Under the Radar
by Tsan Abrahamson
copyright 2000
Opal lowered herself slowly onto the floor, grabbing the edge of the credenza with one hand and leading with the other. Over the years, it had taken increasingly longer to reach the claw-foot legs of the antique pieces in the dining room, but Opal took pride in her work, and the feet needed polish as much as the top did. A little arthritis and a few extra pounds weren’t going to stop her. Besides, being down here gave the illusion of privacy, and a chance to think, which she needed after the events of the summer.
She opened the credenza doors to give each a once-over with her oil-soaked rag. Inside lay the good china she always carefully stacked with felt pieces in between. She remembered when the Graysons had bought that china – 1972 – because they had given her their old stuff.
“There’s some pieces missing, Opal – a cup, I think and a couple of salad plates from when Greg threw that tantrum, but it’s mostly all there and you’re welcome to it, if you can stand that awful pattern. Whatever was I thinking to have bought that?” Mrs. Grayson had laughed.
Opal’s boys had grown up on that set of dishes. She couldn’t believe it had been almost 30 years. Not a piece broken since she got it. She smiled for a brief moment, losing herself in the memory of her children, little ones, sitting at her table eating beans and rice or hot dogs from plates clearly meant for the andouiette and foie gras that Mrs. Grayson served at her dinner parties.
Closing the doors and hoisting herself up again, she folded the rag, laid it in the cleaning drawer next to the bottle of polish, and headed off to the kitchen to finish dinner. It was Mr. Grayson’s 66th birthday, and though the family’s diet had long ago switched to fish and chicken, Opal had, nonetheless, decided on his favorite: brisket with oven roasted potatoes, sliced carrots, creamed spinach, and sweet potato pie. It would make him happy. Someone should be happy. Rinsing the potatoes in cold water and carefully peeling off the skin down the middle of each, she felt a stiffness in her hands. She flexed her fingers. She was tired.
Opal was beginning to wear under the weight of the summer events. The police, trolling through her home at 2am, searching for who knows what with their flashlights, dirty boots, and hurtful words. Her son, yanked from his sleep, handcuffed and shoved headlong into the back of the patrol car. The neighbors, awakened from the sirens, voicing loudly their opposition to, and adding to the confusion of, the all too familiar scene in their neighborhood. Her husband, sallow and beaten-looking as he returned from the Bail hearing to report to her that they could not make Rob’s bail, even with a bondman. She had asked him to go, not being able to bear the sight of her son in that orange jumpsuit, knowing he couldn’t come home.
And the meetings that followed. Lord, the meetings. Meetings with the lawyer. Extra prayer meetings at the A.M.E. Meetings with the mortgage broker about a second for the lawyer’s fees. Neighborhood meetings about the block party to raise bail money. More meetings with the lawyers. The meetings seemed to be endless.
Opal arranged the potatoes around the partially cooked brisket. The heat from the oven felt comforting on her face as she opened the door and returned the meat to cook another hour. She closed her eyes and remembered her pastor’s words from last evening: “God makes a way out of no way, Opal. God makes a way out of no way.”
“Mmmmmm…. Something sure smells good, Opal!” The cheery voice startled her. She quickly rose, ran her hands across the front of her uniform, and hurried over to where Mr. Grayson was standing, in time to swat his hand away from the cooling pie on the counter.
“You get away from that, Mr. Grayson. It ain’t dinner time just yet and it sho’ ain’t pie time,” she said. She reached into the ceramic cookie jar under the cabinet, and handed him a pretzel. “Here, you can have this to tide you over.” He smiled and accepted the bribe.
“I can’t even get a break on my birthday, huh?” He nibbled on the pretzel and grabbed a chair at the counter. “Well, I guess I can wait, then. Anyway, birthdays just don’t feel right with Greg gone. I guess you pretty much feel the same, what with your youngest out of the house, too.” He sighed, “Oh, Opal, remember the parties we used to have?”
