Fran Ross: Oreo

And then the mirror moved.

Oreo’s reaction to her father’s death

She was more distressed over accident than essence — the flukiness, not the fact of Samuel’s death. The jive mirror of the new people moving into his building, his landing on the carrying case. The fall alone, from the second floor, would not have killed him. No bones had been broken, but his plummet had split the carrier and squashed poor Toro, whose rhinestone collar had left an intaglio coronet on Samuel’s brow. Unmarked except for his baron’s band, he was dead nevertheless and (dear, fatherless Jimmie C.) winnie-the-pooh. Oreo was sad but not too . She felt about as she would if someone told her that Walter Cronkite had said his last “Febewary” or that a fine old character actor she had thought for years was dead was dead.

When it happened, Oreo knew she had two unpleasant things to do: break the news (banner head) to Mildred Schwartz and, worse, break the news (sidebar) to Bovina Minotti. She left worse for last. After the ambulance took Samuel away and the ASPCA claimed what was left of Toro, Oreo waited for Mrs. Schwartz outside her apartment until she and the boys came back from their track meet in the park. Mrs. Schwartz said nothing when she heard the news. Slowly, as if in benediction, her torch arm declined until it was level with her shoulder. One of the fingers that had encircled the invisible torch peeled off from her thumb and pointed to the telephone, to which she went directly and began dialing Samuel’s mishpocheh . Marvin and Edgar cowered in a corner with their suitcases.

While Mrs. Schwartz was still talking to Samuel’s relatives, Oreo went outside to find a pay phone and call the Minottis. She was relieved when Adriana answered. Oreo told her what had happened.

“Oh, God, poor Mr. Schwartz — how am I going to tell Mother about Toro?”

“I don’t envy you.”

“Listen, do you have the collar?”

“The what?”

“Toro’s dog collar,” said Adriana. “Do you have it?”

“Yes, the ambulance driver put it in a paper bag and gave it to me.”

“Thank God. Call Dominic and give it to him.”

“I don’t have his number,” Oreo said.

“I thought you were with the agency.”

“What agency?”

“Dominic’s agency. The ad agency. You know — Lovin’ Cola.”

“I don’t know what the ham-fat you’re talking about.”

Adriana laughed. “Oh, wow, those people are really off the wall. They don’t even tell their own couriers what’s happening.” After a few more chuckles, she said, “Look in the dog collar.”

Odd choice of prepositions, Oreo thought. They talked a few more minutes, then Oreo called Dominic at the number Adriana had given her. A half hour later, he met her on the corner and took the paper bag. He did not look too happy as he rolled away. She did not know whether his gloom stemmed from Samuel’s death or from the fact that he faced the prospect of building a campaign around a new Voice of Lovin’ Cola.

Adriana had cleared up the mystery about Dominic, Toro, and the Minottis. Samuel had been mixed up not with gangsters (Oreo’s surmise) but with industrial spies — or, rather, fear of industrial spies. He was to be the Voice of Lovin’ Cola, a new soft drink its makers thought would flatten Dr. Pepper, Coke, and Pepsi. Keystone of the introduction of Lovin’ Cola was the jingle Adriana had written about the beverage — a jingle the ad agency hoped could be adapted and released as a pop tune that would have pop heads fizzing Lovin’ Cola’s message, sub- or supraliminally, until the national fever for carbonation defervesced — around the thirty-third of Juvember. The agency did not want to break wind until it knew which way the breeze was blowing. One of the other gas companies might pull the old switcherino on the music and lyrics and come out with a carbonated copy before the Lovin’ Cola people were ready to open the silo and push the button for their blitz spritz in the media.

Before Dominic trundled into view, Oreo snapped open the back of Toro’s dog collar and found Adriana’s demo tape and an onionskin with the typed lyrics of the jingle:

LOVIN’ COLA

by

Adriana Minotti

(Dom: For pop version, sub “oh-la” for “Cola”)

Lovin’ Cola, Lovin’, Lovin’ Cola,

Lovin’ Cola, Lovin’, Lovin’ Cola,

Get your fill, it’s a thrill,

Lovin’ Cola, Lovin’, Lovin’ Cola.

Oh, well, thought Oreo, the tune is probably unabashedly addictive:

Oreo at the door of 2-C

She had spent the night in the park. In the morning, she waited outside of Samuel’s apartment building until she saw Mildred Schwartz leave for the funeral. The sun glanced away from the dragon hood ornament as the limousine turned the corner. The children were not with her. Oreo assumed that someone had been assigned to prevent their escape from the apartment. She had to get inside to go through her father’s bookshelf. She was still a bit pissed off at Samuel for falling out of the fool window before he had told her the secret of her birth.

She heard gay laughter in 2-C. Her knock switched it off.

