disappears. He goes to his living room, yanks open heavy red velvet front window drapes to a shower of bright sunlight. His hands are jammed into the pockets of his red silk dressing robe as he paces the snow white carpet of the dazzling red and white furnished room.
All of it, the entire house furnishings, forfeits collateral if delinquent payments on a loan from a finance company are not made soon, he reminds himself with a painful scowl. He brakes his pacing, smiles satisfaction as he watches Pretty Melvin Sternberg's black Jag sedan pull to a stop in front of the house, behind the Rambeau dove grey Packard. He almost trots through the front door down the walk to the car. He warmly embraces black mohair suited Melvin. Then he kisses Reba as she emerges through the car door held open by Melvin.
'How you doing, Mel?' he exclaims as Melvin pumps his extended hand.
'Fine, just fine, Mister Rambeau, and you?' He kisses Reba's upturned lips before she goes up the walk.
'I'm doing wonderfully well, Son, thank you ... how about coffee or something?' Baptiste croons as he beams the beatific smile reserved for fat marks.
'Thanks, Mister Rambeau, but not this time. I'll be late for a bible class I teach at Saint Mark's Church across town' Melvin says as he goes to get under the Jag's wheel.
Baptiste watches him sprint the Jag to the corner drug store before he returns to the house. He finds Reba at her machine in her sewing room at the rear of the house.
'Have the muckety-muck rich folks set the date for the wedding?' he asks with gleaming eyes.
'Not yet' she says. 'Melvin and his folks are finalizing the reception plans.'
He watches as she completes the final stitching on her new choir robe. A craft her mother, Phillipa, taught her. A half-dozen neatly bagged and tagged garments hang on a rack beside her to be picked up by well-paying customers of her newly-launched enterprise.
Baptiste glowers behind her as she starts to rehem one of the taller Phillipa's daringly cleavaged dresses. 'Baby dear, what are you doing with that vulgar dress?' he says in an echo chamber voice.
The reek of suppressed outrage in his voice swivels her on her chair to face him with enormous green eyes wide and quizzical. 'I'm shortening this elegant dress of Mother's to wear ... it's from Saks and awfully expensive.'
He grunts. 'You're telling me. I paid the bill. Look baby, please, for me and your own dignity, don't wear that thing to church. Your mother's dresses wear lousy on you.'
'I'm wearing it later. Melvin is taking me to a late afternoon cocktail party in Hollywood. This dress will be great. Okay Daddy bunny?'
His brows hedgerow, 'Girl, I don't want you to wear it, none of Phillipa's things any time, anywhere. Is that clear!?'
Her eyes slit and chill. 'Baptiste, you can't dictate to a woman with child and a husband on the turn what she can wear. Is that clear!?'
She turns back to whir the machine. He lights a cigarette and stares at the yellow daisy appliqued black chiffon dress draped on the machine. He tries to recall why he despises this particular dress so much.
He mumbles to her back, 'Reba, I meant what I said. You can't wear that dress!'
She chants in sync, with the beehive hum of the machine like an impudent child, 'I can, I can, I can, I will, I will, I will' as she completes the alteration. She stands, pulls the dress on over her slip. She smiles wickedly as she looks at herself in a wall mirror.
He glances at her reflection, suddenly remembers that Phillipa wore it the night of a midnight cruise: Suspicious of her long absence, he left a dancing partner to search for her. He caught a young chef humping her in a galley pantry. He remembers he lunged to attack them with a cleaver. He was restrained and manhandled by crewmen, then locked up until the ship docked at dawn. She got home the next midnight. He flinches to remember how they fought and screamed at each other.
His stare is poisonous as he sees Phillipa's mint
All of it, the entire house furnishings, forfeits collateral if delinquent payments on a loan from a finance company are not made soon, he reminds himself with a painful scowl. He brakes his pacing, smiles satisfaction as he watches Pretty Melvin Sternberg's black Jag sedan pull to a stop in front of the house, behind the Rambeau dove grey Packard. He almost trots through the front door down the walk to the car. He warmly embraces black mohair suited Melvin. Then he kisses Reba as she emerges through the car door held open by Melvin.
'How you doing, Mel?' he exclaims as Melvin pumps his extended hand.
'Fine, just fine, Mister Rambeau, and you?' He kisses Reba's upturned lips before she goes up the walk.
'I'm doing wonderfully well, Son, thank you ... how about coffee or something?' Baptiste croons as he beams the beatific smile reserved for fat marks.
'Thanks, Mister Rambeau, but not this time. I'll be late for a bible class I teach at Saint Mark's Church across town' Melvin says as he goes to get under the Jag's wheel.
Baptiste watches him sprint the Jag to the corner drug store before he returns to the house. He finds Reba at her machine in her sewing room at the rear of the house.
'Have the muckety-muck rich folks set the date for the wedding?' he asks with gleaming eyes.
'Not yet' she says. 'Melvin and his folks are finalizing the reception plans.'
He watches as she completes the final stitching on her new choir robe. A craft her mother, Phillipa, taught her. A half-dozen neatly bagged and tagged garments hang on a rack beside her to be picked up by well-paying customers of her newly-launched enterprise.
Baptiste glowers behind her as she starts to rehem one of the taller Phillipa's daringly cleavaged dresses. 'Baby dear, what are you doing with that vulgar dress?' he says in an echo chamber voice.
The reek of suppressed outrage in his voice swivels her on her chair to face him with enormous green eyes wide and quizzical. 'I'm shortening this elegant dress of Mother's to wear ... it's from Saks and awfully expensive.'
He grunts. 'You're telling me. I paid the bill. Look baby, please, for me and your own dignity, don't wear that thing to church. Your mother's dresses wear lousy on you.'
'I'm wearing it later. Melvin is taking me to a late afternoon cocktail party in Hollywood. This dress will be great. Okay Daddy bunny?'
His brows hedgerow, 'Girl, I don't want you to wear it, none of Phillipa's things any time, anywhere. Is that clear!?'
Her eyes slit and chill. 'Baptiste, you can't dictate to a woman with child and a husband on the turn what she can wear. Is that clear!?'
She turns back to whir the machine. He lights a cigarette and stares at the yellow daisy appliqued black chiffon dress draped on the machine. He tries to recall why he despises this particular dress so much.
He mumbles to her back, 'Reba, I meant what I said. You can't wear that dress!'
She chants in sync, with the beehive hum of the machine like an impudent child, 'I can, I can, I can, I will, I will, I will' as she completes the alteration. She stands, pulls the dress on over her slip. She smiles wickedly as she looks at herself in a wall mirror.
He glances at her reflection, suddenly remembers that Phillipa wore it the night of a midnight cruise: Suspicious of her long absence, he left a dancing partner to search for her. He caught a young chef humping her in a galley pantry. He remembers he lunged to attack them with a cleaver. He was restrained and manhandled by crewmen, then locked up until the ship docked at dawn. She got home the next midnight. He flinches to remember how they fought and screamed at each other.
His stare is poisonous as he sees Phillipa's mint
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