Aunt Viv took a left at Starbucks, the first in Richmond back when I was in high school, walked three more blocks, and then a right at Clement Street. On Clement, about eight blocks after the rush of traffic on Park Presidio, Aunt Viv, chef extraordinaire, marched right into Allstar Donuts. All of Allstar Donuts greeted her with a “Morning, V! Got your seat right here.” Still hidden by the winter morning darkness I spied from the sidewalk and witnessed a whole community I never knew Aunt Viv had. Clearly she didn’t want me to know since she’d never mentioned word one about her Allstar Donuts posse.
A group of about ten men and women—Asian, black, and white, as far as I could tell—gathered around two pushed-together Formica tables welcoming the day with warm embraces and conversation. I saw one man in a trucker baseball hat with gray curls escaping the sides put an arm around Aunt Viv’s chair. He seemed to have an easy laugh at anything said at the table, and I could have sworn I saw Aunt Viv put a hand on his knee. Did Aunt Viv have a secret lover? A friend? A closet husband? It was hard to tell because at that point I had fogged up my small peeping corner of the window.
At exactly 7:30 Aunt Viv said her good-byes to the coffee klatch and headed out as economically as she had arrived. I hid in the bushes of the bodega next door and watched her hop a 7:45 bus to Fairchild, which was no more than a mile away. The next several days I had to fight my instinct to probe Aunt Viv about Gentleman Trucker Hat, but I never did. Aunt Viv had escaped New Orleans for San Francisco to start fresh and lead her own quiet life. That all came to an abrupt halt when I showed up roughly a decade later and altered Aunt Viv’s life plans, whatever they may have been. If Aunt Viv needed something to be all hers, well, I gotta let her have it. She’s never once complained about raising children she didn’t birth, never once mentioned a life she wished she could have led. If she needed to have her own private world from 6:15–7:45 a.m. Monday through Friday, who am I to take away that hour and a half of life that belongs only to her.
* * *
• • •
School’s back in session after the holidays and Etta and I both held up our end of the bargain, though I wouldn’t say this was the jolliest of holiday seasons. Etta wrote an amazing essay on how the difference between a good dancer and a great one is caring about the tiny imperfections that no one else may notice, but as a dancer you do. What sets her apart from her peers is, though all humans are flawed, she enjoys the journey of working on her imperfections to try to become a better version of herself. She doesn’t do it for her teachers, for her family, or for her friends; she does it for herself because it is on stage that she comes alive as the best version of herself. Etta definitely stepped it up from the Husky the fat hamster essay. I tried to compliment her on her recent efforts when she stopped to give me the time of day, which was never long enough for me to finish my sentence. Merry Christmas to me.
I held up my end of the bargain, too, by helping Etta get her application and prescreening content done and submitted to Juilliard by December 20. I was happy to learn that as a junior and senior Etta could take liberal arts credits at Columbia and Barnard. In fact, she could potentially become well-educated in addition to becoming an accomplished dancer. But, no matter how many classes she may take at Columbia that degree will still say Juilliard, not Columbia. I’m willing to bet not many tech start-ups or investment banking training programs are hiring Juilliard graduates.
I also learned that if Etta passes the prescreening process, I will have to send her to New York for a live audition and interview. Add a plane ticket to New York City and a hotel room to the loss column of the ongoing Bordelon profit and loss, loss, and more loss statement. Note to self: Don’t even think about hitting the post-Christmas sales at Neiman’s or Bloomingdale’s. I text Lola and tell her it’s her job to not let me travel south of Pine Street to Union Square for the next several months.
FROM: Nan Gooding
DATE: January 25, 2019
SUBJECT: Viv’s party
TO: Josephine Bordelon
Josie,
Please come down to my office to talk about your aunt Viv’s party. It’s less than six weeks away. Elsa, my assistant, will let me know when you arrive.
Please be on time. 10:15 sharp.
Nan Gooding
HEAD OF SCHOOL
FAIRCHILD COUNTRY DAY SCHOOL
Holy hell. I had prayed that the idea for Aunt Viv’s party died with the Christmas chrysanthemums and Nan’s holiday cheer. I put a little lipstick on and head to Nan’s office.
“Hi, Nan.” I walk past Elsa and knock directly on Nan’s door, opening it a smidge. Her irritation at me has yet to subside since the admissions committee incident. My insubordination in bypassing Elsa and coming straight into her office only adds insult to recent injury.
“Is Elsamyassistant not at her desk?” Nan leans over her laptop to look out to the foyer.
“What would you like to talk about, Nan? I thought the party wasn’t happening since you haven’t mentioned it to me since mid-November. And I know you must be so busy working on your STEAMS project that I can’t imagine you have time to organize a party.”
“Well, yes, I am very busy with my STEAMS project. It’s not even up and running yet and I can’t keep up with the requests from around the country to come and speak at different schools on behalf of the project. The head of school at Hotchkiss has been pestering me nonstop to come speak to his faculty and board of trustees, but I finally had to put my foot down and tell him that Fairchild requires me here. I can’t spend all my time on planes and at speaking engagements up and down the East Coast. So, yes, STEAMS does seem to keep me locked up in my office most of the day, but I’m a woman who can wear many hats and I’m still planning on hosting Viv’s party.”
I struggle not to show my disappointment at this decision.
“You’ve told Viv about the party like I asked you to, haven’t you, Josie?”
“I was waiting to make sure the party was a go for sure. You know, I didn’t want to raise Aunt Viv’s hopes only to have them dashed.” If only there were a trapdoor I could drop through and disappear from this conversation.
“When have I ever changed my mind on a decision that I have made public in front of faculty and staff? Again, Josie. I ask you to do something, and again you disappoint.” Nan shakes her head. My fists are in balls at my side, nails digging into my flesh. It’s either self-inflicted pain or Nan is going to get a beat down.
“When do you plan on telling your aunt Viv about the party? I know she’ll want plenty of time to prepare,” Nan asks, her eyebrows raised so that they are hiding under her bangs. The only time and preparation Aunt Viv needs is to bitch and moan to me about the party, bitch and moan about my inability to cancel the party to her card group, and bitch and moan to Etta that I’m a terrible niece and when she dies, all her worldly possessions will skip me and go directly to Etta.