“Help
a man out?” he asked Latesha as she approached.
Latesha
stopped and stared into his eyes. “You’re not looking for booze money, are
you?”
“Food,”
he said, shaking his head. “Ain’t eaten in two days.”
“Truthin’
or trickin’?” she asked.
“Truthin’,”
he said, giving her a pathetic look.
“All
right. What would you like?”
“Cucumber
sandwich,” he told her, “and apple juice.”
“Wait
here.” Latesha went into the cafeteria, bought a cucumber sandwich, a bottle of
apple juice and an orange then brought the food back to the homeless man.
He
ate as if starving. “Thank you, miss,” he said humbly between chews. “That was
nice of you.”
“You
shouldn’t be going hungry. Do you want me to phone Social Services?”
“What’s
the use?” he asked, taking a long drink and wiping his mouth with his greasy
sleeve. “They say that in two billion years the sun is going to burn out. What
then? Won’t matter if I can play like Jimi Hendrix or sing like Pavarotti, will
it?”
“I
never thought of it that way,” Latesha conceded with a laugh.
“I’m
a philosopher,” the homeless man said, delighted that she was paying attention
to him.
“A
philosopher?”
“Yes,
ma’am.” His eyes darted left and right. Seeing no one nearby, he grew very
solemn. “Garbage bags,” he suddenly blurted out, as if at last revealing the
secret of the universe.
“Garbage
bags?”
“Garbage
bags,” he repeated, a look of deep thought etched into his wrinkles. “Just
think about it. They are what we become. We buy them to throw them away.” He
gravely nodded. “Garbage bags.”
“I’ll
never look at garbage bags the same way,” Latesha said.
He
finished his juice and peeled the orange. “Want to know something else?”
“Sure.”
“Good
fortune will come to you,” he told her, his eyes sparkling. “Mark my words.” He
started walking away.
“Good
luck,” she said warmly then walked to the cafeteria and read
Romeo and Juliet
before calling her
father.
“Hi,
Latesha,” said Mr. Thomas. “What’s up?”
“Oh,
nothing. Just checking to make sure everything’s all right.”
“Everything’s
fine, dear.”
“Did
you let Oprah out?”
“I
did.”
“Listen,
Dad,” Latesha said, “I found the letter from the insurance company and the
letter about the tax bill.”
“Oh?”
“Dad,
I know you’re prone to worrying, but I don’t want you fretting over money.
We’ll deal with whatever comes up.”
“Maybe
in theory,” he said, “but not in reality. The insurance company said they’re
going to cancel my policy unless I do a truckload of work, but we don’t have
the money. To fix the roof alone would cost thousands. I haven’t got
thousands.”
“What’s
going to happen to us, Dad?”
“They’ll
cancel the home insurance to start with, then probably alert the municipality
to my problems and have someone else come out here and harass us. They’ll
probably force us out of our home in the end.”
“I
don’t think so.”
“I
do.” He paused. “They gave me six weeks to make the changes, but they might as
well give me six years because I’ll never have that kind of money.”
“Thousands?”
Latesha mumbled, swallowing hard. She sighed. “I don’t have all the answers, Dad,
but I do have a plan for supplementing our income.”
“A
plan?” Mr. Thomas asked tentatively. “I’m not sure I want to hear this.”
“Good,
because I don’t have the time to explain right now. I’ll tell you when I get
home.”
“All
right,” he said suspiciously. “See you then.”
“Love
you, Dad.”
“Love
you, too, Tesha.”
Latesha
walked to the library, found her favorite cubicle, then read
Romeo and Juliet
with undivided
attention. At three o’clock, after her class on Chaucer, she left the campus,
but decided to forego the crowded transit bus, and walked toward the south end.
The further she went, the more luxurious the homes became. On one particularly
exclusive street near the harbor stood The Old English Club, an imposing
playground for the rich with its tennis courts, swimming pool, yacht club and
ivy-covered buildings. The grounds were meticulously manicured and enclosed by
a chain-link fence. Near the gate, at which sat a security guard, stood a huge
statue carved from a tree. It was a beautiful piece of sculpture, one she had
admired even as a little girl while walking past with her mother and father,
but the subject was a stern-looking man with his arms folded across his chest.
