“She was a tiny older black lady with little white Afro.” I unfold the picture and pass it to Maybelle.
She furrows her brow, turns the photo to the right, and cocks her head to the left.
Then she smiles. “Christmas Eve, you say?”
“Yes.”
Maybelle nods. “This is Ethel.”
I look at Zan…who’s already looking at me. “Ethel?” we say simultaneously.
“That’s her name. I remember her quite clearly. The light-up sweater she had on was a little tacky, but she came up at the end of the service for prayer and I walked her out.”
This rich old white lady would hate on Ethel’s sweater.
Maybelle sighs and shakes her head then.
My mouth goes dry. “What’s the matter?”
“She’s one of the ones who got away,” she says. “We tried to contact her but never got a response.”
Uh-oh. “Do you think she, umm…?” Based on the lack of color in Zan’s face, I’d say he knows what I’m about to ask. “Do you think she passed?”
“Oh, I doubt that.” Maybelle flicks the thought away. (Whew!) “We were probably just a bit too hip for her tastes. Women like Ethel tend to grow up Baptist, Holiness Pentecostal, or AME. Very traditional worship-wise—hymns and old Negro spirituals, that type of thing—and they rarely stray from the King James Version. You two familiar with the Gospel of Jesus Christ?”
Oh boy, here we go….
“We’re Catholic, ma’am,” Zan says.
Maybelle fights so hard to hide her displeasure, I almost bust out laughing. “Oh” is all she says.
The air in the room goes a little sour, so I decide to just take the plunge. “Do you think you could give me Ethel’s contact information? I’d really like to get her bracelet bac—”
“I thought you said brooch?”
And shit.
“Yes, yes, I’m sorry. Her brooch. Her…elephant brooch.”
She eyes me for a few seconds, then sighs. “Unfortunately, it’s against the VFC Code of Ethics to give out anyone’s contact information without their express permission. If you’d like to leave your phone number, I can make an attempt at contacting her myself, but as I mentioned, no one was able to get ahold of her after her visit.”
And scene.
She looks at her watch. “If the two of you would like a tour of the house for your project, now would be the time. I’ll need to have my bath soon.”
“That sounds like a fabulous idea, Ms. Carver,” Zander says. “Thank you for offering.”
“Right this way.” She stands and heads toward the drawing room door.
We follow suit, and I jab him with a good glower—don’t see a point in the façade now.
But he just winks at me. Which, despite the death of our quest, makes my insides go gooey. (Insult to injury, I tell you.)
When we get into the hallway, Zander pauses and puts a hand on his stomach. “Ahh…Ms. Carver, might I use your facilities?”
Maybelle looks a little grossed out (which is kind of funny), but she says, “Yes, of course. Second door on the left there,” and she points down an adjacent hall.
“You lovelies can go ahead and begin the tour since I know we’re pressed for time,” Zan says. “Tell me, was there butter in any of those cookies?”
Maybelle is clearly aghast. “Of course there was butter! They’re cookies.”
“Ah. Right. Definitely go ahead. This could take a whi—” His face goes blank. “Oh boy, gotta go now.” And he pivots and rushes around the corner.
For a moment, Maybelle is rooted to the spot. Concerned about Gustavo ruining her plumbing, no doubt.
I touch her shoulder, and she startles. “Sorry,” I say. “Shall we, ummm…do the tour?”
“Sure, sure,” she says, glancing toward the hallway again. “My apologies. Right this way.”
As we move through the different rooms she gives me a brief history of the house and the city—we see Lucinda rocking out with earbuds tucked into her ears as she vacuums the library—but the whole time, I’m thinking about Zan. Wondering if he’s okay. Wondering if this is really the end. All I really catch is her mention of “birthing children” in the room where her first husband’s grandfather “birthed a town,” and on and on about this crown molding and that grade of mahogany for this bedroom floor.
By the time we get back downstairs, it’s been a good twenty minutes, and there’s still no sign of Zan. “I do hope your friend is all righ—” (Oh, so now we’re just friends?)
“Whew!” comes a voice from the end of the hallway. Zan appears with a smile on his face, but it fades when he sees us. “Aw man, did I miss the whole tour?”
Maybelle looks him over from head to foot, disgusted and not hiding it this time. Especially considering he’s trailing a piece of toilet paper on his shoe. “I’m afraid you did, young man.”
“Drat. You wouldn’t have time to give me a quick run-through, would you?”
I feel my eyes widen, but I keep smiling.
“Sadly, no,” she says. “You’ll have to come back during the Christmas tour. Now if you two wouldn’t mind, it’s time for me to begin my evening routine. Lucinda!” she calls up the steps. “If you’ll bring our guests their coats, please!”
Zan steps up to Maybelle. Takes her weathered hand. “Thank you so much for having us, Ms. Carver.” He lifts the back of it to his lips.
I expect her to blush, considering her stories about liaisons, but instead, she snatches her hand away. Lucinda appears to the left (where the heck did she come from?!) with our coats draped over her arm, and Maybelle takes them, shoves them at us, and practically pushes us out the front door.
Once we’re in the Jeep, I huff and cross my arms. “Well, that was rude.”
Zan chuckles, then passes me a little card. At the top is the name Ethel Streeter, and while the phone number line is blank, there’s a PO box listed on the address line.
My mouth drops. “No flippin’ way…”
He grins. “Those cookies were delicious, weren’t they?”
For days, the Ethel Streeter visitor card is my constant companion. In fact, I take it out and look at it so often, I manage to memorize the PO address.