The next morning Naomi got up at six-thirty, unable to sleep longer, and phoned her grandfather.
“Why are you calling so early, gal? I thought you artist types worked at night and slept most of the day.”
She ignored his attempted reprimand for having abandoned teaching for art. “Grandpa, I think we ought to look up those people who want to find me and get it over with; I can’t stand this uncertainty. A month ago, I had a quiet life and was contented, all things considered. It’s like a death sentence must be; maybe the waiting and not knowing is worse than the actual execution.”
“Don’t you be foolish, gal,” he roared into the phone. “They may give up or I may find a way to discourage them.”
“But where does that leave me? Did I have a girl, a boy, twins? And are the adoptive parents loving, abusive, rich, dirt poor? What about my feelings, Grandpa? This is becoming unbearable.” She thought about Rufus and how devoted he was to his boys. He put them before everybody and everything, including his career. She recalled his painful allusion to his childhood when, after “pining” all day for someone, no doubt his mother, that someone had gotten home too tired to give him the love he needed. What would he think of her? She heard Judd’s insistent voice.
“What was that, Grandpa?”
“Where’s your mind, Naomi?” She imagined that he was rolling his eyes upward, expressing his frustration. “I said that I tried to spare you as best I could. But if you’re going to be foolish and go looking for trouble, I’d better hire a lawyer. Never could tell you a thing.”
“So the lawyer can tell you that we don’t have any options? This is something that has to be done on a personal basis.” She hated discussing it with him. Her grandfather would soon be ninety-five; he’d been born the last day of the nineteenth century, and she tried never to argue with him. Not only because he’d taken her in and made a home for her when her father had remarried to a woman who didn’t want a stepchild around, and had become her legal guardian when her father had died, but because she cared for him and didn’t like to upset him. He’s the product of anther era, she reminded herself, a time when a man did what he thought best for his family and expected them to accept it as he knew they would.
“We’ve got a problem, so we’ll get legal advice,” she heard him say in his usual authoritarian fashion. The sisters and brothers of the First Golgotha Baptist Church didn’t get out of line with their pastor, and forty-five years of such near idolatry had spoiled Judd Logan. “These hotshot lawyers are worthless,” he continued, “but you need them sometimes.”
“There’s no point in asking you not to, Grandpa, because you always do whatever you like. I don’t need a lawyer; I need to meet my child’s adoptive parents and ask them to let me see my child. If they want to reach me after all this time, there’s a good reason.” She wouldn’t say more about it then; it would take him a while to accept the idea, if he ever did. “I have to go over to One Last Chance, Grandpa. One of the girls is meeting me there at nine.” She didn’t say goodbye, because she knew he’d have a comment then or later. Twirling the phone cord, she waited.
“I want you to listen to me, gal. Don’t rush into anything. And I wish you’d stay away from those places like Florida Avenue,” he complained. “What kind of people do you meet over there? I’m sure Maude Frazier doesn’t waste time around there. It’s not proper for an unmarried girl of your class to hang around those people.” Naomi grinned, stifling a giggle as she did so. The old man was on a roll. He loved to preach, and it didn’t matter whether he had an audience of one hundred or one.
“Grandpa, you’re talking about seventy years ago.” Reminding herself that there was a generation between them and enough years in age for a two-generation gap, she let it pass.
“We’re never going to agree on certain things,” she told him gently. “You tried to save people’s souls. Well, when I’m at One Last Chance, I’m trying to help people mend their lives. There must be a connection there somewhere.” She told him goodbye and hung up.
Half an hour after arriving at OLC, Naomi looked at her watch. Linda was late. She knew that the girl wouldn’t offer an excuse, and when she arrived, she didn’t. Linda had missed several sessions, and Naomi had been tempted to speak with her mother but had refrained for fear of causing trouble.
“I spoke with your principal. Has he told your mother the consequences of your not going to the retreat and completing your art project?”
Linda’s eyes widened. “You mean he’s going to tell my mama I’ll be in trouble if I don’t go? Boy, that’s super cool! Tell me to tell her I can’t go to the retreat unless I have my hair done.”
Naomi laughed. “Linda, we tell the truth to the extent possible. The principal won’t be lying. That retreat is important to you; your career decisions may hinge on it.”
She knew that Linda admired her, but she was stunned when the girl suddenly told her, “I wish I could be like you, Naomi. I wish I was you.”
Naomi tugged at her chin with a thumb and forefinger. “My dear, if you knew everything there is to know, you might not want to be in my shoes at all.”
Linda stared directly at her. “With you, I’d take my chances.” Shaking her head, Naomi looked at Linda and remembered herself fourteen years before. If you got what you prayed for, she thought with wise hindsight, it could ruin your life.
She went home and began designing invitations for the Urban Alliance gala. There weren’t enough sponsors, she decided. Rufus would know what to do about it. She got his number and telephoned him. She was taken aback when his initial response to her call was unfriendly; he was deep into his current manuscript, Subculture of the American Juvenile, he explained, and hadn’t wanted to be disturbed. But he’d immediately become warm and agreeable.
“Give me an hour, and I can get over there,” he stated, as if confident that she would accept his offer. She couldn’t help smiling. To begin the day with Judd Logan and end it with Rufus Meade would tax a saint—that is, unless the saint was slightly sweet on Rufus, her conscience whispered.
She pushed the thought aside and asked him, “How far away are you, Rufus?”
“Fifteen minutes. Just over in Chevy Chase. Why? You need something that’ll melt? Or maybe something that’ll melt you? Hmm?” He laughed, but she refused to join in his merriment. She wished he’d be consistent and stop the sexual teasing, since they had both sworn not to get involved.
“Are you bringing the boys? Should I dash out and get some ice-cream?”
He answered gruffly, yet seemed touched. “Thanks, no. They’re over at Jewel’s house, playing with their cousins. I’ll see you shortly.”
Naomi hung up and leaned against the edge of her kitchen table. Rufus claimed that he would not permit anything to happen between them, and that was fine with her, because she couldn’t afford it. But his behavior didn’t always suit his words. He teased her, and though he didn’t telephone her, when they spoke, he took every opportunity to make her aware of him as a man. A desirable man. She shook her head in wonder, but her bewilderment was fleeting; she spun on her heels and headed for her bedroom.
“Two can play this game,” she told herself, as she remembered how elegant he’d been when he’d come to her house, even when he’d had the twins with him. “If he’s a phony,” she muttered, “we’ll both know it soon.” She reached into her closet for her silk knit “Sherman tank,” a sleeveless cowl-necked magnet for males, dismissed caution, and shimmied into it.
Chapter 5
To her chagrin, Rufus arrived wearing a long-sleeved sport shirt with black jeans under a light overcoat. His dreamy eyes took her in from head to foot, apparently appreciating the svelte curves revealed by her burnt orange knit tube dress. His grin didn’t reach his eyes, she noticed.