In the back seat of a yellow taxi, Karen scanned the townhouses along East Eighty-Second Street:  a beige limestone one, another with red brick and a rounded bay window.  But so far, no sign of the six stories of mauve stone and fancy black wrought-iron around the windows and double doors. 

If I have to knock on every door on this street, I’m going to find Sharlene and  talk to her face-to-face about Mama.  Then she’ll help...

Karen had the right street, thanks to Ginger.  And the five-year-old copy of Architectural Digest open on her lap showed glossy images1 of Sharlene’s townhouse, inside and out, as well as a picture of Senator Stone and his wife.  They were standing in front of some ridiculously expensive painting in the dining room.  And the caption said their family built the eight-thousand-square-foot showplace a hundred years ago when their law firm opened its Manhattan branch.

The hot, still air, and all the townhouses whizzing past in the blazing morning sun made Karen dizzy.  “Can you slow down, please?”

“You need an address,” the driver barked over his shoulder.

“Well I don’t have one.  Just this.”  She shoved the magazine through the scratched plexiglass window between the seats.  images1 of her frantic search through the Detroit Public Library for that edition blurred with helping Franklin prepare for the mayor’s riverfront press conference.  Not to mention securing an emergency bank loan for the bakery while Daddy kept the place running and took Mama to dialysis.

Karen’s head snapped back as the cab sped up, then screeched to a stop.

“There it is.”  The driver exchanged the magazine for her fare.

Trembling, Karen adjusted her straw hat as she stepped into the choking heat.  A bead of sweat rolled from the top of her thick braid at the base of her neck, into her beige knit top.  Her linen pant suit felt damp, and her black sunglasses slipped on her nose as she closed the cab door. 

“Good morning.”  Karen spun to see a fortyish man in a blue seersucker suit, smiling as he strode past.  With him, a svelte woman in a flowered hat, and a brood of kids in dresses and ribbons, suits and bowties.  One of the boys was talking into a cell phone about going to the park after church. 

A far cry from Helen Street.

Karen rang the doorbell, staring down two stone lions flanking Sharlene’s front door.  After a second ring, a sky blue form shimmered in the beveled glass beyond the black wrought iron gates.  The door opened.  Sharlene’s eyes — yes, that was her! — grew enormous.  Slam!

Anger exploded inside Karen like a red flare.  How could she convince Sharlene to help Mama through a closed door?  She had to stay calm, like when she talked to Ginger. 

“Camille,” she said cheerfully, “I just dropped by for a visit.”

The door opened.  “What do you want?”

“Can you open this gate, please?”

Sharlene stepped out, unlocked the wrought iron, swung it open.

But Karen’s feet would not lift.  No, not while she looked into Sharlene’s eyes, the same shape as Mama’s, the identical color as Daddy’s.  They looked bigger now.  And was that a flash of curiosity, even affection, behind the fury?

“Can I come in?”

Sharlene glanced behind her shoulder.  “Ten minutes.”

Karen followed her into the coolness of a large entrance hall.  Soft lights illuminated a stone statue of a Greek goddess towering next to a staircase whose banister matched the front gates.  Karen pulled off her sunglasses.  Something welled inside her, pushed her toward her sister, arms outstretched. 

But Sharlene stepped back.  “This isn’t the time for a reunion.”  She crossed her arms, resting her perfect manicure on the ice blue satin sleeves of her pajamas that matched her slippers.  Eye-popping diamonds glistened on her finger, in her ears, in the hollow at the base of her very thin neck.

“I see you’re living quite the glamorous life this Sunday morning.”

Sharlene’s stare made Karen’s cheeks feel hot. 

“Don’t look so evil, Sharlene.”

“My name is Camille.”  She raised her arched brows.  “Stop laughing!”

“Sorry,” Karen said playfully.  “But I think you should have gone with Crystal.  As in Crystal Carrington from Dynasty.”  Karen hummed the song from the show that used to draw them to the TV every Wednesday night.

Sharlene walked, no, she moved like liquid, as if you could pour her into a mold and she’d freeze there.  At a table next to the goddess, she flipped through the New York Times, Washington News and a stack of paper with yellow highlights.  “Don‘t ever call me that.  I can’t believe Mother named me after that woman in Mississippi, with chickens in her house.  No running water—”

“Gramma Bradley died four years ago.  From diabetes.”  Karen stepped closer to Sharlene.  “Now Mama is sick.”

Sharlene faced her with an expression as unfeeling as the beige tile floor.

“Her kidneys,” Karen said over a hot lump in her throat.  “She needs a transplant.  And you’re our only hope.”

Sharlene wrinkled her brow.  “Hope for what?”

“To save Mama.  You could donate a kidney and—”

Camille’s shrill laugh echoed off the ivory taffeta walls.  “That’s why you’ve been calling?  To get a vital organ from me?”

“Sharlene, please—”

“I don’t believe this.”  Sharlene cupped her hair into a ponytail, then let it tumble.  “I suppose you’ve got scissors in your purse!  So you can just snip it out.  The way Mother used to pin me down and cut off my hair.  Making me feel like the ugliest little—”

“Did you hear me?”  Karen grabbed her sister’s arms.  “Mama is dying!”

