Can you wait there for 5? I’m pretty sure Aunt Viv wants to make an entrance. A woman never loses her need to impress a man. Lay it on thick, this is her night and so far she’s really eating up being Queen for a day.
6:47 P.M.
“Aunt Viv, Etta, Dr. Golden’s here.” How is it those two are always complaining about me being the late one and here I am waiting on them to cross the finish line on this evening’s primping marathon? Ican only imagine the amount of product littered across every inch of the bathroom. A shea butter cemetery surrounded by a MAC mess.
“Now where’s that doctor of mine?” Aunt Viv giggles, making her way down the hall holding Etta’s hand. We stand shoulder to shoulder in front of the coat closet mirror, a vision of color and style and grace—Aunt Viv regal in her emerald-green chiffon dress, me in rich orange, and Etta killin’ it in canary yellow. We are a glorious rainbow of love and femininity.
Dr. Golden knocks on the front door. Aunt Viv smooths the back of her dress like all women do before stepping into view of a handsome man. She stands straight like the matriarch of our family that she is, clears her throat, and opens the door.
“Good evening, Dr. Golden. I appreciate you getting all gussied up in your best church clothes for me,” Aunt Viv singsongs.Those are no church clothes, I think to myself, slightly slack-jawed and staring at Dr. Golden. He’s in a deep midnight–blue European-cut suit that accentuates his God-given ocean-blue eyes, swimmer’s shoulders, and slim waist. His suit jacket cuts a perfect V. Ty’s lavender shirt collar is conservatively open, showing a hint of baby-smooth chest. He’s wearing shoes that look straight out of a Milanese leather factory, nearly causing me a fashion orgasm.
“Good evening, Viv. Do you think after one heart attack and two checkups we can move our relationship to the next level and you call me Ty? After all, I have seen you in a hospital gown, front side and back.” Aunt Viv lifts her hand to her mouth to stifle another giggle, but the golden doctor intercepts it on the way to give it a kiss. Etta and I watch in awe; we’ve never seen Aunt Viv so intimate with a man. “I got you this wrist corsage, Viv. The honoree of this evening’s soirée must have flowers so everyone in the room knows exactly who she is. May I put it on you?”
“Of course, Doctor—I mean, Ty. Thank you.” Aunt Viv blushes. I wipe a tear from the corner of my eye before Aunt Viv can noticeand scold me for making a fuss. Even if the rest of the evening is a bust, witnessing the tenderness and reverence Golden Boy is showering on Aunt Viv makes the last month of complaints about the party and the earlier eight hours of schlepping Aunt Viv around San Francisco worth it. This is Aunt Viv’s fifteen minutes of fame and, deservedly, this little corner of the world is revolving around her.
“Well, there you go, Viv, you look absolutely beautiful. I knew you were a sight, but, woman, you take my breath away.” Aunt Viv fingers the yellow flowers on her wrist, demurely tips her chin at Ty, and strides out the front door. Etta swallows a snicker and we roll our eyes at one another, a nonverbal agreement that Aunt Viv is going to be unbearable for the next couple days riding high from tonight’s attention. I’m unsure if there will be enough room in the Lyft for the two of us, Dr. Golden, Aunt Viv, and her ego.
I send Etta out behind Aunt Viv and then grab my purse and keys to lock the door. Ty is waiting for me on the front stoop. Damn if his mama didn’t teach him good manners. I pull the door shut, lock it, and shimmy past Ty.
“And you’re looking damn fine, too, Ms. Bordelon,” Ty whispers in my ear, flicking the bow of my dress at the back of my neck. My skin erupts in goose bumps. I’ve really got to start dating. If I get goose bumps from a gay man’s touch, imagine what might happen with someone who actually wants to rip my clothes off. Watching him make Aunt Viv swoon reminds me how a man can make a woman feel with the right kind of sweet attention. With Etta leaving soon, Aunt Viv’s recent heart attack, and coming across Michael again, I find myself needing, well, truthfully wanting, some of that sweetness for myself.
•••
Ty wasn’t lying; I do look fine. The combination of college application stress with Etta, the crunch of mid-admissionsseason, and a shortage of my favorite chocolate pretzels at Trader Joe’s, and I’m within eight pounds of my fighting weight, a number I haven’t seen since 2003.
As we roll up to the school, we hear the live Afro-Cuban music coming from Fairchild’s grand foyer. Etta’s unconsciously swaying in her seat, her body incapable of not moving when it hears a sweet beat. The car parks right in front of the twenty stately stairs covered in red carpet. Etta hops out of the car first and floats up to the main entrance, her hips continuing to keep in time with the Cuban groove. I take in a sharp breath. Etta’s confidence as she half dances, half glides her way into the party throws me deep into one of the few memories I have of being with my mother. She moved through the streets of New Orleans, skin glistening from the summer humidity, shoulders swaying to whatever tune was in her head. I don’t recall the specifics of my mother’s features, I just know she was a mere five years older than Etta in my last memory of her before she dropped me like a milk delivery on Aunt Viv’s doorstep. Watching Etta, I know it’s true that her body was born to move, and I can’t help but wonder, with a bit of fear, if Etta is a next generation Ophelia Bordelon. And if she is, how will those roots and seeds play out in her future, since no one knows what happened to my mother.
I bring myself back to the present when I see Nan, erect and tidy, greeting guests at the summit of the stairs. I have to give it to her, she did indeed go all out with the Miami-meets–New Orleans mash-up theme for Viva la Viv.From the live band to a couple of classic red and baby blue 1940s Fords lining the curb, Nan did what she could to turn this expansive Seacliff estate into a mini-Havana. Complete with strobe lights the whole vibe feels very Buena Vista Social Club with palm trees, forced heat, trayed cigars, and plenty of Cuba Libres at every turn. While I do give Nan a pile of credit for sparing no expense on behalf of Aunt Viv, I can’t help but wonder if Nan realizes she has confused Cuban with Creole. Communismwith Cajun. Does Nan even know where we’re from? Or care? Given her efforts I suspect she knows but doesn’t care.
•••
LOLA
God I wish I was a lesbian, Jo!
7:17 P.M.
JOSIE
Where you at?
7:17 P.M.
LOLA
Staring at you from the bar.
7:18 P.M.
JOSIE
Get me a glass of champagne and then get over here. And thank you. When Nic dies we can be lesbians if you want.
7:18 P.M.
LOLA
Done.