Opal remembered. The Graysons had been famous for their parties. Big parties with lots of extra hired help. Bartenders and waiters and even extra clean-up people so Opal wouldn’t be stuck with the mess. And rich folks eating and talking and laughing about things they had read in the paper or seen on television. Sometimes they would talk seriously, earnestly about the state of black folks in society. Opal knew this because they would get quiet and smile apologetically at her when she came around to refill their glasses.
On those big party nights, when her Robbie was still little, she’d bring him along to help. He’d peel potatoes, haul bags of trash out the side door, and generally busy himself until Greg, tipped off by his father, would discover Rob in the kitchen. The two of them, only 6 months apart in age, would trot off together for the duration of the evening, and Opal would lose her helper. At the end of the night, Mrs. Grayson would send Opal home with leftovers, and Mr. Grayson would slip her an extra $50.00 or so, silently placing his index finger to his lips, nodding toward his wife.
“Robbie worked hard tonight,” he’d say, and wink. Those extra fifties had become savings bonds that last year had helped pay Rob’s tuition to Boston University.
They had grown old together, she and the Graysons. Mr. Grayson swinging a golf club instead of a gavel, Opal getting rides from her husband to work so she wouldn’t have to stand on the crowded commuter train, Mrs. Grayson keeping busy with civic activities now that the children were gone.
“Those were some fine parties, Mr. Grayson,” she replied, as she sprayed the fresh spinach leaves, one by one, with cold water to blast out the dirt. “We had some fun back then.”
“We’re still having fun, Opal, aren’t we?” He rose from his barstool and put his arm around her, tugging her close once or twice, like an old school chum. “We did good, didn’t we? Our kids are off making their way in the world, and now, it’s just you and me,” he paused, “and the old battle ax upstairs.” He looked at her thoughtfully and, stocked with more pretzels, slowly made his way toward the study. He wagged his finger at her as he reached the door. “I’ll be back when that brisket is done, and I’m not taking your pretzel bribe again.”
Mr. Grayson was a kind man. Always had been. Though it was not in her nature, she considered telling him what had happened, asking him for a loan to pay the bail bondsman, or perhaps to call the mayor, whom she had seen at a number of those big parties. Surely the Graysons had noticed something was weighing heavy. It might be good to talk, get it off her chest.
“Have you lost your natural mind, woman?” Her husband’s dropped fork had made her jump. “You been workin’ at that house too long. Now you think you got privilege too? All you gonna do is get yourself fired.”
“I’ve been working for the Graysons half my life, old man. They wouldn’t fire me. And they know people we don’t know.” She was resolute. “Mostly, they know Robbie wouldn’t cause no trouble like this.”
“You don’t know what they know. They white folks,” he said. “They might think to check the silver you tell ‘em your son’s in jail for robbing a convenience store.” Opal felt her spine stiffen.
“And what you think? Old Mr. Grayson’s gonna call up the police chief and say ‘let that boy out?’ The Graysons don’t live in no rectory; they got no cause to be helpin’ poor folk and sho’ don’t need no trouble. You think they gonna keep you around you tell ‘em something like this? Your meatloaf ain’t that good.”
Opal refused to believe the Graysons would abandon her after so many years. She knew of Mr. Grayson’s fondness for Rob and felt sure he would want to do all he could. Still, with the trial coming up, she couldn’t afford to lose her job.
In a basket near the cooling pie were fresh lemons. The gardener had picked them from the garden in hopes that Opal might be persuaded to make some of her famous lemonade. She looked at the lemons. God makes a way out of no way, she thought again.
She pulled out the wooden cutting board and sliced each lemon in half. She had been making lemonade for longer than she had been working for the Graysons. The trick was to liquefy the sugar by cooking it over the stove so the grains would dissolve rather than sink to the bottom of the pitcher. She had made it for Mr. Grayson countless times, when he used to work late into the evening, making calls from the big black book he called his bible. Of course, it wasn’t a real bible, the Graysons not being particularly religious. Opal would bring lemonade and a snack to his office after dinner and there he’d be, perusing its contents --pages filled with loose newspaper articles and scrawled with notes and numbers -- making calls to important people. Occasionally, he would pat the cover and tell her he could save the world or bring down any politician in the city with it.
