and go to the beach.”
“Excuse me, miss,” I said. “Can you tell me if a young lady named T.R. works here?”
“‘Course she works here, why you want to know?” the girl asked, with a look of suspicion.
“I don’t suppose you know where she lives, do you?” I asked, for some reason reluctant to answer the girl’s question directly.
“I know, but I sho’ ain’t telling you,” the girl said. “Why you want to know?”
“I’m her father,” I said. Just saying it made me feel a little giddy. “At least I think I’m her father,” I amended. I was on new and shaky ground.
“Oh, yeah, you Mister
Deck!”
the girl said, the big grin coming back. “T.R. said you’d be showing up in an airplane, but I
knew
that was wrong, unless it was a helicopter. There ain’t no place to land an airplane over here by Lawndale that I know of.”
“I decided to come in the car,” I said meekly.
“Don’t blame you, I don’t like them old whirly helicopters myself, ’less it’s an emergency or something,” the girl said.
“Where is T.R.?” I asked.
“Oh, goodness, I ain’t got the answer to
that
,” she said, waving the tiny Asian girl over.
“That’s T.R.’s daddy,” she said, pointing at me. “He left his plane at the house and come in his car.”
“Hello, Mr. Deck,” the Asian girl said. “You want fried shrimp? T.R. said you get a discount.”
“Where’d she say she was goin’?” the black girl asked the Asian, who gave a polite shrug.
“She may be dancing,” she ventured.
“Oh, I
know
she’s dancin’,” the black girl said. “If it’s night and she ain’t workin’, she’s dancin’. T.R. likes to be out kickin’ up her heels.”
That was cheering—at least it meant my daughter’s spirit hadn’t been destroyed by my neglect.
“What does she do with the babies while she’s dancing?” I wondered. Actually I was curious as to whether there might be some sort of husband in the picture—or at least a beau.
“Oh, they all go,” the Asian said. “The babies go where T.R. go.”
“That little Jesse be dancin’ herself soon as she can walk better,” the black girl said. “You see the way she swings her arms? She’s already got the rhythm.”
“I didn’t know they allowed children in dance halls,” I said.
Both the young women giggled.
“Round here folks allow pretty much what T.R. wants them to allow,” the young black woman said. “She just sticks them babies on a pallet under the table, then when they get sleepy all they gotta do is go to sleep.”
“T.R. very good mother, Mr. Deck,” the Asian said, as if she felt I might be having worries on that score.
I may have looked strange, but I wasn’t having any worries just at that moment. What I felt was immense, adrenaline-soaked relief that my guess had been right. T.R. was in Houston—in fact she was near, kicking up her heels. I wasn’t necessarily going to be faced with a life of hopeless regret.
“It’s nice of you to tell me that,” I said. I wished suddenly to do something to help the young women who had brought me such sweet relief. I had an impulse to hand them all my hundred-dollar bills. But I checked the impulse, which a number of psychiatrically well-informed friends had assured me was no more than a misguided attempt to buy approval.
“Could I just ask your names?” I asked.
“Oh, she didn’t tell you about us?” the black girl said. “I guessshe was just too busy meeting her daddy. I’m Dew, ’cause I’m so fresh all the time.”
“Sue Lin,” the Asian girl said, with a smile.
“I’m Danny,” I said, reaching through the carry-out window to shake both their hands. “Dew’s a nice name,” I added somewhat pointlessly. “They’re both nice names.”
I was suddenly feeling pretty tired.
“I’ve had a long drive,” I said. “I think I better get some sleep and meet T.R. tomorrow. If you see her will you tell her I’m at the Warwick?”
“Maybe we can
“Excuse me, miss,” I said. “Can you tell me if a young lady named T.R. works here?”
“‘Course she works here, why you want to know?” the girl asked, with a look of suspicion.
“I don’t suppose you know where she lives, do you?” I asked, for some reason reluctant to answer the girl’s question directly.
“I know, but I sho’ ain’t telling you,” the girl said. “Why you want to know?”
“I’m her father,” I said. Just saying it made me feel a little giddy. “At least I think I’m her father,” I amended. I was on new and shaky ground.
“Oh, yeah, you Mister
Deck!”
the girl said, the big grin coming back. “T.R. said you’d be showing up in an airplane, but I
knew
that was wrong, unless it was a helicopter. There ain’t no place to land an airplane over here by Lawndale that I know of.”
“I decided to come in the car,” I said meekly.
“Don’t blame you, I don’t like them old whirly helicopters myself, ’less it’s an emergency or something,” the girl said.
“Where is T.R.?” I asked.
“Oh, goodness, I ain’t got the answer to
that
,” she said, waving the tiny Asian girl over.
“That’s T.R.’s daddy,” she said, pointing at me. “He left his plane at the house and come in his car.”
“Hello, Mr. Deck,” the Asian girl said. “You want fried shrimp? T.R. said you get a discount.”
“Where’d she say she was goin’?” the black girl asked the Asian, who gave a polite shrug.
“She may be dancing,” she ventured.
“Oh, I
know
she’s dancin’,” the black girl said. “If it’s night and she ain’t workin’, she’s dancin’. T.R. likes to be out kickin’ up her heels.”
That was cheering—at least it meant my daughter’s spirit hadn’t been destroyed by my neglect.
“What does she do with the babies while she’s dancing?” I wondered. Actually I was curious as to whether there might be some sort of husband in the picture—or at least a beau.
“Oh, they all go,” the Asian said. “The babies go where T.R. go.”
“That little Jesse be dancin’ herself soon as she can walk better,” the black girl said. “You see the way she swings her arms? She’s already got the rhythm.”
“I didn’t know they allowed children in dance halls,” I said.
Both the young women giggled.
“Round here folks allow pretty much what T.R. wants them to allow,” the young black woman said. “She just sticks them babies on a pallet under the table, then when they get sleepy all they gotta do is go to sleep.”
“T.R. very good mother, Mr. Deck,” the Asian said, as if she felt I might be having worries on that score.
I may have looked strange, but I wasn’t having any worries just at that moment. What I felt was immense, adrenaline-soaked relief that my guess had been right. T.R. was in Houston—in fact she was near, kicking up her heels. I wasn’t necessarily going to be faced with a life of hopeless regret.
“It’s nice of you to tell me that,” I said. I wished suddenly to do something to help the young women who had brought me such sweet relief. I had an impulse to hand them all my hundred-dollar bills. But I checked the impulse, which a number of psychiatrically well-informed friends had assured me was no more than a misguided attempt to buy approval.
“Could I just ask your names?” I asked.
“Oh, she didn’t tell you about us?” the black girl said. “I guessshe was just too busy meeting her daddy. I’m Dew, ’cause I’m so fresh all the time.”
“Sue Lin,” the Asian girl said, with a smile.
“I’m Danny,” I said, reaching through the carry-out window to shake both their hands. “Dew’s a nice name,” I added somewhat pointlessly. “They’re both nice names.”
I was suddenly feeling pretty tired.
“I’ve had a long drive,” I said. “I think I better get some sleep and meet T.R. tomorrow. If you see her will you tell her I’m at the Warwick?”
“Maybe we can
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