What You Don't Know, page 2
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Elena York: Malcolm Gilbert grew up in a storied football family, the son of Eldred “The Admiral” Gilbert, a college football star at UCLA and the first black quarterback to come in as a starter in the old Pacific Coast Conference. He later played ten seasons with various teams in the NFL before going to work for the Rams as a defensive coordinator, creating the legendary Brigade Defense. Malcolm’s mother, Delores, worked in the banking industry and together she and Eldred had five sons, all of whom went on to some form of success in football. However, Malcolm is the one who became an icon.
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Mitch Gilbert, Malcolm Gilbert’s Brother: Daddy had us out running drills and doing suicides as soon as we were out of diapers. I think he would have started us earlier if Ma had let him (Laughs). Yeah. It was definitely hammered into us pretty early that we were Gilberts, which meant we were football players.
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Autry Stevens: Now, the Admiral is a legend in his own right and Mitch is one of the greatest tight ends in the league. Terry’s about the best damn offensive coordinator you’ve ever seen, and if there’s a coach that can turn things around at Ole Miss, it’s Nate. Those years Ricky had in Seattle, he’s going into the Hall. But Malcolm? Boy, I don’t know if we’re gonna see anything like him again.
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Halsey Perkins, Head Coach, UCLA Bruins 1970–1976: Malcolm was just so quick, so powerful—he could have thrown the ball to himself. Just a monster athlete. He could play—and win—any sport you asked him to. You want him to set a ping-pong record? Hand him the paddle.
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Elena York: Continuing the Gilbert legacy, Malcolm, like his father and brothers, attended UCLA, quickly becoming the starting quarterback for the Bruins. He skipped his senior year to enter the draft, going as a first round pick to the Chicago Bears in 1977, playing twenty seasons with them, his entire professional career. He was renowned for his powerful arm, versatile athleticism, and uncanny ability to read plays. Smashing and setting quarterback records all became a part of the Malcolm Gilbert lore.
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Bob Boswell: You’ve never seen anyone who just fundamentally understood the game, even at an early age, like Malcolm Gilbert. He was the kind of guy you held prayer vigils for, hoping to God or whoever, that he stayed healthy.
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Autry Stevens: All-State. Heisman. Led UCLA to two National Championships. Two-time MVP. Nine-time Pro Bowler. Six Super Bowl rings. So, yeah, he stayed healthy.
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Halsey Perkins: Besides being so naturally talented, he was just so prepared, you know? Just so God-danged prepared. Night before the Super Bowl, what’s he doing? Film, film, film, playbook, playbook, playbook. What was Joe Namath doing the night before a Super Bowl? A blonde.
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Autry Stevens: I hated to see him retire, but I understood it. He was forty, way past the age you normally get put out to pasture. But you know, his knees were starting to give him problems, shoulder was acting up a little. When you’ve shattered as many records as Malcolm did, defied so many odds, and proved everything he proved, you don’t need to play to the bitter end.
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Alex Martinez, Left Tackle, Chicago Bears, 1979–1984: There’s just not enough clichés, adjectives, or whatever to describe what a phenomenal football player Malcolm Gilbert was, so I’m not even going to try. He was just the best. End of story.
10:45 a.m.
Blair dragged the sponge as hard as she could against the shiny black limestone of her kitchen floor, assaulting nonexistent dirt and grime with her usual fervor. The bottom of her necklace swayed in front of her, the delicate chain brushing against her cheeks. She swung the pendant behind her so she could concentrate on the task at hand. She’d done this last night before she went to bed, so the floor hadn’t had time to collect dust or footprints. Despite the kitchen’s square footage, she’d be finished in no time. The power of having a system.
She loved her floors. It was her reminder she’d made it. These floors would always be clean. These floors would never resemble the wretched cracked and moldy linoleum floors of her childhood. No matter how many times a day she used to drop to her knees on those peeling plastic floors and attack them with a frayed scrub brush, they would never sparkle like they did in the commercials. The dirt would be back before the sun set. Those floors would never, ever be clean.
