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“I cleared your schedule.”
“The hell? Why would you do that?”
“Because this is more important,” Malak said, standing up to meet her best friend eye to eye. “Because you said you would at least try to support your sister. And because she needs you. And because I love her. And because I love you.”
The sweet statements at the end softened the impact of Malak’s actions.
“Please give me the strength to be a fence!” Zena shouted in disgust before turning to her office. “I need a barrier to stop me from screaming at somebody this morning.”
Chapter 3
Zola was standing on the sidewalk in front of the big shop window at Madame Lucille’s Lace, one of the last black-owned couture bridal boutiques in Atlanta. On display in the window was an elegant, slender brown mannequin draped in crystal-lined lace and organza that swept the floor. A Mississippi transplant with a French name and fake French accent, Madame Lucille Archambeau was known for making dramatic, big-entry wedding gowns that piqued the interest of the city’s new elite ladies who used their wedding day to make a statement about who they were and where they were going.
When Zena pulled into the parking lot at Lucille’s, still rolling her eyes at the idea of participating in the dress selection and fitting, she noted how small and humble her baby sister looked standing before the bedecked mannequin. She was so lanky, so svelte, her frame seemed smaller than the mannequins. Zola was sporting her common puffy topknot, vintage pink bifocals, weathered white high-top Chuck Taylors and secondhand-store clothing. She was boho chic, pipsqueak cute, no frills and no Atlanta fly girl fashion. Just beautiful without trying to be. But fragile and small. Too delicate. So delicate, Zena almost felt bad for her standing there by herself. If she didn’t know Zola, she’d wonder where her people were—where her friends were. If anyone cared a thing about her.
“You came!” Zola called to Zena when she spotted her walking toward the building from the parking lot. Zola had been thumbing through her phone; she looked as if she might have been calling Zena. She quickly stashed the phone into the hobo sack on her arm and embraced Zena. “I can’t believe you came. Malak said she’d make you, but I can’t believe she really did!”
Zena let Zola wrap her arms around her, but Zena kept her arms straight and at her sides. She could smell weed and some spicy perfume in Zola’s hair. It reminded her of when Zola started smoking marijuana in high school. Zena had discovered her stash beneath the sink in the bathroom they shared between their bedrooms. Zena was home for spring break and needed to borrow one of Zola’s tampons, but when she pulled out the box, a rather large Ziploc bag of marijuana fell to the floor.
“Malak can’t make me do a damn thing,” Zena said as Zola let her go at Lucille’s.
“So you came on your own accord?” Zola grinned.
“I came, Zol. I just came. Okay?” Zena said flatly. “I’m saying, what more could you want from me? Just last night you told me about the wedding, and today you’re picking out wedding dresses. It’s a bit much—and a bit fast.”
“Well, I have two weeks, and Madame Lucille was the only couture dressmaker who said she could have something ready.”
“A rush order? Sounds expensive.” Zena pointed out. “How are you paying for this?”
“No worries. It’s a gift,” Zola said grinning. “And you don’t even have to worry about your dress, either. All covered.”
“Well, I know it’s not Mommy. And where is she? Isn’t that how this is supposed to go? Like, your mother should be here, right?” Zena asked. There was no reason to add friends to that list. Zola never really had many friends. Growing up, Zola always complained that the girls in their neighborhood were too shallow or too mean. She preferred her books of poetry and her Alton.
Zola stepped back and looked up the street pensively. “I invited Mommy. But she claimed she had things to do in her garden and that I could do it myself. You know how she is. Ever since Daddy—” Zola stopped herself and looked back at Zena as if there was something she was about to say that both of them knew but neither really wanted to hear. She went on, leaving gaps where those words might be. “If she doesn’t want to be here, I’m fine with that. I don’t want to deal with her pessimism anyway. That’s part of why Adan and I decided to elope. I can’t deal with all of her negativity. She can’t deal with all of her baggage.”
While Zena’s scowl hadn’t dissipated, these words served as a bridge to her sister’s emotional landscape and softened Zena’s antagonism. She knew her mother’s limitations too well, and although Zena always managed to live with them, to put them aside and continue to press forward, Zola saw her mother’s shortcomings as short circuits in their own relationship. While Zena took Lisa’s ever-swelling pain at her husband’s betrayal as revelation of what came with loving someone, Zola internalized Lisa’s disdain for their father as slight disdain for them, for her in particular.