She hadn’t seen the bible in recent years. Occasionally, when asked to speak at a commencement or some proceeding or other, he would haul it out, rummage through its contents, and replace it on the shelf to collect dust until the next time he let Opal clean his office.
Opal’s special lemonade had been Rob’s preferred drink, too. The previous summer, she watched Rob and his friends go through 2, 3 pitchers in an afternoon, studying – or what they called studying – at the house. Lord how that boy could put away some lemonade. Sometimes, she would crush black raspberries that grew wild in the vacant lot behind the house and add them to the lemonade. Sometimes she’d float mint sprigs from her kitchen window box. Sometimes she’d just serve it plain.
She hadn’t made lemonade once this summer for Rob, and the burden of that realization at once made her head too heavy to hold up. Folding her arms on the counter, she laid it down and let the tears come. The tears came in a slow stream, even and unrelenting. And resolved. Like her son, when his first lawyer –the public defender – had flipped through his file and suggested a plea to the lesser charge of assault. With no criminal record, the sentence would be light. No, Rob had insisted. He wasn’t going to spend 9 months in jail for a crime he didn’t commit. They would get another lawyer. They would get a second on the house. They would make a way.
Opal let the tears roll onto her arms. She waited. The house was still. She waited, and the tears dried. She squeezed the lemons, liquefied the sugar, and floated mint leaves on the top of the lemonade.
5 O’Clock. The days were showing signs of getting shorter, though the weather still held some of its summer heat. Opal opened the windows as she always did, to let in the mild breeze and ventilate the kitchen. No use getting food smell in the curtains sooner than it already would. The fragrant climbing roses on the side yard were in full, if final bloom. She knew that soon, the gardener would cut off the spent roses and prepare the bushes for winter. He would bring her the petals and she would make rose jelly. For Opal, their entry into the kitchen marked the beginning of fall. This year, they would also remind her that her youngest should be starting school again. She removed the pie from near the window so it wouldn’t catch a wayward leaf or bug.
She could hear the sound of Mr. Grayson’s feet padding around in his boat shoes upstairs. She knew he was trying to busy himself until dinner. Retirement had been especially difficult on him, she had observed. The women of the house had long ago developed a routine that depended on his absence, and so he often ended up being in the way. Mrs. Grayson would shoo him off to work in his study or to chop balls in the back yard. Opal felt sorry for him, however, and never minded the extra mess he made changing the grease screens on the stove or rearranging the refrigerator shelves. Opal figured, like the rose petals, he was trying to make himself useful again.
She made her way up the stairs and tapped on the door of the study. No response. The door was partially open, and she could see him inside, reviewing some papers that had come in earlier by messenger. Dinner would hold. She headed toward the family room, converted by Mrs. Grayson to be a sort of office command center for her various causes. Mrs. Grayson looked pretty much the way she did this time every evening: her head cocked right, holding the cordless phone, her hand scribbling on a yellow legal pad, her friendly voice alternately listening and responding. Opal waited for her to finish. A homeless benefit at the museum, a walk-a-thon for breast cancer, another Junior League cookbook. The conversations were all starting to sound the same.
“Yes, definitely. Whatever it takes. This has to get done soon.” Pause. Nod. “Do we really need to convene a -- what seems to be the holdup now?” Scribble. “We’ll be there, if that’s what it takes, Bill. We’ll come down right now and bang on his door.”
Opal smiled. Mrs. Grayson could be fierce when she was passionate about something.
“I want this done tonight, if possible. It’s already been 2 months. Yes, I’ll wait.” Long pause.
“Dinner’s about done, Mrs. Grayson” Opal whispered, still at the door.
“Oh, gracious. I didn’t see you there, Opal. Were you waiting long?” Mrs. Grayson whirled around in her chair, and covered the phone with her hand.
“No, just a few seconds. We’re almost ready to eat. I was thinkin’ to use the good dishes tonight,” Opal said.
“Oh nonsense,” said Mrs. Grayson. “That silly gold leaf has to be washed by hand. Too much trouble for one old man’s birthday. Just use the every day stuff.” Mrs. Grayson turned back to her call.
“Yes, I’m still here.” Pause. “Can you hold on a minute, Bill? I’ll get him for you.” She collected a large black book and, carrying it and the phone, brushed past Opal to the landing.
