Fools Rush In

She rose early the next morning and began preparing for life as her child’s nanny. Her first act was to phone Big Al, editor of The Evening Post. “You’re on, Al,” she squeaked out, less sure of her decision than when she’d made it. “As of now, I’m Aunt Mariah. I have to get a post office box. I’m moving to Tacoma Park, Al. You’ll get it all by fax sometime tomorrow.”

“Right. Soon as I get your P.O. address, I’ll tell the world not to be troubled any longer,” he crooned in his booming voice. “Aunt Mariah will solve all their problems. Just give ’em horse sense, babe. That’ll do it every time.”

The next three days were the busiest that she could remember, but knowing she was putting her life in order, folding the page that had been Mrs. Kenneth Montgomery, and beginning a life with her child—however impermanent it might prove to be—energized her and buoyed her spirit.

She got a post office box, closed the deal with the buyer of her house, and bought one of the co-op apartments that her agent reserved for her inspection. Then, she sent the fax to Al, and told her agent to find a tenant for her new apartment. That done, she invited the Salvation Army to come over to her house and take whatever it could sell, except for her blankets and Kenneth’s expensive clothing, which she planned to divide among the homeless men along “East of the River.”

She’d been determined to do it herself, and her stomach rolled from the stench of stale wine, the rags that served as the men’s bedding, the unwashed bodies, and the refuse that some more privileged citizens had thoughtlessly strewn along the street. Their gratitude shamed her, but she persisted until she’d given out all of the blankets, gloves, sweaters, and other clothing. Still, a sense of guilt wouldn’t let her leave the men without food. She counted them, went to the nearest McDonald’s, and got eleven bags of coffee and hamburgers and gave one to each man.

“I would ask the good Lord to bless you,” an older man said to her, “but it looks to me like he’s already done it.”

“You bet,” she answered, feeling good for the first time since she’d parked her car beside the rubble-strewn vacant lot two blocks away. She waved them good-bye and headed home.

Time crawled while her desire to see Tonya escalated. She examined the hands on her watch, thinking that it had stopped. Twice, a coffee cup slipped from her fingers and splattered the brown liquid on her legs and around where she stood. She turned off the radio, unable to tolerate music; even the soft strings of a Mozart quintet jarred her nerves.

Saturday morning arrived and she had to face another truth. The prospect of seeing Duncan Banks again excited her, though not as much as the thought of living with her child, but she gave herself a quick lecture and put Duncan out of her mind.

The response to her single ring of Duncan’s doorbell gave her one of the biggest shocks of her life. Canary-yellow hair—or was it a wig?—topped the tiniest woman she had seen in years. Perhaps ever. And that small face wore enough make-up to camouflage a couple dozen fashion models. If that weren’t enough, the two prominent upper front teeth that decorated the copper-colored woman’s generous mouth—now curved into a smile—sent pictures of Bugs Bunny flashing through Justine’s mind. What on earth?

“Quit staring and come on in,” was the way in which Mattie Swindell introduced herself. Justine resisted asking why she patted her hair when the hair spray on it wouldn’t allow it to move. “I just got it done yesterday,” Mattie explained, oblivious to the fact that Justine hadn’t uttered one word. “It’ll look good like this for two or three days. Where’s your things?”

“They’ll be here later. I’m Justine Taylor.” No wonder Duncan had said he wasn’t sure who she was.

“I know who you are. Mr. B told me to expect you.” Justine had almost gotten her breath when heavy footsteps on the stairs sent her pulse into a tailspin. If she didn’t get a grip on herself, she’d fail before she started. She took a few deep breaths and looked toward the foot of the stairs. “Don’t gasp, girl,” she told herself, when her gaze took in his open-neck yellow T-shirt, white canvas Dockers, and toeless sandals. He stopped within two feet of her, his sleepy, reddish-brown eyes the focal points of the most breathtaking smile she’d ever seen.

“Welcome. What did you do to yourself? I’ve been expecting that nice prim lady who came here the other night.” The fingers of his left hand toyed with the back of his neck. Then he shrugged his right shoulder. It was a series of gestures she’d seen him display several times when he’d interviewed her. A dimple transformed his right cheek, and she wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d melted right there.

