In Sheep's Clothing Read online

  “Just do your job, and watch your step and your back. If things get too tough for you, don’t worry: there’s a liquor store down the street.” Wendy leaned closer and whispered. “And I keep a big bottle in my desk drawer that I don’t mind sharing.”

  “And I have enough breath mints for an army,” Pam added with a grin.

  “I don’t think I’ll need any alcohol to do my job,” I said firmly. If anybody had a reason to drink, it was me. But if working in Daddy’s liquor store for so many years, where I had access to all of the alcohol I wanted, hadn’t sent me running to a bottle every time I had a problem, nothing would.

  I was wrong.

  CHAPTER 7

  Before I met Ann Oliver, just knowing that she was Black made me feel more at ease. One of the things that I had hated about some of my temp jobs was the fact that I had often been the only Black person on the premises. Even in a state as liberal and racially diverse as California, being alone around too many White folks was something I was not used to. The funny thing about that was my White mother had felt the same way! She had always worn her hair in elaborate braided hairstyles that had been made popular by Black women. She’d danced, cooked, talked, and imitated mannerisms associated with Black women. “Trudy, think of me as a Black woman in a White woman’s body,” she had told me once when I was nine, laughing as she said it. It was funny to me then, but once I got older I realized how hard life must have been for a woman like my mother. But she’d made me feel proud to be Black. I cherished the sisterhood I shared with my Black female friends.

  I looked forward to my first encounter with Ann with nervous anticipation. But after hearing all of the catty things that Wendy and Pam had said about her, I had some valid concerns. Some unpleasant experiences lingered in the back of my mind.

  I had worked more than one temp job that had included some of the most unpleasant Black people on the planet. One conceited woman at an engineering firm—a low level file clerk at that—had gotten her kicks by correcting me whenever I used bad grammar, which was why it was so important for me not to make that mistake again. It had been years since I’d even said ain’t.

  Another so-called sister had advised me in a very harsh way to stop wearing a particular blouse with an African design, insisting that it made me look militant. Even after having dealt with Black folks like those two women, and witnessing the regular fights among the folks in my neighborhood, I still regarded Black folks very highly. I still thought of other Black women as sisters. I had no idea that my first encounter with Ann Oliver would turn out to be such a disaster.

  Two days after my first day on the job she returned from a trip in Martinique where she had toured with a church group. I arrived at the office that morning fifteen minutes late. Ann was already in the reception area wrestling with that brochure rack, which had already become a major thorn in my side. It seemed like every time somebody got near that damn thing they had to straighten the brochures.

  Ann whirled around to face me before I could even shut the door. “You’ve missed three calls,” she barked at me with a wild-eyed look. It was hard to believe that she was showing so much emotion over some missed telephone calls.

  Pam, peeping from behind a folder at her desk, cleared her throat as Ann strutted across the floor like a prize-winning poodle. She had on an expensive-looking cream colored pantsuit. Her thick shiny black hair was in a French twist. Gold hoop earrings dangled from her ears, a matching locket adorned her swan-like neck. All of the new work clothes that I’d purchased did update and improve my appearance. But the generic suits, blouses, and pumps I’d purchased from a couple of discount stores and a factory outlet looked it. I didn’t own much jewelry or any other adornments, so I’d purchased some new silver metal clips to hold my shoulder length ponytail in place. Even with all my improvements, compared to Ann I looked and felt as dowdy as a fishwife.

  “I’m Gertrude Bell, but I go by Trudy,” I said nervously, taking my seat as Ann approached my desk. She was a stunning woman, even with the pronounced scowl on her face and her flaring nostrils. She was about my height and weight and medium-brown skin tone, but the most obvious similarities ended there.

  Her face, which was probably quite average, was made up like a supermodel’s. Hunter green eye shadow enhanced her shiny black eyes and long silky black lashes. There was just a hint of blush on her high cheekbones. She had a set of teeth so white and perfect they looked like a toothpaste ad. This woman was definitely in control, and had enough confidence for both of us. I never felt so drab and frumpy in my life.

