word for it. The vamp of an old pop song was being performed with many flourishes and more errors, the verse sung in a quavering off-key soprano. “‘Be sure it’s true when you say I love you …’”
“Forgive her, sisters, she knows not what …,” Naomi began, but her laughter stopped her.
“She’s doing the best she can,” Flora said. “She’s trying. That’s better than giving up. You can’t understand the strain of performance. Not that I’d compare what she’s doing to what I do.”
“Well, we can’t all live up to your standards, Flora.” Naomi was signaling mysteriously to Jenny. “I give up,” she said. “And it’s a far, far better thing I do than Fatso there. Time to know when to quit. I quit.”
“That’s the trouble with Naomi,” Flora complained to Jenny under the applause. “She’s given up, she’s given up.”
Wasn’t that what Flora wanted Naomi to do?
Jenny, helping settle Naomi’s wheelchair at the table, was startled by a pull on her arm and Naomi’s hurried whisper.
“Never mind about tomorrow. I changed my mind. I don’t want to tell you. Forget about it.” She pushed Jenny away. “That’s fine. Stop fussing. Now let’s eat.”
Flora insisted on taking a bus to Eva’s residence. They had finished dinner and seen Naomi off to her bedroom, though it was not yet six o’clock. The air in the vehicle was too cold. Flora fished out of her orange leather carryall a brown corduroy outer jacket, an orange knitted scarf, and orange gloves.
“I’m always prepared for these buses. You can get pneumonia in a minute from the air conditioning. Aren’t you freezing? I told you to bring something warm.”
“I’m fine,” Jenny said. “I’m used to the cold.”
“I don’t know how you stand it up there in that freezing snow and ice, all alone.” Then, more cheerfully, “But everybody’s different. Live and let live, that’s my motto. I’d get pneumonia the first week. Or die of boredom the second, whichever came first.” Flora let out her loud, clear laugh.
Jenny coughed.
“See? See?” Flora, triumphant. “I told you.”
“It’s the air conditioning,” Jenny said. “It bothers me, something about it makes me choke.”
“I told you, I told you.”
“Not because it’s cold. It catches in my throat, I don’t know why.”
“You have to bring something warm to put over your shoulders in the buses. You have to, I told you. Here.” Flora dug her arm into the big bag. “I have another scarf in here somewhere.” She dragged out a white crocheted shawl and draped it around Jenny.
It was a long ride. Again they traveled through quickly changing scenes and neighborhoods. The bus was filled with Miami Beach workers heading home. The blacks were mostly Haitians; the Latinos were white and black; the white whites were like Flora and Jenny, middle-class oldsters on their way to the movies, or to upscale Bal Harbour shopping and dining, or on a hospital or nursing home visit. Most of them dismounted at Bal Harbour, a short trip from Naomi’s residence. The bus had already carried them through remarkably diverse areas, posh, seedy, lush green, arid construction sites, messy concrete disrepair, then over a pristinely beautiful waterway, past an enclosed, guarded state park skirting the beach, and through Flora’s run-down neighborhood.
The only people boarding now were workers, Haitians, Cubans. What had happened to Florida’s homegrown blacks? Apart from a bunch of noisy teenagers, some of whom were Latinos, there seemed to be no American blacks on the bus. The black driver was carrying on a lively conversation with a woman in the front seat, in Spanish, about a mutual cousin. They had nothing good to say of her. There were some babies, mostly quiet, one crying, and a boy and girl of four or five singing commercials at the top of their tuneless voices, standing backwards on a forward-facing double seat and drumming on the seat back with what seemed
“Forgive her, sisters, she knows not what …,” Naomi began, but her laughter stopped her.
“She’s doing the best she can,” Flora said. “She’s trying. That’s better than giving up. You can’t understand the strain of performance. Not that I’d compare what she’s doing to what I do.”
“Well, we can’t all live up to your standards, Flora.” Naomi was signaling mysteriously to Jenny. “I give up,” she said. “And it’s a far, far better thing I do than Fatso there. Time to know when to quit. I quit.”
“That’s the trouble with Naomi,” Flora complained to Jenny under the applause. “She’s given up, she’s given up.”
Wasn’t that what Flora wanted Naomi to do?
Jenny, helping settle Naomi’s wheelchair at the table, was startled by a pull on her arm and Naomi’s hurried whisper.
“Never mind about tomorrow. I changed my mind. I don’t want to tell you. Forget about it.” She pushed Jenny away. “That’s fine. Stop fussing. Now let’s eat.”
Flora insisted on taking a bus to Eva’s residence. They had finished dinner and seen Naomi off to her bedroom, though it was not yet six o’clock. The air in the vehicle was too cold. Flora fished out of her orange leather carryall a brown corduroy outer jacket, an orange knitted scarf, and orange gloves.
“I’m always prepared for these buses. You can get pneumonia in a minute from the air conditioning. Aren’t you freezing? I told you to bring something warm.”
“I’m fine,” Jenny said. “I’m used to the cold.”
“I don’t know how you stand it up there in that freezing snow and ice, all alone.” Then, more cheerfully, “But everybody’s different. Live and let live, that’s my motto. I’d get pneumonia the first week. Or die of boredom the second, whichever came first.” Flora let out her loud, clear laugh.
Jenny coughed.
“See? See?” Flora, triumphant. “I told you.”
“It’s the air conditioning,” Jenny said. “It bothers me, something about it makes me choke.”
“I told you, I told you.”
“Not because it’s cold. It catches in my throat, I don’t know why.”
“You have to bring something warm to put over your shoulders in the buses. You have to, I told you. Here.” Flora dug her arm into the big bag. “I have another scarf in here somewhere.” She dragged out a white crocheted shawl and draped it around Jenny.
It was a long ride. Again they traveled through quickly changing scenes and neighborhoods. The bus was filled with Miami Beach workers heading home. The blacks were mostly Haitians; the Latinos were white and black; the white whites were like Flora and Jenny, middle-class oldsters on their way to the movies, or to upscale Bal Harbour shopping and dining, or on a hospital or nursing home visit. Most of them dismounted at Bal Harbour, a short trip from Naomi’s residence. The bus had already carried them through remarkably diverse areas, posh, seedy, lush green, arid construction sites, messy concrete disrepair, then over a pristinely beautiful waterway, past an enclosed, guarded state park skirting the beach, and through Flora’s run-down neighborhood.
The only people boarding now were workers, Haitians, Cubans. What had happened to Florida’s homegrown blacks? Apart from a bunch of noisy teenagers, some of whom were Latinos, there seemed to be no American blacks on the bus. The black driver was carrying on a lively conversation with a woman in the front seat, in Spanish, about a mutual cousin. They had nothing good to say of her. There were some babies, mostly quiet, one crying, and a boy and girl of four or five singing commercials at the top of their tuneless voices, standing backwards on a forward-facing double seat and drumming on the seat back with what seemed
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