She shook her head the smallest little bit and winced.
“I was comin’ to leave you that note and she stayed down in the car. It was raining and she didn’t want to get wet but I think that she was also afraid to see you after what her people did. While I was up at your door somebody shot her in the head.”
“The police didn’t say that.”
“Uh-uh. The cops you talked to don’t know yet. The Santa Monica police found her but she didn’t have no ID.”
“Why? Why would they do that?”
“Because somebody was waitin’ for you. Because they saw me drive up an’ leave her in the car. Because she had something they wanted.”
“What could she have that would get her killed?”
“A child’s croquet set.”
I might as well have slapped her. Whatever words or arguments or points she had to make died in her throat. Her mouth hung open, silent.
“Come on,” I said. “I’ll take you over to my house. It’s not too far.”
THE STEWARDESS had on flat shoes and so the walk wasn’t too bad. It was about seven. A strong wind was blowing and light filled the weak blue sky. Cars moved with purpose on the broad boulevard.
Feather was in the front room laughing with Pharaoh. She stopped dead when she saw that a woman had come into the house. Feather didn’t have much experience with women in our house. Jesus brushed her hair and saw that she got dressed. I cooked the meals and wiped her nose. I answered her questions about right and wrong, good and bad.
She went from seven years old to three in a twinkling. With two fingers in her mouth and one up her nose she stared at Bonnie as if she had never seen a woman before.
Pharaoh was growling at me. Of course.
“Feather, this is Miss Shay,” I said.
Feather stared.
“Hi, Feather,” Bonnie said. “Are you playing with Pharaoh?” She bent down to scratch the dog behind his ears. He loved that, but not enough to stop eyeing me.
“His name is Frenchie,” Feather said, sticking out her stomach and rocking on the balls of her feet.
“Frenchie. That’s a nice name. Did you give him that name?”
“Uh-huh. I did because Daddy said that he was a French dog, um, Carolina.”
“I like Frenchie much better.”
Feather took her wet hand from her face and put her arms around Bonnie’s neck. Bonnie stood up with my girl in her arms.
She looked good like that.
“Will you be my mommy sometimes?” Feather asked.
“Hi, Dad.” Jesus came in from the back hall.
“This is my son, Jesus. Jesus, this is Miss Shay.”
“Hi,” Bonnie said. She stuck out her hand as far as she could while holding Feather. All three of them laughed at how silly it looked.
It was a regular family scene. All we had to do was to clean up a few murders and a matter of international dope smuggling, then we could move next door to Donna Reed.
Jesus and I made breakfast. That was his Bisquick phase. We turned out pancakes and sausages while Feather sat on Bonnie’s lap and Pharaoh took turns barking with them and snarling at me.
IT WAS ALL OVER by eight-fifteen. Jesus took Feather off to school after which he was going to practice for track.
The smile faded from Bonnie’s face as the two children left.
“They’re beautiful,” she said sadly.
“I think so.”
There was an awkward moment then. We didn’t know each other, there were no common friends or interests we had—at least none that we knew about. The only thing we could do was talk about murder and neither one of us had the heart for any more talk like that.
“Where you from?” I asked.
“Originally?”
“Uh-huh.”
There was a tiny spot on her dress, over her left breast. It was probably a food stain. Something that she saw but then said to herself, “It’s just a little spot.”
Her beauty couldn’t be dampened by a blemish or a wrinkle.
“I was born in Guiana,” she said. “French Guiana’s what they call it. But I was raised in New Jersey. That’s why I can work for Air France. I’m fluent in French and American English.”
“Yeah. You’re the first black stewardess I ever heard of.”