Sharlene twisted away, smoothing her sleeves.  “Loud and clear.  It’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”

Karen’s pulse hammered in her ears.  She felt numb and jittery.  Panic made her breathe faster.  But no, she had to make Sharlene understand that Mama needed her, that you’re supposed to help your own blood.  What could she say to make Sharlene understand her desperation?  Or realize what a dangerous thing she was doing, pretending to be someone else?  Karen had to convince her Mama was different, that she deserved help.

“We’ve got a bakery now,” Karen said softly.  “Biscuits ’n Honey.”

A rustling sound down the hallway, on the other side of the statue, made Sharlene glance back.  “No wonder she’s sick.  All those sweets—”

Karen stepped closer.  “Daddy is home, too, trying to make up for—” 

“Mention him again and I won’t listen to another word.”  Sharlene crossed her arms once more, her gaze cold and hard.  It was the same way she looked at Daddy when they saw him the first time.  That awful day when Karen felt the exhilaration of gaining a father, and the devastation of losing a sister.

“If they hadn’t been so irresponsible, bringing two interracial babies into the world, she wouldn’t be in this mess.”

The words slammed Karen in the chest.

“Don’t look so shocked, sweet praline.”  Sharlene cocked her head.  “She didn’t care about ghost baby.  So I left.  And I’m happy.  No thanks to her.”

Karen’s eyes burned with tears she refused to release.  “Please—”

“She never got too worked up over my health problems,” Sharlene said.  “Listen.”  She breathed deeply, closing her eyes as her pillowy lips curled up in the corners.  Her curiously larger chest rose and fell.

A guessing game was about the last thing Karen wanted.  “What?”

“My lungs used to make more noise than the wind section of the Detroit Symphony Orchestra.  Because Mother always had a cigarette dangling from her lips.  Just to torment me.”

“Get real!  Mama was always taking you to the clinic or rubbing Vics on your chest at night.”

Sharlene raised her brows.

“And if you hated her smoking so much, why are you joining a family that got rich with tobacco, using slaves?  Pretty hypocritical—”

“Shut up!” Sharlene whispered loudly.  “I will not explain myself any more to you.  Now leave.”

Karen was trembling with frustration.  And the thought of walking out on that street, going back to Detroit, without her sister’s agreement to help Mama, well, it was not a choice.  She had to try harder.

“Please just get tested,” Karen said softly.  “And if there’s a match, the surgery is a lot safer.  They make a small incision—”

“Impossible.”

“You’d be back on your feet in a few days.  And we could keep it secret—”

“Your ten minutes are up.”  Sharlene was doing that trick, like when she was little and something was making her feel bad.  Her face looked like a crumpled white blouse being ironed.  It was like you could see the muscles relaxing, her eyes almost glazing.  She always did it when Aunt Ruby stared her down, telling her if she ever denied who she was, she’d end up dead.

“You can’t pretend forever, Sharlene.”

“Watch me.”

“That’s what Uncle Jeremiah thought,” Karen said.

“Aunt Ruby was a liar.”

“You saw the pictures.”  Karen envisioned the dusty crate Ruby pulled from Gramma Bradley’s closet.  The tattered photos were burned into her memory:  a white couple in wedding finery.  A caramel-skinned boy.  Orphaned at birth by the mob that lynched his father as his mother slit her throat. 

“Just wait til you and Jeff-ee-pooh have a little brown baby.”

Sharlene tilted her chin upward.  “Impossible.”

“Take that to your new family down on the plantation!”

“Shut up.  I want you to leave now.”

A fifty-ish black woman in a gray uniform came rushing from the hallway.  “Didn’t know you was expectin’ company, Miss Camille.”  The woman had a Southern accent.  She was breathing hard and sweating, like she’d just run up a flight of stairs.  “I woulda gone to the grocery store later on.  Just got back.  Whew, hot as blazes out there.”

Karen couldn’t help staring.  The housekeeper was checking her out, too.  As if she’d never seen anything darker than Sharlene walk through the door.

“Ida Mae, don’t worry about it.”  Sharlene’s voice was smooth and soft.  “This is a friend from court, dropping off some research for a case.”

The woman looked at Karen’s hands.  “I don’t see no research.”

Sharlene pointed to the highlighted papers on the table.  “Over there.”

“You gals sit down.  I’ll get some lemonade and cookies.”

Sharlene stepped toward the door.  “No, Ida Mae.  She was just leaving.”

“Uh-huh.”  The woman eyeballed Karen, then headed into the hallway.

Karen followed Sharlene.  “I won’t even comment on that Scarlett O’Hara scenario, Miss Camille.  All I want is your help.  For Mama.”

“Sorry.”  Sharlene swung open the door.

“But you might as well whip out a pen and sign her death certificate—”

Sharlene was squinting in the hot sunshine.  And smiling. 

Karen put on her sunglasses.  Just outside the door was a tall, thirty-five-ish man in jogging shorts, a sweat-stained University of Virginia t-shirt and running shoes.  He flashed a pearly smile with boyish dimples.

“Hey honey.”  His sandy-blond hair bounced as he stepped through to the door.  Red roses jutted from under his arm.  “Got company?”

Sharlene grinned. 

And Karen’s heart split in half. 

She doesn’t give a damn that Mama is dying.