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She stepped between Guy and the fan again, surprised by the sensation of the breeze blowing up against the trickle of cold sweat tracing its way down her spine. Now that the breeze of the fan couldn’t carry away his scent, she could smell the alcohol on him. She stared down at him, trying to see e
ven a glimmer of the man she’d fallen in love with. When they first met, hell, even when he was making his plans to leave her, he’d been so filled with drive, with passion for his work. That passion seemed to have dissipated the second he began spending time with Edwin Taylor.
Guy had made a big show of bringing home fresh canvasses. And he must have spent a small fortune on fresh oils. But so far he hadn’t made a single brushstroke. No, he spent most of his days sprawled out right here, in front of the fan, lulled into a near torpor by its incessant drone and the Taylors’ cast-off bourbon. He rose at dusk, the sound of Edwin’s approaching convertible his reveille, and then the two would be off until the small hours. Some nights, Guy would return, all sweat and spirits, and clamber on top of her; other nights, he would pass out at her side.
Until his nightly return, Jilo would lie alone in the haint-blue room that she’d once again taken over as her, their, bedroom. Robinson continued to share a room with Binah. At first Willy had carried on sleeping on a cot in the front room, but lately he’d taken to staying in the back yard in an army surplus tent. He’d be okay out there for now, but she had to get things sorted out before winter.
She wore no ring on her finger; Guy was beyond such “bourgeois” conventions, and took every opportunity he could find, especially when Edwin was in earshot, to pontificate against society’s small minds. Still, these two freethinkers had driven Willy from the house, mocking him for his effeminate gestures and the way he carried himself. They insulted him with cruel names, half of which Jilo had never heard before, though “catamite” was the one that seemed to bring them the most mirth, eliciting peals of raucous laughter. Edwin got himself so liquored up one night that he grabbed Willy, spun him around in a rough dance, and forced a contemptuous kiss on the boy’s lips.
That night, there had been no choice but to intervene. Jilo had pulled the bruised and frightened Willy from Edwin’s grasp, and then, to her astonishment, Binah had dived forward and slapped the white man’s face, leaving a dark red mark on his rosy cheek. Jilo had expected trouble after that, but Edwin just flushed red and stumbled out the door. When she turned around to look for Guy, he was already passed out in her nana’s old chair.
“How could a woman fall in love with such a man?” Binah asked from behind her.
She couldn’t bring herself to turn to face her sister. “I saw a spark in him . . . once.” At least I thought I did, she said to herself. “And he is Robinson’s father. A boy needs his father.” She allowed herself a quick glance over her shoulder. Binah had a lost, faraway look on her face; her gaze was cast downward, and she was biting her lower lip. “Go on,” Jilo said. “Go see to Willy.”
Edwin had returned the very next night, and whether it was true or merely pretense, he seemed to have no memory of his actions the previous evening. A part of Jilo wanted to take him to task for his behavior, but she suspected that it would do no good. A man like that always sees himself as the hero. He’d find some way or other to excuse himself, and without a doubt, Guy would take his drinking buddy’s side. She had to get these Taylors out of their lives. They were a bad, disruptive influence. With Edwin out of the picture, Jilo would find a way to get Guy working. A way to get Willy back into his own house.
Jilo felt goose bumps crawl up her arm. “I don’t know, Guy,” she said, crossing her arms and trying to rub the gooseflesh away. “I know you like this Taylor fellow, but there is something off about him. I can’t put my finger on it, but I feel uneasy around him. And I’m not the only one. Ask anyone about the Taylors, and they’ll tell you there’s something odd . . .”
“And just who have you been asking about the Taylors?” Guy slid to the edge of the chair, suddenly alert. “Edwin. He’s my friend. How’s he going to feel if he finds out you been out shopping for gossip about his family?”
“I haven’t been gossiping. And I haven’t been asking anyone about the Taylors either. Not really. I’ve just been listening, whenever their name comes up. And their name comes up in casual conversation a whole lot more than any honest family’s name ought to.” Guy gave her a hard, long look before dropping his gaze down to the side, turning his head and lowering his chin, telling her without saying a word that he wasn’t interested in what she had to tell him. “People talk about the Taylors all the time. Most of it isn’t pretty.”
“Enough.” He met her gaze again, a hard look in his eyes. “They’re my friends. I can’t believe your lack of gratitude.”
“Gratitude?”