The door opened and before her stood a woman whose smooth facial planes gave her an expression so benign that she made Aunt Jemima look like a grouch. “Won’t expecting nobody,” the woman said. “Who you?” Her voice was soothing too. Marvin and Edgar had given up their death grip on their suitcases to garrote her skirts. After one lemur-look at Oreo, they hid behind the woman.

“I’m the… mother’s helper,” said Oreo.

“Madam didn’t tell me, but come on in, chile. These kids running me crazy.” The woman was wearing a starched white uniform and apron. She motioned Oreo to a seat. “Name’s Hap. I’ll be in the kitchen yet a while.”

“Mine’s Anna, Miss Hap,” Oreo said politely, eyeing the voles.

Hap tried to shoo the children toward Oreo, but they bobbed around that rich broth of a woman like dumplings.

Oreo’s eyes went to the bookshelf her father had pointed out. Before she was half the distance to it, the phone rang. Hap stepped out of the kitchen to answer it. “Schwartz residence,” she said solemnly. Then she smiled sunnily and said, “How you, Nola?” She sat down in a straight chair just under the bookshelf. The spines of the volumes were just out of Oreo’s reading range.

“Yeah, it right sad,” said Hap into the phone. “Madam at the funeral now… Naw , she just asked me to fix a little something, case anybody drop ’round after the burial. I’ll cook it, but ain’t nobody gon eat it. Don’t nobody never come here, chile. You should see this living room, the mess she got ’round here. No wonder the children ’fraid of her… Yeah, chile, scared to death … The Millers? Chile, them people much rich. The madam in Florida now, and mister in Chicago on business. The two girls in Europe with they husbands… Oh, sure, they ain’t got nothing better to do than travel ’round.”

It was too early for Oreo to tell whether Hap was of the this-job-is-a-piece-of-cake school or the these-people-are-stone-slave-drivers faction, but she was already dropping the time-honored phrases of the my-people-are-richer-than-yours bloc.

“ Who ?” Hap challenged the caller in outraged tones. “Are you kidding! I don’t do no cleaning! I don’t get down on my knees for nobody . No, chile. I don’t even have no downstairs cleaning to do. They got a girl comes in to do that. Colored girl. She even clean my apartment for me every day… No, Nola, I told you before, I only go out there the first two weeks in every month. I told the boss, ‘Mr. Miller,’ I say, ‘I can’t be staying out here all the time.’ I say, ‘Times have changed. You can have two weeks of my time, but the rest of my time have to be for other folks need me much as you do.’… I most certainly did…. Well-sir, I thought I would die when I caught that laundress down in that basement just filling up a box with meats and veg’tables… Naw , she Irish woman. You know she always hinting ’round to the madam that I order extry food so I can take it home to my fam’ly… Who ? She bet’ not say nothing to me ’bout it. Who they gon get to go way out there and stay even for two weeks the way I do?… Yeah, is that so ? Is that so ? That’s the trouble with day work. They work you to death for six fifty and carfare. I ain’t done no day work — no cleaning day work — for twenny years, chile… No, I’m a cook, and I rule my kitchen. If they come in my kitchen, they tiptoe around… What’s that?… Naw , you don’t mean it? Well, these people are cheap too, chile. Guess that’s why they got so much. My sister Bessie been working for the old man for how long now? You know as well as I do… Naw , it’s longer than that. But whatever it is, it’s umpteen years. She been working for old man Schwartz since Hector was a puppy — and he an old dog now. Been dusting them plastic plants since before his wife died. And you know what he give her last Christmas? A pair of sixty-nine-cent stockings. He haven’t even noticed after all these years that she don’t even wear no stockings. What she need stockings for? Now, the Millers, they give me ten dollars extry and a fifth. The girls gave me perfume. One time they gave me a pocketbook… What ? And as long as you been with them!… Naw , chile, all they care ’bout is that work … Retire? How can I retire? I got my bills to pay. But I tell you one thing: I ain’t gon die in no kitchen like poor Henrietta did. No, sir. They ain’t gon work me to death… Oh, she’s a caution. She’s really something. You know she won’t let that man have more than one egg for breakfast? When she home, he eat like any bird . She won’t let him eat! Say she don’t want no fat slob for a husband! Can you beat that! But when she not around, I fix him a nice breakfast. He just gobble it up. That’s why he so nice to me. But her, she something. I think she a little off. Yessir. You know, she fell off a horse once. Yeah, fractured her skull. I think it made her a little bit screwy… Yeah?… Well, when I’m gon see you, Nola? Why don’t you stop by the house next Thursday… Yeah, after that, I be out to the Millers for two weeks, so come on over. I’ll have something good for you… Naw , I’m not gon tell you. You guess… Yeah, that’s right.” Hap laughed. “I’ll look for you Thursday, then, Nola… Yeah, so long.”