit down together?”
“I
want to stand,” she said.
Peter
paused for several seconds. “Do you want to stand alone?”
“This
is a free country. You can stand wherever you want.”
“I
want to stand beside you,” he said, “but you have the right to be alone if you
want.”
“I
don’t know what I want!” she snapped in a whisper, looking hard at him. “I
don’t know! But you can stand beside me if you want to.”
Together
they watched the ninth performer walk on the stage. He began rapping about
inner city life and was flanked by six dancers. The three men and three women
performed a complex, athletic routine and the three-woman choir, all wearing
impossibly short skirts, dazzled the ears and eyes with their singing and
synchronized movements. It was obvious they practiced the song for countless
hours and perfected every subtle nuance. Even Latesha and Peter were greatly impressed
and drawn into the performance. When it was over, the crowd gave them a
standing ovation.
“I
think we have a winner,” Latesha said stoically.
“I
liked you the best,” Peter said.
Latesha
looked at him with confusion. “Why are you always so gracious?”
“Now
we have a group of four guys called The Windows.” The host made a funny face
when he read the name. “They’re going to be doing a song by The Doors.” He
laughed. “Maybe they’ll light your fire.”
The
audience chuckled as Peter and his band mates walked onto the stage. Latesha
recognized Peter’s friend from the university as he strapped on his guitar, but
what really interested her was the lead singer. He was wearing dark sunglasses,
black pants, and a dark blue shirt. His shoes were black, his belt was black, and
the band around his wrist was black. He looked sleek, like a black panther. And
he was stunningly handsome.
“The
Doors were known for pushing the envelope,” Peter told the audience, “but they
had some nice, soft songs, too. This is a very short and simple song, but it
has meaning for everyone here.” He cleared his throat. “If nothing else, I will
sing it from the heart. It’s called
Indian
Summer
.”
He
looked at his friends and the band started playing. It was obvious from the
first note that they were excellent musicians. Latesha had never heard that
song before, but she loved the haunting sounds and softness.
Latesha
listened and watched intently. Peter did not have a great voice, but he had a
good voice, a sincere voice. During the short instrumental section, Peter took
off his sunglasses and looked down and to the right, lightly swinging his head
and tapping his foot. The audience was well engaged and the musicians found
their groove.
Latesha
lowered her eyes and listened without lifting them for the duration of the
song. But she did listen, and she did hear, and she knew he was singing to her,
and to her alone. When it ended, she clapped along with everyone else, but kept
her eyes averted. A few minutes later Peter walked to the back of the room and
stood beside her.
“That
was very pretty,” Latesha said.
“I
did my best and it was sincere.”
The
host came on stage to announce the winner. As Latesha and Peter expected, the
rapper won and took the prize money. Latesha and The Windows, however, did receive
the two honorable mentions.
“They
deserved it,” Latesha said as the main lights were turned on and everybody got
up to leave.
“Can
I buy you a cup of coffee?” Peter asked hopefully.
Latesha
hurriedly put on her coat. “The last bus runs at ten and I’ve got twenty
minutes to get there.”
“I’ll
drive you home,” Peter said. “It’ll save you bus fare.”
“Thanks
anyway,” Latesha said, lifting her hair out from under the collar of her coat.
“It was nice of you to offer.”
“I
know you’re an English major,” Peter began, “but I’m sure you’re good at math,
too. A cup of coffee, a drive home, nice company...or no hot coffee, a crowded
bus, and no company. I think one has more value than the other, don’t you?”
She
sternly looked at him. “Life isn’t math. There are many factors at work, and
you know it.” She started walking away. “I have to go.”
“Java
Haven,” Peter said lowly, making one last-ditch effort.
Latesha
turned and faced him. “Java Heaven.”
“What?”
Peter queried with a confused look.
“The
little coffee shop is called Java Heaven, not Java Haven.”
Peter
shook his head and had the most serious look imaginable. “It’s Java Haven.”
“No,
it’s not!” Latesha said with an exaggerated movement of the head and a humorous
pursing of her lips. “It’s Java Heaven.”
“I’ve
been going there steadily for five years,” Peter stated, giving no quarter, “so
if there’s one person who knows what that coffee shop is called, it’s me. And
it’s Java Haven.”
“You’re
not serious? You studied English and students of English notice words, or at least
they should. It’s Java Heaven and that’s all there is to it.”
“You
need glasses. It’s Java Haven.”
Latesha
drew back her head in a comical way. “You wouldn’t have to go there for five
years because you could read the sign if you went there only once. Java Heaven.
End of story.”
Peter
sighed with exasperation. “Tell you what. If I’m wrong I’ll buy you any cup of
coffee in the shop. I don’t care if it costs a thousand bucks for a
thimble-full. I mean it. I’m that sure.”
Latesha
looked at her watch and groaned with irritation. “Just on principle,” she
finally said. “But I don’t need a coffee and I don’t need a drive. I’m taking
the bus, but I have time to swing past the coffee shop. Hurry up. Follow me.”
Latesha
quickly walked out of the Student Union Building and buttoned up her coat.
Peter was right behind her, though she was moving so fast he almost had to jog.
“Can
you slow down to a sprint?” he asked breathlessly as they walked down
University Avenue.
She
again looked at her watch. “I have a bus to catch, but not until I prove to you
that it’s Java Heaven.” She shook her head. “Java Haven! A Masters degree and
he can’t even read.”
Latesha
hurried her pace, her bag swinging back and forth with each step. At the end of
University Avenue she turned down a street, and then another, and then onto a
busy thoroughfare. Peter never did catch up to her, obviously fearing someone
might have thought he was chasing her, but when she stopped and looked back, it
took him only thirty seconds to reach her. When he did, she pointed
triumphantly at the neon sign.
“Told
you,” she said. “Java Heaven.”
Peter
nodded in surrender. “I can’t believe it. They must have changed the sign.”
“They
did not change the sign. You were wrong. Admit it.”
“All
right, I admit it. You were right. I owe you a cup of coffee.”
Latesha
thought about it for close to a minute. “Okay, I’ll take the cup and the drive
home. You were a big enough man to admit you were wrong, after all.”
Peter
looked exceedingly pleased and opened the door for her. “After you, Ms.
Thomas.”
Latesha
slightly bowed her head and walked into the coffee shop. Peter joined her at
the counter and a man walked over to service them. “Yes, sir,” he said, “what
can I get for you and your lady friend?”
Peter
ordered and then noticed Latesha looking at the name on one selection. It was a
special exotic called Senegambia Seduction, and cost ten dollars for one cup.
“Would
you like to try it?” Peter asked.
“Oh,
no, I couldn’t,” Latesha said, shaking her head in embarrassment. “That would be
decadent. I’ll find something a lot less pricey.”
“No,
that was our bet. Would you like to try it?”
“Of
course I would,” she said lowly, “but I’d feel guilty.”
Peter
ordered a regular coffee and one cup of Senegambia Seduction. The owner
personally prepared the cup with an artistic use of cream and spices, dazzling
the three other patrons who watched with rapt attention. When he finished, he
stepped back and admired his work, then handed it to Latesha.