Tempest Rising - Diane Mckinney-whetstone [6]
The thought of fatherhood made Finch dizzy and propelled him to find a suitable home. Of course he did, the grandest house his passbook savings account could afford, on a quiet, tree-lined street of impressive three-storied single homes where his neighbors drove new cars, spent old money, and politely snubbed Clarise and Finch. Not just because Finch and Clarise were black; these people after all were polite in a blue-blood sort of way, they had readily accepted a black doctor into their midst, and a professor from the university. So it was as much a matter of breeding as color. Finch after all was just a caterer. A glorified cook. Not a doctor, or lawyer, or banker, not even an undertaker or insurance agent for North Carolina Mutual. A cook, an occupation that required the hands more than the head. No college, even though he spoke like the well-educated, thanks to his unabridged Webster’s. But these neighbors tracked such things, plus they knew his money was new and crisp, hadn’t yet been made old and prestigious on the passage down from one generation to the next.
Finch and Clarise were so ebullient over their house, which sent echoes ricocheting when they talked to one another because the ceilings were so tall, that they laughed off their neighbors’ petite how-are-you waves that could have been shooing a fly, the dearth of invitations to the barbecues, the hat shows, the pool parties. So what if their reception into the thin edges of this upper-crust neighborhood was less than the open-armed, welcome-basket, come-in-and-let-me-pour-you-coffee type of entry they’d hoped for. They were too buoyant, too round with happiness especially now with the birth of their dark-eyed princess, Shern. They had such immense affection for each other, and the demand was bulging for the culinary and visual talents of Heavenly Caterers, that some days they looked at each other across their expansive Formica table in the breakfast room, and Finch would wink and start to chant that Heaven must be like this.
Heaven. That’s what Clarise and Finch named their home. The welcome mat that should have said “Welcome” said “Heaven.” The towels that should have been monogrammed maybe “Clarise” and “Finch” were instead monogrammed “Heaven.” Even the brass plate on the bottom of the mailbox right under the address said in fine, thin script “Heaven.”
Clarise drew on the uncles’ lessons when she set to decorating their heaven of a house. From the porch to the yard, the shrubbery to the specially designed trash cans that Finch set out on Thursday nights, even the most unobservant passersby could detect the air of good taste wafting from that house as surely as they could smell the vanilla and butter when Finch was baking cakes. So much so that the molasses-drenched snobbery of the people on that block slowly turned to reluctant acceptance especially as Shern started to grow; she was such a smart, gorgeous child, and of course the mothers on that block liked for their perfect daughters to mix with similarly endowed girls. By the time Clarise gave birth to their second daughter, Victoria, the neighbors were asking Finch for recipes, Clarise for advice on china patterns. They even dropped by with pink teddy bears when Clarise and Finch brought their third child, Bliss, home, especially when they’d heard that the child had a head full of golden hair.
And Shern, Victoria, and Bliss were growing into nice, nonsnobbish girls despite the opulence of their lifestyle: the little-girl dress-up tea parties in their sun-drenched playroom, the anklet socks with crocheted embroidery, lavish birthday celebrations complete with pony rides for all their guests, summer camp in the Poconos, and a twelve-foot