Mark Gimenez - The Color of Law

Boo’s Bubble was nice.

They stopped at an intersection and waited for the light to change. When it did, they looked carefully both ways and hurried across four lanes of traffic and a short parking lot and onto the sidewalk of-

“Highland Park Village,” Boo said.

They were standing outside a store named Polo/Ralph Lauren in a fairyland place Pajamae had never imagined existed, fancy cars lining the sidewalk shaded by little trees and fancy white women getting out of those cars followed by pretty little white girls looking like princesses and giving her second and third glances like they had never seen a black person their whole lives, and leaving behind a smell so sweet that Pajamae breathed it in several times and was reminded of the old fat ladies at church each Sunday morning-only these ladies weren’t fat and they didn’t gush over her and pinch her cheek. The white women and white girls just hustled by and into the store, the cool air from inside rushing out, making Pajamae’s face feel like it did when she stuck her head in the freezer to cool off, as she often did down home in the projects.

Boo said, “Do y’all have shopping places like this?”

“We don’t have any place like this.”

When she and Mama went shopping, it was generally at yard sales and the Goodwill store, not someplace where she couldn’t begin to pronounce the names, and sometimes one of their neighbors would get a good deal on sneakers or stereos or TVs and sell them right out of his car trunk, at real good prices ’cause the stuff was a little warm, Mama would say, although Pajamae was never exactly sure what she meant. And before school started each year, Mama would work extra and Louis would take them to buy her school clothes at the JCPenney, but it wasn’t like this.

“Where- as,” Pajamae said.

They walked down the sidewalk in the shade of the awning, Pajamae feeling like it was Christmas, checking out every window display, fancy clothes on skinny mannequins wearing makeup, and past a kid’s store-

“That’s Jacadi Paris,” Boo said. “My closet is full of clothes from here.”

“Does this stuff cost a lot?”

“Mother bought them, so they must.”

When they arrived at a store called Calvin Klein, Boo said, “Britney was here a few months ago.”

“Britney who?”

“Britney Spears, the singer. Everybody went crazy.”

“White girl?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh. We don’t listen to white girls down in the projects.”

Boo shrugged. “I don’t listen to her up here either.”

And on they went, past stores named Luca Luca and Escada and Lilly Dodson-“Mrs. Bush bought her red party dress here, when George W. got elected the first time,” Boo said-and Banana Republic-only they sold clothes not bananas-and they crossed the parking lot and got ice cream cones at Who’s Who Burgers.

They walked outside and Pajamae stopped short. A bad feeling swept over her small body: the bald man in the black car was driving by slowly and giving her a creepy stare. She got really scared, and Pajamae Jones didn’t get really scared easily.

“Boo, that man’s following us.”

“What man?”

“That man who just drove by, in that black car. See him? The bald guy?”

Boo laughed. “This is Highland Park. Nothing bad happens here.”

Boo tugged on her arm and Pajamae followed reluctantly. They walked past more stores then went inside a store with the same name as the old wino with no teeth who lived three apartments down. Harold.

“This was my mother’s favorite store,” Boo said.

A saleslady was on them before they made it five steps, and Pajamae thought at first she was going to run them out. But the lady smiled and said hi like she was really happy to see them. She was very pretty for a white girl, with hair that bounced and smooth skin and lips that were painted red. She looked at Pajamae and leaned down, putting her knees together and her hands on her knees, and said, “My, aren’t you the cutest little thing!”

Pajamae was wearing Boo’s denim overalls, a white T-shirt, white socks, and white sneakers; her hair was in cornrows; and she was licking her ice cream cone.

She said, “Thank you, ma’am.”

“So how do you like living in Highland Park?”

Pajamae glanced at Boo, who shrugged. How did this woman know that she was living with Mr. Fenney?

“I like it just fine, thank you.”

“You tell your mother to come see me, my name’s Sissy. I’ll make sure she’s as well dressed as any woman in Highland Park.”

“My mama’s in jail.”

The lady snapped up straight with a confused look on her face. “ Jail? Aren’t you the new black family’s little girl?”

“I don’t have a family. I only have Mama. And Louis, he’s like an uncle only he’s not.”

Boo said, “What new black family?”

“The black family that just moved into town, the first black homeowners in the history of Highland Park.” The saleslady was now staring at Boo when a hint of recognition crossed her painted face. “You’re the Fenney girl, aren’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I almost didn’t recognize you with that hair. Where’s your mother been lately”-her thin eyebrows raised a notch-“and your handsome father?”

“My mother’s being weird and A. Scott’s been real busy.”

“Helping my mama,” Pajamae added, and the lady’s head swiveled to her. “They say she killed the McCall boy, but she didn’t.”

The saleslady slapped her hand over her mouth. “She’s your mother?”

Pajamae licked her ice cream cone and said, “Unh-huh. Mr. Fenney, he’s her lawyer, so everybody’s mad at him.”

The saleslady’s face suddenly looked like that boy’s face that day in the projects when he tried to get a freebie from Mama and when she refused, he called her a “white man’s whore.” As he turned to run away he ran smack into Louis-and that black boy’s face turned white. Just as this lady’s face had turned two shades whiter. She must not have known what to say, so she said, “Maybe you girls should leave now.”

“Mr. Ford wants to see you,” Sue said.

Scott grabbed his message slips and walked to the staircase. He greeted his fellow partners along the way, but all he got in return were odd stares, averted eyes, and shaking heads. No doubt they had seen his network interview last night and didn’t care for it. Fuck ’em. He found Dan standing by the window in his office.

“Dan, what’s up?”

Dan turned; his face looked like he hadn’t slept last night.

“Come in, Scotty. Shut the door.”

Scott did as instructed and said, “Dan, can you talk to Ted at the bank? He’s being a real asshole. He called the notes on the Ferrari and my house.”

“I’m afraid I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because, Scotty, as of right now, you’re no longer a partner in the firm.”

“You’re demoting me?”

“I’m firing you.”

Dan’s words knocked the air out of Scott as fully as a football helmet in the solar plexus. Scott stumbled back and fell onto the sofa. Dan returned to the window and stared out, his hands clasped behind him. Scott struggled to find words.

“You said I was like a son to you.”

Without turning from the window: “You were. But when my son embarrassed me with that homosexual nonsense, I disowned him. Now I’m disowning you.”

“Why?”

Dan turned to face Scott; he was now an angry father figure.

“Your little spectacle last night! For Christ’s sake, Scott, what the hell were you thinking?”

“McCall tried to destroy me, that’s what I was thinking!”

“So you go on national TV and accuse the senior senator from Texas of obstruction of justice? Extortion? Bribery?”