Goose in the Pond - Earlene Fowler [102]
A warm hand slipped underneath my hair and gently squeezed my neck. “Nervous?” Gabe whispered in my ear.
I smiled up at him. “You made it! Yeah, my stomach is like a snow dome someone just shook. I’ll be glad when my part is done and I can turn it over to the professionals.”
“You’re going to do fine,” he said. “How can they not love you?”
“You sound like D-Daddy,” I said, leaning into his comforting bulk. He couldn’t have looked less like a police chief tonight in his washed-out Levi’s, black T-shirt, and black leather jacket.
“I think I’m going to have to keep an eye on that old coot,” he said.
“He’s a charmer, all right,” I replied. “But you don’t have to worry. Charming guys have never been my type.”
“What?” he said, his hand dropping down to my waist and tickling me. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Hey, Chief, don’t get the curator too riled up before her big speech,” Jim Cleary said behind us. He carefully pushed the wheelchair holding his wife, Oneeda, and settled her on a solid, level piece of ground.
I stooped down and took her thin brown hand in mine. She gently squeezed back. “Oneeda, I’m glad you could make it. I’m sorry I missed our weekly tea, but like I told you over the phone, this week’s been a disaster.”
Her black eyes twinkled. In spite of the multiple sclerosis that had twisted her body to the point of being unable to dress herself, her mind was sharp as a twenty-year-old’s, something most people didn’t realize when she talked with her slow, garbled words. Four months ago Gabe had asked me if I knew of anyone who’d be willing to quilt a wall hanging that Oneeda had pieced before the MS had made it impossible for her to sew. When no one in the co-op could work it into their schedule, I’d agreed to do it, as a favor to Jim and Gabe, and started going over there every Friday to stitch the small quilt, a New York Beauty pattern she’d pieced years ago in honor of her home state.
I’d gradually learned to understand her speech, and though we were as different as two people could be—twenty years apart in age, my rural background, her New York Harlem background, and our obvious racial difference—she and I had formed an unexpected friendship that continued after I finished the quilt. We discussed everything from people’s distorted views of the handicapped to what it was like to grow up black in the fifties to how I felt about never knowing my mother and growing up in an environment almost exclusively male. And she was brutally honest in telling me what to expect now that I was a cop’s wife.
“So,” I said, “you finally talked Jim into unlocking your cage?”
“Mr. Big Stuff letting me kick up my heels.” She laughed and pointed down at her feet with a gnarled hand. “New shoes.”
“Cool,” I said, admiring her silver tennis shoes. “How’s the Ohio Star coming along?” We’d been piecing together a baby quilt she intended for her youngest daughter’s first child. She’d arrange the pieces, and I’d sew them.
“Good,” she said, nodding her head. Her sparkly silver earrings swung jauntily. “Have it just how I want it now.” She gave me a bright smile.
“Good, ’cause I ain’t gonna rip it out one more time,” I said.
“Unless the general commands you to,” Jim said mildly.
We all laughed at his accurate assessment of his wife. Somehow, when Oneeda wanted something done, it always got done. Her way. And remarkably, she made you feel wonderful about it.
Gabe tapped his watch. “Looks like you’re on, sweetheart.”
“Okay.” I stood up and kissed Oneeda’s cheek. She patted my shoulder comfortingly.
“You’ll do fine, sweetie,” she said, winking at me. “I’ll send up a quick one for you.” She pointed to the soot-colored sky.
“Thanks. I’ll see you all afterward in the food court.”
My speech went smoothly, with only a few screeches in the PA system. Luckily most of the storytellers were trained in projecting their voices and wouldn’t need it, though with the crowds that were gathering, it might come in handy. I made a quick announcement about Nora Cooper and why she wouldn’t be performing and told the crowd of her love