But her floors now? Even if they were filthy—not that she ever let that happen—even if they were grimy, they still looked clean. That was the thing about nice stuff. Nice stuff could be decaying, falling apart at the seams, grubby, held together with nothing more than tape and a prayer and would still look better on its worst day than cheap shit did on its best day.
As she emptied the bucket out the back door, she had the fleeting thought that her rugs were due for Scotchgarding next week, her customary every-three-month endeavor instead of the recommended six. She kept her ear cocked for Malcolm’s departure, wishing he’d leave already. For him to try to pull that dictator shit on her yesterday about the money … it made her hot all over again. Him and his ridiculous Monday morning deadline. So much for what’s yours is mine and mine is yours.
Fuck him. No way, no how, was she doing what he wanted about that. She was the wife. She was standing on the right side of this one.
Blair looked at the clock on the stove as she picked up her phone and double checked her Scotchgard reminder for Monday before glancing up at the ceiling, Malcolm’s footsteps still shuffling above her. She rolled her eyes. He was always so eager to play golf with his cronies, yet always puttered around the house, taking his time leaving. There was the checking for his phone and keys a hundred times, then double checking doors and locks and windows.
And when he wasn’t doing that, there was always a story, some anecdote, some thing that popped into his head like a thought bubble in a cartoon, that he just had to tell her all about right then, at that exact moment. Stories she’d heard a million times. Tedious details that spilled forth in a torrent of words and sentences, as though his brain were a keyboard, his mouth the screen. One of the many and varied quirks of Malcolm Gilbert. Most of the time, she found it charming, these rabbit trails he meandered down. Other times, she found it annoying.
And today, it was annoying. Annoying as fuck as Bibi would have said. In spite of herself, she laughed a little at the memory of her mother’s voice. That whiskey-soaked, nicotine-scarred voice, straddling the blurry line between come-hither seductiveness and unintelligible slurring. The voice that, when she was so inclined, slipped into clipped precision. Flawless enunciation. The voice that mimicked the theatrics of Bibi’s idol Elizabeth Taylor in Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf doing her best Bette Davis in Beyond the Forest. What a dump! Annoying as fuck! A cigarillo in one slender, veiny hand, a smudged, crusty tumbler of pungent beige liquid in the other. Holding court from the dilapidated orange Barcalounger rooted to the corner of the cramped cube that did triple duty as a living room, dining room, and bedroom. Annoying as fuck. What a dump.
And there it was. Her mother could be funny. Her mother could be charming. It startled Blair to realize she could look at her mother through clear and focused lenses and ascribe a descriptor like “charming,” or “funny” and not “albatross,” or “embarrassment.” “Horrible.”
But for whatever reason, today, right now, Blair could have a fleeting thought of Bibi Johnson and smile oh-so-briefly.
Had time sealed the wounds shut? Perhaps, like so many survivors of bad childhoods, Blair had learned to live with the scars. Or maybe, she’d forgiven her mother all her trespasses without even realizing it. After all, her mother, like all bad mothers, had probably done the best she could with what she knew.
Blair ran her hands under the scalding hot water of her shiny chrome faucet, pumping the foamy meringue of lemon verbena soap into her palm and scrubbing her skin raw. As she dried her hands on a dish towel and retrieved her wedding ring from the small ceramic dish next to the faucet, she heard Malcolm open the front door. A murmur of voices followed. She rolled her eyes. Now he’d never leave.
Malcolm’s voice raced into the kitchen ahead of him. “Blair? Blair, it’s—”
“Felice. Well. This is a surprise. What brings you by?” Blair asked her neighbor who lived across the street a few houses down, who trailed behind Malcolm. Blair didn’t hate many people. Felice, however, occupied slots one through five on her very short list of five.
“Oh, hellooo, hellooo. Good morning. Oh, I am so sorry to barge in on you like this. I nearly scared poor Malcolm to death when he opened the door and saw me standing there. We almost collided with each other—”
“Oh, what a disaster—”
“—but I was wondering if I could trouble you to borrow your mixer. The KitchenAid?”
