LUCK OF THE IRISH
“Leotha wants you to call her when you get a chance. It’s about school,” Ted Kaleem told Win as they sat down to lunch at Twin Oaks.
“No problem. I’ll call her as soon as soon I get back to the office.”
“I think she wants you to make a presentation. She was putting together a list of people last night. You and Shel Wertheim among others. Heritage Week or something like that.”
“By the way, how does she like the Jag?” Winfield never tired of asking about his secret victory.
“She loves it. You know, I almost didn’t take that car. Thought it had to be a lemon at that price.”
“I think the guy had tax problems.”
“You know, he said the same thing. They always do. Back taxes and coke habits are responsible for half the deals on the market.”
Back in his office at Frederick Douglass Savings and Loan, Winfield telephoned Leotha.
“Oh, Win, I’m glad you called. Did Ted talk to you? I’m in charge of lining up guest speakers for the school. Next week is St. Patrick’s Day, and I wondered if you wouldn’t mind coming out to talk to the children. I would like them to get beyond the shamrocks and leprechauns and learn something genuine about Ireland.”
“St. Patrick’s week is busy for me. Shamrock Club. The parade. But Monday or Tuesday would be good.” Even though she was happily married to Ted, his friend, his very big, combat-trained friend, Winfield never passed up an opportunity to see Leotha. Even her voice, with its Eartha Kitt inflections, made his flesh stir.
“That would be wonderful. You see, we’re trying to expose the children to a full range of cultural experiences. Too many of them only see things simply in terms of black and white. I want them to see how other cultures developed, how other people have been oppressed and prospered. Some of the children are from West Africa, and they feel a little inferior because they come from small countries. None of the other children have heard of Ghana or Gabon. Ireland is small, but the Irish have contributed so much culturally around the world. . . do you follow?”
“Oh, yes,” he answered, encouraging her to talk more. He loved the sound of her voice.
“Well, this week I’d like you to come and say something about Ireland. The children have questions about Northern Ireland. Why do Catholics and Protestants fight each other when they get along together here, that sort of thing. We’ve talked about stereotypes of blacks and prejudice, and you might comment on how the Irish are depicted in movies, you know, always fighting and drinking.”
“I have pictures from a trip I took two years ago.”
“That would be perfect. Why don’t you call me before the end of the week, and we can confirm a time. I have to check with another teacher first.”
“My classes are over by noon on Monday, and Tuesday’s open.”
“Great. Talk to you soon!”
Winfield hung up, aroused but a bit depressed. Ethnic heritage was not a big item with the Paytons. Would the kiddies at Malcolm X Montessori want to hear about how his great-grandfather, Sean Payton, rent collector for British landlords, left Ireland in the first year of the famine for Virginia where he purchased two thousand acres and fifty slaves? Unwilling to shed blood for the Confederacy, he sold his plantation after Bull Run and moved to New Orleans, recouping his fortune after the war by operating a string of mulatto brothels. His brother Frank settled in New York and helped lead a mob during the draft riots, lynching Chinese laundrymen in Manhattan after they ran out of blacks. And that was just the legacy of the Irish half. What the Germans on his mother’s side did prior to 1945 was never discussed.
On the eve of St. Patrick’s Day, Winfield, as usual, wore an Irish tricolor in his lapel. A thin protest against the flood of uninterrupted green. Green shamrocks. Green hats. Green ties. Green skirts. Green “Kiss Me, I’m Irish” buttons worn by Palestinian grocers and Jamaican cab drivers. And worst of all, green beer.
Winfield arrived at Malcolm X Montessori just past one. Leotha, clad in a skintight silk dress, stood in the doorway. Winfield never got over her build and the way the bright red of her lips and nails contrasted to her deep ebony flesh. In heels, she was a good four inches taller than he was. Following her down the hall, Winfield remembered the day in sixth grade when walking behind Mrs. Neumann he noticed her heart-shaped buttocks and curved calves and experienced his first erection.
The third graders, well-scrubbed and obedient, sat like UN delegates in the tiered rows of the multimedia center.
“Win, I have your PowerPoint all set up. I put a map of Ireland on the easel. Just let me introduce you to the children.”