“I don’t mind the change, but I hope Tonya recognizes you. She’s asleep, and she should be after waking me up at five o’clock this morning.”

She didn’t tell him he’d done a number on her, switching from gentleman reporter to an advertisement for carnal joy. “My work clothes,” she said of her blue slacks and mauve-pink silk jersey shirt. “Unless you want me to wear uniforms.” She let her grimace give him her view on that matter.

“Whatta you want with a uniform?” Mattie interjected. “I shore don’t intend to put on one.”

Once more, his gaze seemed to bore into her. “Uniform? Not for me, but do whatever makes you comfortable. We’re all equals here. I see you’ve met Mattie,” he said, changing the subject, and she could have sworn she saw a meddlesome twinkle in his eyes. “Just take good care of my child. That’s all I want.” He winked at her, and the drum started its roll in her chest.

As if he wasn’t aware of his effect on women. Well, she would not give him the satisfaction of knowing that she was susceptible to his taunting virility. “Thanks. Maybe I’ll wear jeans; they’re more comfortable.”

His raised eyebrow suggested that he didn’t believe her, and he was right. She’d never pulled a pair of jeans over her ample hips, because she prided herself on having sense and taste, and she hated walking behind overly-endowed female bottoms that threatened to work their way out of stretch jeans. She’d just been testing the water. She’d wear cotton pants.

Hoping to distract him from any evidence she’d given of her background, she added, “I’m very casual.”

His tongue poked the right side of his jaw. “If you say so.” He turned to the other woman. “I’ve got to run down to the Library of Congress, but I should be back shortly after twelve, Mattie. A sandwich will do.” He started for the door, checked himself, and walked back to Justine. “Seems I’m short on manners this morning. Mattie will get you settled. See ya.”

Justine was thinking that she had to watch herself with Duncan Banks when she realized that Mattie was speaking to her. “When he says sandwich, I cook him a hot meal. What do you want for lunch?”

“A sandwich and a glass of milk or—”

“I ain’t got no two percent milk in the house, and I don’t expect you need whole milk. First thing you got to do is get down to a size ten. You must wear a sixteen. My sister is a nursemaid for this rich woman in the Watergate Apartments who wears a ten. I swear a size two. One of us has to make use of those designer clothes she throws away. Can you take tea?”

A full-throated therapeutic laugh flowed out of Justine, and she hugged the little woman as best she could, considering the differences in their size and height. “Mattie, I think I’m going to love you. I’d better tell you, though, that I do wear a fourteen…well, sometimes, and not after holidays. I get plenty of appreciative looks at my size sixteen, and I’m satisfied. How long have you worked here?”

“Me? I’ve worked for Mr. B on and off for the last six or seven years. Why you ask?”

“Just curious. You like him?”

“He’s a real sweetheart…’til you mess up, that is. And then he’s got a real long memory. I mean long, honey.”

Unaccountably, shivers raced down her back, and her fingers gripped the back of the chair near where she stood.

Mattie went on in a sing-song voice. “One thing you better be sure about and that is not to utter one word of what goes on in this house. That’s his law. He’s had me understand that a hundred times. He values his privacy and, being a reporter and writing things about people, he has to keep hisself to hisself.”

“He needn’t worry. I know how to be discreet.” When Mattie stared up at her with both eyebrows raised, Justine amended her remark. “I know how to bridle my tongue.”

“Discreet, huh? Well, hush my mouth.”

Anxious to see Tonya, but afraid to reveal her longing to Mattie, Justine guarded her voice and spoke in casual tones. “You think Tonya is still asleep? She’s awfully quiet.”

“If she ain’t, she oughta be. Mr. B said she singing loud as you please five o’clock this morning and didn’t stop ’til he gave her her breakfast. But soon as she got her oatmeal down, she started noddin’. Gimme your bag. Did Mr. B tell you your room is facing his? Soon as we get rid of your stuff, I’ll show you around. This is one big house.”

