Page 80 of The Wondrous Life and Loves of Nella Carter
“We need to make sure everyone has rides for Monday.” She pointed to the table farthest away, a lone woman hovering over it on a phone.“Gabrielle’s coordinating those that might need rides and getting the word out. I’m sure she’d love some help.”
We said our goodbyes, and I crossed the room and was approaching the table, ready to offer my services, when Gabrielle smiled up at me. The kindness in the beautiful woman’s bright-brown eyes startled me, making my heart quicken. The surprise of it made me blush. Up close, she radiated, her looks what one would expect in a magazine nowadays. She was model tall, her sienna skin flawless and smooth, her simple blue dress molded to her form, an inner grace to each movement.
My jacket felt too hot and too tight all at once. My curiosity was piqued.
Gabrielle’s eyes flicked over me as she held a finger up, finishing her call. “It’s all right, Mavis. I’ve got a driver going in your direction most mornings. It’ll be early, though, around six. Is that all right?” She listened, a broad smile illuminating her face. “Fred will be over first thing. Call me back if you run into any other trouble.” She hung up the phone, turning her attention back to me.
“Well, aren’t you a bunny.” Her eyes traveled up and down the full length of my body with such open admiration that I almost gasped.
“I’m Jimi,” I said, flustered, pointing vaguely in the direction I’d come from. “Jo Ann said you needed some help.”
Her presence rattled me, and I couldn’t figure out why.
“Sure do,” she said, reaching for my hand with both of hers and holding it in some approximation of a handshake. “I’m Gabby, and I’ll be glad for any help you have to give,” she said as the phone rang again.
She plucked it off the cradle as I tugged off my jacket, grateful for the slight relief. My temperature was still climbing, and I had to marvel at my seemingly endless capacity to feel so unmoored, still, by this kind of youthful attraction. It seemed no matter how many years passed, no matter how many times I tried to lock this part of myself away, some part of me was undeniably, painfully connected to the world around me.
Watch me,Gabby mouthed, the phone nestled in the soft bend of her neck. “Dexter Avenue Baptist Church, Gabby speaking, how can we help?” Efficiently, she recorded the caller’s name, destination, desired time of arrival, and phone number in the book and location, promising a callback.
“We’ve been getting calls like that all afternoon,” she said, running down the list of drivers for the callback. “We’ve got to build up the pool of drivers and coordinate, so when all of this happens, folk can still get to work. How well do you know the area?”
“Not well at all. I’m down from Chicago, writing the piece on the WPC forThe Chicago Defender.”
Gabby beamed, pausing her search. I never tired of this reaction to my profession. “A writer! I love to read. It’s my favorite thing to do when I’m not teaching. There’s nothing quite so alluring as a talented pen,” she said wistfully. Then she turned the full force of her attention on me. “Tell me what it’s like. What exactly do you do forThe Chicago Defender?”
It didn’t matter what she’d asked me; I would’ve told her anything just to keep those eyes focused on me.
“I’ve been there a little over a year,” I said, stumbling. “I cover the international wire, mostly.”
“International! But you’re so young!” Her eyes lit with interest. “You must’ve traveled to get a beat like that.”
“I have,” I confirmed.
“Andyou speak other languages? So, you’re skilled with the pen and the tongue,” she said, and at this her voice dipped low. I nodded, momentarily stunned when she unconsciously caught her bottom lip between her teeth.
Her brazenness felt like ice melting down my spine on a hot summer day. Who was this young woman? I’d known her a handful of minutes; in the growing ocean of my life, it was but a drop of water’s worth of time. We didn’t know each other at all, and yet there wasrecognition between us. I’d felt it before. After all this time, I’d learned to recognize it—this mixture of desire and fear.
“You know,” she said, leaning in conspiratorially, bringing with her a rush of rose-scented perfume and the sweet musk of her pomade, “I teach English at Booker T. Washington High School. Maybe you’ll come to talk to my students if you’ve got time. We’ve got a student paper,The Washingtonian. They’d love to hear from a working writer and reporter. You can tell them about your travels.”
“I’d love to,” I said, a frothy feeling expanding in my chest, surprised at how swiftly my body and mind had responded to this woman. It wasn’t love. Not yet, but it was a prelude and a promise. It was something inside and outside of me telling me to listen. To follow.
The phone rang again, and we were off to work. The volume of calls increased throughout the evening. Gabby took a few more calls to demonstrate the routine and let me handle the rest.
I spoke with maids from outside the city arranging to get to their employers’ homes, elders arranging to get to Tom Johnson’s, a local Black pharmacist who had a parking lot to use, and also the names of drivers who could volunteer their time. Gabby handled calling back and confirming rides, making our two-person system effortless and efficient. The calls kept coming as we built up the complicated transportation web, coordinating pickups and drop-offs to ensure no one had to take the bus on Monday.
Two hours in, a woman named Martha dropped by with a plate of biscuits and fried chicken. I munched the food down gratefully, so absorbed in work and in Gabby that I’d forgotten to eat. It reminded me of my time with Eulalie, when the affluentpersonnes de couleurcame together to secure their advance, and my time in London, helping with the orphanage, the intoxicating pull of helping others. Wherever women came together for a greater cause, change was made.
Time continued to fly, and we worked until six, well into the winter night. I sagged into the seat after taking the last call for the night.
“You did good, Jimi. I couldn’t have done it without you,” Gabby said, tidying up. “Are you up for coming back tomorrow afternoon after church service?”
My skin tingled at the warmth of her praise. I might’ve imagined it, but her gaze lingered, flicking over me, and the heat rose in my cheeks. It didn’t make sense, as there were other leads I could be following, but I liked working with her, feeling truly useful for the first time in a long while. More than that, I likedher. I wanted to talk to her, learn about her.
“I’d be happy to.”
“Great, see you tomorrow,” she said, beaming her smile bright, letting me know I’d made the right decision.
The next day, I attended the morning service, listening to the sermon and gathering bits for the story, immersed in the activity around me. I’d attended various churches throughout my life, more because of local customs than anything else. The pact with Death had loosened the grip of my mother’s religion on my soul, making me question the meaning of existence. My extended life was a testament to the presence of a higher power, but as Death explained it, and the way my exposure to Hinduism, Islam, and Buddhism had shaped my understanding of it, how one treated people mattered more than one’s religious denomination or attendance at formal worship.
