Pulaski Square

Good. That made what was to come all the more bearable—for both of us. I did love Mark—just not in the way our families wanted me to.

Chapter Seven: Olive Odom

"Yes, well, if I can just get your attention."

"Perhaps with a bit more volume and force?" Leo Tinley said, leaning over toward where I was standing at a podium in the main room of the General's Café.

I had a moment of panic. Why had I agreed to take on this organizer's role anyway? How had I let Emily Goodwin talk me into this?—not that anyone had the fortitude to deny Emily anything she demanded. I cleared my throat and said, in a louder, more commanding, I hoped, voice, "Please, ladies and gentlemen. Please take your seats and finish your private conversations quickly. Let's put a start to this."

It almost pained me to speak up like this. I was a librarian, after all. I'd lived in a world of preferred silence. I'd come to realize that I didn't want to live in that world full time, though. The library was full of books on adventure and romance—and, yes, stories of sensuality. I wanted some of that for myself.

To my surprise everyone settled right down. The ad hoc emergency meeting of the residents of Pulaski Square had begun. All eyes were turned to me. All mouths were shut, most displaying at least the hint of a smile. Everyone expecting something from me. I had a sudden need to deliver on that expectation, to be more, different than I'd ever been before.

"First, are we all here then?" I asked.

Everyone looked around. I thought that Jaivon Johnson, who had taken on the duty of moving through those gathered with a coffee pot in each hand—one high octane and one decaf—was going to speak, but he seemed to think better about it and clamped his mouth shut.

Jaivon had offered to pass the coffee around. He had been the center of attention in the last couple of days—having found Muriel Robertson collapsed in her room and immediately calling 911, which was probably what had saved her life. He seemed self-conscious about being noticed at all, though, and was trying to sink back into the woodwork. I wouldn't let that happen.

"Thank you, Jaivon, for providing the coffee. Let's all give Jaivon a hand."

Everyone did so, and Jaivon seemed both embarrassed and pleased as he sank toward the far wall, so half of that battle was being won.

"I think you all know why we're here," I continued. "One of us living here on the square, Muriel Roberts, is in the hospital. She needs a kidney transplant. A specialist has stepped up to see her through the process and is negotiating a high place for her on the donor waiting list. But there will be expenses. Not just the operation, but the fees for the surgeon, who surely is expensive, as his reputation is very high."

"Excuse me, Olive," Muriel's brother, Martin Lewis, called out from across the room. I turned my head toward him. I'd been avoiding looking at him, because my feelings for him had only accelerated in the past several days—as I lost interest in Terrence Rowland, that interest—foolish woman that I was—was becoming transferred to Martin. I just couldn't help myself. And they weren't chaste feelings either. My sexual encounter with Caleb Freeman had brought out hidden desires in me. Not for Caleb, of course. He had been overpowering, too self-absorbed for my interests. But for someone else, someone more refined.

The smile Martin gave me when he interrupted didn't help a bit. It was like he was just now seeing me, although we'd lived on the same square for more than a decade. Caleb bringing me out of my shell might have helped.

* * * *

There wasn't just that one encounter with Caleb. There had been a second coupling. He'd come to my apartment in the late evening and said he'd been thinking about me.

"I don't often think this way about a woman," he said. "With many, there isn't a second time. But I have been thinking about you. About how beautiful your face was when it wasn't behind those owl glasses, your nipples on those beautiful tits puffed up for me—how you moaned when I sucked them. And how well your hair framed your face when you had let it down. The fullness of your tits—you shouldn't hide those inside those baggy sweaters you usually wear. And the curves and suppleness of your body when I fucked you—how you fit me like a glove—such a sweet pussy. How you moved perfectly with me when we'd gotten beyond busting your cherry. I'm sorry I didn't know it was your first time. Could we—?"

What could I say or do? How could I close the door in his face? When he left me that first time, I was begging him for more. He said "perhaps later." This was later.

