Frost on My Window (9 page)

Chapter 10

“I envy you sometimes, Leah. You’re young, successful, and free.”

Putting down my sandwich, I looked at Bahni in puzzlement. The last time I checked the young Indian woman was still single. She caught my puzzled look.

“I don’t mean single,” she explained. “You can go where you want, date who you want. You get to call all your own shots.”

“You can’t?” I tried to keep my surprise from showing.

Bahni smiled and pushed back her long black hair, revealing gold hoop earrings.

“My parents are in the process of looking for a husband for me. They’re afraid that if I don’t marry soon I’ll be too old.”

My appetite took a nosedive even as Bahni reached for another French fry. I took a sip of lemonade. Some things you just don’t want to know. When you think you’ve got it bad, someone else has got it worse.

“Do you at least get to choose amongst the potential candidates?” I tried to keep my tone light. I couldn’t condemn the idea of arranged marriages. Growing up in Philly had taught me to keep an open mind.

She nodded her head. “Yeah. My little sister says they’re nice looking, but if I’ve got to spend the rest of my life with someone, good looks take a backseat to personality.”

I nodded my head. “No kidding. So when is all this going to take place?” What can I say? I just had to be nosey.

“Not for another year. One of the potentials is in medical school and the other works at General Electric’s Mumbai office.”

“Will you stay in New York?” I was selfishly hoping she’d say yes. Bahni wasn’t only a great member of the team, she brought her unique kind of cheer and graphic artistry to every project.

“I’m not sure. I want to stay. I’ll be finished with my degree in May, and I’m already thinking about starting my masters. But if the one I pick doesn’t want to leave India…” She shrugged.

I studied her face and saw the yearning in her eyes. I remembered when I spoke so indecisively about returning home, torn between complete freedom and the seductive call of home with its familiar people and places.

“I don’t envy your decision.”

Bahni shook her head and polished off the chicken sandwich. “I have a favor to ask.”

I wiped my mouth with the napkin. “What can I do for you?”

“I know it’s last minute, but the women’s group I belong to is having a round table discussion tonight. We’re discussing successful women in the twentieth century. I’d really love it if you could participate.”

“Wow.” I sat back. I’d paid my dues. I really enjoyed my job. But was I what you’d call a success? “Are you sure I’m the right person for this?”

“Of course.” Bahni leaned forward. “Leah, you’re one of my role models and a kick-ass mentor. You’ve given me excellent advice and senior management loves you. You’re so together. I think that makes you the perfect person to talk with us.”

“All right, enough of the snow job, I’m sold. What time and where?”

* * *

What time and where? I shook my head. I’d expected to walk into a small windowless room in the basement of an old building like the meeting rooms we had at school before I graduated and the million dollar donations started pouring in. Instead, I entered into an auditorium of sorts. Shorts-clad and suit-wearing women of all ages mingled over a table of refreshments.

“Hey, Leah. Glad you could make it.” I turned to see Bahni.

“Sorry I’m late. Got pulled into a conference call.”

“That’s okay. Want something to drink? We’re about to get started.”

“Thanks. I’ll just have a bottled water,” I said, following her down the sloping aisle.

“So where are you sitting?”

“We,” she pointed towards the students, “are sitting down here. You get to sit up there.”

She pointed to the row of chairs on the raised dais. I looked back at her.

“You’re kidding.”

Bahni flashed me what I think she thought was a reassuring smile. “No.”

“You realize I’m going to remember this when bonus discussions come up,” I said, trying to keep a serious face. Her grin only got wider.

“Just think of this as an early wedding gift. My professor’s giving me extra credit.” She patted my shoulder.

She ushered me to the stage and I had no choice but to turn and greet the other participants before taking my seat.

After the introductions and speeches, the meeting really got started. The questions came hard and fast. What had begun as a low-key networking how-to turned into an all out bashing session against the glass ceiling, old boys networks, and white corporate America. From time to time I put in my two cents. After going at it for over an hour, the session seemed to be winding down when a young black student sporting dreadlocks Rena would have drooled over approached the microphone.