Gossipy, petty, rude Felice with her ash white, Mary Tyler Moore flip, slash of fluorescent orange lipstick throwing a useless lifeline to her sinking, puckered lips, rhinestone-studded librarian glasses perched on her hook nose, was always doing this. Dropping by at all hours. Quick to request a favor, always slow to return it. Hold her mail. Water her plants. Walk her dogs. Collect her packages. Give her the name of their lawn service. Who serviced their cars. Could she borrow fill-in-the-blank. Ask her to do the same, she acted like she was being subjected to water torture. Blair would loan her the gleaming, spot-free mixer and it would come back a greasy, crusty mess.
Because Felice was too self-absorbed, too thoughtless, to return it in the condition it was given to her. Felice, who’d ordained herself the moral authority on everyone she crossed paths with, deeming most women fat, ugly slobs—that is when they weren’t stupid, vapid, and trivial—and men as pathetic boors. Except for her own lecherous oaf of a husband, who Felice thought, for reasons Blair couldn’t quite suss out, hung the moon.
She suspected half the time Felice dropped in unannounced on them so she could catch them swinging naked from the chandeliers, ushering out the last of their late-night harem, or wiping powder from their noses. It was almost as if she wanted to be the whistle blower, the one who exposed the “dirty” dealings of the staid, quiet Gilberts. To be the one who knew all along they weren’t as perfect as they seemed.
“Of course,” Blair said as she dragged the mixer across the counter next to the sink, plopping it down on the island, making a mental note to purchase a new one next week. “You keep it as long as you need,” she said as she took a paper shopping bag from the pantry and placed the mixer inside.
“Oh, I do appreciate it. Mine just went on the fritz and if I don’t get started on the four dozen cookies for my grandson’s bake sale next week—I mean, his mother should really be doing this, but she is absolutely worthless in the kitchen. How my son ever wound up with her, I couldn’t even begin to tell you. Anyway, as usual, I have to put on my cape and save the day, and if I don’t start today, I will just shoot myself.”
“Well, now, we can’t let that happen, can we?” Malcolm said, the wink barely disguised in his voice.
Blair twitched as she tried to suppress the fit of laughter rumbling in her stomach, while Felice erupted into her high-pitched cackle, exactly what an awful old woman would sound like, a horrific clank that wobbled between screeching peacock and nails on a chalkboard.
Felice adjusted her glasses. “Oh, no, we can’t let that happen. Oh, dear me, no. Though, I’ll tell you that half the women in this neighborhood would descend, I mean just swoop down on Horace, my goodness. These vultures would just stack casseroles on my front porch.” She sniffed. “Do you know that just the other day that harpy Jan Custer—or should I say whale, because the woman is as big as one. Bigger. She’s not like you or me, Blair.”
“How’s that, Felice?”
“Oh, you’re so funny.” Felice smacked Blair’s arm. “You know. You and I both have these tiny little waists.”
Blair snorted to herself. Felice easily had a good thirty pounds, if not more, on her, not to mention missing about five of Blair’s inches.
“I mean Horace and I were at Highland Park Library the other day—you know we’re part of their canasta group—and Jan, well, she just threw herself at poor Horace. I mean, she would be first in line with some monstrosity of cheese and noodles and God knows what else, that Horace wouldn’t even be able to eat. You know we’re watching his sugar—”
“Felice.” Malcolm placed a hand on the woman’s shoulder and looked deep into her eyes. “I was on my way out to the club to play golf, so I can walk you out. I’ll even drop you at home.”
“Oh, noooo, noooo. I don’t want to keep you. Blair and I will have a quick cup of coffee.” Felice snapped her fingers. “Here’s a thought. Why don’t you come over and help me with the cookies? Then we can catch up. It’s been so long since we’ve caught up. In fact, I can’t really remember the last time. You would think as neighbors we’d—”
“Sorry, Felice. Can’t. Hair appointment, errands after,” Blair said, fingering the pendant of her necklace. “I’m running so late and I still have to take a quick shower before I motor on out of here.”
