Picking Up the Pieces

She watched as he assessed her. A black woman. That was mainly what he saw.

“Ma’am?”

Althea sent him a cool nod, his single word a question she refused to answer. Exhausted, her feet like icicles, and half sick with worry about Harry, she was not in a tolerant mood. Her eyes glacial slits, she could almost read his mind, as he tried to figure her out. Could she live there? She could be a visitor. Maybe a maid using the wrong entrance? No, not a maid, not wearing that fur coat. No, she was definitely not someone’s maid. She was too young and pretty, no, definitely not a maid. He stepped aside and let her pass. You never knew.

“I live here,” she said tersely as the elevator door closed on his red face.

Shaking with anger, Althea rode the elevator to her floor. The way the doorman had stopped her, stared at and assessed her had been humiliating. Having developed the technique of the cold stare to enormous success, she was not as vulnerable as she used to be, but the assessment was something that, although it happened from time to time, she could never get used to. It happened in stores, in restaurants, in so many countless places. When she stared back, she felt as if she was maintaining her dignity, but it didn’t make these confrontations any less painful, or the young man’s rudeness any less distressing.

Her distress was twofold. The forbidding silence of the apartment, after she found her keys and let herself in, felt symbolic of her life. She berated herself for being melodramatic, but the feeling would not leave. The silence of the future stretching out before her was a question mark that hovered in the air, not easily dismissed now that she was home. The faint, musty odor of disuse that greeted her, the hollow click of her heels on the cold tile floor were unnerving. She was glad to tug free of her ruined shoes and toss them in a corner, shrug off her coat and turn the thermostat to high.

Nothing had to be decided in a day, a week or even a month, she told herself, as she made her way from room to room, turning on the lights. The workaholic in her was making such unreasonable demands, she knew, as she switched on her bedroom light. Her favorite room, it was done up—unabashedly—in every shade of pink imaginable, lacy and feminine, hers alone. With its pale-pink quilt and featherbed, throw pillows scattered everywhere, a pile of books always at the ready on her night table. It was her safe haven. The custom-made makeup table with its fully lighted mirror made it her work space at the same time.

Plowing through one of the huge bedroom dressers, Althea searched for a favorite pair of cashmere socks she hoped were still buried beneath the pile of stockings. She might be meticulous with her public appearance, but when she was home alone, with no obligations to fill, makeup never touched her face, and it was sweatpants and socks, all the way.

Taking the opportunity to change and get comfortable, she wandered into her office and plugged in the phone machine. Calling the supermarket down the block, she asked them to send up some milk and butter, a piece of cheddar cheese, a loaf of sourdough bread and a few oranges—until she could get to the supermarket herself. She placed a Post-it note on the refrigerator to call Kennedy Airport in the morning and have them forward her luggage. In the chaos of Harry’s fainting spell she had left her luggage behind. A cursory look through the kitchen cupboards revealed a canister of English Breakfast tea. Tried and true, it would go well with a long soak in a hot bath, before she crawled into bed.

Thirty minutes later, surrounded by pale-pink marble and gleaming brass fixtures, the scent of bath oil heavy in the humid air, Althea sank low into the tub. She almost fell asleep, it was so heavenly to lose herself in the bubbles, but the mental notes kept piling up, and she finally gave in to them. No doubt it was a form of regaining control. After her ex-husband’s domineering ways, it would be a relief to begin making her own decisions again. She had abrogated so much to him, when they married.

Thus she made a mental note to call her mother, who was probably wondering where she was and not above calling Althea’s friends or, worse yet, her ex-husband. Safely tucked away in a pretty house twenty miles outside Birmingham, Alabama, Mrs. Almott still kept close tabs on her only child. The waters Althea traveled were muddy, as her mother was always quick to point out.

In a few days, when she was rested, it might be a good idea to call her old agency, too, and ask her long-time agent, Connie Niles, to start booking her some modeling assignments again. She and Connie had been together forever, since Althea first arrived in New York. Althea had signed with Connie for the simple reason that Connie could be trusted to look out for her interests—Connie was African-American, too. Having just opened her agency, Connie had been on the lookout for new faces. One look at Althea’s tall elegant frame, creamy black skin and slanted, golden eyes, and Connie had offered to take Althea all the way to the top with her, if she wanted to come along for the ride. It had taken two years, but things had turned out just as Connie promised. The Niles Model Agency was now one of the most respected agencies worldwide, and that was saying a great deal in an industry that was predicated on whimsy.