“If not for Edwin,” Guy said, slipping back into a more relaxed position, “we’d still be apart. It’s almost like he was sent to New York to bring us back together.” And there it was, the source of the uneasy feeling that had been lurking in her subconscious mind. Could their meeting have been arranged? The question had nearly risen up above the waters many times, only to be submerged anew as her conscious mind objected that the thought was utterly ridiculous. “It’s like it was fate. Meant to be.”
What if Guy and Edwin had never met?
“The least you could do is show him a little kindness. Unless Mother Jilo,” he said her working name in a contemptuous tone, “is above such niceties.”
“You’ve been drinking,” she said. Her words came out sounding like an accusation, though she’d intended them as an excuse for his harshness. “Quite a bit, by the smell of you.”
“And the night is young,” he said, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. “I got a lot more drinking to do. Now go get yourself prettied up, girl. Got a big surprise coming for you.”
“Bourbon. Ice,” Ginny called over her shoulder to her brother, two years her junior, according to Ginny. Then she turned back to Jilo, leaning in so that she would be heard over the music. “So nice to let the men fetch for us for a change, isn’t it?”
Jilo smiled, but didn’t respond verbally. She doubted this Taylor girl with her blonde brushed-under pageboy and soft hands ever did much of her own fetching anyway.
Jilo felt embarrassed by her own appearance. Her hair was a bit of a mess. She’d been wearing it covered in her Mother Jilo guise for so long now she’d stopped paying much attention to it. Binah had been encouraging her to try some of the new hair relaxers, but until Guy’s return, she hadn’t cared to put much thought into her appearance. After Guy’s return, she’d been faced with much bigger problems. Earlier, as she was dressing before her mirror, she had considered commandeering the wig Willy kept hidden in his small steamer trunk of belongings, but the day was too hot and sticky for a wig. She reached up, without realizing what she was doing, and patted the back of her head, like her subconscious mind felt a simple pat or two could fix the frizz.
“Your hair is lovely,” Ginny said, picking up on the gesture, if not her very thoughts. “So untamed and earthy. You blacks are just so much more in touch with nature than we whites are.” Jilo wondered for a moment if this coiffed and pampered young woman could be serious. The thought brought an actual smile to Jilo’s lips. Yes, she realized in flabbergasted amusement, the girl truly believed she had just paid Jilo a compliment.
Jilo felt her mouth gearing up, readying itself to tell this cotton-candy-pink confection of a woman just what she thought of her praise, but then she noticed Guy and Edwin pressing through the crowd, drawing near the table. Guy had two whole bottles of bourbon in his hands. Jilo prayed that Guy had swallowed his pride and allowed the young man with the deep pockets to pay for the liquor. Edwin followed on Guy’s heels, carrying a tray over his head like one of the fancy waiters Jilo had seen in the movies. On the tray sat an ice bucket and glasses.
“Your dress is beautiful,” Jilo said, offering a compliment of her own rather than the barb she’d nearly launched. What she said was true, if not entirely heartfelt. Jilo had made her best effort, managing to squeeze into one of her old Kingfisher Club favorites, a pale yellow, hammered-satin peg-top dress that, in spite of having been aired outside all day, still held a faint scent of naphthalene. She had no doubt that this was the first time Ginny’s dress had been worn. Its boatneck cut was demure, but it was sleeveless, so it displayed the young woman’s athletic yet feminine arms to their best advantage. The fabric was a pale blue satin with a pattern in a soft gold of what appeared to be leaves and vines looped through other less familiar shapes.
“Balenciaga,” Ginny said as if the word should hold some meaning for Jilo. She shifted as Edwin leaned over to place the tray on the table. “Father says it’s a shame to waste such a pretty dress on such a plain girl.” She reached over to grab one of the glasses. “But I say fuck him.”
Jilo’s mouth fell wide open, incapable of believing such language could come from such a pretty, young society lady.
Edwin laughed and clanked a still-empty glass against his sister’s equally empty tumbler. “Fuck the old man,” he called out, as if it were a toast. “C’mon, Guy.” He grabbed two cubes of ice from the bucket, using his fingers rather than the tongs provided for that purpose. “Get to pouring.”
“I’m sorry,” Ginny said looking at Jilo, shoving her own glass toward Guy. “I know with all the real problems in this world, such slights shouldn’t matter . . .”
“But you are a very pretty woman,” Jilo said, surprised to feel any level of sympathy for this debutante.
