"Marlowe," Lucas shouts over the traffic noise coming in through the driver's side window.
"Lucas? Hey," Marlowe intones softly, brightening. His voice soothes the nameless irritation under her skin.
"Do you have plans for Sunday night?"
"Depends," Marlowe replies, tucking her free hand into her pocket and spinning around. "What are you offering?"
"Dinner," Lucas says. "I want you to meet my uncle Ian. He lives in D.C.; that's why I drove down today." The idea came to him while he was creeping along bumper to bumper, impatiently eyeballing the entrance sign for the expressway, and counting up the number of days that will pass before he sees Marlowe again. Too many, he decided before picking up the phone.
"Uh, your uncle?" Marlowe stammers.
"Yes." Lucas cuts through traffic to the far left lane and hits the gas. Time is scarce now; work that he should have done today still awaits him, and all three days of the weekend will see him up and on base at five a.m. He's pushing, he knows, to drive back to D.C. Sunday afternoon just for a dinner date. But he has to see Marlowe, be near her; it isn't just a whim, it's a need. "Marlowe?"
"Hey; yeah. Yes," she says in answer to his invitation. "I was just thinking that's a lot of driving in one day. Are you sure you don't want to wait until next weekend?"
"No," Lucas replies. "I don't. I have to work Saturday and part of Sunday, otherwise I'd come sooner." He falls silent, considering. There is a funny catch in her voice, a certain tension. "Are you sure?" he asks pointedly.
"Yes," Marlowe replies, forcing some enthusiasm. "Of course."
"I'll see you Sunday then. Let's say five thirty, but I'll call."
"Okay. Hey - do you have Tamara's number in Hong Kong? I need it."
"One minute." Lucas puts her on hold, scrolls through his phone book, and then comes back on line and recites the digits. "I take it you're not good with numbers," he comments dryly.
Marlowe gives a short laugh, on cue. "Yeah. Thanks. Talk to you later. Bye."
"Goodbye."
After she hangs up, she immediately calls the hotel room. She rolls her eyes through the procedure of international calls and taps her foot impatiently through the first and second ring.
"Ni hao."
Marlowe frowns. "Tam?"
Giggling, Tamara replies, "Hey Mo. That's 'hello' in Chinese. I got a book." Tamara sighs contentedly and crosses her legs beneath the elegant lacquered dining table in the suite. "'Ba xian zhuo' means table. I don't know how to say, 'I'm sitting at the table', but I am. How about that?" Tamara chirps proudly.
Marlowe drags a chair from under her own kitchen table and sits down. Tamara's enthusiasm is always infectious, even now when Marlowe's thoughts are scattered like chicken feed. "You having a good time, Mrs. Ross?"
"Yes!" Tamara exclaims. "The best. I'm moving here - watch. I ain't coming back."
"Roderick likes it too?"
Tamara snorts with amusement. "Girl, let me tell you what happened. Yesterday we were coming in from the bus tour and the concierge asked Roderick if he was a ball player. And your brother had the nerve to say that he retired from the game. I was like, who? I pinched his lying behind all the way up to the room. But what makes it so bad is he went back downstairs, got to talking to the man and these two other Australian boys," Tamara says, shrugging her shoulders quizzically, "and somehow they end up in a game of two on two. In the hotel!" Tamara shrieks. "I don't even know where the court is, okay, but next thing I know, Roderick comes in here limping because he pulled a muscle trying to show out on those boys. Boys, now - twenty one, twenty two, and twenty five." Tamara bursts out laughing and slaps her palm on the table top. "Woke up this morning talking about, 'Baby, I'm sore. I need a rub down.' I told him he better call his little fan club up here. Shoot," Tamara intones derisively. She breaks into a smile. "The good part is that he called downstairs to the spa for a couple's session. So I'm about to get a massage out of it!" Tamara hoots with laughter.
"What? They thought Roderick was a ball player?" Marlowe snorts. "He barely made it through tee ball."
"You don't have to tell me, girl. Those Australians whooped his butt twenty five to ten. That poor little concierge looked so heartbroken when he brought Roderick up here," Tamara cackles. "I almost peed my pants laughing at your brother."
Marlowe lifts her foot onto her chair and rests her chin on her knee. Like an impressionist painting, Roderick and Tamara are easy to love from a distance. She smiles. "I miss ya'll," she says softly.
Sighing, Tamara says, "I would say I miss you, but I am on my honeymoon . . ." she trails off meaningfully. She snickers, smiles, and then suddenly snaps her fingers. "Ooh, Lord. I forgot about you, Miss Thang! What happened? Give me the blow by blow."
"Roderick isn't there, is he?"
