Where to Choose Read online

  “So who is she, Robbie?”

  “She’s Millie Wolf and she’s part Chiricahua Apache, part Hopi, and part Mexican. She’s a mutt, like me.”

  So on the days that Robbie Lee didn’t instruct Grayce Gibson in the ancient art of tai chi, Millie Wolf instructed her in the even more ancient practice of yoga. So many years and so much life later, so many things remained constant and familiar. Carole Ann smiled a silent gratitude and felt something warm flow within. She was still angry at the treatment of Jacaranda Estates, both by the hoodlums and by the system, and she was still fearful for the safety of those she loved. But for the first time in more than a year, she had a clear sense of self and of place. She no longer felt like some strange thing out of place, marching a half step behind the crowd. She no longer felt people looking at her, frowning, wondering what she was; no longer felt and wonder what she was.

  “You’re smiling.”

  “Yeah, Ma. I’m smiling.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “Me, too. It feels good.”

  “Good enough that you feel like helping me prepare for my bridge club?”

  Carole Ann laughed out loud and hugged her mother and kissed the top of her head. “Nice try, Ma. And not a chance. When is bridge club?”

  “Saturday night.”

  “Then I leave Saturday morning for San Francisco. I told you I’d be spending a few days with Marge.”

  Grayce took a swat at her daughter with the dish towel, inten­tionally missing but delivering her message with full clarity. “It wouldn’t kill you to help us. You’re such a terrific cook. And Mable and Alice and the girls would love to see you. You know they love you like a daughter, C.A. I don’t know why you have to be such a brat.”

  Carole Ann giggled and the memories returned in a flood. The bridge club that rotated every month among the twelve members so that each member hosted one meeting a year. And Carole Ann al­ways pressed into service, under extreme duress, her mother always berating her “recalcitrance.”

  “Just to keep you on your toes, Ma.”

  “Don’t do me any favors,” Grayce harrumphed, “and be sure to give Marge my regards. I’m glad you kept in touch with her. I always liked her.”

  Marge Hammond was Carole Ann’s roommate the two years she lived on campus and they had kept in touch, had remained friends. In fact, Marge and Robbie and Millie were the only ones of her hometown contemporaries from whom she heard when A1 was killed, the only ones who called more than once, who wrote often, who made it clear that their concern was real, their grief deep. And she’d promised Marge a visit, though she hadn’t intended to journey up north so soon after her arrival. After all, she’d been in L.A. less than two weeks, but the conversation with Robbie was aching and throbbing in her brain like a diseased tooth and she needed to get to Sacramento, to the state archives.

  She’d visited the Los Angeles County archives and the L.A. His­torical Society the day after her killer karate lesson with Robbie to check on the history of the land upon which Jacaranda Estates had been constructed and to satisfy her belief that the land had not been stolen from Enrique Jamilla by Arthur Jennings, and she’d found the information lacking. She’d visited the office of the recorder of deeds and the surveyor’s office and found the details of the land ownership inconclusive. Her best bet, said the administrator in the recorder of deeds office, was the state archives in Sacramento. And Sacramento, the state capital, was but a short jaunt from San Fran­cisco. Three days with Marge, a day in Sacramento, back in L.A. by Wednesday night or Thursday morning.

  “Suppose I cook before I leave, Ma? I’ll make a seafood gumbo and a big salad and bread pudding with hard sauce for dessert. I’ll call Tante Sadie for recipes. The girls’ll think they’re dining in the French Quarter.”

  “Can you make it low cholesterol?”

  Carole Ann gave her mother “the look,” and the older woman dis­solved into giggles.

  Carole Ann’s meeting with Jennifer Johnson was reminiscent of her session with Robbie Lee in that the young radio reporter was a no-holds-barred kind of woman. She asked tough questions, ex­pected honest answers, and flat out refused to divulge any of her own information. When Carole Ann refused to answer any of Jen­nifer’s questions until Jennifer had answered hers, the reporter ac­tually stood up and began walking away. Carole Ann prevailed only because she’d had more practice at getting her own way.

  “Oh, sit down and stop behaving like a child,” the lawyer snapped at the young reporter, annoyed with herself for having to orches­trate the other woman’s return to the meeting.