Leotha walked into the brightly carpeted well of the conference center and placed her hands neatly together as if leading a prayer. “Today, children we are going to learn something about Ireland. It’s a very small island in Europe, but over forty million Americans descend from its immigrants. I would like you to meet Dr. Winfield Payton who teaches at Milwaukee Industrial and Technical Institute. He is also the secretary of the Irish Society here in Milwaukee. Dr. Payton?”
Rising like a Fed Chairman announcing yet another rate cut, Winfield nodded to the rows of wide-eyed children.
“Good afternoon, I’m Dr. Winfield Payton. I teach English at MITI and am Communications Director of Frederick Douglass Savings and Loan. Our firm has some of the highest performing tax shelters available.” It never hurt to plug. Even a funeral was known to produce a lead or two.
The pictures, taken during a boozy two-week tour of the Emerald Isle, were clearer than Winfield remembered. Thank God for auto focus! Having forgotten most of the trip, he sometimes had to invent explanations for the pictures he couldn’t recall taking.
“This is one of the great houses of Ireland. Built by an English lord in the 1700s. Like many of the plantation houses in our own South, the land owners lived like royalty while the poor lived in small cottages, tilled the soil, and worked in shops. Oh, and this is Castle . . . uh . . . Fitzgerald,” Win ad-libbed, “ancestral home of F. Scott Fitzgerald. And here are some farms. See how green the grass is? And this should be Dublin, the capital.”
Looking up at the screen, Winfield panicked. He had forgotten the half-dozen shots of Fitzwilliam Square hookers he’d taken through a pub window.
“These are street scenes,” he narrated calmly, quickly clicking through until he found a church. Glancing around, he observed that none of the kids had noticed anything. Raised on MTV, they obviously saw nothing unusual about black-lipped blondes standing in doorways clad in vinyl thigh-high boots, leather hot pants, and studded Wonderbras.
The question and answer session that followed did, however, have its moments.
“If the Catholics in the North don’t like the way they are being treated, why don’t they move south? Look at the map, it’s just across the border. If people sailed to America a hundred years ago, why can’t they just take a bus?”
Prick! “Well, that is a good question. But telling people to move doesn’t always work. The blacks in South Africa didn’t want to move to Zambia, for instance.”
“Yes, but that is entirely different. Those were from different tribes and had different languages. But aren’t all Irish Catholics the same and talk the same language?”
The bright-eyed boy with the Louis Farrakhan bow tie smiled, waiting for an explanation.
Wiseguy! “Yes, you are right. But the Republic of Ireland—that’s the south part of Ireland—can’t take care of all the people who might move in. There wouldn’t be enough jobs and houses for everyone.”
Leotha came to his aid. “Well, class, it’s time for us go. I think we should thank Dr. Payton for telling us so much about the Irish. I think we can all learn how people have more in common with each other than we think. Maybe Dr. Payton would like to take a look at our St. Patrick’s Day display?”
“Of course,” Winfield agreed, following the children to their classroom. A bulletin board, draped in green crepe, was dighted with paper shamrocks, each bearing a Times Roman essay:
THE IRISH
The Irish live in Ireland, a tiny
island near Englind. They live in
stone houses and eat potatoes.
Many famous Americans are
Irish. John F. Kennedy was
Irish. He was a very great
president.
IRELAND
Ireland is a rocky island inhabited
by white Northern Europeans. The climate
varies widely. The West Coast is very
stormy. Palm trees grow on the
warm south coast. John F.
Kennedy’s grandfather was born
in Ireland. He was a very
great President.
LAND OF POETS
Irleand is a small, enchanted island
known for its legends and stories.
Small people called lepercons
hide pots of gold under trees.
John F. Kennedy was
a very great
President.
The rest of the bulletin board was adorned with maps, pictures from National Geographic, and stills of John Wayne in The Quiet Man. Winfield shook hands with the pupils. Yeats among the school children.
“All right, it’s time to go home. Next week, we have Naomi Bois. She is a poet from Gabon. That’s a part of Africa where many people speak French. So we can practice our phrases. Remember what we learned?”
The children nodded, singing out “Merci, mon ami! Bon jour! Bon soir! Bon chance!”
A little girl stepped forward. “I know the most important phrase, Ms. Kaleem. Je ne parle pas bien francais. Povez-vous me traduire ceci?”