  She stopped in front of my desk and slapped one hand on her hip, a sparkling charm bracelet dangling from her wrist. “I know who you are,” she said in a flat tone. “If you don’t want your first week to be your last, I suggest you get to work on time. Do I make myself clear?” One perfectly arched eyebrow arched up even more. Getting impatient because I was taking too long to respond, she lifted her chin and gazed down at me with her eyes sparkling like black diamonds. Which, by the way, were not covered by a pair of schoolteacher-looking glasses like the ones I wore. The way that heifer sniffed, looked around, and rubbed her nose, I regretted the fact that I had splashed myself with the knock-off version of Eternity perfume after I’d showered that morning. “You’re being paid to do a job and do it right. Being on time is not asking for too much. Next time you roll in here late, I’ll have Wendy dock your pay.”

  My purse was still dangling from my shoulder and I still had my new imitation leather jacket on. I removed my glasses, patted the side of my head and smiled so hard my cheeks ached. “Yes. It won’t happen again,” I mumbled, so stunned I couldn’t stop blinking.

  “See to it,” Ann snapped. Clutching a tall coffee cup with her name on it in big bold, black letters, she turned on her stiletto heels and marched toward the elevator that led to her office on the second floor where she reportedly ruled.

  Pam leaped up from her seat and skittered over to my desk shaking her head. “Looks like you got off on the wrong foot with her,” she said, giving me a look of pity. “She’s not that bad, though. She could be your best friend, or your worst enemy. That’s the way it was between her and Jeannette, the Black girl who used to do Wendy’s job. One day Ann took her to lunch. The very next day when Jeannette came to work twenty minutes late, Ann called her into her office and beat her down for an hour about how important it is to be punctual. She’s especially brutal when Marty’s not around to keep her under control.”

  “Who is Marty?” I asked.

  With a hint of impatience in her voice she said, “Who is Marty? That’s Mr. Rydell’s first name. He interviewed three other girls for your job but if he picked you that means he likes you. Now don’t let that go to your head. A jackass in a suit is still a jackass. Martin is what he prefers, but Ann is the only one who can get away with calling him Marty to his face. Remember that,” Pam said with a serious look and a controlled nod.

  “Do whatever she wants you to do, if you want to keep this job,” Wendy warned, tiptoeing from the small room behind her cubicle where the office supplies were kept. “And just to let you know, Ann’s got a long reach. She gave Jeannette such a bad reference when she tried to get a new job, the poor girl is still unemployed.”

  I nodded. “Which drawer do you keep that bottle in?” I sighed.

  CHAPTER 8

  No matter how much I complained about my life I did have a lot to be thankful for. I was thankful that I was still young enough to make the changes in my life I felt I needed.

  Unlike a lot of the women I knew, my daddy had been in my life from day one. He had never abused me in any way. Well, there were times when his whining and complaining got on my nerves enough to give me a headache, and he was overly protective, but my daddy was the most important person in my life. Despite the fact that the Bible told us to put our mates before our parents, or something like that, I knew I’d never put James, or any other man, before my daddy. The one thing I believed with all my heart
and soul was that I could count on Daddy to do anything in the world for me. Even die. I couldn’t say that about James or any other man in my life.

  I knew that I couldn’t really be happy if Daddy wasn’t. His alleged bad health kept me under his thumb up to a point, but we both knew that things would change once I got married. The thought of Daddy being in the house alone was not a thought I allowed to enter my mind too often. Other than me, he didn’t want to share his beloved house with anybody else. I found that out when I suggested moving a couple of his wayward cousins from Lubbock, Texas, in with us because nobody else in the family would. “Heeeel no!” was the way Daddy had reacted, screaming the words in such a violent way he lost his breath. “After what I went through when I was growing up with them low life, no-workin’, countrified niggers, they ain’t fin to come to California and finish drivin’ me crazy.” My only other hope was for Daddy to settle down with a lady friend. But that was highly unlikely, too. He had not been in a serious relationship since my mother’s death. However, there was an old sister here and there who he visited from time to time. Most of them I never got to meet and didn’t even know about until I found a package of condoms in Daddy’s shirt pocket one day when I was preparing clothes for the laundry. His current lady friend was a retired waitress who lived on the south side of town in a trailer with her three grandsons. The boys’ parents had died in a nightclub fire when the youngest boy was a baby.