Intellectually, I knew he was feeding me a line—that he was horny and self-possessed and had no better prospects at the moment. But, at the same time, some of what he said about me rang true. He was telling me I could present so much better than I normally did—be less the mousey wallflower. I had been thinking of him too—mostly trying to remember how glorious it was to have him inside me—big and thick and possessing me fully—after the pain of it being my first time had been survived. What I thought of in the immediate aftermath was mostly the pain, but there had been pleasure too—I just couldn't isolate it enough to be fully satisfied at the time. Since then, the pleasure part of it had come out more. I just hadn't thought about it with Caleb. It was another man I fantasized about.

Inside the closed door, he kissed me on the lips and then pressed down on my shoulders, sending me down on my knees in front of him. He unzipped himself and made clear what he wanted me to do. His phallus was already half hard—and so big and thick. I could hardly believe that it had been inside me—when it was even harder. I must admit that the knowledge that I had managed to sheath it—that at last, after all these years of wondering and wishing a man with a magnificent body was engorged for me—gave me a sense of power and satisfaction. I left that encounter understanding that this was a way to get a man to want me.

The shaft was dark—a shade or two darker than the rest of him—and the bulb was dark too. The contrast of it against the whiteness of the palm of my hand sent chills of awakening through my body. This was the tool of power in the world. This was the rod of procreation. And it was hard and throbbing for me. I enclosed my hand around his testicles and licked up one side and down the other of the shaft, which visibly lengthened and thickened. I felt the shudder go through his body and his large, calloused hands close over the back of my head. He removed the hairclip that was holding my hair up and it cascaded down to below my shoulders.

He wasn't the only one with power. At this moment I had power over him as well. I knew he wanted me too—maybe through this act more than I wanted him. That was moving the balance of power in my favor. I opened my lips over his shaft, moved them as far down the sides as I could endure, and began to suck. His groan was a victory trophy for me.

This time he took it slower, bending me over the bed, with the heels of my hands pressed into the bedspread and he, much larger than I was, not crushing my body this time, but holding me close to him from behind, one chocolate hand cupping a milk-white breast and the other palming my belly. He was deep inside me and moving slowly at first. And then faster and faster and faster. I writhed under him, flowing for him, exploding for him—again and again in increasingly prolonged bursts. With a grunt and a groan, he exploded inside me as well.

He came down on top of me, making me collapse under him on the bed. But he rolled over on his back immediately, let out a long sigh and said, "Whooee, that was hot."

He pulled the condom, the bulb fat with ejaculate, off his shaft and tossed it over the side of the bed. He had dropped other condom packets on the bed and was reaching for another when I pulled off the bed and stood in as nonchalant a pose as I could muster under the circumstances.

"That's enough," I said. "I'm going to go take a shower. You can see yourself out."

My curiosity was satisfied. He was quite something. But I had gotten from him what I wanted—confidence, a bit of training, and a few tips on how to attract a man. Maybe even the secret to having power over a man. No hard feelings, but it was a different man I was looking for.

* * * *

"Yes, Martin," I answered him from across the room, "Do you have something to say about the money that has to be raised?" I couldn't see him all that well other than to see that he was smiling engagingly at me. I wasn't wearing my glasses. I'd also let my hair down, and I had been clothes shopping. I hadn't had time to acquire contacts. I certainly would do so, though.

"It seems the surgeon has waived his fee," Martin reported. "I don't know why, and I'm looking into that. But, if he doesn't charge, that cuts the cost down significantly."

"But the cost will still be astronomical, won't it?" Tracy Patten spoke up to ask. I was surprised that she wasn't sitting with Donna Davis. I'd never seen them apart before—in fact, Tracy seemed to have been on a campaign to meld with Donna—hairstyle and color, voice inflections. Their bodies, even. It really had been quite amusing. But now she was sitting with Kathy Kimbel—and starting to look like her. Where had I been when this transformation was coming about? And what did Mark Vaughn, Kathy's "other" think about this?

Then I saw that Mark was sitting close to Terrence Rowland. Rowland's arm was around Mark's back and I could see the hint of his fingers peeking out at Mark's waist. This was just too strange. I had a meeting to run, though, I'd have to think about that later.