So, yes, she would call Connie. And she would call up some of her old friends, drop by some of her old haunts. A long look at her hands and she knew that a manicure was in order, too. She must find a decent gym to join, also. A gym, not a sports club. Her body was her meal ticket; these things must be seen to. She would begin her life anew, and maybe, just maybe, things would work out this time. And if the image of Harry Bensen flashed before her eyes to distract her, she was quick to tamp it down.

Unfortunately, he resurfaced in her dreams, reliving the moment at the airport, when, distracted by her arrival, her belongings, the snow, she looked up to see who called her name. When she discovered Harry standing there, so absolutely disheveled, his unruly blond hair brushing his shoulders, his incandescent-blue eyes shining with the pleasure of their meeting. When her heart had soared at the sight of his familiar, silly half smile. The all-too-brief moment when the years dropped away and they were young again and loved each other so much, the smallest smile a wordless poem.

The next time Althea visited Harry, she found him far more alert. Whatever they were pumping into his veins had begun to kick in. His blue eyes positively glittered as she kissed his cheek lightly.

“I see you’ve begun to eat,” she said, noting the food tray set aside.

“I guess. Just clear soup and Jell-O, though,” he grumbled, struggling to sit upright.

Althea wouldn’t allow it. “No way, Harry. You stay where you are, and I’ll sit here beside you. Let’s not have any unnecessary movement. Look, I’ve brought you tons of magazines and a crossword puzzle book.”

Harry’s lack of enthusiasm was pronounced.

“For when you’re feeling better,” she said quickly as she set them aside.

“You know…” He smiled, his eyes an impish twinkle. “When you’re close up, like this… That purple sweater looks great on you. And I like your gold braids, but what happened to your long, black curls? I liked them, too.”

“Perhaps the lovely lady likes to stay current with the latest styles.”

Startled by a deep voice, they turned to find a huge man standing in the doorway. Not particularly handsome, yet with a presence that was unmistakable, his dark skin fortold his African heritage. The wide smile that reached his twinkling brown eyes told of his good nature.

“Hello, Harry.”

Harry’s mouth curved into a sulk. “Leonel. It’s about time you showed. I was going to call your office, again.”

“I missed you, too, pal.” Smiling faintly, Leonel’s long stride made the trip to Harry’s bedside in five quick steps. “Here you go. A little something to cheer you up.”

Dropping a scrawny bunch of yellow carnations on Harry’s bed, Leonel turned the full force of his charming smile on Althea. “You look familiar,” he said, extending his hand. “I’m Leonel Murray, Harry’s editor at Torregan Publishing.”

“And erstwhile friend,” Harry muttered, but they both politely ignored him.

“Hi, I’m Althea Almott, an old friend of Harry’s. I was at the airport when he collapsed.”

“Ah, yes, the model,” Leonel said with a snap of his fingers, “and Good Samaritan. A lucky thing for Harry that you were there. A real pleasure, Miss Almott, a real pleasure. And Harry’s right, by the way, that shade of lavender becomes you.”

“Why, thank you, Mr. Murray.”

“Leonel. Please, call me Leonel. And as for you, my invalid friend… ‘Erstwhile,’ is it?” He laughed. “Is that in the dictionary? It sounds more like an island in the Caribbean.”

“Yeah, well, you think the world begins and ends in the Caribbean.”

His laugh warm and rich, Leonel explained Harry’s remark to Althea’s puzzled look. “I was born in Antigua. I miss it, that’s what Harry means.”

Althea’s brow smoothed. “Oh, I’ve been to Antigua, it’s absolutely lovely. I don’t blame you for being homesick. The people, the weather, the flowers, the beaches, the food.”

“I can see you’ve been there.”

“Many times.”

“Me, too. I go back whenever I can. As a matter of fact, my parents still live there. I’ve asked them many times to come here, but they’ll never move. The idea of snow appalls them. They—”

“Excuse me?” Harry piped up feebly. “I hate to interrupt, but is anybody here to visit Harry Bensen, the patient in Room 826?”

“Ah, yes,” Leonel said with a wink to Althea as he turned to Harry. “Harry, old man, how are you? I got your message, and here I am, ready to spread cheer. How are you feeling?”