“I have just a couple more things to do, Opal. Can we say 20 minutes?”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Opal, and she headed downstairs.
Downstairs, Opal removed the brisket from the pan and placed it and its on a serving tray, accompanied by the pearl onions and potatoes. Then she covered it with foil and returned it to the oven, lowering the setting to warm. She followed suit with the other vegetables and then set the table for 2. Once she got them settled, she would leave. She picked up the receiver to tell her husband to be on his way. She hadn’t realized the line was still engaged.
“Glad to help,” she heard Mr. Grayson say.
Opal hung up the phone. She’d wait until the Graysons had started on dinner to call. She had time.
The door from the study opened and Mr. Grayson called down.
“Phone, Opal,” he said.
So quick? She hadn’t even heard it ring. Opal had never been asked to answer the phone as part of her duties, and so the noise of it over the years had become part of the household din of things to which she was not privy. “I’ve got it,” she called back as she picked up the kitchen extension.
It was the lawyer. Opal listened while he explained the events of the day. It appeared that someone had been picked up on a murder charge some weeks ago. During his interrogation by the police, the suspect had proclaimed his innocence by implicating himself in a robbery that had been committed at about the same time across town. Opal did not understand why he was telling her all this. Well, so, anyway, the lawyer continued, this evidence was favorable to Rob. The charges hadn’t been dropped, he said, but the case had been made a lot simpler with the discovery of this new information.
Opal went back to the dining room and collected the dishes from the table. She walked to the credenza and lifted out the good china plates from between their felt pieces. She heard Mr. Grayson pad down the stairs.
“Well,” said Mr. Grayson, as he entered the dining room, rubbing his stomach. “I believe we’re gonna have ourselves a celebration.”
“Yes sir, Mr. Grayson. And it’s a fine evening for it. Happy birthday.” He took a bow.
“Thank you. Thank you. Now where is that wife of mine? Marian?!”
“On my way,” Mrs. Grayson called from the study. “Just have to put something back.”
copyright 2000
Opal lowered herself slowly onto the floor, grabbing the edge of the credenza with one hand and leading with the other. Over the years, it had taken increasingly longer to reach the claw-foot legs of the antique pieces in the dining room, but Opal took pride in her work, and the feet needed polish as much as the top did. A little arthritis and a few extra pounds weren’t going to stop her. Besides, being down here gave the illusion of privacy, and a chance to think, which she needed after the events of the summer.
She opened the credenza doors to give each a once-over with her oil-soaked rag. Inside lay the good china she always carefully stacked with felt pieces in between. She remembered when the Graysons had bought that china – 1972 – because they had given her their old stuff.
“There’s some pieces missing, Opal – a cup, I think and a couple of salad plates from when Greg threw that tantrum, but it’s mostly all there and you’re welcome to it, if you can stand that awful pattern. Whatever was I thinking to have bought that?” Mrs. Grayson had laughed.
Opal’s boys had grown up on that set of dishes. She couldn’t believe it had been almost 30 years. Not a piece broken since she got it. She smiled for a brief moment, losing herself in the memory of her children, little ones, sitting at her table eating beans and rice or hot dogs from plates clearly meant for the andouiette and foie gras that Mrs. Grayson served at her dinner parties.
Closing the doors and hoisting herself up again, she folded the rag, laid it in the cleaning drawer next to the bottle of polish, and headed off to the kitchen to finish dinner. It was Mr. Grayson’s 66th birthday, and though the family’s diet had long ago switched to fish and chicken, Opal had, nonetheless, decided on his favorite: brisket with oven roasted potatoes, sliced carrots, creamed spinach, and sweet potato pie. It would make him happy. Someone should be happy. Rinsing the potatoes in cold water and carefully peeling off the skin down the middle of each, she felt a stiffness in her hands. She flexed her fingers. She was tired.
