Rain (Hudson 1)

"You lost it? Someone take it from you?"

"No, Mama. I had to pawn it along with my bracelet to get the money for Beni. I'm sorry," I said.

She was silent a moment.

"The only thing we have left to pawn is our souls," she said, "and we aren't ever going to do that. Let's go," she said with even more determination.

I put on my cardigan quickly and followed her out of the apartment. I couldn't remember the last time Mama and I had gone anywhere together. When I was little, Mama would take me and Beni with her to go shopping. She took all of us to a fair once. Roy was too bashful to hold hands but Mama made him anyway. I smiled at the memory.

It was a beautiful spring day, which made our walking at least pleasurable. I was surprised at how spry Mama was considering how tired she had been lately. There was a purpose in her steps and her eyes rarely wavered from the direction we were heading.

I had never really been to the Georgetown area. I knew it had many upscale restaurants and shops and the population was mainly professional people. Mama had the address written down. We were going to the three thousand block of M Street N.W. Neither of us were seasoned travelers in the city. Mama was very nervous, but she hid it well and maintained the look of someone who knew exactly where she was going and how to get there. When we got to the station, I read the map on the wall and we were off.

"How did you get her to meet with us, Mama," I asked, "if Ken couldn't even talk to them?"

"Mothers speak a different language:' she muttered. I smiled to myself and she looked at me. "If you heard Ken on the phone making demands, would you want to talk to him?"

"No," I said laughing.

Mama squeezed my hand for reassurance. We rode on, neither of us saying much more. Our thoughts were too cluttered and our nerves too jumpy.

"Where are we meeting her, Mama?" I asked when we arrived at the station. She looked at her note paper.

"Cafe St. Germain," she replied, only she pronounced it Cafe St. German. Then she asked, "What in blazes is it?"

"A French restaurant, Mama."

"French? I don't think I've ever eaten anything French, except fries," she quipped.

I laughed. It eased the tension between us and I took a deep breath and looked about the street. There were fancy shops with their windows stocked with expensive looking clothing and shoes, gourmet food stores, chocolate shops, and restaurants and cafes with people sitting on patios, talking and eating. Everyone looked happy and successful. How different it all was from the streets around our apartment.

"Which way?" Mama wondered aloud. She turned a bit frantically. "We're going to be late."

"This way, Mama," I said noting the numbers. A few minutes later, we stood before Cafe St. Germain.

Through the large front windows we could see a very elegantly dressed crowd. Most of the men were wearing jackets and ties. The women wore so much jewelry they glittered like Christmas trees. All of them had styled hair. Their clothing looked even more expensive than the jewelry. I imagined every famous designer was represented by someone in there. Even the waiters looked rich in their black slacks, white shirts and black bow ties. A hostess who might have been on the covers of yesterday's fashion magazines stood near the entrance talking on the telephone.

Mama looked as though the sight had nailed her feet to the sidewalk. She swallowed hard and clutched her pocketbook. Now she seemed ready to turn and sprint back to the trains.

"Do you know what she looks like, Mama?"

She shook her head.

"Well, she doesn't know what we look like," I thought aloud.

"She told me to just ask for Megan Hudson Randolph's table," Mama said.

I looked through the window again, searching for a woman sitting alone.

"Well, we're not late," Mama said. "We're right on time. Let's go, honey."

She gathered her courage and hoisted back her slim shoulders before stepping through the door. I followed right behind her. The hostess looked up with an expression of half amusement, half disdain. It seemed to me that everyone in the restaurant paused in their conversation to look our way. Suddenly, my cardigan felt like a rag and I was never more selfconscious about my battered shoes. Mama kept her eyes focused on the hostess.

"Can I help you?" she asked before we reached her. It was as if she thought her words would stop us or put up some protective wall.

"We're here to meet Megan Hudson Randolph for lunch," Mama said.

The young woman's amused smile hardened into plastic. She shook her head slightly, maybe to replay the words in her diamond studded ears.