“I have a question for Ms. Russell.”

I sat up straighter and waited for the question I had dreaded to hear.

“In comparison to white women, is it harder being a black woman in the workplace?”

I had paused, considering if I really wanted to answer her question, when I caught the glance of another young black woman sitting forward in her chair.

The truth came out before I could stop it. “Hell yes.”

I waited for a moment until the murmurs died down. “It’s subtle. Just being a woman takes all of your focus, but my mentor, a very senior black executive at a software company, opened my eyes. I could tell you about the racial discrimination black women face, but that’s something that is very obvious and gets a lot of press. What doesn’t, however, are the hidden time bombs.

“Let me explain. Although slavery ended well over two hundred years ago, some of its vestiges remain embedded in the corporate world. The mammy figure still follows black women. On Southern plantations, black women were expected to raise the kids, cook, and be the one person that anyone in the white household could lean on. This still holds true throughout most of corporate America. Even in leadership positions a black woman is expected to do more, be more, often on a more informal personal level.

“For example, my mentor, a woman whose academic and professional credentials are very impressive, was frequently put into situations to act as a counselor between subordinates and managers of her own and other divisions instead of being able to concentrate on the more formal tasks that she had been hired for. Her senior management expected her to take control of emotional situations rather than the business situations.

“On a more personal note, I’ve got to admit that balancing my formal and informal roles as a manager when senior management comes calling gets tough. I can’t say for certain I’m pushed more towards the Human Resources role because of the influence of race or sex. I’m inclined to see it as a combination of both. The key is that as a black woman you have to be aware that these issues are out there. If you’re not watching out you may wake up and find that the glass ceiling has enclosed you in a cage.”

* * *

“Excuse me!”

Hearing the man’s words, I kept right on walking. I was becoming more and more of a New Yorker every day. Loud voices no longer bothered me; the beeping of horns didn’t make me want to cuss. I had more on my mind than ever after that impromptu discussion about sexism and racism in the corporate arena. I sighed. Even in the nice section of Brooklyn where I lived you still get the men who think that they have license to talk to any woman they meet.

“Excuse me? Lady.” The voice and the touch of someone’s hand on my shoulder stopped me.

“Get your hands off me!” I shouted as my heart jumped with fear. I clutched my purse and took two steps back as the big hand released my elbow.

“My bad. Is your name Leah Russell?”

“Why?” I asked guardedly, prepared to run at the first sign of him moving closer.

“I’m looking for Rena Mason, and I was told that you might know where she is.”

“Who are you? Who gave you my name and why are you looking for Rena?” I looked up at the large black man with the Caesar haircut and thick roped gold chain.

He looked astonished at my questions and I couldn’t fathom why.

“The name is Nine and everything else don’t matter. All you need to do is tell me where Rena’s at and I’ll get outta ya way.”

If he’d moved, I would have turned and run down the street, but he just stood there on the sidewalk watching me with a strange sort of pleading look on his face. I glanced at the black Lincoln Navigator double-parked on the street. The vehicle held two occupants who seemed to be studying me as intently as I looked at them.

“Rena is out of town.” I looked Nine in the eye.

He sighed. “I know that. Can you tell me where she and Nina went?”

I shook my head and lied. “I don’t know.”

“You trying to tell me your own cousin up and left without telling you where she went?”

“She left in a hurry.”

I watched as all his earlier confidence seemed to vanish, replaced by fear. “Look, Ms. Russell. I don’t mean to cause you any trouble. I just need to talk to Nina. Tell her I’m sorry. I was just drinkin’. I didn’t know,” he said hurriedly.

“I’m sorry but I really can’t help you.” I’d given my word to Rena and nothing could make me break it.

His shoulders slumped and he turned away. I watched as Nine got into the passenger side of the Navigator and the car drove away. The fear I’d seen in the boy’s eyes stayed with me as I entered the apartment. Shaking off the incident, I closed the door, making sure to turn the deadbolt. Simba lay on the windowsill, and, as I bent down to take off my shoes, I heard a thump and the pitter-patter of feet on the floor.