“Lousy,” Harry said, clearly in a sulk.

“Well, that’s good, that’s good,” said Leonel with a smile. “Why else would you be here? And, yes, I got your message. You have some film for me. Hiding the cannisters under your pillow, laddie?”

“They’re in that locker in my duffel bag. My God, what took you so long? They could have been stolen, for all you care.”

“Now, who would want to steal a hundred canisters of film?” Leonel asked, the metallic locker door jangling his words. “It’s not like they have any value except to you and Torregan Publishing.”

“Leonel, did the possibility of their being damaged never occur to you? My cameras are in there, too, and six thousand dollars worth of lenses. They could have been stolen. Take that stuff home with you, will you, for safekeeping?”

“No problem.” Carefully, Leonel removed Harry’s heavy duffle bag from the hospital locker and began to search through its contents. The camera and satchel of film were easily found. “Tell you what, Harry,” Leonel said, as he placed the bags by the bed, “how about I treat you to the film development? As a get-well present.”

“Tell you what, Leonel, you’re supposed to pay for the development. It’s in my contract.”

Althea watched as the two men traded bantering quips, obviously enjoying themselves. Something told her it was not the first time, either.

“Tell you what,” Leonel said as he shouldered the heavy satchel filled with Harry’s camera equipment and film when a nurse came to tell them visiting hours were over. “You take your medicine like a good little boy, and I’ll have the proofs ready for you in a few days.”

“Is that a promise? Seriously? I’m anxious to see what I have.”

“Me, too. I have a Pulitzer in mind for you.”

Tired as he was, Althea could tell that Harry was pleased by Leonel’s announcement. “A Pulitzer prize?” she marveled. “Is Harry that good?”

“Harry’s that good.” Leonel promised, suddenly serious, “and it’s about time the rest of the world knew it. He did some terrific stuff on volcanic activity two years ago at Mauna Loa, and I’m hoping that this next series is every bit as good, if not better. As long as I get the dedication, he can have the prize.”

Chapter Two

Althea must have had a hundred errands to run, but, desperate for distraction, she decided to treat herself to a trip to Soho, to check out the designer boutiques. February Fashion Week was approaching, and the store displays would change as a result. A business call, she told herself, to see how up-to-date New York was, in terms of fashion.

She hadn’t been to New York in over a year; Paris had spoiled her. Spending the morning skirting slush and piles of dirty snow, she browsed through the stores, fingering the latest silk imports, talking trade with the store owners and admiring their displays. She needn’t have worried, New York was still the fashion capital of the world. Wending her way to Prince Street, she was just about to enter the Prada flagship store when she heard a soft voice call her name, the southern drawl familiar to her ears.

“Althea Almott, as I live and breathe. It is you, isn’t it?”

Althea disliked autograph hounds, but she was never, ever rude to her fans. Pasting on a practiced smile, she turned around to find herself staring into the past.

Benicia Ericson had been a close childhood friend back in Alabama. Living on the same street, they had gone to the same schools, shopped at the same stores, attended the same birthday parties and shared their most intimate, girlish secrets. The pair had been inseparable. Things had only started changing when they were midway through high school and began fantasizing about their future. Althea dreamed of going to New York and searching out the bright lights. Less adventuresome, Benicia had felt threatened by her best friend’s plans to leave and when Althea left, it was on the heels of Benicia’s adolescent anger.

Ten years later, standing on Broadway, they eyed each other warily. Looking down at the tiny brown-skinned woman, Althea was hard put to recognize her old friend. A floppy, gray wool hat nearly hid Benicia’s entire face, but that familiar high-pitched laugh was a giveaway.

“Benicia Ericson! Of all people to meet in Soho.”

“Birmingham does seem a long way away,” Benicia agreed, as they shared an awkward embrace.

“Two thousand miles and two hundred years. How are you, Benicia?”

“Oh, I’m fine, thanks. But I don’t have to ask how you’re doing.”

“Yes, I’m fine,” Althea said quickly. “My goodness, though, what on earth are you doing in New York?”

“I live here.”

Althea was surprised. “No! How come I don’t know that?”

“Maybe because we don’t eat in the same restaurants?” Benicia teased, then turned serious. “And maybe because I never called you. You’re such a big star, I just couldn’t bring myself to…impose.”

