“Right, Etta’s future. Girl, you know I love you, right?” Lola asks me, pulling her barstool closer to mine. “And us bein’ sista-friends, we choose to be honest with each other so neither of us looks like a fool or makes foolish mistakes.” I know Lola is talking about the time I stopped her from shaving her head to prove the point to her husband that she feels invisible in a house full of men who eat, burp, fight, and fart all day. I literally had to grab the clippers out of her hand and point out to her that her ears are not her best feature.
“Well then, here it is, Josie. You need to get off Etta’s back and let that girl apply to Juilliard with your blessing. Straight up. If you don’t, she’s going to go off to college and drop you like a bad habit because you don’t see your daughter for who she really is. She’s an artist, a dancer, who also happens to be good in school. Not a top student who also happens to be good at dance. You have to let her live her life, whether you agree with her choices or not, or you’re going to lose her forever. And then you are going to end up like me, no daughter to take care of you when you’re old.”
“You’ll take care of me when I’m old.”
“Not if you don’t let Etta seriously consider Juilliard.”
“How do you know about Juilliard anyway?” I never brought it up with Lola before.
“Etta talked to me since she hasn’t been able to talk to her mother about it.”
“So Etta talked to you, Aunt Viv, and Jean Georges all about Juilliard. Any other secrets you know about my daughter that I should probably be aware of since she’s my kid?” I’m getting upset. What happened to keeping Bordelon family issues private? Unless I’m the one blabbing to Lola, of course.
“I mean this from the bottom of my heart, Jo, you can be a one-track-thinkin’, don’t-get-in-my-way-’cause-I-know-what-I-want, the-world-best-hop-on-MY-train, stubborn you-know-what type of person. I’ve never known a woman who can dig her heels in harder than you can. And I say that with love. And awe.” Lola downs the last of her drink signaling that this conversation is done and it’s time to pick up her ninja warrior.
“I really should have let you shave your head.”
“But you never would have, because at the end of the day once you climb up and out of your own way you always know the right thing to do.” Lola stands to put on her coat and scarf to steel herself against the San Francisco fog and wind.
“You think it’s so cute that Mateo can play ‘When the Saints Go Marching In’ on his guitar. Just wait another seven years, when he tells you he wants to run off and join some alt rock band rather than go to college. Or worse, try out for a reality television show. Then let’s talk. I’ll remind you to let him find his own way at seventeen, for you to get out of the way of his dream that is heading nowhere good.”
“Hey, as long as that little cannibal doesn’t turn into Ozzy Osbourne and bite the heads off birds on stage I’m all good.” I can’t wait to remind her of this conversation when Mateo goes Goth at fifteen. If creamy Latino black kids can go Goth. Never really thought about that one. Regardless, we’ll see who is the hyper-controlling, know-it-all momster then.
Lola pushes her chair in place and leans over to give me a kiss on the cheek. “You just count yourself lucky I don’t rat you out to Aunt Viv that you failed to walk me to my car. Leave a good tip, Hugo’s my favorite bartender.”
It’s my week to pick up the tab and I still have a sip or two of champagne left. I disregard Aunt Viv’s golden rule of friendship: “You go together, you leave together.” No one’s going to mug Lola on the way to her mini-van one block up Franklin. I stay at the bar a few moments more to think about my deal with Etta. I told Etta she could apply to Juilliard and that I would even help make her portfolio video, but I have no intention of actually allowing her to go. But is Juilliard worth losing my daughter over? Is there a middle road we could agree on, like, maybe a reputable college with a strong dance program where she could double major? Seems like Duke is that kind of school, worth double-checking my research at least. Or, if I just stick to my plan and wait it out will she come to see I’m right and thank me later? Deep down I know there is no one right path for Etta to take, but I also know that New York City is littered with many tempting wrong paths. I leave the philosophical for the mundane and signal Hugo for the check. Teenagers have no tolerance for late pickup.
* * *
• • •
“Check you out!” Roan growls as I smooth down the back of my skirt and give a little shimmy. “Someone’s got it bad for the gays.”
When I wanna look good, I can look so damn good even Nan will stop and take notice. This morning, she used up her once-a-year compliment admiring my mint-colored blouse that casually ties at the neck with a little peek-a-boo hole that shows some well-moisturized chocolate skin. I’ve paired my top with a knee-length Kelly-green pencil skirt. And, if that weren’t enough, I took the ensemble over the Fairchild fashion edge with my metallic silver ankle booties. BAM! I’m lookin’ fly today and I know it. Take that, middle age! I ain’t ready for you yet.
Knock. Knock.
The smell at the door gives it away. “Come in, Aunt Viv.” As promised, she has arrived fifteen minutes before the Golden parent interview to deliver her apple crumb coffee cake.
“Now remember, Josephine, unless you want me to die earlier than I plan to, you let that good doctor’s daughter in this school. I have never once asked for any favors where your job is concerned, but I’m askin’ now.” Aunt Viv is tearing at the Kleenex she has permanently stuffed up her sleeve. She’s visibly anxious, not her usual calm, authoritative self.
“Aunt Viv, you know I can only admit her if she’s a right fit for Fairchild. And if her parents are a decent fit, too.”
“Puh-lease, child, I’ve seen you and three directors of admissions before you accept plenty of children who had no business bein’ here other than their parents could buy somethin’ for the school that it couldn’t buy for itself. I’ve been here a long time. I’ve seen a lot of things, and I know how it goes. If your parents have more money than Mississippi, Georgia, and Louisiana combined you get in. If you look like you shop at the Ferry Building’s farmers market on the weekends, you get in. It’s all the families in the middle who have to play by the rules. Private schools color outside the lines. Don’t try to tell me otherwise. I need that doctor to be happy that his daughter gets to go to a good school, this school. I’m not up for dyin’, Josie, so the least you can do for me is accept that nice family, so I can get on with livin’.”
Since her heart attack this is the first time Aunt Viv has actually talked about dying. I know I’ve thought about it, I know Etta’s thought about it, but up until this moment it was unclear to me if the idea of dying was anything Aunt Viv spent much time thinking about. She’s not one to delve into emotions and “all that therapy nonsense you younger generations spend too much time talkin’ about.” This turn of events, me doing what needs to be done to take care of Aunt Viv, is uncharted territory. Aunt Viv is the caretaker. Aunt Viv is the lawmaker. And in full disclosure, Aunt Viv is the steady hand that runs our house and reigns over our land, and I’m in no hurry to step into that family role quite yet.