  Jennifer Johnson halted mid-step and turned to stare in open- mouthed wonderment at the woman who’d issued the command. Carole Ann was all the way in the corner of the booth, her back against the wall and her legs stretched out in front of her on the black leather of the seat. Her right arm rested high on the back of the banquette; her left arm was propped on the table, forming a holder for her chin. A study in casual disdain.

  “Who the hell are you calling a child? I don’t have to take this crap from you! You called me, remember?”

  “You need me a lot more than I need you, Miss Johnson, and if you don’t believe it, ask your research librarian to do a search on me.”

  “There is no research librarian at my station, Miss Gibson; you’ve got me confused with a network reporter. But I will do my own search on you. And if you don’t need me, why did you call?” Jennifer Johnson was controlling her anger, but just barely.

  Carole Ann swung her legs down to the floor and sat up straight, folding her hands on the table. “I didn’t say I didn’t need you. I said you needed me more than I need you, but need you I do, Miss John­son. So, please have a seat, another cup of coffee, a pastry, and let’s talk.”

  After a three-second ponder, Jennifer Johnson resumed her seat across the booth from Carole Ann, angry still, and very wary, but sensing something that made it necessary to bury all the personal feelings and deal only with the issues of instinct. And before she could decide whether she even wanted a pastry, the waitress had ar­rived and she ordered it, kiwi tart, along with the coffee that she def­initely did want.

  “The only way this is going to work, Miss Gibson, is if we share in­formation. No matter how much you may think I need you, I’m not going to just feed you information and get nothing in return. It’s quid pro quo or nothing.”

  Carole Ann grinned in spite of herself with the realization that she was beginning to like this young woman. So after an hour of playing by Jennifer Johnson’s rules—sharing information— C.A. knew why she liked the young reporter with the Alfre Woodard eyes: Jennifer Johnson was aggressive and smart and she possessed a well-honed and razor-sharp instinct. The only thing she didn’t have was clout. She was a cub reporter working for a small, inde­pendent station. No incentive for the LAPD to respond or react to her queries or her reports. Not yet.

  Carole Ann had walked through Jacaranda Estates to the busi­ness end of the complex for her meeting with Jennifer Johnson at the Expresso Express, and she gladly accepted a ride home so that Jennifer could demonstrate to Carole Ann “something that just doesn’t make sense.”

  Slowly they cruised past what once had been the children’s play­ground at Jacaranda Estates, Jennifer downshifting the boxy Bavaria 2002 to an almost stop as they turned the corner, catching an unobstructed view of six gang-bangers hanging from the denud­ed swing frame.

  “See what I mean?” she asked, as much puzzlement as excite­ment in her voice.

  Carole Ann did see.

  “You tell that daughter of yours she redeemed herself, but just barely.” Alice trumped Roberta’s jack of diamonds, smirked, and collected the trick. “That was the best gumbo I’ve ever eaten.”

  “Well, she’s totally redeemed in my book,” added Mable from the next table. “I haven’t had bread pudding like that since I was a child. And you know I’m not much for reminiscing.”

  “Don’t blame you. Reaching so far ba
ck could give you a head­ache,” Roberta tossed over her shoulder, feigning distance from the snickers the remark produced.

  “Who did you say she got the recipes from?” asked Eloise.

  “Never mind who. Will she share them?” demanded Mable. “I want the recipe for that bread pudding!”

  Grayce, taking advantage of her position as dummy at her table, was refilling water glasses and coffee cups and generally surveying her turf, satisfying herself that all was in perfect order. Grayce liked festive occasions, giving them and attending them, and never minded the effort involved in hosting her club members. Fresh-cut flowers colored and scented the combination living-and-dining room, and candles of all shapes and sizes glimmered and shim­mered and glowed throughout, creating a holiday effect. She was delighted that the food was a success, and that her daughter was re­sponsible.

  The only damper on the evening was the empty place at the third table, the place normally occupied by Helen Smith, who hadn’t come because she was frightened by the outbreak of violence at Jacaranda Estates. Grayce shook off the feeling of dismay, refusing to allow any intrusion on her mood, and she put her mind to work formulating an appropriate response to the requests for the recipes that Carole Ann certainly would not divulge, when Luisa, standing at the front windows, let out a shriek.