Soon, Madame Lucille, a silver fox decked out in a black cashmere duster and thick black Dior lenses, came out of the dress shop chiding the sisters for loitering in front of her business and, worse, blocking the couture vision in the display window. When the sisters revealed that Zola was the bride, Madame Lucille snapped her fingers, and two perky assistants dressed in all black appeared from nowhere to whisk Zola into the empty shop, where they busied her with a bin of fabric swatches and photo albums.
One of the assistants took Zena’s measurements. Madame Lucille reappeared with a sketch pad and began talking about Zena’s bone structure, the length of her arms, the width of her ankles as she sketched what looked like a bunch of scribbling from Zena’s perspective. After what felt like seconds, Madame Lucille exhaled as if she’d run a mile and dropped her pencil to the floor. Without conferring with Zena, who was leaning forward from the hold of the assistant with the measuring tape to get a peek at the dress sketch, Madame Lucille shared her work with Zola.
“I love it! I love it so much!” Zola squealed before looking at Zena. “Oh, my God! You’re going to look fabulous.”
Zena smiled and tried again to get a look at the sketch herself, but one step away from the assistant measuring her led to the woman mistakenly jabbing a straight pin into Zena’s thigh.
“Ouch!” Zena hollered as Madame Lucille left the room with the sketch.
After Zola picked out a few bridal gowns from the look book, one of the assistants brought a stuffed rolling wardrobe into the showroom, and Zena sat on a plush cream parlor settee as Zola was tugged in and out of dresses that looked half-right and all wrong. Madame Lucille peeked over her glasses and gave adamant “no’s,” scolding her assistants as if they were the reason for the trouble finding something perfect for Zola.
Zena watched Zola’s confusion in the scene and thought of what she had been doing this time of year when she was Zola’s age. Along with some of her classmates from Howard, she’d locked herself up in a hotel room out by the airport and studied so long and so hard for the Bar Exam that when she closed her eyes, she could see the pages from her study guides burned into her pupils. While the room smelled stale and the delivery pizza got really old really fast, the dedication to passing the exam was addictive to Zena. The focus required that she leave thoughts of everything else, of everyone behind. She didn’t have to worry. All she needed to do was focus. And soon that focus would pay off and fix everything that once worried her.
The only thing that kept threatening to splinter Zena’s focus in that hotel room six years ago was the knowledge that somewhere in New York, Adan was probably doing the same thing. Law school had been their dream together. On one of those long walks home from school, they decided they’d open a practice together. The name was to be something like Law: From A to Z, which Zena hated, but Adan’s enthusiasm made it minimally appealing. They’d take on civil rights cases like Thurgood Marshall and Johnny Cochrane. The plan was to graduate from high school, go to Spelman and Morehouse, then they were off to Harvard Law. They would work part-time so they didn’t rack up student-loan debt, return to Georgia to take the Bar and then Law: From A to Z would be born.
Adan made it all sound so simple in the love letters he passed to Zena in the hallway at school. But then Zena didn’t get into Spelman, and Adan got a full scholarship to Morehouse. Resourceful, he changed the plan. He’d take the full Morehouse scholarship. Zena would go to Bethune-Cookman. They’d see each other on breaks and in four years meet up at Harvard. But then that didn’t go as planned.
Adan got into Harvard, but Zena wasn’t accepted, and while she’d gotten into some top-tier law schools, she loved her Historically Black College experience at Bethune-Cookman and how Howard’s law alumni in Georgia began courting her when she’d been accepted. So after seven years together, lots of leaning on and dreaming, two weeks before college graduation, Adan showed up at Zena’s off-campus apartment talking all philosophically about their relationship and love and what people have had to do to survive through the centuries.
Zena ignored most of this. She was used to Adan’s speeches. His big ideas and pontificating. She sat at her kitchen table, eyeing her thick Howard acceptance folder and half listened as a girlfriend would. As Adan paced and talked about excellence and “keeping his eyes on the prize,” she watched him and remembered the first day they met. How cute he was. That he stole her air. The butterflies. That night after the football game junior year in Jason Corbin’s basement when she lost her virginity to Adan.