A little embarrassed, Althea shook her head. “Well, it’s good to see you, Benicia. Do you ever get back home? To Alabama, I mean.”

“I haven’t been back in years,” Benicia admitted. “But I don’t know if that’s good or bad.”

“Me, neither, I’m sorry to say. My mom still lives there, though, a few miles outside the city. And yours?”

“Oh, she’s still there, holding down the fort. I left soon after you did and never went back, either. And I never will.”

“Something in the water?” Althea grinned.

“Something,” Benicia said, smiling back. “Do you ever seriously consider returning?”

“Sure I do. Lately, I think about it a lot.”

“Not me, girlfriend. But I’ve thought about you. Sometimes, thinking about you was the only thing that kept me going. I’d read about you in the paper and think, Why, I know that girl, and if she can do it…You know the sort of thing, silly stuff, but it gave me hope. My friend the world-class model, practically a movie star. Oh, my, yes, I gave you lots of thought. I still do, every time I see a magazine with your face on the cover, wearing that famous ruby-red lipstick.”

“I’m paid to wear that lipstick, you know.”

“I figured as much. So, what have you been up to? I haven’t seen your picture lately. Oh, wait, I remember. You hooked up with the good-looking brother from Long Island, that Boylan ambassador fellow, if I remember correctly. Married yourself a real live prince, straight out of Cinderella, and went to live in Europe somewhere.”

Althea’s amber eyes held a faint glint of humor. “Paris, actually.”

“Paris,” Benicia sighed. “Imagine that, your whole life has been one big fairy tale, hasn’t it? Just like you said it would be. It just goes to show, a small-town girl really can make good in this nasty old world.”

“Oh, Benicia, fairy tales don’t always end happily. My husband and I—our divorce was finalized a few weeks ago. It just hasn’t hit the papers yet.”

“No!”

“Yes.”

“Oh, my, I’m so sorry, Althea.”

“It’s all right, Benicia.” Althea blinked. “How could you know? You would have soon enough, in any case. It will be in all the papers soon.”

“Is that why you’re here in New York?”

“Actually, I only just got back a few days ago.”

“And you run into me and my big mouth. Like I said, I’m really, really sorry.”

“Don’t be. Things happen.”

“Too true,” Benicia said thoughtfully. “Say, listen, I was just window shopping, stalling for time. I have a free hour before I have to go to a meeting. Do you have time for a cup of coffee, catch up on old times? Unless—” Benicia hesitated “—you’re busy. You’re probably busy.”

“I’m not too busy for an old friend,” Althea said firmly. “And a cup of tea sounds perfect.”

The two women made their way a few blocks over to Houston Street, laughing over silly memories that began immediately to surface. Althea talked her friend into having lunch at a small Ethiopian restaurant that served an excellent tea, and tiny glasses of Tej, Ethiopia’s popular honey wine. It wasn’t long before the years fell away and they grew comfortable with each other, although Benicia was careful to stay away from the subject of her friend’s divorce.

“So, tell me,” Benicia asked, as the Tej began to warm them, “you were always talking about going to New York to become a model. Was it worth it?”

“Well, it wasn’t like I was any sort of scholar back in Birmingham, just another pretty girl with a good body and interesting eyes. But my mom lives in a real nice house now with an honest-to-goodness white picket fence and a garden, which is all she ever wanted. So, yes, it was worth it. Of course, it wasn’t without its difficulties. But, hey, that’s a conversation for another day. Let’s talk about you. You look terrific, you know. The same, but different.”

She meant it, too. Benicia looked great. The glossy black curls Althea remembered from their childhood were now worn in a tight cap, her brow was a delicate thin arch over her big, olive-black eyes, and the flirty, long gold earrings she favored set off her graceful neck.

“I do try to take care of myself,” Benicia grimaced with good humor.

“So, are you going to tell me how you landed in New York, considering how angry you were when I left.”

“Considering?” Benicia repeated as their waiter arrived with two steaming bowls of Chicken Wat stew. “Oh, this smells so good.”

“I thought you would like it. It’s my favorite.”

“I can see why,” Benicia said as she picked up her spoon. “But do you mean to say that you don’t follow the Birmingham gossip?” she asked, returning to her thread of thought. “Your momma never told you?”