“Oh. Of course. Errands. A hair appointment. Now, tell me again where—”
“Felice, it was great to see you as always,” Malcolm said, handing her the bag with the mixer as he gently pressed his palm against the small of the woman’s back and steered her in the direction of the front door. Blair followed slowly behind them, her arms folded across her chest, her gaze pointed to the floor to hide her smile.
“Well, it’s great to see you, too—”
“Make sure to save us some cookies,” Malcolm said. “Now, what kind are you making?”
“Oh, nothing special, just chocolate chip.”
“Chocolate chip. Did you hear that, Blair? She’s making chocolate chip cookies.”
“Yes, I heard,” Blair said.
“Chocolate chip cookies are my favorite. Did you know that, Felice?”
“Well, no, I didn’t.”
“Oh, Malcolm Gilbert loves chocolate chip cookies,” Blair said. “Can’t live without them.”
Malcolm swung the front door open. “Truly. I can’t wait to try them. And you make sure I get a nice, big cold glass of milk to go with them.”
“You know, the four of us should get together sometime for dinner. You and Blair, me and Horace. Like I was saying, you’d think for neighbors, we would socialize much, much more. I mean, Blair, I see you and Lani out together all the time. And you two girls never call me—”
“Getting together for dinner is a great idea, Felice. We’ll call you. We will definitely call you. Set something up,” Malcolm said, edging the door closed. “Give our best to Horace.”
Malcolm shut the door on the woman before she could say another word. He glanced at Blair.
“You’re horrible,” she said. “Chocolate chip cookies. Give me a fucking break.”
“She doesn’t have to know I don’t like cookies,” he said, a knowing grin tugging at the corner of his lips. “That I hate cookies.”
She didn’t want to, but she melted, got lost in that smile. That everything. The velvety russet of his skin, stretched taut over sinewy, head-to-toe muscles. The polished dome of his head, the end result of taking a razor to his head at twenty-two to hide the premature balding, a gift from the Gilbert men. (She had to keep from laughing out loud the first time she met her future father-in-law and brothers-in-law. One bald head after another. It had to be a joke. Five bald heads. See how they shine.) The gold-green eyes, the first black man—black person—she’d ever seen with eyes that color. The cluster of three flat black moles on his cheek, drowning in his dimples. The surprise of finding out he was twelve years older than she was (He could be that old and look that good?) Even the jagged scar slashing his chin, courtesy of a tumble from the handlebars of one of his brothers’ bikes when he was ten, faded to near invisibility, was beautiful to her.
She found herself smiling back in spite of herself. He could always make her smile. Could always make her laugh until tears spilled out of her eyes. Until her sides screamed for mercy. Until she couldn’t remember if she’d been sad or mad or what when he waged his campaign of hilarity. The first time he’d pulled that belly-aching laughter from her, she fell in love.
Right now, though, she didn’t want to laugh, even though really, she did. Sometimes, for motivation, when he was really irritating her, she conjured up slights and hurts, real and perceived, from years past. Let yesterday’s wounds fuel today’s anger. Like those awful early years. The fairy-tale marriage that went sour in almost the blink of an eye. That left her wondering what the hell she’d gotten herself into.
Today, though she didn’t need to imagine any hurts, his words from yesterday looping in her memory. She promptly let her mouth recede into a hard, concrete line
“I think I feel a migraine coming on,” she snapped, pivoting toward the kitchen, Malcolm following her.
“If Horace wasn’t such a prick, I’d almost feel sorry for him.”
Blair picked up her tube of wipes and extracted one, swiping it across the kitchen counters a final time.
“They deserve each other.”
“True that,” Malcolm mumbled as he palmed the outside of his pants pockets. She knew he was feeling for the familiar bulge of his keys and phone. Again.
“Aren’t you going to be late?” she asked. “I mean, shouldn’t you get going?”
“Yeah, I just—” He pulled his phone from his pocket, tapping the screen.
The doorbell rang.
Blair’s hand dropped to the counter, smacking the granite. “Oh God—I can’t. I can’t deal with her.”
“Jesus, Blair, when are you getting the video doorbell fixed? It’s been a week already.”
