White Face

White Face, William Caldwell

           a flash memoir 

I’m on my way to interview Frankie Randle. She is an Aid to the Disabled client of my colleague Bob. I cover for him when he is out of the office. When he gets a call she is in the lobby asking for him, Bob’s usual smile slouches to a grimace. He groans; picks up his note pad and releases a long, thick breath that wants to unravel the tapestry of his chest. Slumping past rows of desks and across the office, he trudges down three flights of stairs to the interview room. On his return, he usually wears a deeper slouch along with a thin, sour, scowl. Although my desk is next to his, I never listen to Bob’s debrief with the boss to get any details. The one time I do ask about her, he scoffs, raises his eyebrows, gives me a blank face and turns to stare out the window, searching for a glimpse of the placid bay, I expect.

Since Bob is on vacation, it’s my turn. When the call comes, I rub my chin, grab a pencil and note pad, enter the stairwell and listen to the echo of my shoes on metal steps as I descend to the first floor.

I open the door to the waiting room where I feel out of place in a sea of dark faces, masks of anger, fear, resentment, subservience, despair: welfare clients, all wandering in a shadow land of lack and hunger. A few faces stalk me as I cross the room, as if I’m today’s target practice.

I reach the battleship-grey metal door to the interview cubicle and open it. I am surprised to see a refined lady of striking beauty awaiting me. A perfectly combed pageboy hair style, complimented by just the right shade of lipstick with a touch of rouge, frames her smile. Her café aulait skin is smooth and beautiful. Large, compelling eyes engage me. Her calm demeanor commands the room and fills it with gracious ease. This is a woman who, by any standard, is quite attractive.

“Good day, sir.”

“Um, hello, I’m Gary Polson.”

“Mr. McCall isn’t in?”

 “Ah…” I have nothing to offer, except surprise and silence. I need a moment. It bears repeating, she is a well composed, beautiful black woman.

“No; Bob is out of town and I am filling in for him.”

“Pleased to meet you, sir; I’m Frankie Randle, will he return soon?”

“Not for a couple of weeks. He is taking a vacation.”

“How nice for him. A vacation right now would be a pleasurable break from this sultry weather, don’t you think? Perhaps he will finally get to the islands. I love the weather there. Have you been to the islands, Mr. Polson?”

We could be in a drawing room having a pleasant chat over cocktails.

Although she explains the reason for her visit, my astonishment at her presence, compared with Bob’s rolling eye exasperations, drives the details of our conversation from memory. Later, I realize the visit may have been about her meds, because I find myself looking for a doctor or clinic to refer her to.

She returns in a couple of days. I skip down the stairs, make my way to the interview cubicle and open the door. The odor of fresh paint assaults me. Sitting before me is a lady who reminds me of Frankie. Yes, this lady has the same features, same hair, and except for her face paint, almost the same make-up. Brown eyes and red lips excluded, this woman’s face is covered in a high-gloss white that smells of enamel paint. A glistening, glossy, white face! I make a guess: meds was the issue the last visit and it hasn’t been addressed. Bob later tells me that she goes off her meds and the white enamel appears. Nevertheless, even encased in white, her natural beauty holds my attention once more.

She opens the meeting by sliding her head side to side, giving the room a feral sniff. The fierce look in her eyes, the harsh tone, the abrupt gestures on top of the white face paint – what’s going on? Her glare lands on me, drills through me and into the institutional grey wall behind me. Do I have prey stink on me? She speaks. Her tongue is spiced with anger, her tone condescending. For my part, I am about overcome by the cloak of face paint perfume. She is a force of nature. This time I recall nothing of our conversation beyond the last exchange.

As we are about to wind up our visit, I am impelled to ask, “Why did you paint your face white?”

Before a heart can make a beat, the answer flies in my face: “Why do you paint yours white?”