Chapter Sixteen
SIXTEEN
THE COFFEE GROWS cold in my mug. The sun shines brightly now, and the streets are alive with cars and pedestrians. My resolve hasn’t wavered. If anything, the solitude has solidified it. A pained moan sounds from inside, followed by the heavy sound of movement.
Steeling myself, I step back inside. James looks even worse in the full morning light, wearing only his wrinkled black pants from last night.
His eyes are puffy slits against the daylight.
His hair sticks up at odd angles. He moves stiffly towards the kitchen, blinking heavily, one hand pressed to his temple.
“Oh thank fuck,” he groans when he spots the carafe. “Coffee.”
I lean against the island as James grabs a mug and fills it, his hand shaking enough to threaten a spill. He doesn’t look at me, doesn’t acknowledge my presence beyond assuming I’m the provider of his hangover cure. My certainty remains untouched by this pathetic sight.
“My head feels like it’s going to split open, Mimi.” He leans forward on the marble.
“We need to talk.” My tone is steady.
All the turbulent emotions from earlier have settled into this one statement.
James lifts his head, squinting as if the effort is immense. “Are you fucking blind?” He winces, rubbing his temples.
“Obviously not now,” I reply, holding his gaze despite his discomfort.
“Your timing is always shit,” he groans again, closing his eyes. “Must be a skill.”
“Well, when is it the right time, James? Because I barely ever see you anymore—”
“Shhh… I beg of you.” He lifts the mug to his lips with a shaky hand. “Not now,” he murmurs after a long swig.
“When?” It takes everything in me to keep my voice level.
James sighs heavily before taking another sip.
“When, James?” I press on.
“Not now!” he snaps, bringing his mug down onto the marble with a loud bang. Coffee sloshes over the edge. “Fuck!” He steps back, covering his face with both hands.
My chest heaves. I stand there, watching, waiting.
He slides his hands down his face, finally bringing his attention to me. “What? What do you want from me?”
“I want to talk to you, James,” I repeat, frowning, no longer capable of keeping the anger from my tone. “About us. About whatever this”—I slash a hand through the air between us—“relationship we’re in is.”
James inhales sharply, throwing his head back. “Fuck me.”
“What did you expect?”
“Oh geez, I don’t know… A calm morning, maybe, like normal people?” He hurls his mug into the sink. It lands with a loud clatter, but miraculously does not break.
“Normal?” I ask his back. “Normal?” My voice rises. “What about us is normal?”
“Fine!” He slams the countertop with his palms. “Fine! Tomorrow night.”
“Why not tonight?”
“Because, sweetheart.” He leans forward, looking me square in the face. “Some of us have much bigger things to deal with than a little neighborhood café.”
“Fuck you.”
“You know, I really wish you would once in a while,” he retorts.
I shut my eyes, forcing air into my lungs. “Tomorrow night then. Will you actually be home at a decent hour?”
“No. Not here.” He grimaces as if this apartment is the worst place in the world. “Sterling. After work,” he throws over his shoulder, leaving the kitchen.
“What time?” When he continues walking, I call after him, “James!”
“What?” he snaps, turning to glare at me.
I stand up straighter. “What time at Sterling tomorrow?”
He looks up and around, as if picking a number at random. “Seven?”
“But will you be there?” I add immediately.
“Yes,” he draws out the word. “Even I need to have dinner after a long day at work.”
James enters the bedroom, slamming the door behind him.
I stare at the closed door for a long moment, the sound of the slam still echoing in my ears. Silence settles over the apartment, heavy with his anger.
There’s nothing more for me here right now.
Taking a steadying breath, I grab my keys from the bowl by the front door, sling my purse over my shoulder, and walk out.
The familiar bell above the door chimes as I push it open, stepping into the comforting bustle of Maddy’s Place.
The morning rush has ebbed, but a steady hum of conversation still fills the air, mingling with the rich aroma of coffee and cinnamon.
Clusters of regulars occupy their usual tables, some reading papers, others chatting quietly.
Though the confrontation with James still simmers beneath the surface, I force a calm smile for Mrs. Gable as she passes me on her way out, coffee in hand.
I scan the room, stopping at the table in the back corner. Lou sits there in his usual spot, spectacles perched on his nose, engrossed in the morning paper, a coffee mug at his elbow. He is a steady fixture in the café’s landscape, offering a small measure of comfort.
I weave my way past the tables, murmuring quiet “good mornings” to a few customers. Lou looks up as I approach, setting his paper down and removing his glasses.
“Morning, Amy,” he greets. His customary warm smile falters. “Everything alright, my dear? You look troubled.”