  “Oh, Mother of God! Somebody stop them! Stop them/”

  Roberta threw her cards across the table and knocked over her chair in her haste to hurry to the windows and to Luisa. Eloise spilled her water, Mable spilled her coffee, and Angie tripped and fell across the ottoman, landing on her face. Grayce gathered her up and the twelve of them gathered in the front windows, looking to­ward the playground, and held collective breath as they watched two thugs beat an old man and try to wrest from his grip what ap­peared to be a grocery bag.

  “That’s Mr. Asmara,” Angie whispered.

  “What the hell is he doing out there this time of night!” Roberta hissed. “Dammit, man, are you crazy!” she yelled at him, her anger at the old man’s attackers a huge, living thing, her anger working against her struggle to open the window.

  “Somebody call the police!” shrilled Mable.

  “Mira! Mira! Look what’s happening!” Luisa was out of breath, as if she’d been running.

  They looked, the twelve of them as one eye, to see a man rushing toward the attack brandishing a bat and wearing nothing but jockey shorts that gleamed bright white against his chocolate body in the moonlit darkness. Running hard and fast as only a strong young man can run, and waving the bat with a fury evident even from so great a distance.

  The window, finally open, admitted a rush of chilly night air that carried a hoarse yell: “You slimy bastards! Get away from him! Leave him alone!”

  They hesitated, the two attackers, then dropped the old man’s bag and quickly evaporated into the night. Twelve hearts, beating too fast for good health, finally slowed, releasing a reluctant hold on shallow breath. But they retained their grips on one another’s arms and shoulders and hands, and watched as the young man finally reached the old man and grabbed him, held him up as the old man sagged, then, ultimately, sank to the ground with him, holding and rocking him as if he were the child he’d left when he ran out into the chilly night in his underwear.

  They watched, still barely breathing, as the old man opened the brown grocery bag that he refused to relinquish to his attackers, and withdrew from it small, thin, filmy things. Grayce’s breath caught in her heart and hurt sharply as she tried to speak. “It’s her night­gowns, Mrs. Asmara’s. He must have just come from the hospital and brought her nightgowns home to wash.”

  Drained and exhausted and weak in spirit they watched until the young man walked the old man to his house, unlocked the door, and put him inside. They watched the young man return to his own home, walking slowly, head down, shoulders drooped and heaving, trailing the bat behind him. They watched him wipe tears and snot on his arm. They watched him until he reached his wife standing in the open doorway of his home with outstretched arms. They watched until there was nothing more to see except the moonlight that was bathing the yards and trees and shrubs in a falsely peaceful glow. They watched until they were able to think and move and speak.

  “What the hell is happening here! I can’t stand this! Suppose it’s one of you next time?” Mable’s hysteria was catching. Alice and Eloise began weeping and damning thugs and hoodlums to everlast­ing hell. The terror and anger that a moment ago had hung sus­pended in time was released and the eight women who did not live in Jacaranda Estates attacked the four who did with the same inten­sity as of the recently witnessed attack, the principal difference be­ing their weapons were expressions of love and fear and pain and sorrow.

  “You all will have to move!” exclaimed Mable, looking frantically from Grayce to Roberta to Angie with a look that managed to be both tearful and fiery. “You, too, Luisa!” she added, for though she was not an official member of the bridge club, Luisa was and had been a presence at the meetings hosted by her three friends for so many years that she routinely was invited to the other members’ meetings.

  “Nobody’s moving,” Grayce replied with a calm that was made a lie by the tremble in her hands as she poured a glass of water for herself.

  Eight voices lifted simultaneously in a cacophony of disbelief, anger, reproach, none of the babble of words capable of masking the fear that enveloped the room, extinguishing the festive joy so re­cently pervasive. Fear converted loving words to angry ones; plead­ing words to dismissive ones; caring words to selfish ones. Fear blurred the ability to make the distinctions, and the willingness.

  “Then don’t come here anymore.” The words from Roberta’s mouth were calm and quiet and they cut through the raised voices with the efficiency of a power tool. “I officially cancel my meeting next month. Mable, you can have two meetings this year. Or you, Eloise. Or Helen. And perhaps by the end of the year, everything will have returned to normal. Or perhaps we’ll all be dead and it won’t matter.”

