I Wish I Had a Red Dress Read Online Free PDF Page A

most of all, it’s a chance for us to catch up and let our hair down.
    We’ve all managed to find our life’s work in jobs that require a certain amount of public decorum. As a minister, a social worker and a high school English teacher, we’re expected to assume as part of our public responsibilities, a quiet dignity, an unshakable reserve and a constant seriousness that can sometimes become oppressive. Left unchecked, they can lead to a certain self-righteousness that is counterproductive to the work that we do. Being together, just the three of us, helps us keep it real.
    “I’ve never had a mango margarita,” I said.
    Sister looked surprised.
    “Don’t look at me like that,” I said. “Where would I get one?”
    She shook her head. “You have to get out more.”
    “I’ll work on it,” I said. “What should I bring tomorrow?”
    “Just yourself,” she said. “Around seven, and wear something festive. ”
    “What does that mean?”
    “Nothing. I just thought you might want to give all that black a rest and come out with a little color.”
    “Black is a color,” I said. She was echoing my sentiments exactly, but I wanted to be the one to say it first.
    “Wear whatever you want,” she said, giving me a good-bye hug. “And don’t worry.”
    I hugged her back. “I won’t.”
    I was lying, of course, but she knew it, so I don’t think itreally counts. Sometimes you have to give the correct answer even when you’re not really feeling it yet so you can hear how it’s going to sound when you finally get it together for real.
    Before I headed home, I still had to go by The Sewing Circus to make sure Tomika had locked up. Tee’s been working in the office with me for a couple of months and I hope one day she’ll be able to function as a full-fledged office manager. Right now, she’s still getting used to the responsibility. She’s nineteen and this is the first real job she’s ever had.
    I laid the mangoes gently on the seat beside me, and as I pulled out of the parking lot, I realized I had been right about that tropical aroma in Sister’s office—it wasn’t the candles. Outside, it was starting to snow again, but in my beat-up old Chevy, there was just the slightest whiff of mango.

SIX
the tree baby
    WHEN I WALKED INTO the tiny office we share at The Circus, Tomika was barely visible above the double page spread of last Sunday’s New York Times. I try to get them all to read it, but Tomika’s the only one who actually does. It usually takes her all week to get through the whole thing, but she doesn’t seem to mind. She’s spent most of her life getting all her information from television and the tabloids. Her mind is having an orgy of new ideas.
    “Hey, Miz J!” she said before I could even get my coat off. “Listen to this.” She cleared her throat. “ ‘Authorities confirm a healthy female baby was born in a treetop’—a treetop, okay? —‘during recent severe flooding in Mo-mo-mo . . . ‘ “ She slowly sounded out the unfamiliar name. “ ‘Mozambique.’ ”
    “What?”
    “They even got a picture. Look at the babymama. How she make out?”
    Tee thrust the paper in my direction and there the babymama was all right, a tiny, rain-soaked African woman, clutching her newborn in the Associated Press wire photo that would introduce her to the world.
    “Jesus!”
    “You got that right!” Tee was looking over my shoulder at the woman’s shell-shocked face. The baby was nursing. “This girl just delivered a baby in a thunderstorm up in a tree and they both made it! That’s what’s killin’ me. They made it back to dry land and got they picture in the paper! So, how was the trip to Lansing? Should I start lookin’ for another job?”
    Tee changed subjects effortlessly without even stopping for breath. Whatever else she could or couldn’t do, the girl could talk.
    “We all survived it,” I said, hedging.
    “So it was cool, right?”
    “So far, so good.” No point