Court of the Myrtles Read Online Free PDF Page A

pollution, bus fumes and Motown. Tip your head down to the courtyard below and you could spy a trio of Afro-haired brothers pulling their Cadillac up for a polish, their radios pumping out Smokey Robinson or Marvin Gaye. Mom wasn’t a “Tracks of My Tears” kind of gal, so she’d position herself in the middle of our living room on an imaginary center-stage and await the next song—“I Second that Emotion”—moving slowly at first, her unsteady hand dripping martini onto the gold shag carpet. She’d sip, move and spill, sip, move, and spill, until eventually handing me the near-empty glass so she could strip down to her lace bra and panties for the finale. I know, I know… but I loved her lack of inhibitions.
    Grandma would have vetoed this behavior in a heartbeat, of course, and that’s why we were here. The apartment lease had Mom’s name on it and Mom would proudly proclaim, “I only answer to the person who pays the rent!” And then she’d point to her chest and tip her head back in mad laughter.
    My best friend Julia lived in the same building and she’d beg to come over so she could watch my mother first-hand. I could have charged admission and handed out popcorn the way Julia would show up, plop down on our velvet couch, and smile encouragingly up at my mom.
    My mom tried to get her to join me as another back-up singer, showing Julia the swimming moves our arms should make. Julia threw out her limbs as if she were some tribal leader in an African dance troupe, while her head started going up and down like one of those bobble-head dogs you used to see in the back of cars. There we were, three white women transformed into the Supremes. And Mom was our Diana Ross.
    The balding man across the way, with the big belly and the eagle tattoo on his forearm wanted her to be his playmate, too. He watched us from the stool on his fire escape, his cigarette dangling between his lips, his hands clapping, his feet stomping. He wasn’t as trustworthy as Uncle Zaven but he was our lone audience. And sometimes, you take what you’re given.
    When we were done, we always peered down to the Cadillac boys waxing their “boats” below and scream “High five, brothers!” They tolerated our pathetic shouts, waving a lazy arm from where they polished their tires’ white walls, refusing to stand, let alone glance up at the foolish white girls.
    Fixed in my memory is the day we ended our routine by tossing a polyester Pucciknockoff scarf into the air where it hung for a magical beat before billowing down like a flying snake. Below, the little girls with banana curls stopped jumping double-dutch, dropped their ropes, and skipped delightedly over to catch it before it landed on the concrete.
    My mom was always happy, always smiling, always greeting the sun. There was only one occasion when I felt her fear.
    We had been walking home from the Star Market juggling heavy bags of groceries in our arms. There was a sound of footsteps from behind. Mom and I had been discussing the multiplication tables I had for homework when she looked down at me and her tone turned to something I’d never heard. “Would you know what to do if a man was following you down the street?” There was a slight crackle in her voice.
    â€œSure,” I lied, the footsteps gaining on us.
    â€œWhat?” asked Mom.
    â€œI’d… I don’t know…”
    â€œYou’d walk proud and tall like we’re doing now. You’d even turn around,” which she did. “Make sure you make eye contact with him—nod, maybe smile.” She did that, too. “Let him know you have an inner sense of security and you’re having a good day and nobody is going to change that feeling,” she said loudly, and I got the courage to turn my face up to meet his just in time to see his stubbly chin break into an embarrassed smile. He gave me the once over and