Latesha
read the metal plaque on the base. “Garfield Rutherford. Founder of The Old
English Club, 1868. President until his death in 1901.”
She
turned away and walked for ten minutes, then stopped in front of a massive
brick house with an attached two-door garage. In the back was a sprawling
Japanese garden complete with a fishpond and pagoda.
The
door suddenly opened and a chalky white woman in her early fifties appeared at
the threshold. She wore so much makeup that her face looked like a mask. “I
need to speak with you, Miss Thomas.”
Latesha
walked in and a black maid closed the door behind her.
“That
will be all, Louise,” the white woman said.
“Yes,
ma’am, Mrs. Henry.” The maid glanced furtively at Latesha and then hurried into
the kitchen.
Mrs.
Henry scowled. “Took your time today, did you?”
“It’s
so nice that I walked,” Latesha answered with confusion.
Mrs.
Henry, her face as if set in concrete, looked at her watch. “You are five
minutes late.”
“Sorry,”
Latesha replied. “I’ve never been late before. I’ll stay an extra fifteen
minutes if that’s all right.”
“No,
it’s not all right,” Mrs. Henry shot back. “You were told to be here at four
o’clock and it is five minutes past. Miss Thomas, punctuality is the key to
success. If you are not punctual, you are not trustworthy, and if you are not
trustworthy, who will employ you?”
Latesha
looked at her feet in hopes the lecture would soon be over.
“You
have done a good job tutoring my son, but tutors are easy to find.
Unfortunately, it is not so easy to find help that is punctual. I will not
accept such a cavalier attitude. I am terminating our relationship.”
“Mrs.
Henry!” Latesha exclaimed in shock, her voice cracking, “I need this job!”
Mrs.
Henry took out her pocketbook. “You should have thought of that before disrespecting
me.”
“I
never disrespected you, Mrs. Henry,” Latesha asserted, her heart pounding.
“Yes,
you did. My time is valuable. I have to leave today and our arrangement called
for three one-hour tutoring sessions per week. Therefore, you are forcing me to
pay you for work that is not done, to be late for my appointment because you
are late for yours, or to leave you alone in my house with my son.” Her
features grew more solemn. “I do not give away money, I am never late for
anything, and it would be highly improper to leave a young woman alone with my
son. This business arrangement is now terminated and I will not change my
mind.”
Latesha
felt as if she had been punched in the stomach.
Mrs.
Henry handed her thirty dollars owed from the previous session. “There, I am
now paid in full.” She took out a hundred-dollar bill. “However, out of the
goodness of my heart, I am giving you this money as an assurance that you will
never again set foot on my property.”
“Keep
it!” Latesha said proudly, turning away. Her eyes flashed and there was a noble
set to her jaw as she opened the door. “I only take money I’ve earned.”
“As
you wish,” said Mrs. Henry, returning the bill to her wallet. “Louise!” she
called, “show Miss Thomas out.”
Mrs.
Henry thrust her sharp nose into the air and walked upstairs. Louise took
Latesha by the arm. “Mrs. found the young man’s diary,” she whispered when they
were alone. “He’s in love with you.”
“What!”
Latesha cried sharply.
“Young
Mr. Henry is madly in love with you,” Louise said.
“Are
you sure?”
“I
know everything that goes on in this house.”
“I
had no idea. I certainly never encouraged it.”
“It
wasn’t your fault,” Louise told her, pulling the door open. “Good bye,
Latesha.”
Latesha
forced a smile and left. As she moved down the driveway, she looked at the
upstairs window and saw the teenage boy gazing at her with lovesick eyes.
Suddenly the curtain moved and she could see Mrs. Henry standing behind him,
staring like a hawk. Latesha turned and briskly strode up the street.
This
is a setback, she thought, passing one mansion after another.
But maybe it’s a good omen. Out with
the old and in with the new.
Latesha
hurried to the transit stop, caught the number seven to the mall, and then the
number fourteen to Beechwood. She got off the bus across the road from where
she had boarded it that morning and took a deep breath of fresh country air.