Just what she needed. She wouldn’t be able to stick her head out of her room without taking the rollers out of her hair and getting fully dressed. Well, she’d asked for it. How was she to have known that Duncan Banks could spin the head of the most devoutly virginal woman? Best thing she could do would be not to care what he thought of the way she looked. She’d seen her own quarters and Tonya’s room, but Mattie didn’t open Duncan’s door. Instead, she ushered her into the office that adjoined his bedroom. Soft beige tones and Royal Bokhara carpets in his office, in the hallway, and on the curved stairs. Mattie didn’t pause at Tonya’s room, and no sound came from it, so she didn’t have an excuse to go in and fill her arms with her baby.

An arresting peaceful decor was all she could think of as they began Mattie’s tour of the first floor. “Mr. B loves to sit in this big lounge chair with his hands behind his head and think. I declare that man can do more thinking than anybody I ever saw.”

Mattie wasn’t a slouch at thinking, Justine mused, taking in the tall cactus plants on either side of a huge picture window that were among the few things of nonutilitarian value in the living room. Everywhere, masculine taste. What was it about James Denmark’s “Honky Tonk” that made Duncan Banks want it on his living room wall? She studied the painting of the itinerant guitar player, but got no clues. But it didn’t tax her mind to understand his attraction to Ulysses Marshall’s “Between Mother and Daughter.” She turned quickly away; the painter had given them identical faces.

“These here pieces only been here ’bout a month. He took his time getting things for this living room,” Mattie said, gesturing toward the comfortable beige leather sofas and chairs that rested on a cheerful Tabriz Persian carpet woven in beige, brown, and burnt orange colors. She noticed that the dining room was a place for eating, not for show. A walnut table, eight matching chairs, and a sideboard sat on a Royal Bokhara carpet. No curtains graced the windows.

“I’ll see the kitchen when I get my sandwich,” Justine told Mattie. One thing she had to ask, though, because she hadn’t seen any evidence of a woman’s touch was, “How long has Mr. Banks lived here?”

Mattie’s method of clearing her throat was unique. And loud. “Well, ’bout four months, I’d say. Why?” And she let it be known that her yellow hair topped a fast mind. “’Cause everything’s new? Mr. B’s been a bachelor since Tonya was four months old, and he been living here since Tonya was four months old. Anything else, ask Mr. B. We’d better go downstairs. That’s where Mr. B spends most of his time, ’cept when he’s in his office or off someplace.”

She could find her way around Duncan’s house on her own, and she hoped she had years in which to do it; what she wanted right then was to see Tonya. “Thanks for the tour, Mattie. I’d better see about Tonya.”

But Mattie wouldn’t be denied her opportunity to show Justine who ran Duncan’s house. “Tonya’s fine. Let’s get this over with. I can’t spend all my time giving out tours.” Justine saw no junk or apparent storage areas in the basement. One large, wood-paneled room held an enormous television, a recliner, and what looked like the original Nordic Track machine. A refrigerator, bar, and pool table filled a far end of the room.

“This is gonna be Tonya’s recreation room soon as Mr. B decides how he wants it fixed up,” Mattie said, after opening the door to an empty little room with windows on three sides of it. “He can’t figure out what color to put in there. Maybe you got some ideas.” Indeed she did. Soft, pastel colors lifted the spirit, though she thought greens too cold for babies. But she didn’t voice her opinion. She could too easily slide back into the skin of Dr. Justine Taylor Montgomery, clinical psychologist.

“I’ll think about it.”

“You reminds me of some kind of teacher, Justine. Ain’t no babysitter I ever saw talk like you. ’Course, it ain’t my business, Mr. B’s satisfied, and you seems nice enough.”

Tonya’s shrill cry served notice that she had awakened. “There’s the bell, honey. When she starts crying, she means business. Thank goodness, she’s all yours now.”

Justine’s throat constricted at the prophetic words. She had to force herself to walk up the two flights of stairs, when she wanted to run. When she crossed the threshold of that room, she would change her life for all time. At last she would mother her child, and from that moment onward, Tonya would be hers. She tiptoed into the nursery, looked at Tonya sitting up in bed, and smiled.

“Tonya, darling. Do you remember me? Justine.”

Fear curled around her heart. Had that other night been a fluke? She wondered, as Tonya looked up at her with wide inquiring eyes.