"Yes, Tracy, I'm sure we can't pay for it all, but we can make a dent in it. None of us can make a big difference singly, but if we all do that we can together, it will be that much to a good. After talking with Leo and a few others"—Emily had forbidden me to say how much of it was her idea—"we've come up with two events where we can bring everyone's efforts together. Leo says we can have a formal dinner followed by an auction here at the café—"

"He has management approval of that, I hope." This time it was Terrence Rowland who spoke up. His voice was skeptical. I certainly hoped he wasn't going to be pouring cold water on every idea that came up.

"Yes, I do," Leo stepped up to the mike and said. His eyes were on Martin, though not Rowland. I knew why but I had been sworn to secrecy in this too. As Martin knew and Leo was willing him not to reveal, Leo wasn't just the host at the café. He owned it. It having been left to him by the white father he shared with Martin. It had been a sticking point with the Lewis family. But Martin said nothing now.

I hoped that meant Martin had buried the family feud hatchet. He did appear more relaxed this evening, despite Muriel's plight.

"At this dinner," I continued, "we hope to have an auction to add more money to the Muriel fund. Many of you here are artists and are connected with SCAD. We're hoping you'll all contribute a work of art in your own specialty."

The nodding of heads around the room told me that I could count on that.

Martin spoke up from across the room. "The inn will contribute special weekend accommodation packages—as many as there are people who will make a minimum bid."

"Thank you, Martin," I said, sending him a smile that tried to convey so much more than approval of the gift. "And perhaps there will be other items folks here can contribute." I was looking at Emily Goodwin, who just sat there, smiling like the Cheshire cat. She was the richest one here. She needed to step up with a contribution that would energize everyone. But she didn't. Instead, I heard Terrence Rowland clear his throat.

Oh, no, not cold water, I thought. Or perhaps worse—perhaps he'd seen me look to Emily for a contribution without a response. Perhaps he was going to light into her and break up the meeting with their feud. Had one family feud moved to a back burner, only for another one to move to the front?

"I'm not a graphic artist," he said, "But I write novels. And I have one ready to come out. Money is not one of the things I need in life"—at this point he turned his eyes on Mark Vaughn and smiled, and I saw Mark smile too and blush; did no one else see this but me?—"so I see no reason why I can't contribute the profits from that."

"That's wonderful, and will help in the long run," I said, truly grateful. That indeed was a large chunk of cash and we were on our way, "Thank you so much."

The clearing of Rowland's throat again, and I turned back to him. "Yes, Terrence."

"I get advances. The royalties will help in the long run, but the advance should help in the short run. I received a $50,000 advance for this book. It all goes in the kitty."

We were stunned—all of us in the room. This indeed was a great start on what was needed. At the same time, I could feel the tension rise in the room. I did what I could not to look at Emily, but I couldn't help doing so out of the corner of my eye. She too was a novelist. Everyone here knew that. And she too would be having a new book come out soon.

I suddenly realized with Terrence had done, even though it was an expensive game he was playing. He had thrown down the gauntlet to Emily. He not only gave us the profit from his new book, but he also had put a high monetary value on it. Could that be a challenge to Emily to compare the worth of her books to his? Were we in a family feud after all? Martin and Leo were doing so well in keeping their long family feud under wraps here. But was there another one that would harm what we were trying to do here?

Emily didn't accept the challenge, if that was what it was. She continued sitting there, smiling a little smile, not offering a damn thing.

To my relief, Kathy Kimbel broke the tension. "You mentioned another event," she called out.

"Oh, yes, thank you, Kathy. Leo has arranged for a club downtown to run a Muriel Roberts' night—all proceeds going to the fund. Not just the profit from the night, but everything taken in—the gross—will be donated to Muriel's medical expenses."

"Leo can do this?" Martin spoke up to ask. "He can deliver a downtown club? Which downtown club?"

"Yes, I can. It's already arranged," Leo said, stepping back to the mike. "It's the Club Copa."

"Isn't that a transvestite club?" The shocked voice was that of one of the square's spinsters.

"Yes, that's what the entertainment is," Leo said in a calm voice, "But there are several such clubs in Savannah. They are very popular. Everyone—of all persuasions—goes to them. They're great fun. We'll sell out that night even if we inflate the ticket prices."

