Chapter 24 Geneva
Geneva
An hour and a half later, and we still hadn’t found anything that I could afford.
Crystal looked down at her watch. “Well, we still have a few hours before the stores close. Do you want to go to Lane Bryant?”
“I went in there yesterday,” I lied. It was bad enough I was in the women’s section of Macy’s; I hated going into the fat-girls’ store to shop. At least at Macy’s I could fool myself into believing that everyone in the store was the same size. In the fat-girl store, that fantasy was impossible.
Crystal sighed, and then something went off in her eyes. “Uhm, I don’t know why I didn’t think of this before,” she said excitedly.
“What?”
“I know this woman in Brooklyn. She runs a boutique out of her apartment. She makes one-size-fits-all kind of stuff,” Crystal rattled on as she started toward the escalator.
“Brooklyn?”
“Yeah, she’s really nice. Fanta is her name.”
“Like the soda?” I said as I followed her.
“Yeah.”
“Do we have to go to Brooklyn?” I whined.
“Well, that’s where she is, Geneva.”
“You know how I feel about Brooklyn,” I said, and stepped onto the escalator.
***
The taxi pulled up to a dilapidated apartment building that sat on the corner of Pine Street and Pitkin Avenue. The street was strewn with trash, and a group of old men sat playing dominoes on a makeshift table that was really just a square piece of plywood resting atop an old crate.
On the other side of the building’s entrance, a young boy with a durag on his head and three cell phones clipped to the waistband of his jeans pressed himself against a young light-skinned girl, who I assumed had spent the better part of the morning combing and sculpting the so-called baby hair around her face.
“You sure this is the place?” I said warily.
“Yes, this is it.”
Crystal gave the money to the driver, told him to keep the change. The taxi screeched from the curb and disappeared down Pitkin Avenue.
“Ooooh, I wouldn’t mind a ride on that donkey!” one of the old men screeched as we walked by.
“He’s talking ’bout you, girl,” Crystal laughed as she poked my behind with her index finger.
“Stop it,” I said, and self-consciously tugged the hem of my T-shirt down over my ass.
“Shake like jelly, don’t it?” I heard another man say just as I pushed the door open and stepped into the white-and-black-tiled lobby.
Inside, the heat was stiff. The hallway was clean, but the walls had been marked up in pen, marker, and spray paint.
“Death to Osama!”; “Maria loves José”; “Ziggy007.”
“Why do these kids do this shit?” Crystal commented as she started toward the staircase.
“What floor she on?”
“Third, why?”
“Can’t we take the elevator?” I said, pointing at the ancient maroon door with the brass handle and cracked window.
“That elevator hasn’t worked in years.”
Unbelievingly, I stabbed at the black button and waited for the sound of the machinery to echo back, but nothing happened. I stabbed again and then peered into the broken window. All I saw was blackness.
“I told you,” she said, and started up toward the second floor.
It seemed as if everybody had decided to cook dinner at the same time. I could make out the curry chicken, the fried porgies, and even the pot of collard greens coming from behind the door of 3C. But when we stopped in front of 3A, the aroma that greeted me was foreign.
Crystal pressed the bell and waited. “You’ll see, you’ll like her and the clothes.”
“Coming!” a voice rang out from behind the door. “Who is it?”
“It’s Crystal Atkins.”
The door flew open and a short, ebony-colored woman with an Afro, plump lips, and excessively large breasts greeted us.
“Oh, sister-friend!” she squealed, and rushed forward, throwing her arms around Crystal’s waist. “Long time!”
“Yes, Fanta. Too long. This is my friend Geneva,” Crystal said, pointing at me.
“Welcome, friend of sister-friend,” Fanta said, and suddenly her beefy arms were wrapped around me. “Come in, come in.”
The space was warm; three fans whirled loudly from different corners of the room.
Colorful bolts of fabric were propped up against the wall, and three sewing machines sat in the middle of the living room.
There were two mannequins draped in fabric, and incense burned on a small glass table near the open window.
To the left was the kitchen, which held a square wooden table littered with pages from fashion magazines, spools of thread, and packages of synthetic hair. On the stove a pot bubbled, and on top of the beige refrigerator a small radio spewed the midafternoon news.