Opal was beginning to wear under the weight of the summer events. The police, trolling through her home at 2am, searching for who knows what with their flashlights, dirty boots, and hurtful words. Her son, yanked from his sleep, handcuffed and shoved headlong into the back of the patrol car. The neighbors, awakened from the sirens, voicing loudly their opposition to, and adding to the confusion of, the all too familiar scene in their neighborhood. Her husband, sallow and beaten-looking as he returned from the Bail hearing to report to her that they could not make Rob’s bail, even with a bondman. She had asked him to go, not being able to bear the sight of her son in that orange jumpsuit, knowing he couldn’t come home.
And the meetings that followed. Lord, the meetings. Meetings with the lawyer. Extra prayer meetings at the A.M.E. Meetings with the mortgage broker about a second for the lawyer’s fees. Neighborhood meetings about the block party to raise bail money. More meetings with the lawyers. The meetings seemed to be endless.
Opal arranged the potatoes around the partially cooked brisket. The heat from the oven felt comforting on her face as she opened the door and returned the meat to cook another hour. She closed her eyes and remembered her pastor’s words from last evening: “God makes a way out of no way, Opal. God makes a way out of no way.”
“Mmmmmm…. Something sure smells good, Opal!” The cheery voice startled her. She quickly rose, ran her hands across the front of her uniform, and hurried over to where Mr. Grayson was standing, in time to swat his hand away from the cooling pie on the counter.
“You get away from that, Mr. Grayson. It ain’t dinner time just yet and it sho’ ain’t pie time,” she said. She reached into the ceramic cookie jar under the cabinet, and handed him a pretzel. “Here, you can have this to tide you over.” He smiled and accepted the bribe.
“I can’t even get a break on my birthday, huh?” He nibbled on the pretzel and grabbed a chair at the counter. “Well, I guess I can wait, then. Anyway, birthdays just don’t feel right with Greg gone. I guess you pretty much feel the same, what with your youngest out of the house, too.” He sighed, “Oh, Opal, remember the parties we used to have?”
Opal remembered. The Graysons had been famous for their parties. Big parties with lots of extra hired help. Bartenders and waiters and even extra clean-up people so Opal wouldn’t be stuck with the mess. And rich folks eating and talking and laughing about things they had read in the paper or seen on television. Sometimes they would talk seriously, earnestly about the state of black folks in society. Opal knew this because they would get quiet and smile apologetically at her when she came around to refill their glasses.
On those big party nights, when her Robbie was still little, she’d bring him along to help. He’d peel potatoes, haul bags of trash out the side door, and generally busy himself until Greg, tipped off by his father, would discover Rob in the kitchen. The two of them, only 6 months apart in age, would trot off together for the duration of the evening, and Opal would lose her helper. At the end of the night, Mrs. Grayson would send Opal home with leftovers, and Mr. Grayson would slip her an extra $50.00 or so, silently placing his index finger to his lips, nodding toward his wife.
“Robbie worked hard tonight,” he’d say, and wink. Those extra fifties had become savings bonds that last year had helped pay Rob’s tuition to Boston University.
They had grown old together, she and the Graysons. Mr. Grayson swinging a golf club instead of a gavel, Opal getting rides from her husband to work so she wouldn’t have to stand on the crowded commuter train, Mrs. Grayson keeping busy with civic activities now that the children were gone.
“Those were some fine parties, Mr. Grayson,” she replied, as she sprayed the fresh spinach leaves, one by one, with cold water to blast out the dirt. “We had some fun back then.”
“We’re still having fun, Opal, aren’t we?” He rose from his barstool and put his arm around her, tugging her close once or twice, like an old school chum. “We did good, didn’t we? Our kids are off making their way in the world, and now, it’s just you and me,” he paused, “and the old battle ax upstairs.” He looked at her thoughtfully and, stocked with more pretzels, slowly made his way toward the study. He wagged his finger at her as he reached the door. “I’ll be back when that brisket is done, and I’m not taking your pretzel bribe again.”
Mr. Grayson was a kind man. Always had been. Though it was not in her nature, she considered telling him what had happened, asking him for a loan to pay the bail bondsman, or perhaps to call the mayor, whom she had seen at a number of those big parties. Surely the Graysons had noticed something was weighing heavy. It might be good to talk, get it off her chest.