“Like I said, my mother doesn’t live in the old neighborhood anymore. But now you’ve got my curiosity up, what don’t I know?”

Neatly putting aside her spoon, Benicia rummaged about in the huge tote bag at her feet until she found her wallet. Opening it carefully, she drew out a slender folio of photographs and handed it to Althea. “His name is James. He’s nine years old and he is the most important thing in my life. He is my life.”

“Oh, Benicia, he’s adorable. I didn’t know you were married.”

Benicia’s eyes grew slanted. “I never said I was married.”

“But—”

“The brother had plans,” Benicia said coolly as she quickly retrieved her son’s pictures and stuffed them back in her bag. “Unfortunately, they didn’t include fatherhood. So, it seems we’re both single women, aren’t we?”

Althea fiddled with her silverware, unsure what to say.

Observing her friend’s discomfort, a flash of amusement flitted across Benicia’s round face. “Althea Almott, if I didn’t know better, I’d believe you were blushing. The Alabama in a girl never quite disappears, does it?”

Althea was surprised by Benicia’s observation. No matter how hard she tried to leave the South behind, Alabama did live just below the sophisticated surface she had worked so hard to acquire—a multilayered conservatism that kept her slightly off balance.

“Oh, Althea, I’m only teasing you,” Benicia said, patting her friend’s hand gently. “I don’t complain about being a single mom. I’ve had a long time to figure things out. You don’t remember what a stubborn kid I was, always having to learn things the hard way.”

Confused, Althea sent her a curious look. “How do you mean?”

“I got pregnant,” Benicia said bluntly. “Soon after you left.” For one brief moment, her soft voice was wistful. “I had plans, but then real life had a way of intruding.”

“Oh, there’s truth to that, all right,” Althea agreed sadly. “But what happened to James’s dad?”

“A really good question, for which I have a really dumb answer. I made it easy for him. I let him go. Nobody had to do me any favors! I knew how to take care of myself. Mistake number one was letting him have his way. Mistake number two was letting him get away.”

“Do you ever see him?”

Benicia shook her head. “I wanted him to stay, and I think he did, too. Lordy, that man swore up and down the Mississippi that it wasn’t me. But I was pregnant…. I think he panicked, but how could I blame him? He was only a kid himself, gone before I even started showing. The oldest story in the world, isn’t it?” Benicia said with a sad sigh. “Oh, well, all that’s history, now. But something told me to have this baby, which I did. All by myself.”

“All by yourself?” Althea repeated with a frown. “Your family didn’t help? Where was your mother?”

“Come on, Althea, you remember my momma. When she found out I was pregnant, she beat the living daylights out of me, then she kicked me out of the house. Nowadays, things are different, but back then…” She raised her wineglass, an ironic smile on her face. “To small towns.”

“And to James,” Althea added quickly.

“Thank you.” Benicia nodded as they clicked glasses. “To the future president of the United States.” She laughed. “This week, anyway. If he runs true to form, he’ll want to be a brain surgeon by next week. But, hey, enough of me. What about you, the big star and all?”

“A small star in a firmament of thousands.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that. You are so famous, I can’t help but tell everyone I know you. And they always know who I’m talking about.”

“Well, that’s sweet, but I’ve been away awhile. I don’t know how long you shine in that firmament.”

“The public’s memory isn’t that short. You should know. So, where do you go from here?”

“I have some decisions to make. But right now I have to call it a day,” she said, pushing back her chair. “I left about four tons of mail sitting on my dining room table waiting to be sorted, not to mention three hundred phone calls I have to make.”

“Getting back into the routine?” Benicia laughed.

“It will take a few weeks,” Althea said. “Will I see you again? Will you call me, if you have a chance? We can’t not see each other another ten years. And I would like to meet James.”

“I’ll call,” Benicia said vaguely.

Althea got into a cab, wondering if she would. She rode back home, her head filled with thoughts of Alabama, memories she usually preferred not to examine suddenly clamoring for attention…

Her mother leaving every night at nine to work the night shift at a local factory so she could be around Althea during the day; standing in line every other Monday, rain or shine, waiting with her mother for their food stamps; Tuesdays, free cheese distribution at the welfare center; Thursdays, the day stale bread was distributed by a nearby package outlet, and if Althea had been really good that week, if she had passed all her tests in school, her mother gave her fifty cents to buy a box of stale cupcakes.