Tempest Rising - Diane Mckinney-whetstone [5]
Within two years their reputation had caught on so that Finch had to turn down business. And their passbook savings account had grown exponentially, as had the contents of their spacious apartment, owing mostly to Finch’s incessant gift giving.
“Not another nightgown,” Clarise would say, and Finch would switch up, start bringing her panties instead.
“A person can only wear so many pair of panties in a lifetime,” she’d say, and then it would be gold charms for her bracelets, stuffed teddy bears that said “To My True Love,” bath crystals, singing jewelry boxes, ostrich feather hats, candleholders, glass paperweights with flowers inside.
“Finch, if you really do love me,” she said finally, one Sunday evening after she and the aunts and uncles had just dined on his sumptuous roast duck over crab meat stuffing, and the uncles were sipping sherry from crystal cordial glasses, and admiring the life-sized ceramic Dalmatian with a solid gold dog tag, “you’ll not step foot in some fine shop to bring me not another gift.”
“But that’s one of my greatest pleasures, pretty baby.” Finch beamed, stood in the middle of the expansive apartment living room, rested his eyes on the aunts sitting straight-backed in the brocaded wing chairs. He was glad for the opportunity to make such pronouncements in front of the aunts, who he felt still looked at him undereyed as if they were waiting for him to misstep. “Deny me the privilege of showering you with gifts, and you might as well tell me never to cook again or feel the new grass under my feet out at Fairmount Park.”
“Enough is enough, Finch. No more gifts until you buy us a house.” Clarise stood too, tilted her chin coyly, held her hands behind her back, and swayed as if she held a secret in her hands.
“A house?” he asked, and looked around the room, at the knowing expression on everybody’s lips and felt suddenly embarrassed that he was on the outside of their circle of understanding.
“A house, Finch.” She held her resolve. “A great grand house that we’ll call Heaven. It’s time, Finch, it’s time. A house,” she said.
“Boy don’t know yet, does he?” Til asked.
“Can’t know,” Ness chimed in.
“If he knew, he wouldn’t be standing there scratching at his head like it’s tic-infected,” Til went on.
“Oh, for goodness’ sakes.” Clarise’s tall uncle Blue stood from where he’d been perched on the brick ledge of the fireplace. “Tell the man, please, or I will. This fine cream sherry has my lips hot and ready to spill the beans.”
“Either that or he’ll cry,” said short Uncle Show. “You know Brother can’t take a sip of any kind of spirits without finding some reason to bawl all over the place.”
“Clarise.” Finch dragged her name out, and his eyes had that watery, pleading look that she never could resist.
“Oh, Finch, it’s just that while you and the uncles were in the kitchen, the aunts pointed out that my hips are getting square. Do you know what that means? Means something has pushed the roundness of my hips into four corners.”
“No, no, no, Clarise, you aren’t sick, are you? I couldn’t bear it—”
“A baby, Finch.” Clarise rushed her words and opened her arms for Finch to lean into. “What else could it be? A baby.”
“A baby?” Finch gushed, and his eyes watered for real as Clarise and he held each other and moved in a gentle, slow drag.
“Not the sharpest knife in the drawer, is he?” Ness whispered to Til as they watched Finch and Clarise sway slowly to their private beat.
“You said it, Sister.” Til snickered. “Boy more like a spoon than a knife.”
“Shish,” Blue said from across the room. “Spoons are better than knives anyhow.”
“That’s right,” Show echoed. “They don’t cut, and they feed you well.”
“I do believe Brother and Brother might have