  The weight of those words was too heavy to bear, even for the twelve of them together, and they crumpled under the weight. Sagged. Onto the sofa, onto the abandoned chairs at the bridge ta­bles, onto the floor. Empty and emptied.

  “It’s all so different now. Too different. Everything is different. And wrong.” Eloise allowed the tears to flow unchecked down her smooth, brown face, and the mucus from her nose. “The things we allow these days. So different and so wrong.”

  “What do we allow, Eloise?” Grayce asked.

  “Murder,” she responded, her voice dead.

  “You think we allow this?” Angie spoke for the four.

  “If Grayce’s husband or Roberta’s husband were alive, these things wouldn’t be happening. The men of our generation wouldn’t allow this kind of carrying on. Look at how Mr.... what’d you say his name was?... fought against those thugs. Old as he is, he wasn’t al­lowing their sickness to rule him. And suppose five men had come running in their drawers, ten men, all the men...but there was only one.” Eloise slumped deeper into the pillows of the sofa, oblivi­ous to her own tears. Reflexively she received the bundle of tissues offered by Grayce and sat holding them, staring nowhere.

  Roberta knelt before her, took one of the tissues, and wiped her friend’s nose with the expert hand of the mother and grandmother. “We’re not going to be dead, Eloise. And I’m having the club next month. And I want you to come. All of you. Helen, too. I’ll call her myself with the promise of fried chicken and biscuits.”

  “Too much cholesterol, Bertie!” Luisa exclaimed, puncturing the atmosphere and releasing everything painful and ugly that had been held there since they had borne witness to the worst thing they’d ever seen. They sighed and heaved their breasts like the grand­mothers they were, and giggled behind their hands like the schoolgirls they remembered being. They rocked and hugged one another, con­fident once again of their ability to provide succor and comfort in the face of danger. And the eigh
t prepared to take their leave, aglow in the necessary belief that the four would be safe.

  They embraced the ritual of packing up leftovers: Each hostess understood her responsibility to prepare extra food and each club member brought a container for that purpose. Grayce ladled out gumbo, pointedly ignoring Angie’s “I told you so” look, while Roberta doled out bread pudding, mumbling unintelligible things under her breath, unaware that Angie had insisted that Grayce withhold a pot of gumbo and a dish of pudding just for the four of them, overriding Grayce’s assertion that hiding food was unneces­sary.

  When every known morsel of food was packed and they were ready to depart, the women helped one another into their coats, re­trieved their purses and parcels, and agreed on their method of de­parture: Grayce, Roberta, Angie, and Luisa would walk their guests to their cars; Grayce and Angie would walk Roberta and Luisa to their respective homes; Grayce and Angie would run like hell across the grass, back to their duplex.

  “The moonlight makes everything look so peaceful and pretty,” Grayce whispered with a sigh. “Romantic.”

  Bert and Angie simultaneously performed a somewhat less than professional version of the moon-as-pizza-pie song from the film Moonstruck, leaving Grayce with a case of the giggles and Luisa feel­ing left out, since she hadn’t seen the movie five times like the others.

  “There’s nothing wrong with love and romance and the moon,” she said and stuck her chin out, thinking they were mocking the subject.

  “We love romance and the moon, Luisa, but the sad truth is, tonight, up close, the moonlight makes the grass look like it needs cutting and the shrubbery like it needs pruning,” Angie responded sadly.

  “And it makes us look like we’re the only people in the world,” Grayce added, shivering.

  “Which is not a warm and fuzzy feeling in this moment,” Roberta offered, with her own shiver. “And speaking of warm, I’m not, so could we pick up the pace, girls?”

  They were walking arm-in-arm diagonally across the grass, walk­ing rapidly and angling for Roberta’s, where, they’d agreed after a change of plan, Luisa would spend the night—a faster and safer al­ternative than walking the extra block to her place. Besides, from Roberta’s upstairs window, the two of them could watch Grayce and Angie, could see them all the way across the lawn and home. They walked faster, concentrating on closing the distance to the pale- gray-trimmed-in-black triplex in which Roberta occupied the larg­est unit.