"No, he's still in the bed in the other room. Who's in your bed?" Tamara asks suggestively.
"Nobody," Marlowe retorts. She pauses dramatically before adding, "Not right now anyway! He just left! How you like me now, huh, Mrs. I'm on top of the world?"
Tamara shrieks. "How about you, Miss I was on top of Lucas all night last night? Hoochie!" Tamara stamps her freshly manicured toes on the carpet. "Was it good, girl? All you got to say is yes or no."
Marlowe sighs, opens her mouth to speak, and sighs again. "Woo, Tamara."
"Like that?" Tamara falls back in her chair, fanning herself with her Chinese vocabulary book. "Just tell a sister one little detail or something. C'mon."
"Nuh uh," Marlowe says. "You don't tell me about you and Roderick. Thank God."
"No; you're right. You don't tell your man's skills all over town. That's how you call the cats out," Tamara says darkly, frowning. "Had to skin me a couple of cats when I first got together with Roderick. Heifers."
Your man, Marlowe repeats silently. "Tam - he wants me to meet his uncle," Marlowe announces gravely.
"Oh yeah? I didn't even know he had an uncle. Hold up - he wants to take you to Montana?"
"No, his uncle lives in D.C."
"Oh. Well, that's alright then. Kind of quick, but that's good."
"Yes," Marlowe says sharply. She latches on to the one criticism in Tamara's statement. "That's kind of quick, huh?"
"Yeah, girl. You know how they usually do. Not Roderick, but I grew up with his folks. With you, I mean."
"Right," Marlowe says absently. "You didn't know he had an uncle? What do you now about his folks?"
"Not a lot. He don't talk about them a lot. He has twin sisters; I know that."
Marlowe purses her lips. "Why didn't he go to see his family last Thanksgiving?"
"I don't know," Tamara says, twirling the sash of her robe. "Maybe they ain't close like that."
"Don't you think there's something wrong with that, though? Not spending the holiday with your own family?"
Tamara snorts. "You didn't."
"I wasn't with somebody else's family though."
"No, you were with the poor and homeless, again, when you should've brought your butt home for a change. You're still coming for the Fourth, right?"
Rolling her eyes, Marlowe replies, "Yes, Tamara."
"You better. Roderick already told me he might be on rotations, so I got to throw this party myself. Come down early and help me, okay?"
Marlowe quirks a brow. "Why don't you just cancel the party, Tam?"
"And ruin Roderick's reputation? No way." Tamara chuckles. "I already tried that."
"Forth of July is the weekend after next, right?"
"Yeah."
"Huh. I need to get a ticket. No - I should have just stayed down there and saved my money. I'm not doing anything around here."
"Except Lucas," Tamara quips.
Marlowe flushes. "Right." She folds her legs up, sitting cross legged in the chair. "He wants me to meet his uncle, Tam. On Sunday."
"I know. You already told me."
"But on Sunday."
"That's alright. You can handle it. They ain't gonna bite you. I don't think," Tamara snickers.
"That's pretty quick, huh?" Marlowe blinks, pinching her lips together. "I mean, it is, right?"
Tamara yanks her head up from its casual recline on the high backed chair. "Why you nitpicking?"
"Huh?"
"Don't start that shit, Mo. Excuse me, Lord." Tamara taps her lips penitently. "Don't start that stuff."
"What?" Marlowe demands.
"I just thought about it. This whole time, you been asking me a bunch of silly questions when you should've been clowning about how happy you are," Tamara says flatly. "So what's your problem? He pulled a wham bam on you or something?"
"Of course not, Tam."
"He didn't want to use protection."
Marlowe gulps. "No - he did."
"He called you a ho because you fucked on the fourth day." Tamara silently makes the sign of the cross. "Yeah, I can count. I know how many days it is."
Marlowe scowls. She knows where this is going - far afield of her material concerns. She expected understanding because of their sisterhood as black women. But Tamara is only her sister in law, not her sister in heart. "No," Marlowe replies tersely.
"Okay, so let me break it down: you called the boy, you invited him to your place, he sexed you up the right way, spent the night and the whole next day with you, and now he wants you to meet his uncle. And you're suspicious."
"It wasn't the whole day," Marlowe grouses.
Tamara sits up in her chair and frowns, deeply. "You know what?" she asks in a cool somber tone. "You are really stupid. For real. Let me just ask you one question, just so I can hear it come out of your mouth: it's because he's white, right?"
"Of course, Tamara. Yes! Why are you getting so pissed off? You didn't like it when Nate did it."
