A Love Song for Ricki Wilde (73)

And she noticed something new. He looked… special. Different than everyone else, somehow. In New York, Ricki saw a lot of celebrities in regular places. And no matter how often they hid behind sunglasses or sat in a dark corner of a bar, they commanded attention. You knew that Someone was in the room. Ezra had that quality. Ricki saw people noticing him, their eyes briefly settling on him. No one knew who he was. But he almost glowed.

Because he used to be Someone, thought Ricki. Maybe it’s a switch you can’t turn off.

Ricki zigzagged her way to Ezra’s table and then stood in front of him, waving energetically, as if she were greeting a distant relative in JFK’s arrivals terminal.

“Hello!” she exclaimed with outsized cheeriness, hoping it hid her nervousness.

“Oh! Hi!” Instantly he stood up and reached around the table, pulling out her chair.

Now that she knew how old Ezra really was, the out-of-time politesse, not cursing in front of ladies, pulling out her chair, all the “ma’ams” he doled out, made more sense. He was from a time when Black women were treated delicately. A flash of shame passed through her. Why had she been so alarmed by good manners?

“I came early,” said Ezra, taking his seat once Ricki was settled. “I guess… well, I was surprised to hear from you.”

“I can imagine,” she said evenly, trying to seem normal.

“I, uh, gave you a lot of information the other day,” said Ezra, looking as nervous as Ricki felt. There was so much hanging in the air, unsaid and unaddressed.

How do I pretend like this man didn’t give me the most transcendent sexual experience of my life? Ricki thought. How do I act cool when I want to projectile launch myself into his lap?

Scrambling to find something to say, Ezra blurted out, “I’ve never been to Starbucks.”

“Stop it. Are you one of those extremely discerning coffee connoisseurs?”

“The opposite. I’m not a big coffee guy. Caffeine makes my hands jittery, and I need my fingers.” He lowered his voice and leaned his head toward hers. “Is the service always this terrible? I’ve been sitting here for forty minutes. No one’s taken my order.”

Ricki stared at him in frozen disbelief before dissolving into giggles.

“Ezra! You’re supposed to order up front,” she said, pointing behind him. “See?”

“Oh?” He peered over his shoulder and then faced Ricki again. “Ohhhh.” He shook his head, looking bashful. “I’m so embarrassed.”

“Don’t be. I weaponized my curling irons; I think we’re even.”

“We’ll never be even,” he said sadly, injecting a jarring bit of reality into the conversation. Neither one of them could pretend that Ezra hadn’t dragged Ricki into a world of trouble. And a possible death sentence.

Ricki wasn’t ready to accept it. The idea of leaving the earth at only twenty-eight, before she’d achieved her destiny, her dreams? Before she’d experienced professional success, a family of her own, her own perfect romance with her own perfect person? She was suddenly so close to grasping it all. Ricki was just beginning to feel like she was standing tall in her new life, making gutsy choices, and winning. And Wilde Things was on the brink of something good—the guerrilla art pieces popping up all over Harlem.

Did any of it even matter if she was going to die? What was it for if she couldn’t stick around to enjoy it? What was the point of anything, anything at all, if she couldn’t run into Ezra’s arms and stay safe there, forever?

“Ricki?” he asked. “Why did you ask me here?”

Ezra’s voice jolted her from her spiral. Panicking was pointless. It was time for solutions.

Ricki threw her shoulders back and got to it. “Yesterday, I spoke with the woman who owns my brownstone. She’s more than my landlady, really; she’s like my grandma. You’ve seen her with me a few times? She’s usually carrying a teacup.”

“Oh right, the older woman. She looks like Cicely Tyson?”

“That’s her,” said Ricki, with a dry swallow. “She’s ninety-six years old. From Louisiana, originally. Everyone calls her Ms. Della, but… but her real name is Adelaide.”

Ezra’s face gave away nothing. Not surprise, alarm, or even vindication. The way he slumped back in his chair was the only sign that he’d registered this information.

“Her mother was Felice Fabienne. She told me the whole story, almost exactly the way you told it.” She leaned over the table. “She has the pearl bracelet. You didn’t tell me it was inscribed. BW + FF. She showed me.”

Ezra shut his eyes. His chest rose and fell. And then he buried his face in his hands.

“I googled every detail of your story, Ezra. It’s all there.”

“It’s the truth.” He dropped his hands, looking at her. He looked five times more exhausted than he had ten minutes ago.

“And yet,” countered Ricki, “Google searches can be manipulated.”

“Ricki, I have a dial-up modem and still rely on foldout gas station maps. I can’t even navigate Starbucks. How would I manipulate a Google search?”

“Okay, see? This confuses me. If your story’s true…”

“It is, Ricki,” he insisted, voice choked with pain. “It’s true.”