"If you say so." The declaration and accompanying snort came from one of the square's elderly widows. The spinsters and widows among us obviously were looking to Emily Goodwin to voice opposition, which surely would dead end that plan—an event that we really needed and that she previously had agreed to. But Emily remained sitting in silence and showing a Mona Lisa smile to the room. The silence was quite uncharacteristic of Emily, and I could see that many of the widows and spinsters were interpreting that as support for their disapproval.

"How much would you say we might realize from that one night's take?" I asked Leo. I, of course, already knew the answer. I also knew why Leo could promise the use of the club, but I had been forbidden to say why. It would have helped a lot at this moment if I could have done so.

"The club usually takes in around $40,000 a night," Leo answered.

And that went a great distance to tamping down the overt opposition floating around the room. I decided to end this meeting there. There would be other meetings to flesh out the organization and other issues.

"I think that's enough for the night and enough for us each to start thinking about and working on our individual contributions to the auction. Thank you all for—"

Once again the clearing of the throat from Terrence Rowland.

"Yes, Terrence."

"Who do we plan to be coming to these events?"

"Well, rich people, I hope." I'd said it to break the tension of a problem I realized we had but that we hadn't even begun to work out yet. I was rewarded with laughter around the room. I looked at Martin, and he was giving me an encouraging smile.

Oh, how I ached for him.

"And how are these rich people going to know about it?" Terrence Rowland again.

"We'll have to work on that, Terrence. For now, I think we've gotten off to a good start. We'll have to—"

"My family owns one of the major newspapers here—and an advertising firm," Rowland piped up to say. "Well, I own them, I guess. We'll advertise the events for free—and give them prominent placement."

"Thank you, Terrence. That's very, very generous." And it was very, very generous. Earlier, before the meeting started, Emily Goodwin had declared that not only wouldn't Terrence contribute anything to this venture, but that he also would be obstructionist. And, when push came to shove, Terrence was providing more than anyone else . . . and Emily hadn't stepped up to give anything. And, more than that, she'd stuck me with fronting the organization on this, when she would be pulling the strings from in back of me.

I turned to say something to her—knowing it would hurt me in the long run, but feeling hurt by her attitude tonight. But when I looked at her, I saw that she was looking at Terrence Rowland—and that her expression was the softest I'd ever seen on her face. And there were tears in her eyes.

I couldn't possibly disrupt that moment.

As the others were milling about and clearing the room, Leo, Emily, and I pulled back into the kitchen—as surreptitiously as we could, not wanting everyone to realize who was in a central planning committee for this. As I was drifting toward the kitchen, I took a circuitous route that took me by the windows fronting the outdoor café area. I saw Jaivon Johnson walking across the street and into the square. It was only then that I realized that not everyone had been at the meeting. Jaivon was seeking out Caleb Freeman, who was kneeling by a flower bed.

Caleb hadn't been in the meeting. Hadn't anyone told him about the meeting? Jaivon obviously would now, but I felt like a heel. I could see how both Jaivon and Caleb would see this as putting them—the black servants of the square—in their place. Savannah just continuing to be Savannah. And we all knew that Caleb worshipped Muriel Roberts. He'd been the first one to bring her plight to our collective attention. And, if Jaivon hadn't been in the hotel, doing all of the invisible jobs he did, Muriel Roberts might have died on the floor of her rooms in the inn.

When I got to the kitchen of the café, only Leo was there. We talked for a few minutes. Neither of us brought up the peculiar behavior of Emily that evening or her absence from this meeting. Leo didn't seem at all upset about it, so I didn't get further than hinting my disgruntlement. Too much had gone right in the meeting—we already were looking at over $100,000 in money raised—for either of us to want to talk about negativity.

Despite a meeting that was much more successful than I had thought it would be, I was feeling dejected as I left the café an hour later. Emily's behavior really disturbed me—not the least because she had put me in this coordinator role. Coming around the east side of the square, as I walked across the front of Emily's mansion, I saw that there were lights on in the small building back in her garden. I wondered if she was there. It was worth a peek in the windows. I wanted to talk to her.

She wasn't there. It was obviously a workshop of some sort. Various items of furniture were in different stages of being made. Those that were far enough along for me to identify the function of were gorgeous, obviously put together by a master craftsman. But my eyes didn't dwell on those long.