“Have you lost your natural mind, woman?” Her husband’s dropped fork had made her jump. “You been workin’ at that house too long. Now you think you got privilege too? All you gonna do is get yourself fired.”
“I’ve been working for the Graysons half my life, old man. They wouldn’t fire me. And they know people we don’t know.” She was resolute. “Mostly, they know Robbie wouldn’t cause no trouble like this.”
“You don’t know what they know. They white folks,” he said. “They might think to check the silver you tell ‘em your son’s in jail for robbing a convenience store.” Opal felt her spine stiffen.
“And what you think? Old Mr. Grayson’s gonna call up the police chief and say ‘let that boy out?’ The Graysons don’t live in no rectory; they got no cause to be helpin’ poor folk and sho’ don’t need no trouble. You think they gonna keep you around you tell ‘em something like this? Your meatloaf ain’t that good.”
Opal refused to believe the Graysons would abandon her after so many years. She knew of Mr. Grayson’s fondness for Rob and felt sure he would want to do all he could. Still, with the trial coming up, she couldn’t afford to lose her job.
In a basket near the cooling pie were fresh lemons. The gardener had picked them from the garden in hopes that Opal might be persuaded to make some of her famous lemonade. She looked at the lemons. God makes a way out of no way, she thought again.
She pulled out the wooden cutting board and sliced each lemon in half. She had been making lemonade for longer than she had been working for the Graysons. The trick was to liquefy the sugar by cooking it over the stove so the grains would dissolve rather than sink to the bottom of the pitcher. She had made it for Mr. Grayson countless times, when he used to work late into the evening, making calls from the big black book he called his bible. Of course, it wasn’t a real bible, the Graysons not being particularly religious. Opal would bring lemonade and a snack to his office after dinner and there he’d be, perusing its contents --pages filled with loose newspaper articles and scrawled with notes and numbers -- making calls to important people. Occasionally, he would pat the cover and tell her he could save the world or bring down any politician in the city with it.
She hadn’t seen the bible in recent years. Occasionally, when asked to speak at a commencement or some proceeding or other, he would haul it out, rummage through its contents, and replace it on the shelf to collect dust until the next time he let Opal clean his office.
Opal’s special lemonade had been Rob’s preferred drink, too. The previous summer, she watched Rob and his friends go through 2, 3 pitchers in an afternoon, studying – or what they called studying – at the house. Lord how that boy could put away some lemonade. Sometimes, she would crush black raspberries that grew wild in the vacant lot behind the house and add them to the lemonade. Sometimes she’d float mint sprigs from her kitchen window box. Sometimes she’d just serve it plain.
She hadn’t made lemonade once this summer for Rob, and the burden of that realization at once made her head too heavy to hold up. Folding her arms on the counter, she laid it down and let the tears come. The tears came in a slow stream, even and unrelenting. And resolved. Like her son, when his first lawyer –the public defender – had flipped through his file and suggested a plea to the lesser charge of assault. With no criminal record, the sentence would be light. No, Rob had insisted. He wasn’t going to spend 9 months in jail for a crime he didn’t commit. They would get another lawyer. They would get a second on the house. They would make a way.
Opal let the tears roll onto her arms. She waited. The house was still. She waited, and the tears dried. She squeezed the lemons, liquefied the sugar, and floated mint leaves on the top of the lemonade.
5 O’Clock. The days were showing signs of getting shorter, though the weather still held some of its summer heat. Opal opened the windows as she always did, to let in the mild breeze and ventilate the kitchen. No use getting food smell in the curtains sooner than it already would. The fragrant climbing roses on the side yard were in full, if final bloom. She knew that soon, the gardener would cut off the spent roses and prepare the bushes for winter. He would bring her the petals and she would make rose jelly. For Opal, their entry into the kitchen marked the beginning of fall. This year, they would also remind her that her youngest should be starting school again. She removed the pie from near the window so it wouldn’t catch a wayward leaf or bug.