  I’d only seen Miss Sadie once, but she’d been a vague part of Daddy’s life off and on for the last two years. They got together at her place and they didn’t have to worry about her grandsons getting in the way because they were all in and out of jail or shacking up with their lady friends most of the time anyway. I’d never met the boys and after all the things I heard about them from Daddy, I didn’t want to. I had a fairly blessed life and I wanted to keep it that way.

  One of the biggest blessings in my life was my best friend, Freddie Ann Malone. She was the only other living person who was as important to me as Daddy and James.

  Freddie had been my best friend since seventh grade when her family moved to South Bay City from Oakland. When I returned to school the Monday after attending my mother’s funeral, Freddie was sitting in the seat behind me in Mrs. Reichard’s homeroom.

  I was still preoccupied and numb from the shock of losing my mother in such a horrible way. But even with that on my mind, I knew from the first moment that Freddie was one of a kind.

  Before even introducing herself, she tapped me on the back and leaned toward me and whispered in my ear. “I heard about what happened to your mama so I took my babysitting money and got you a sympathy card. I didn’t bring it today because Mrs. Reichard said she didn’t know exactly when you’d be coming back to school.”

  I rotated my neck so that I could see her face. “Thanks,” was all I could manage.

  My new classmate was a very sweet and likeable girl. It was a good thing she had that going for her because she was more than a little homely. She had long wavy brown hair and the high-yellow skin tone that a lot of Black people would have sold their souls to the devil to have. But she had a long face, bulging eyes, and big ears that she didn’t even try to hide underneath her long hair.

  Even though I was still grieving the loss of my mother, I felt sorry for this girl.

  “I’m Freddie Ann Malone.” She smiled, revealing yet another flaw. There were gaps between her teeth like a rake.

  “Is that short for Fredericka?” I asked, hoping that this sad sack wasn’t looking to latch on to me, which would certainly lower my social status even more. My drab clothes, thick glasses, and shyness caused me enough grief.

  I’d like to say at this point that, at the time, I’d held the position as the plainest girl in my class with a personality to match. At least that’s what my classmates had decided. Even though I was not considered “classically” ugly, I had been compared with every unattractive famous Black individual you could name, which I won’t because some of the ones on the list think they look good.

  And on the subject, some of the kids who criticized me should have been wearing dog collars themselves. However, a lot of my misfortune had to do with the fact that I wasn’t allowed to do anything to enhance my appearance. Makeup, an up-to-date hairdo, contact lenses, and trendy clothes would have made my younger years a lot easier to get through. “Looks aren’t everything,” Mama had told me, which explained why she’d dressed me the way she had. She used to brag about all the tacky granny dresses she had once owned. In every picture I’d ever seen of her as a young, barefoot, hardcore hippie, she’d worn long bone-straight hair full of flowers and beads. She’d looked so proud posing with Daddy with his huge, globe-shaped afro and equally tacky clothes. I often thought that life would have been more exciting for me if I’d been a teenager during the sixties. But since I’d been born too late, I had made up my mind to make the best I could out of my life.

  “No. Freddie Ann is the name on my birth certificate. It’s special and so am I.”

  Special was a mild way to describe Freddie Ann. She made no secret that she was as proud as a person could be without being a braggart. She boldly displayed a framed photograph of herself, her parents, and her four younger siblings on top of her desk. Her father looked like a gnome himself, but somehow he had convinced her that she was the most beautiful girl in the world. It seemed odd that the other members of Freddie’s family in her photo were reasonably attractive. By the time we got to high school, she had become one of the most popular girls in our school.

  Freddie’s confidence was contagious. The popular boys wanted to get in her pants, the popular cute girls—who still had low self-esteem—wanted to hang with Freddie, hoping to absorb some of her confidence.

