Babylon Sisters by Pearl Cleage Page B

when Phoebe made the honor roll at Fairfield her first semester, but today both of us were too busy to linger over cappuccino in the middle of the afternoon.
    I had spent the morning lobbying members of the city council in support of increased funding for homeless shelters and wondering if Bobby Hicks was an aberration or the first of many uncomfortable encounters. Last night after everybody else had divided up the leftovers, hugged one another good night one more time, and headed home, I stayed around to tell Amelia about my visitor. She was appalled that he made me speak to his wife, but not surprised that he hit on me, pointing out that Louis had said some of them would probably be flattered at the thought, however far from reality it might be. She voted on the side of his being an aberration, not a trend, and told me to come by her office around two so she could introduce me to her new intern.
    Miriam St. Jacques had been working for Amelia for a couple of months as a general office assistant, and she was looking for a younger sister she had lost track of. That was all I knew, but Amelia supervised a bilingual staff of lawyers who did a lot of work with clients of mine. It was not unusual for them to have interns or part-time employees who needed assistance.
    When I walked in, Amelia was standing in the lobby shaking hands with a distinguished-looking Japanese gentleman who was bowing and smiling happily at whatever deal they had just closed. Amelia was smiling, too. He nodded politely as he passed me on his way out, and Amelia watched him head for his car, which was waiting with his driver at the curb.
    “Good afternoon, Counselor,” I said. “Doing good or doing business?”
    “The idea that those two things are mutually exclusive is such a twentieth-century idea,” she said, grinning. “Mr. Tanaka wants to do business in Atlanta. He needs a translator.”
    “You don’t speak Japanese.”
    “No, but I’m fluent in African-American with a specialty in Atlanta Negro dialects.”
    “You’re crazy.” I laughed, waving at the receptionist and following Amelia to her office. Every cubicle, every desk, was occupied with people who were moving through their tasks efficiently and without visible stress in spite of the obvious need for more space. Amelia was going to need to expand pretty soon or they’d be taking statements on the front porch.
    Sitting at the desk outside of Amelia’s office, frowning intently at a computer screen, was a striking girl who looked about eighteen. Her skin was very dark and so smooth it seemed to have no pores at all. She had huge, dark eyes and a strong nose over a perfectly round, full-lipped mouth. An unexpected dimple in the middle of her chin was a lovely surprise. The only thing that marred her appearance was a painfully cheap wig perched on top of her beautiful head like a hat from hell. The long bangs and feathery layering of the clearly synthetic hair partially obscured her face and made you want to brush it aside so you could admire what God had made in this girl.
    She stood up immediately when she saw us coming her way. She was tall and skinny, with the awkward grace of hopeful young womanhood, and I knew who this was at once.
    “Miriam St. Jacques,” said Amelia, “this is Catherine Sanderson. Catherine, this is Miriam.”
    She smiled shyly from under that godawful wig, and I shook her hand and smiled back. Amelia ushered us into her private office and closed the door.
    “Sit down, sit down,” she said as we crowded in and took our seats around a small round conference table. Miriam looked very nervous, but Amelia got right down to business, turning to the girl as if she didn’t even notice the wig hat working its show.
    “I’ve told Catherine a little bit about you and your sister, but why don’t you tell her what’s happened up to this point?”
    That didn’t seem to reassure Miriam.
    “All of it?” she said so softly I could barely hear her. She spoke