A few of the women in the League thought it would be daring to have the biannual fundraiser out of town. Leslie Van Houten disagreed. It was always held at the Van Houten Mansion. It was tradition to have it at her home – her family’s home, she meant to say. That was just how it was done.
Tracy Flynn who volunteered at The Detroit Children’s League and was the only black woman in the group suggested the city. Leslie let out a gasp. Two mothers with strollers at the Starbuck’s turned their heads toward the sudden noise. Tracy might as well have suggested Beirut. Leslie said it was a horrible place, Renaissance Center or no ‘Ren Cen’.
The two were having it out and it was fun to watch. Then right in the middle of it all, they simultaneously stopped and looked at me. What did I think about all this, they wanted to know. It was an ambush.
Well, I said, buying time. I was a brand new member of the League and desperately hoping to get back in with these women, once counted as my friends. My ultimately failed marriage had wrested me from where I was supposed to be. While I was on hiatus in Northern Arizona, my friends were climbing the town’s social ladder and now unofficially running the place. I, meanwhile, had returned to live in my parents’ attic and raise my son by myself. I was going in circles, they were going up.
My social opportunities were limited and I was lucky to be at this meeting of the Pleasant Lake Women’s’ League at all. And I wasn’t fooling myself; I was invited back only because of my father’s position as president of the university. He was my legal tender, the only kind accepted in a group like this.
I finally said I remembered going to some of those ethnic fairs in Detroit when I was younger and that they were fun. I didn’t get mugged or anything. It could be very edgy to have the party somewhere new, I pointed out. Of course, I didn’t want the ladies to think I was edgy. That was not one of the requirements. No sense in them knowing that my last seven years had been more edge than not. The image of me, alone with my child in a trailer, waiting for my husband’s return from one satellite tennis tournament or another was not what anyone at that table needed to see.
I say let’s do it, said Victoria Brennan, president of the fundraising committee. Many of the committee’s projects were based in the city, yet we didn’t set foot in the place, she reminded us. And then she announced that I would be chair of the committee! I tried my best to ignore the looks I was getting from Tracy who apparently assumed it was going to be her baby.
Maria’s been traveling so much lately, Victoria added, a little trip or two to Detroit won’t faze her. Then she made that same smile she used to make in high school - evil and sweet at the same time. Even Leslie VanHouten knew there was no arguing. She made a great show of putting on her coat and announced she had a massage appointment to get to.
So there I had it, my first assignment: Detroit, approximately thirty minutes and a couple of worlds away from Pleasant Lake. I had no choice, not only did I have myself to think about, but my son, Josh, too. He would never get into Manheit Kane Academy if I didn’t get in with these people. Letters of recommendation were essential Tracy suggested a jazz club. Her husband’s office threw a party there once. I called and made an appointment with the owner and a week later was driving my cherry-red Fiat convertible -- one of only two good things that came from my marriage -- straight toward downtown Detroit. Exiting I-94, I followed signs and somehow managed to find the John C. Lodge Freeway. I wondered who John C. Lodge was and if he really wanted a street named after him in a city like Detroit. Wishing I wasn’t in a convertible, I drove through various neighborhoods looking for Second Street, which kept sounding like second chance as it bumped around in my head.
Small, shabby houses and a surprising number of adult men hanging out on front steps was what I saw. In Pleasant Lake no one sat on their front steps, or even on their giant Victorian wrap-around porches. The men stared at my car. Someone yelled, Are you lost!?
Wending my way through the streets, I finally came upon, ‘All-Blues.’ I parked in the empty lot and walked across the graveled asphalt. I stepped inside the club and waited for my eyes to get accustomed to the dark. Slowly, plush blue banquettes and a well-worn dance floor came into view. The dim lighting gave the whole scene a filmy feeling. Even the leftover cigarette smoke smelled good -- or at least right -- for the mood. I had stepped into another decade, the decade when elegantly dressed couples held champagne glasses and danced the fox trot to Big Band music.
I was used to restaurants with high backed chairs, bright white tablecloths, and everyone dressed in expensive, understated clothing. I could tell ‘All-Blues’ catered to a different crowd. My light pink seersucker suit looked dull against the rich hues of my surroundings.
I was already thinking about what I might wear to the party -- what would do justice to the room -- when a man walked in. He was wearing a red, short sleeved, cotton shirt and black cotton pants that I could not help but notice fit him well.
Are you Mr. Wilkes? I asked.
I am. And you must be Ms. Tucker, he said. Then this man walked up and extended his soft, dark- skinned hand to me. I found myself sweating.
Welcome to ‘All-Blues,’ he said. Let me show you around to make sure it’s the right place for you.
Yes, was all I could come up with. I just said, yes.
We walked through the club; Mr. Wilkes pointing out areas he thought might be good for an additional table or the inevitable unscheduled speech. He pointed out the bar, telling the story of its rescue from an abandoned theater down the street. The smooth surface begged to be touched. As Mr. Wilkes talked, I found my hand stroking the wood, keeping time to the rhythm of the music that played from the speakers above.
Behind the bar, a gathering of mirrored squares made the room go on forever. I saw myself in the mirrors and was surprised at the calm in my face. This was not what I was used to seeing. I looked almost young, like when I was in college. That was the beginning of everything changing, when I started on a trip to places I now wish I’d never seen.
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