She could hear the sound of Mr. Grayson’s feet padding around in his boat shoes upstairs. She knew he was trying to busy himself until dinner. Retirement had been especially difficult on him, she had observed. The women of the house had long ago developed a routine that depended on his absence, and so he often ended up being in the way. Mrs. Grayson would shoo him off to work in his study or to chop balls in the back yard. Opal felt sorry for him, however, and never minded the extra mess he made changing the grease screens on the stove or rearranging the refrigerator shelves. Opal figured, like the rose petals, he was trying to make himself useful again.
She made her way up the stairs and tapped on the door of the study. No response. The door was partially open, and she could see him inside, reviewing some papers that had come in earlier by messenger. Dinner would hold. She headed toward the family room, converted by Mrs. Grayson to be a sort of office command center for her various causes. Mrs. Grayson looked pretty much the way she did this time every evening: her head cocked right, holding the cordless phone, her hand scribbling on a yellow legal pad, her friendly voice alternately listening and responding. Opal waited for her to finish. A homeless benefit at the museum, a walk-a-thon for breast cancer, another Junior League cookbook. The conversations were all starting to sound the same.
“Yes, definitely. Whatever it takes. This has to get done soon.” Pause. Nod. “Do we really need to convene a -- what seems to be the holdup now?” Scribble. “We’ll be there, if that’s what it takes, Bill. We’ll come down right now and bang on his door.”
Opal smiled. Mrs. Grayson could be fierce when she was passionate about something.
“I want this done tonight, if possible. It’s already been 2 months. Yes, I’ll wait.” Long pause.
“Dinner’s about done, Mrs. Grayson” Opal whispered, still at the door.
“Oh, gracious. I didn’t see you there, Opal. Were you waiting long?” Mrs. Grayson whirled around in her chair, and covered the phone with her hand.
“No, just a few seconds. We’re almost ready to eat. I was thinkin’ to use the good dishes tonight,” Opal said.
“Oh nonsense,” said Mrs. Grayson. “That silly gold leaf has to be washed by hand. Too much trouble for one old man’s birthday. Just use the every day stuff.” Mrs. Grayson turned back to her call.
“Yes, I’m still here.” Pause. “Can you hold on a minute, Bill? I’ll get him for you.” She collected a large black book and, carrying it and the phone, brushed past Opal to the landing.
“I have just a couple more things to do, Opal. Can we say 20 minutes?”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Opal, and she headed downstairs.
Downstairs, Opal removed the brisket from the pan and placed it and its on a serving tray, accompanied by the pearl onions and potatoes. Then she covered it with foil and returned it to the oven, lowering the setting to warm. She followed suit with the other vegetables and then set the table for 2. Once she got them settled, she would leave. She picked up the receiver to tell her husband to be on his way. She hadn’t realized the line was still engaged.
“Glad to help,” she heard Mr. Grayson say.
Opal hung up the phone. She’d wait until the Graysons had started on dinner to call. She had time.
The door from the study opened and Mr. Grayson called down.
“Phone, Opal,” he said.
So quick? She hadn’t even heard it ring. Opal had never been asked to answer the phone as part of her duties, and so the noise of it over the years had become part of the household din of things to which she was not privy. “I’ve got it,” she called back as she picked up the kitchen extension.
It was the lawyer. Opal listened while he explained the events of the day. It appeared that someone had been picked up on a murder charge some weeks ago. During his interrogation by the police, the suspect had proclaimed his innocence by implicating himself in a robbery that had been committed at about the same time across town. Opal did not understand why he was telling her all this. Well, so, anyway, the lawyer continued, this evidence was favorable to Rob. The charges hadn’t been dropped, he said, but the case had been made a lot simpler with the discovery of this new information.
Opal went back to the dining room and collected the dishes from the table. She walked to the credenza and lifted out the good china plates from between their felt pieces. She heard Mr. Grayson pad down the stairs.
“Well,” said Mr. Grayson, as he entered the dining room, rubbing his stomach. “I believe we’re gonna have ourselves a celebration.”
“Yes sir, Mr. Grayson. And it’s a fine evening for it. Happy birthday.” He took a bow.
“Thank you. Thank you. Now where is that wife of mine? Marian?!”
“On my way,” Mrs. Grayson called from the study. “Just have to put something back.”
Copyright 2004 T. Abrahamson. All rights reserved 
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