The Other Black Girl(27)
Nella’s colleagues at Wagner weren’t sociopaths. They all knew where one was and was not supposed to pee. But that didn’t make being around them any less stressful. Once you were in close quarters with them each day—once you’d spent more than a year making catatonic small talk around sputtering Keurigs and mottled bathroom sinks and Printer Row, grinning and bearing it while you learned about their new summer homes and their latest European vacations and wondered why you were still making fewer than twenty dollars an hour; once you got used to the fact that almost every time you came into contact with an unknown Black person in your place of work, this person was most likely going to ask you to sign for a package, or offer to fix your computer—it started to grate on you. So much so that, at least once a month, you got up from your desk, sauntered over to the ladies’ room, shut yourself in a stall, and asked yourself, Why am I still here?
At last, after twenty minutes of dragging her feet, Nella finally finished getting ready. Owen kissed her lightly from his side of the bed and told her everything was going to be fine. But the effect of his words lasted as long as the sensation from his lips, and as Nella got on the Manhattan-bound R train, she had a feeling it was going to be a breakdown-in-the-bathroom-stall kind of day.
The feeling intensified nearly an hour later, as she took a deep breath and waited for the revolving doors to spill her out into the lobby, wavering only when she waved a quick hello to India, the cheery, mocha-skinned receptionist who’d sat at the front desk from six to eleven every weekday morning ever since Nella had first started at Wagner. “Loving that scarf today, India,” she said as brightly as she could manage, pulling out her Wagner identification card.
India reached up and touched the silky blue and gold scarf, as if to remind herself which one she’d worn that day. “Thanks, girl!” she said, her smile genuine, even though Nella almost always said the same thing about her scarves or earrings or newest hairstyle. Nella’s compliments, of course, were always grounded in truth; today, the fabric, a striking collage of blue and gold geometric shapes, was arranged almost too stunningly for an office in Midtown, wrapped ceremoniously and tied up in two equal-sized bows that sat on the top of India’s head. But Nella also made sure that her one-liners took exactly the right amount of time to get her from the lobby to the elevator bank without having to slow her step. It was part of her morning routine, the same way she fixed grits in the morning, or made her way down two-thirds of the train platform so that she wouldn’t have to walk far once she got off at her stop in Manhattan.
“It is a great scarf, isn’t it?”
Nella turned around to hear who’d agreed with her. It was Hazel, of course, who was suddenly right behind her, a stack of manuscript pages in her right hand. The inaugural navy-blue Wagner tote bag she’d been given on her first day dangled from her wrist, swinging precariously back and forth.
“What’s going on, ladies? By the way, India,” said Hazel, reaching into her tote for what Nella presumed was her ID but was actually a brown paper bag, “I went to that African fabric store in Queens I was telling you about last week. And… look!”
India reached across her desk to accept Hazel’s offering, a vulnerable, almost greedy vigor in her movements. Nella hadn’t seen the woman betray this much emotion in the two years she’d known her.
“It’s beautiful, Hazel!” India marveled, waving around a long satin scarf the color of the inside of a juicy pink grapefruit.
“Whoa. That’s gorgeous,” Nella agreed. She was egregiously late for work, but Hazel didn’t seem concerned about the time. Besides, Nella felt like she had some sort of unspoken stake in this exchange. Her feet remained planted as other employees piled in, clamoring for the next elevator like passengers rushing for lifeboats on the Titanic.
“Isn’t the pink great? I saw it and naturally thought of you, India. I know you mentioned that the pinks and the oranges sell out so quickly at the store you go to in the Bronx.”
“It’s for me?” India fingered the fabric. Her big almond eyes were heavy with near-spilled tears.
“Of course that scarf is for you!” She lowered her voice slyly as she gave India a single pat on the arm. “Happy birthday, girlfriend.”
“Oh!” Nella said awkwardly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize… happy birthday, India!”
But India’s eyes were still on Hazel. “Really?” she stammered. “I can’t… I’m sorry, it’s just… just, no one here has ever done anything like this for me before. And I’ve been here for almost ten years…” India’s tears were falling now; the woman seemed to have forgotten where she was. She put the scarf down and stepped away from her desk so she could come around and fold Hazel into a tight hug. A few feet away, a lost-looking visitor who’d come close to asking India for admission upstairs feigned sudden interest in something that had gotten stuck on her shoe.
“Hazel, thank you! But… how did you know?”
“I have my ways. And there are plenty of other hair goodies where this came from, too. You know I got the hookup.” Hazel winked. “Don’t you work too hard today, okay? Remember to treat yo’self. Bye, girl!”
And she was off before India could finish mouthing another emphatic thank you. Nella scurried to keep up, cutting off a tall, unamused man who most likely worked at the software company on the floor below Wagner’s. “That really is a gorgeous scarf,” Nella repeated as she and Hazel squeezed into a crowded elevator that couldn’t possibly fit them both. It did, but it didn’t fit the software company man, and he had no qualms about expressing his frustration as the doors shut in front of his cherry-red face.