His concern warms my tired heart. “It’s been a morning, Lou,” I admit, keeping my voice low as I slide into the chair across from him.
“Actually, I was hoping I could borrow you for a few minutes? In my office?” I lean forward slightly.
“It’s regarding the future of this café, and honestly… I could really use your help.”
Lou reaches out and pats my hand. “You know you only have to ask.”
“Thank you.” I feel a fraction stronger just knowing he’s in my corner. “Give me five minutes? I just need to grab Helen.”
“I’ll be there in five.”
I give his hand a quick squeeze before heading toward the front counter. Helen is there, taking an order while directing Grace, our part-time barista.
“Oh good, Grace is here,” I say with relief.
“Of course Grace is here. It’s Thursday,” she reminds me, finishing with her customer.
“Right. Thursday.” The days seem to blur together lately.
“Everything okay?” She turns to me.
“Can you finish up here and meet me in my office? Let Grace take over.”
Helen’s brow furrows.
I offer a single grim nod.
Her expression hardens, and she nods back, a flicker of understanding passing between us. “I’ll be right there.”
I head down the short hallway to my office.
Unlocking the door, I step inside. The familiar scent of old files and coffee grounds does little to soothe the knot tightening in my stomach.
I flick on the desk lamp, its warm glow preferable to the harsh overheads, and leave the door slightly ajar.
I pace the small space once before perching on the edge of my desk.
A minute later, a soft knock sounds. Lou stands in the doorway, his expression full of gentle concern. “Ready for me, my dear?”
“Yes, thank you so much, Lou.” I gesture toward the worn sofa against the wall.
He steps inside, closing the door quietly. “Now then,” he begins, his eyes scanning my face. “What has you looking so nervous?”
Before he can even sit down, another knock, sharper, more impatient, rattles the door. Helen strides in, pulling up short as she spots Lou hovering near the couch. Her eyes widen dramatically, and a teasing grin spreads across her face.
“Oh no,” she declares, placing a hand over her heart in mock horror. “After all these years of loyalty, we’re firing Lou?”
“Well, now we know who to blame if Lou takes his business elsewhere,” I warn playfully.
“Me? Never.” Lou chuckles softly, shaking his head. He pats the empty spot beside him. “Come sit, Helen,” he invites, his eyes twinkling behind his spectacles. “Let’s find out what’s gotten our Amy all worked up this morning.”
Helen’s grin softens, her gaze flicking between Lou and me. “Okay, okay,” she says, sitting down. “Enough with the suspense already. Spill it.”
I take a deep breath, grateful for their presence, but knowing it’s time to get down to business. They watch me expectantly as I struggle with where to begin.
“I’ve been advised to start a petition,” I finally share.
“Advised?” Helen repeats. “Advised by who?”
“That young lawyer from yesterday?” Lou’s question is more to the point.
“Bancroft’s lawyer? He’s helping you himself?” Helen’s eyebrows almost reach her hairline. “I thought he was just referring you to someone. Is he allowed to do that? Legally?”
“I know.” I drop my head back.
“I knew it,” Lou declares, his face lighting up. “I knew he was a good man.”
Helen and I both look at him. “And how is this a good thing exactly?” Helen asks.
“Amy has Bancroft’s lawyer clearly siding with her plight,” Lou says, as if it’s obvious.
After a silent beat, Helen turns to him, blinking rapidly. “Ever hear of a little something called conflict of interest?”
“Oh please, Helen.” Lou waves a hand at her. “As far as anyone’s concerned, Amy could have come up with the idea all on her own.”
“Actually, I don’t know much about it, other than the obvious,” I admit, not wanting to disappoint Lou. “A collection of a bunch of signatures.”
“Not to worry, my dear.” He leans back, folding his hands over his stomach, a reminiscent look entering his eyes. “I know a thing or two about petitions. Ran a few rather successful ones back in my younger days.”
“You?” Helen raises an eyebrow. “Petitioning what? Better discount on prune juice?”
Lou chuckles, but then his smile gains a different weight.
A quiet dignity. “Madison wasn’t always as open as it seems now.
Back in the early sixties, finding decent housing if you were Black, well…
” He shakes his head slowly. “There was plenty of discrimination, landlords refusing point-blank, hidden agreements… it wasn’t right. ”
He pauses, readjusting his glasses. “So, a bunch of us students from the University of Wisconsin, along with folks from our local NAACP chapter and CORE, got organized. Started pushing the City Council hard for a real fair housing ordinance. One with teeth.”
Helen’s teasing grin vanishes. Her mouth hangs slightly open.
My own jaw feels slack.