“Sit, please,” Fanta said as she shoved fabric aside to reveal a worn brown love seat.
“Fanta,” Crystal began as we settled ourselves, “Geneva needs an outfit. Something elegant, not wedding or banquet elegant, but elegant just the same.”
Fanta considered me. “Stand up, please,” she said as she placed her hands on her hips.
I stood.
“Turn,” she instructed, and made a twirling movement with her fingers.
I turned around slowly, my arms sticking out awkwardly like broken wings.
“Uh-huh,” Fanta affirmed. “You are an African man’s dream,” she laughed as she reached forward and patted my behind. “Plenty of cushion.”
I threw Crystal a mean look.
“Well!” Fanta announced, “I have many, many things for you. But what is the occasion?”
“Her son is in a band. He’ll be playing at a very upscale restaurant.”
“Music? How nice.” Fanta beamed. “The child of myself”—Fanta pointed to a dozen haphazardly hung framed pictures on the wall—“plays the piano.”
The child of myself?
“Oh, that’s nice.” I smiled.
“I have some pieces in the back room,” Fanta said, and disappeared down the hallway.
“The child of myself?” I whispered to Crystal, who just shrugged her shoulders.
Fanta returned, her arms laden with dresses, skirts, and tunic-style tops.
The next hour was spent with Fanta and Crystal dressing me in different outfits. Nothing was made with a zipper or a button. Everything was fastened on with ties.
After some time we mutually decided on three outfits.
Two of which were full-length skirts with side slits that climbed up to my thigh.
One all black, one black with goldish green stripes.
The other was a brilliant white linen dress that came down to my ankles with a daring split up the back.
The top was sleeveless, and the square collar edged with a gold braid. That outfit was my favorite.
But I didn’t want to say so, even though I knew that that was the outfit I liked best—because wearing all white would make me feel that I looked as big as a whale.
“So which one do you like the best, friend of sister-friend?” Fanta asked.
“I guess the black one. So how mu—”
“You don’t really like the black one, Geneva,” Crystal huffed, snatching the black skirt and fingering the material. “Not that it’s not lovely,” she said to Fanta before turning back to me. “But I saw the light in your eyes when you put that white number on.”
I hated that she knew me so well.
“Yeah, but—”
“Yes, yes, friend of sister-friend. The white one brings out your lovely complexion.”
“Thank you, but—”
“That it does,” Crystal added, nodding her head vigorously in agreement.
I wasn’t going to win here. “Yes, I do like the white one the best,” I conceded. “So how much?”
“For you, friend of sister-friend, two hundred and twenty-five dollars.”
I looked at Crystal whose expression told me that the price was a bargain. “Oh,” I moaned, knowing full well that I had budgeted only seventy-five dollars for this Friday night soiree. And that included getting my nails done and buying some protein gel to slick my hair back with.
“I—I can’t afford—”
“That’s fine, Fanta. We’ll take it,” Crystal jubilantly cut me off, and reached into her purse and pulled out her checkbook.
Back down on the street, dress in hand, I was feeling mad. “Thank you,” I barked at Crystal as I dug into my purse for my cigarettes.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” inquired Crystal as she turned on me.
“It’s not that I don’t appreciate this, and believe me, I will be paying you back, even if it takes me three months to do so, but I hate that you treat me like some kind of charity case.”
The hurt on Crystal’s face was immediate. “I’m sorry that you think of it that way, Geneva. I thought I was treating you like the friend I love and care for.”
I puffed on my cigarette and just watched her. I was stumped for words and felt like a complete idiot. What the hell was wrong with me?
“I—I didn’t mean to sound like an asshole,” I mumbled before I took another puff from the cigarette and tossed it to the ground. “I just…” I began, but couldn’t grasp hold of the words I needed to express myself so I just settled on “I’m sorry, Crystal. I must be PMSing.”
Crystal’s face softened a bit. “It’s okay, girl. I know you haven’t had any in some time, and that alone can make a woman cranky.” She laughed as she started toward the corner and the cab that was waiting there. “Believe me, I know.”