You might have seen her before in line at the Starbucks or rocking through the leg lifts at Zumba, but this particular morning on the Metra platform you notice she's having trouble juggling her Venti Macchiato, her cell phone, her handbag and her briefcase. Her handbag just happens to be THE vintage Coach saddlebag you've been searching for on Ebay, Craigslist and at estate sales for years. You ask her if she needs some help. She says thank you, and hands you The Coach. You clutch it to your heaving bosom while she stuffs her cell phone into her briefcase. She tells you it was a crazy morning, the kids, the dog, the no-help husband, you know? And boy do you know. When you hesitate before handing her back the purse, she laughs. You ask where she found it. She tells you, and it's your favorite consignment shop. Hers too. The train arrives, and you take your usual seat in the quiet car, and she sits across from you. The conductor comes through checking for tickets, and she realizes she's forgotten her wallet. The one with her ten-ride pass and money. Her morning just got crazier. You pay her fare. She thanks you too many times making promises to pay at a later date despite your assurances that it's completely unnecessary. You finally lean forward, look her in her eyes, and say in your best enough is enough voice No Worries. She nods and shrugs. You're right, she says sitting back in the seat, Reparations. It takes you a second, but when you finally get it, you both laugh so hard that you come dangerously close to getting kicked out of the quiet car. Her name is Keesha.
Keesha becomes your train buddy whenever she has meetings downtown, and one day when she starts to complain about needing a Girls Night, you invite her over to your next Girls Night, and she accepts. You don't know why you haven't thought of inviting her earlier.
When she gets to your house, you introduce her to your friends; Maureen, Deb, Jan and The Other Maureen. You're also expecting Linda, but as usual, Linda is late. Every last one of them stare at her when she enters the room, as if they are trying to place where they know her from. Before Keesha has a chance to get comfortably seated, The Other Maureen, cocks her head to one side and says, has anyone ever told you, you look like Whitney Houston? Despite the fact that she looks nothing like Whitney Houston or even Whitney Houston adjacent, Keesha says, I can hardly shop at Jewel’s without folks asking for my autograph; in fact I just got $20 bucks off of a couple from Bridgeport who wanted to take my picture. Maureen cocks her head to the other side like a confused poodle, but isn't Whitney Houston dead? Keesha say, without missing a beat, maybe I should have charged them more then $20, huh? You, Deb and Jan laugh, but the Maureens don't. Jan starts up about the high-priced food truck festival on Western Avenue, and Maureen joins in complaining about North side hipsters "gentrifying" the neighborhood. Keesha expresses a shared disdain for the influx of Cubs fans this far south, and you exhale. And then Deb, who has been intently listening to Keesha rant says, do I detect an accent? Where are you from? Keesha empties her wine glass and says, here. Deb says, No. I mean originally. Keesha says, so do I. You grab the half-full wine bottle and refill Keesha's glass, emptying the remainder of the bottle into your glass. Deb, as is usual, becomes distracted by the empty wine bottle and her empty glass and goes, hey is that the Kim Crawford you're hogging. You know I only drink Kim Crawford. So you direct Deb to the kitchen for another bottle of Kim Crawford chilling in the fridge. Deb shuffles off to grab the new bottle and an R&B song from the 80's starts playing on Pandora. Jan hops up to dance, something she has never done in three years of girls night, and extends her hand toward Keesha. You change the station to something not danceable and motion Jan to sit back down. Just as Jan's ass hits the seat, Linda arrives like Oprah in a flurry of hugs and kisses around the table. When she sees Keesha, she holds up one hand with the palm out and screams, HEYYYYY Girlfriend, and you almost choke on your wine. When it turns out that Linda and Keesha worked at RR Donnelly together back in the day and are actually girlfriends, you stop choking. In the midst of Linda and Keesha catching up, and the distribution of a third bottle of Kim Crawford and complaints about the new Mariano’s on 95th, a now tipsy Maureen clears her throat and loudly exclaims to no one in particular and every one, I. HAVE. A. BLACK. FRIEND. For the first time since Keesha walked in, there is a moment of silence, which is quickly interrupted by Maureen's second proclamation, AND I don't see color. Linda rolls her eyes and shakes her head, Maureen if you're so colorblind, how can you be sure your friend is black? This time all of them laugh except the one Maureen. She opens her mouth and then closes it. The Kim Crawford is now gone, so you shake up some of your famous lemon drop Martinis and everyone asks for refills including Deb. After a certain amount of exclamations over the smallness of the world and the subsequent tininess of the south side and six-five -four degrees of separation, you see Maureen's unsteady hand headed toward Keesha's head full of spiraled curls. Keesha is currently in conversation with Deb about something and has no idea, so despite both your Kim Crawford and Lemon drop intake, you reach out and grab Maureen's hand with the dexterity and stealthiness of Toby McGuire's Spiderman and tell Maureen in a Michael Keaton Batman whisper, if she doesn't keep her goddamn hands to her goddamn self you will chop off each finger knuckle by knuckle. Maureen, again, is speechless. She gets up to leave, and you let her. How many Maureens do we need anyway? you say. The Other Maureen cracks up because she's been thinking that since someone jokingly started calling her The Other Maureen two years ago and it stuck.
The rest of the night continues with one Maureen and without incident, and when Keesha gets up to go, you give her a hug. You want to apologize, but you don't. Instead you say, you're probably never going to talk to me again. And she looks at you and says, these bitches ARE crazy, but how about next week. Girls Night. MY house.
You are relieved. A bit in disbelief, so you ask, Really? Really? Okay. I'm in. Let me know what you want me to bring.
She smiles, I want you to bring EVERYTHING.
You nod knowingly, Of course. Reparations.
Cole Lavalais' short stories can be found in Obsidian, Apogee, Warpland, Tidal Basin Review, Aquarius Press, and others. She is a fellow of the Kimbilio Center for Black Fiction, VONA and the Callaloo Writing Workshops. She's been awarded writing residencies at the Vermont Studio Center and The Noepe Center for the Literary Arts and is currently an Assistant Professor of English and Creative Writing at Chicago State University. Summer of the Cicadas is her debut novel.