About sixty modest homes with gravel driveways spotted the rocky landscape on
both sides of the road, some with boarded up windows and old cars strewn about the
property. Clotheslines drooped under heavy loads and in several yards children
were playing tag or throwing a ball. Everyone milling about was black, and they
either waved to Latesha as she walked by, or came down their driveways to
converse with her. She took time with each of them, laughing and exchanging
good cheer. Half a dozen young boys ran toward the community center with their
hockey sticks, nimbly darting around Latesha and shrieking with laughter as she
ran after them, her strides graceful and smooth.
“You
should run track,” called Mrs. Hill from her rocking chair on the veranda. “You
have your father’s speed.”
Latesha
worked her way through a dozen clucking chickens and walked up to the gray-haired
woman. “How are your legs feeling today, Mrs. Hill?”
“A
little better,” said the old woman, laying her hands on the blue knit blanket
that rested on her lap. “I heard you’re directing the play.”
“What
do you think? Should I run away to Mexico?”
“Everything
will turn out, dear,” Mrs. Hill said.
“There
isn’t much time left.”
“How’s
it looking?”
“Not
good. I haven’t even seen the actors practice yet.”
“Everything
will turn out,” the old woman repeated.
“Yes,
that’s right,” Latesha said, nodding cheerfully. “I’m making tea biscuits
tonight, Mrs. Hill, and I’ll be sure to bring you some fresh out of the oven.”
“You’re
a dear,” Mrs. Hill said. “You’ve been a dear ever since you were a little
girl.”
“Thank
you.” She hugged the old woman. “I’ll bring them over after supper.”
Latesha
passed the boys playing street hockey at the Beechwood Community Center and
walked to her home at the end of the village. It was a one-story yellow house
trimmed with forest green windows and doors. The quaint, charming property was well
kept with a colorful flower garden in front and an ancient beech tree in the
back with an octagonal bench built around its massive trunk.
Latesha
walked into the kitchen and laid her purse on the table. The house was
spotlessly clean and a vase of colorful flowers stood on the windowsill above
the sink. Carefully arranged on shelves next to the refrigerator were ten
trophies depicting football players. Amidst them were three framed pictures of
Chicago Bears football great, Walter Payton.
The
spacious living room contained an old couch covered by a bright yellow sheet, a
recliner chair on which Oprah napped, bookshelves, a floor model television,
and some dumbbells lying discarded in a corner. Latesha’s father, a man of
fifty, pushed himself out of his bedroom in a wheelchair. He wore a threadbare
white T-shirt with stains on it, baggy blue sweat pants, and a pair of old
sneakers with no socks. His grizzled beard and hair were rapidly turning gray,
and he was at least forty pounds overweight.
“Hi,
Dad.”
His
face instantly brightened. “Hi, Tesha. How was school?”
“Good,”
she said. “How was your day?”
“Same
old, same old.” He yawned. “Boring as hell.”
Latesha
took a bowl from under the sink and filled it with water, then poured cat food
into another bowl and laid them on the floor. “Supper time, Oprah!”
Oprah
stretched, got down off the recliner, and waddled across the floor. She
casually took a drink and nibbled on her food.
“I’m
going to get some money for the bills, Dad,” Latesha said, without looking at
her father.
“It
wouldn’t be fair of me to take it from you,” he replied firmly.
“Don’t
be silly.”
“It’s
not silly. I don’t want to sponge off my own daughter.”
Latesha
smirked. “Come on, Dad. We help each other. That’s what family’s all about.”
She kicked off her shoes. “I know money was tight here, but you always made
sure I had everything I needed.”
“That’s
different. It’s my responsibility to support you.”
“I’m
going to help out.”
He
smiled lovingly at her. “Now even if you wanted to, where are you going to find
extra money?”
“I
started a business,” she boasted as she started a wash.
“A
business,” he said skeptically. “What kind of business?”
“I’m
going to be a matchmaker.”
“A
matchmaker?” He looked hard at her.
“That’s
right. I’m going to match people for money. You know, find them dates and that
sort of thing. I put up posters and clients will call here between six and
nine, but only Monday to Friday. It’s not a huge commitment, but when the phone
rings, let me answer it.”
“You
have no experience with matchmaking, Tesha.”
She
took some pasta and sauce out of the cupboard. “How hard can it be? The birds
and the bees, Dad.” Latesha prepared their supper as she explained her concept.
“I find them true happiness and they pay me. What could be simpler?”