“Very good. Now let’s get on our jackets and coats.” Leotha shepherded the children outside where a school bus and a line of cars waited in the circular drive. When she returned, Winfield helped her collect books and switch off the computers.
“I think your presentation went very well. I’m sure the children will have a lot of questions tomorrow. Sometimes they’re a little difficult with strangers. They either clam up or shout all at once. I thought your pictures were very interesting, especially those Dublin street scenes.”
Winfield pretended not to hear the last remark.
“Win, I owe you a drink. At least a Perrier at Le Club.”
“That would be nice.”
“Let me run to the ladies’ room and freshen up a bit.”
Waiting in the classroom, Winfield studied a globe. Where the hell was Gabon?
Minutes passed. Leotha appeared in the doorway, walkng slowly with a hand cupped over her right eye.
“Win. Can you help me?” she asked in a soft whisper.
“Something in your eye?”
“I don’t know. I was putting on mascara, then all of a sudden, my eye started stinging and watering. It won’t stop tearing. I can’t stop crying.”
Win had to step up on a chair rung to reach her eye level. “Do you wear contacts?”
“No.”
“I can’t see anything. Your eye is very red. Maybe something is under the lid. Pull it down a few times.”
“I tried that.”
“Do you have any eye drops?”
“No. I thought I had some Visine in my purse, but I can’t find it.”
“What about the nurse’s office?”
“She’s gone. I saw her car drive off.”
“There’s a Walgreens around the corner. I passed it on the way. I can run over and get some drops.”
“Don’t leave me,” she said, taking his hand like a frightened second grader.
“Why don’t I drive us there? Maybe the pharmacist can take a look at it.”
Winfield handed Leotha a handkerchief. “Hold this over your eye. Don’t put any pressure on it. Just keep your eye closed.” Guiding her down the hall, he slipped his arm around her waist. She hugged him, momentarily drawing his cheek to her ample breasts.
Gazing through her bulletproof window, the Pakistani pharmacist shook her head.
“You should have a physician examine any eye injury. Mount Sinai is up the street. Three blocks. I advise going to the emergency room. I have eye drops, of course. But I recommend seeing a physician.”
“Oh, Win!” Leotha gripped his hand tighter.
“It’s probably nothing, but I’m sure she’s right. It pays to see a doctor. A druggist can’t examine your eye and prescribe anything. It will be OK.”
The waiting room at Mount Sinai emergency was as pleasant, in fact, more pleasant than the lobby of the Wyndham Hotel. Winfield sat on a French provincial love seat beside the ornamental marble fireplace and flipped through Architectural Digest and Fortune.
Business was slow. Milwaukee emergency rooms, at least during the day, seemed to be doing a leisurely trade. All the uninsured shooting and car crash victims were hauled off to County. The other thirty odd hospitals stood by with the latest and most expensive technology. Helping to drive up the cost of healthcare up to 18% of GDP, their white-coated technicians waited to aid the lacerated cyclist, the over medicated stroke patient, the reluctant suicide.
An ambulance arrived. A paramedic carried a small boy. He was followed by a furious woman in a housecoat.
“Did you have to ruin my water heater?” she snapped.
“Sorry, lady but I had to cut through the pipe. I couldn’t get his hand out. A doc will have to get it out.”
The boy, eyes and nostrils streaming, wailed, flailing his metal tipped right arm like Captain Hook.
Thirty minutes later Leotha returned.
“It’s nothing serious,” she sighed, drained with exhaustion. “I scraped a bit of my cornea with the mascara brush. Just the top layer. It happens. The doctor put some fluid on my eye and looked at with a special light. She gave me these drops and some pills. I have to take it easy for a day or two.”
“That’s a relief. Do you want to get your car?”
“Oh, no, I don’t want to drive. Can you take me home? My sister can pick up the car later. Ted won’t be back from Chicago until Friday. I need to lie down. I really feel rocky.”
Very rocky. She wobbled on her high heels. Winfield took her arms, doubting his ability to stabilize her Amazonian form. “Why don’t you wait here and let me pull the car up.”
Sliding into Win’s Mustang, Leotha placed her hand on his thigh. “I’m so glad you’re with me. I go to pieces under stress. I miss an off ramp on the expressway, I panic. When one of the children fell at recess, I thought I would faint. Just a little blood, and I blank out. Thank God, our vice-principal was a paramedic. He’s always there for me. I hate being so dependent.” As Win shifted into reverse, her hand slid higher.
