“Big car,” I said.
“Mommy’s old one,” she said. “They kept it so that my sister and I could use it when we’re home from college. Since Agnes has come back to Georgetown for law school, she has her own car.”
“Your sister’s name is Agnes?” I asked. “Are your parents Catholic?”
“No, why?”
“Your names. Margaret and Agnes just seem so Catholic to me.”
“No, we attend the Methodist Church.” The way she said it made me feel unsettled, and it turned out the feeling was rightly placed as she then said, “You’ll like it. We’re going to service Sunday morning.”
I didn’t complain. I didn’t know enough to complain. I’d never been in a church. My mother had specified in her will that there be no church or religious crap, as she put it, associated with her funeral. I stared ahead through the windshield at the oncoming traffic.
“So, where are we going?” I asked.
“We’re going to my friend Lydia’s house. She and I grew up together. We’re like sisters. More like sisters than Agnes and me.”
It crossed my mind to ask and so I did, “Does she know that you’re bringing me along?”
Maggie’s failure to respond could as easily have been her turning her face to me and roaring, “Nooo.” Still, I took no offense, however much I might have been starting to worry. I looked at her profile as she drove the monstrous car through one of the circles. She was almost pretty and I liked that, though I was unsure whether it was the pretty or the almost I more admired.
“It’s okay that you didn’t tell her,” I said, trying to be reassuring, but knowing that I was being a bit sarcastic. “You didn’t tell me about her either.”
“It just slipped my mind,” she said.
Slippery place, your mind, I thought, but said, “The traffic’s not too bad.” Then I asked, “What made you choose Spelman?”
“It’s a good school.”
I nodded.
“Why do you ask that?”
“I don’t know, just seems as if your parents might have a problem with a traditionally black college.”
“What are you trying to say about my parents?”
“I’m not trying to say anything about your parents,” I said. “You mention that your mother is opposed to affirmative action.”
“What’s that have to do with Spelman?”
“Nothing, really.” I looked at the fingers clenched on the steering wheel. “Nothing at all. It was a stupid question.”
“Yes, it was.”
I sought to change the subject and recalled Maggie’s comment about her father and boating. “So, does your father sail?” I asked.
“Does my father what?” She was on the defensive or the offensive, I was unsure which, if in fact there is a difference.
“You mentioned that your father would like the fact that I know a little bit about sailing. So, I assumed that he sails.”
“No,” she said, softening. “Daddy doesn’t sail. He’s afraid of the water, but he likes the idea of it. I know he would love to talk to you about it.”
“So, we’re going to Lydia’s,” I said.
“Yes. A few other friends will be there. Robert will be there. I mentioned Robert. He’s at Dartmouth.”
“The boyfriend who was like a brother,” I said.
She said nothing.
I wanted to say that it all sounded rather Faulknerian to me, but I decided that was mean and perhaps unfair, but I was at least momentarily tickled by something. I suppose my private amusement somehow showed on my face, as I noticed Maggie staring over at me.
“What’s funny?” she asked.
“Nothing.”
Thanksgiving week was unfurling as a highway of decidedly bad turns. I could feel Maggie’s growing regret at having invited me home, or more precisely over my having accepted that invitation. However, on some level, or even a particular level, my presence was serving a desired end, namely to upset her parents. She had to know, and I’m certain she did, that even the simple matter of dark skin would be a cause of consternation for her parents. I came to imagine them as Ward and June Cleaver. I recalled my mother happening upon me watching that television show one afternoon. It launched her into such a fit of hysteria that I was afraid she might become pregnant again.
“How dare they put that propaganda on the television?” my mother barked. “But of course that’s what the box is for, isn’t it? Here is my black son sitting here in his black neighborhood watching some bucktoothed little rat and his washed-out, anally stabbed, Nazi-Christian parents.”
“There’s a brother, too,” I said, being six or so and not really understanding the tirade.
“Oh, a brother, too. I see him there, an older lily white acorn fallen so close to the tree. Turn that crap off. No, leave it on. Study the problem, Not Sidney. Soak it in.” With that she marched off to make cookies.
Sadly, even my innocent satirical private and lame joke soured quickly as I played out the possible meanings of all the words; Beaver was an unfortunate way to refer to Maggie.
“What are you thinking?” Maggie asked while we sat at a particularly long red light.
“I was thinking about the faces of the animals in your father’s study,” I told her. It was a lie, but one of my better or at least quicker ones. My mind did then move to the poor dead beasts. “They all look so … so … surprised.”
“I never liked that he has them,” she said. It sounded like an attempt to settle into my camp or at least on my side of the river. Then she said, to obliterate that naïve notion, “But they’re already dead. He didn’t kill them. And you shouldn’t be so judgmental.”
“I didn’t mean to be.”
“My father has gone through a lot to get where he is. From dirt poor Alabama to Yale.”
“That’s impressive,” I said.
“It’s very impressive. My father is one of the biggest and most successful lawyers in DC.”
“Wow.”
The family home of Maggie’s sisterlike friend Lydia was little different from Maggie’s own. Except that the décor was more pronouncedly gold than red, and the accents were blue, every bit as garish, yet somehow as ugly. Lydia was sitting in an overstuffed chair when we entered without knocking. Two other women were seated on the sofa. All three rose, and the four women hugged and squealed in a way that seemed like fun, but made for harsh music.
“This is Not Sidney,” Maggie said. “This is Lydia, Jasmine, and Sophie.” She pointed to each woman in turn and I nodded to each, making eye contact only to have it broken by them. The women, all similarly sized and lightly complected, paused as they regarded me, leaving a tiny empty space in time that led me to my antecedent remark about their skin color. I was becoming, sadly, irritatingly, horrifyingly observant of skin color and especially my own.
“Let’s sit down,” Lydia said.
We did. I sat between Lydia and Maggie on the sofa, and the other two women sat across on a love seat.
“Where are you from?” Lydia asked me.
“I live in Atlanta,” I said.
“But Not Sidney’s from Los Angeles,” Maggie said.
Sophie sat up. “I love LA.”
“Well, I haven’t lived there since I was eleven.”
“And you’re at Morehouse,” Lydia said.
I nodded.
“What’s your major?” from Sophie.
“Philosophy, I guess. It’s not clear.”
“Are you in college?” I asked them.
“Tufts,” Jasmine said.
“Smith.” Sophie.
I looked at Lydia.
“Howard,” Lydia said, flatly.