"Hold up," Tamara says, raising one hand. "Who said that? I didn't like what Nate did to you, showing out on you in church like that. That ain't right. And I don't like her because she's fake. Lucas is a good man, a good person. You shouldn't treat him like that."
"Like what, Tamara?" Marlowe snaps, her voice rising to an irritated pitch. "What bit you? I don't understand why you're getting so hot about this."
"You know what I'm talking about. The way you get all up tight, squinting at folk. The way you used to treat me." Tamara pauses to catch her breath; a shocked silence closes its fist over Marlowe's mouth. "I know what you used to think, all of ya'll. That I was too country for Roderick, that the only thing I had was a little money because my daddy had some restaurants. And maybe that's true, but I love Roderick and he loves me. We're good for each other, okay?" Tamara's voice cracks; she clears her throat. "That's not what I'm trying to say, though. When Nate came down on you like that, I was like, 'Now me and Mo are in the same boat. Now she knows what it feels like.' All those fake ass people at church turned on you - we got kind of closer after that, right?" Tamara pauses, waiting for a response. When there is none, her soft heart clenches painfully. "Don't be mad, girl, alright? I'm just talking."
Marlowe heaves a steadying breath. "I'm listening, Tam."
"Right. Okay," Tamara says hesitantly. "I'm just saying I care about you, Mo. All those people at church, at Roderick's parties - they don't give a shit. Excuse me." Her fingertips fly to her lips. "Why you got to hide in D.C. behind their mess? What about Roderick and me? And why you got to think Lucas is shady for no reason? No good reason," Tamara adds sniffing. "That's how you did me. That's how they did you, see what I'm saying? That ain't right. Lucas is my homeboy because he ain't fake. He's white, but he ain't no kind of fake. You ain't either. So don't act like it." Tamara sniffs again and swipes her hand over her nose. "See? Now I need a tissue."
"Tamara - don't cry, sweetie," Marlowe pleads. She feels like she just ran over a beloved golden retriever. She isn't a proud woman, but Tamara's purity of heart makes her feel . . . Trifling, Marlowe decides. She wants to apologize for not being a better person, an idealist, for not being able to supply a world in which Tamara's simple loving heart would always be at ease. "I'm sorry, Tam. I never meant to hurt your feelings, honey."
"I know," Tamara mumbles through her tissue. "I know that," she repeats, sniffing. "You ain't no mean person, Mo - you never try to hurt anybody," Tamara says, scuffling slowly across the priceless, elaborate floor rug in her favorite old beat-up pair of pink bunny slippers. She stops in front of the ceiling to floor picture window and perches on one hip, admiring the frenetic energy of Hong Kong mornings. "You always have your nose down sniffing out all the stuff that's wrong; you forget about all the good stuff that's going right. Big stuff; important stuff. The big picture, Mo - you act like it's about to fall apart on you. You're always looking over your shoulder."
It did fall apart, not once but twice. Tamara doesn't understand that; neither does Marlowe, not consciously. But she does understand looking over her shoulder, expecting the unexpected. She does understand wanting things to line up a certain way, needing them to line up that way, in order to feel secure. That's why she's never secure, never ready. Life doesn't line up, no matter how she tries to force it. Marlowe doesn't know what to say so she doesn't say anything. She hears Tamara, but she doesn't know what to do with all that she's heard. So she packs the information in the caboose and her train of thought keeps clicking along the track, awaiting a falling boulder. "Thanks, Tamara. Really."
"Alright. You remember what I said, you hear? Life's too short, Mo. It really is."
"Okay."
"Get your plane ticket for the Fourth, and come down early. We'll be back next Thursday. You can come whenever you want. Bring Lucas with you."
"We'll see."
"Bye, girl. I love you - you know that, right?"
"I know. I love you, too. Bye. And go wash your face before Roderick sees you. You're on your honeymoon; I don't want him calling me out for upsetting you."
Tamara chuckles. "Okay boo. Bye."
Marlowe hangs up the phone, sharply exhaling the irritated breath that she has been holding in. She left Tamara with a light heart, as well she should have - Tamara only means well. But this latest in the recent lecture series from the new Mrs. Roderick Ross upsets Marlowe far more than it amuses her. Marlowe drums her fingertips over the countertop as she walks the length of the kitchen, burrowing into her mind like she always does when she's alone, rearranging speculations like items on a felt board. When she comes to the drawer next to the sink where she keeps her cigarettes, Marlowe sighs and pulls out her stash and a lighter. The first drag is stale; the half empty pack has been in the drawer for months. But it doesn't matter; the deep exhalation calms the frisson, for a moment. The speculations die down to a dull roar. "Sleep on it," Marlowe concludes, picking up her ashtray and trooping off to her room.