“It’s nothing,” Win sighed, savoring her touch.
“When we get home, please stop in for a drink. I owe you one. I normally don’t drink, but sometimes . . .”
“I’m Irish, remember. You don’t have to explain.”
When he stopped, Leotha opened her Gucci handbag. “Can you get my keys, I can’t see.”
Discreetly fingering through tampon tubes, Kleenex, loose change, and red-foiled Trojans, Winfield found her keys, got out, and walked around the car to open the door and guide her up the driveway.
He unlocked the massive oak door. Leotha tapped him on the shoulder. “I have to hit our security code.” She leaned over him and hesitantly punched numbers on a digital keypad with a long, red-nailed finger.
African cloths, zebra skins, and Zulu warrior shields decorated the walls of the two story living room. The mirrored bar was flanked by black velvet harem scenes.
“What would you like?” Winfield asked, instantly slipping into his grad school barman role.
“A shot of Martel. A big one, please.”
Winfield made a stiff Michael Collins and water for himself. Seated beside Leotha on the sofa, he handed her the large snifter and smiled.
“Are you feeling better?”
“A little. I hope you don’t think I’m a big baby. I just got a little scared. I couldn’t see for a while. . .” She downed her drink and held the large glass out for another.
As Winfield poured, she rose and stretched. “I have to lie down. Let’s go upstairs,” she said, extending her arm for support.
Juggling their drinks, Winfield assisted her up the wide staircase.
“It’s on the left, end of the hall,” Leotha said, gripping his arm.
“Is there anyone you want me to call?”
“No, I’ll be fine. Just stay with me a while.”
The king size waterbed stood on a carpeted dais. Winfield set the drinks on a night stand and helped her sit on the edge of the bed.
“Oh, Win, hold me. I was so scared.” She threw her arms around him, pulling him to the bed. Wallowing on the jello-like surface, Winfield struggled to find the edge but was pinned.
“Hold me,” she whispered, kissing his mouth firmly, swirling her tongue over his lips. Her hand slipped between his thighs, stroking frantically. “Please.”
Winfield struggled as she breathed heavily into his ear. “What is it? What is it? Is it because I’m black?”
“No, no. It’s just that. . . Well, what about Ted?”
“He’s not here. Please, I’m so scared.”
She unzipped her dress, kicked off her shoes, and burst out of her bra.
“Please, Win.”
As always in moments like this, anatomical fluctuations dictated Winfield’s morality. Having accidentally discovered his mother’s diary at fourteen, he understood that even happily married women found adulterous liaisons therapeutic during periods of stress.
Trapped in Leotha’s long black limbs, Win’s mind flashed with images of a panther devouring a gazelle on Animal Planet. Stripped of his clothes like an assault victim, Winfield was helpless. Leotha’s long-nailed fingers applied the condom with the violent compassion of a nurse performing some embarrassing but medically necessary procedure, and during the next several minutes Winfield felt like a choking victim enduring the Heimlich maneuver. Clenched in her arms, Win struggled for breath as Leotha panted, grunted, cried, and moaned, raking his back with blood-red nails. Climaxing at last, she flung Winfield aside, tumbling him to the floor.
Driving down North Avenue, Win stopped at the first semi-decent bar he could find. It turned out to be a topless club. Sporting a green top hat and bow tie, a smiling black girl twirled emerald tassels from her breasts. Win gulped his Korbel and Diet Coke and left.
“Stay awhile, sugah,” the girl called out.
Could it really be the Old Spice?
Win successfully avoided Ted Kaleem for a full week. But on Tuesday, on his way back to MITI, he found himself alone with Ted in the elevator.
Ted placed his large ex-Marine, ex-FBI, still black belt hand on Winfield’s shoulder.
“Leotha told me what happened last week.”
Win swallowed hard.
“I’m glad you were there to take her care of her. She panics so easily. Just the sight of blood makes her head spin.”
Win shrugged his shoulders dismissively, “It was nothing. Nothing at all.”
“You know,” Ted mused, his brow wrinkling with thought, “Leotha is so accident prone. Two weeks ago she twisted her ankle playing racquetball, and Shel Wertheim had to drive her home.”