The cat brushed himself across my legs and unthinking I scooped him up into my arms and carried him over to the sofa. I needed to hold something, feel something. The fear in Nine’s eyes as I mentioned Rena’s quick departure bothered me. Not even the thought of Rena’s coming home would erase the blue/black bruise I knew I’d see on my arm in the morning.

Even after I’d showered and changed into my pajamas that night, I still had knots in my stomach. All I could think about were the challenges I’d faced getting through school and paying my dues as the only black woman in a division of two hundred. As I looked into the mirror while brushing my teeth, I couldn’t see my own reflection. Instead, I saw the room filled with students. I saw their eyes as they watched me. I could see the effect of my answers wash over their faces and I wanted to take that picture they had of me, the one where I stood alone at the top of the world with my legs wide planted across the North Pole. I wanted to take that image, that Strong Black Woman image, and light a match under it. See that old lie, the black woman’s honorary title, burn.

I curled up in the bed with their awed faces in my mind. The truth swirled like bitter wine in my stomach. It was all a lie. Just another mask I wore during the day and took off the moment I set foot in the apartment. I didn’t want to be strong. I didn’t want to be admired by those women sitting and drinking their bottles of Evian while dreaming of conquering the business world.

The truth was that I wanted to be loved. To hell with fighting for a place in corporate America. I’d rather have a wedding ring on my left hand. SBW: Successful Black Woman. More like Selfish Black Woman. I wanted it all. The great husband, the good kids, the nice house, and Disney World vacations. I wanted all the love, care, comfort, companionship, security, and happiness I could get out of life. I wanted that special someone to take care of me, love me, protect me, fight for me. I wondered how much of my soul I’d have to sacrifice to get it.

* * *

I looked at Sean in puzzlement as the car came to a stop in front of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I was playing hooky for this? Although I loved the idea of spending time wandering through art-filled corridors with Sean, the last place I wanted to be on a beautiful Friday afternoon was a building packed full of tourists, teenagers, and elementary school kids.

“The museum?” I asked. We’d been to such places before, but I’d never seen Sean so excited.

“Trust me.” He held out his hand and I let him assist me out of the car. The smell of popcorn rose on the breeze from the stand on the sidewalk. The warmth of the sun on my skin was a pleasant shock after the artificial air conditioning of the car.

Sean held my hand as we entered the building and I watched as he flashed a card at the entrance attendant. As we headed towards the back of the museum through the Egyptian collection, I heard the first note of music. The echo of drums filled the space. I blindly followed Sean as we entered the Sackler Wing. The large, open courtyard with a glass wall looking out over Central Park was a beautiful room, but today it was breathtaking.

I was entranced. All I could do was gaze around the open space and windowed courtyard. Sunlight poured through tall windows, cascading over the Temple of Dendur. The small Egyptian temple had been donated to the Metropolitan Museum back in the 1960s. Through high arched windows I saw trees and people strolling through the park. I took a deep breath and the lush sweet smell of orchids filled my nostrils. I shook my head and looked over at the front of the temple. All I could see was the blur of moving dancers. Around me people had begun to take their seats.

“The show just started. Why don’t we take a seat?” Sean suggested.

I settled down beside him on the cool metal chairs and watched the white-clothed dancers weave amongst the flower arrangements. The men and women moved with such a light grace that they seemed to skate across the floor. Intricate islands of orchids and vines had been set up around the tall palm trees. I leaned against Sean and settled in with his arm resting behind my chair. I was so into the dancing that it wasn’t until near the end I noticed the rhythmic movement of Sean’s fingers on my shoulders.

“Did you like it?” Sean’s voice startled me from my reverie. I had been so caught up in the music and the dance I didn’t realize that it was over. We stood up and joined the rest of the audience in clapping. As people milled out, Sean and I stood near the side. I stretched, hoping to wake up my numb behind as he adjusted his baseball cap.

“Can we go up to the temple and look at the flowers?” I asked.