  I was proud to call Freddie my best friend. I was lucky to have a friend like her to call up when I had a problem. Daddy was always there for me, but I knew better than to take up his time with petty issues only another woman could understand. I didn’t like to share too much personal information about myself with a lot of people. Some of the individuals I knew had such long tongues they couldn’t keep their mouths shut. Even with a vague piece of information they would spread rumors like manure. Of all the people I knew Freddie was the only one I knew with whom I could discuss my disastrous first encounter with Ann.

  CHAPTER 9

  Less than an hour after she’d first approached me, Ann Oliver sashayed back into the reception area holding a large, flat white box, carrying it like it contained a pizza. As soon as I spotted her my entire body got so rigid I felt like I had turned to stone. My throat felt dry and obstructed, like a big fuzzy lump had suddenly formed in it. The huge sip of vodka from Wendy’s bottle hadn’t really helped that much because it seemed like my brain was just sitting inside the middle of my head with no activity going on. I didn’t even feel like I was part of the scene, even though Ann’s eyes were looking straight at me.

  “Trudy, I hope you like chocolate,” Ann said, strutting over to my desk. “I stumbled across the most fantastic candy store in Martinique and I couldn’t resist.” She paused and set the box on the corner of my desk and flipped the lid open. “You can afford the extra calories a lot more than I can,” she said, displaying a smile so wide I could see almost every tooth in her mouth. Her head swiveled around, looking over my shoulder toward Wendy’s cube then back to look in Pam’s direction. “Pam, Wendy, knock yourselves out,” Ann chirped, beckoning to Pam with a hand so animated it seemed disembodied. Wendy popped out of her cubicle like a jack-in-the-box. Pam skipped across the floor to my desk with an exaggerated grin, grabbing chocolate with both hands.

  “Thank you,” I mumbled. I didn’t really care that much for chocolate, but I snatched two pieces at the same time, giving Ann a friendly but noncommittal look.

  “Now if you all call in sick tomorrow, I’ll know why,” Ann said, rubbing her palms together so hard I saw sparks. She spun around and left, floating across the floor like she was on wheels
.

  Wendy and Pam, with chocolate smeared across their lips, stared at me with anxious looks on their faces. “That was nice of Ann,” I commented.

  “Trudy, you ain’t seen nothing yet,” Wendy began. “The woman is like a fart in a windstorm. You’ll never know which direction she’s coming from or going to.” Wendy’s warning had such an ominous feel to it I couldn’t even comment.

  I appreciated Ann’s gesture, but I couldn’t help feeling apprehensive and suspicious of her motives. She had already made a lasting first impression on me. I couldn’t wait to talk to Freddie.

  “Girl, we need to talk. I am so glad you called. I’ll meet you after work in your lobby. We can ride the bus home together,” I said, whispering into the telephone on my desk an hour before quitting time. I had been too busy and nervous to chat with Freddie before now. She worked at Bank of America, three blocks and two streets over from my office. She was a bank teller so she spent most of her day at the counter. It wasn’t that easy for me to call her at her work. When I knew she was on one of her breaks I called her on her cell. Otherwise, I had to wait for her to call me. “Where are you?” I asked, fanning my face. I knew that I was way too young to be having hot flashes, so I wasn’t sure why my face suddenly felt like somebody was holding a flame in front of it. I was quite sure that it had something to do with Ann Oliver’s odd behavior.

  “I’m calling from that phone booth outside the Starbucks down the street from the bank. Is this about the robbery last Friday?” Freddie wanted to know. I had not even told her about what had happened to me at the liquor store yet. But news traveled fast in our neighborhood.

  With one hand cupped over my left ear, I pressed my telephone to the side of my face. It must have generated some heat of its own because my face felt even hotter. I could feel sweat sliding down my cheeks and chin. “Uh, no. Worse. A personal issue.” I lowered my voice even more. Both Wendy and Pam looked like they were trying to listen in on my conversation. “I might have made a mistake accepting this position,” I whispered.