Finally, we entered the large family room. It looked like something out of Town and Country magazine. I quickly realized Porter’s idea of “just family” extended to friends of his parents and an abundance of laughing, teenage girls. His mother explained she’d also invited her students who didn’t have stable homes or were food insecure. It seemed as if Porter’s kindness and generosity was the byproduct of amazing parents.
The incredibly large television was blasting football while calypso music was simultaneously playing. I recognized the man in the recliner as Porter’s stepfather, Desmond. He was talking to a guy balancing two toddlers, a boy and girl, on his knee. I assumed that the man was Porter’s brother, Todd. They looked like they were having a bit of a spirited argument. I felt nervous, as if I was intruding. I looked down and in front of Todd were several beer bottles and an empty rocks glass.
“Everyone,” announced Eloise. “This is Ari. Porter’s...coworker. They’re working on the soccer stadium project together.”
Everyone turned around to look at me. I heard a couple of coughs and felt a few uneasy stares. The teenage girls were whispering and giggling. I wanted to run and hide, but I felt Porter’s hand on my shoulder. I quickly scanned the room and landed upon Porter’s brother Todd. His brother’s expression was blank, maybe a little confused. After Eloise’s introduction, Desmond got out of his seat and approached us. He hugged me and kissed me on the cheek.
“Eh eh! Porter never say he coworker was so beautiful!” he said in a very thick accent.
“And Porter never mentioned that his stepfather was so talented. I love all the paintings.” I extended my hand toward his and he kissed the top of it.
“Thank you, dahlin!”
I smiled. He reminded me of my father, who was also smooth as silk at charming people.
Eloise shook her head and laughed. “You know how to get on his good side, Ari! Gold star for you!”
Desmond’s booming laugh rose above the noise of the living area. Just then, a woman who could have been a carbon copy of Halle Berry, carrying a tray of charcuterie, entered the room. She placed the tray down on the ottoman between the guests and walked over to extend her hand toward me.
“Hi, Ari! Porter’s told us so much about you! I’m Kim, Todd’s wife. Must be odd to be in that weird environment of all-men. Girl, I know how that is. I’m the lead prosecutor in my district. Only Black girl, too. I’m sure we could trade war stories.” Kim spoke just as fast as Eloise. Before she could say anything else, her children jumped off Todd’s lap and were beckoning her to play with them. “Sorry. The munchkins want me! Nice to meet you! We’ll talk soon!” She smiled and excused herself. Even in that brief exchange, I knew I liked Kim.
“Come with me,” said Eloise quietly. “You’ll have enough time to meet everyone and have them give you the third degree.”
She led me into an immaculate kitchen that rivaled that of a five-star restaurant with its sparkling stainless steel, copper pots that hung down, and granite countertops. But the smells! It was heavenly. The massive island was covered with cuisine representing the entire diaspora. From rice and peas to corn bread dressing and tamales, Eloise had it all covered. She waved me over to a massive cast iron pot on her Viking stove. She opened it and the fragrant smell of gumbo wafted in the air. My stomach growled in response.
“It looks amazing, Eloise,” I said. “And smells incredible.”
Eloise smiled as she picked up a wooden spoon and stirred. “My first husband, Senior. He taught me how to make gumbo. He was a New Orleans boy through and through. And he told me if I wanted to be with him, I had to know what a roux was. I was a country, west Texas girl. Living in my little town of Armonia, which was full of Black and Brown folks, I could make tamales just as easily as I could a pot of greens. But learning Creole cooking was something else entirely. He was so patient with me. In this very pot, I burned every roux I made at first until I got it just right. The perfect roux is a science. It takes time and patience. You can’t turn your back on it.”
Eloise stopped stirring and looked at me wistfully. “I remember the first time I went to New Orleans to meet his family. It was also the first time I had gumbo. It was fall break at Hampton Institute, as they called it back then. You went to Hampton too, right?” She barely waited for my nod before continuing. “Anyway, Senior was so proud to show me off. He got dressed in his Navy ROTC uniform. He looked so handsome. Like a movie star in uniform. I wore the best dress I had, a little yellow shift dress my mama had made. It was a little tight because I was a few months pregnant with Porter. I had pressed my massive afro with a hot comb, and it was barely brushing my shoulders. I was this scared, pregnant, almost twenty-year-old college junior trying to present my best self, just like my parents taught me. When I got to the door of this big mansion near the French Quarter, their maid, without even looking at Senior or batting an eye, said, ‘Miss, if you’re here for the catering job, you’re late.’ Shock ripped through me. Senior had grossly downplayed his family’s wealth. I was a dark-skinned, gangly country girl who grew up on a cattle ranch in Texas, working side by side with Mexican immigrants. Didn’t know a thing about high society Black folks. First off, they had a maid. I did not know Black folks had maids. That was some new stuff to me!”
We both laughed. She motioned for one of the staff to take over stirring the gumbo. Eloise put her arm around my shoulder and led me to the plush, white leather barstools in front of the kitchen island.
She continued. “Senior said, ‘No, Tilly, this is Eloise. My fiancée.’ The absolute look of horror on that woman’s face, which was, ironically, my complexion. Those looks of horror didn’t stop because, child, the good Senator Armand Pierre Honoré Harrison, and his wife looked like they wanted to pass out. I was ‘unrefined,’ his mother said. They were literally blue-veined, aristocratic folks whose ancestors were free people of color. I was a girl who knew how to steer a bull better than I knew my salad fork from my dinner fork. Mother Harrison said I was ‘sullying their legacy.’”
I felt sick to my stomach hearing how Eloise was treated. Porter told me his grandfather was still alive and healthy, nearing ninety. Would his grandfather feel the same way about me, too? Would he think Porter was sullying his legacy with a fat, Black girl?
Eloise continued. “During dinner, I think I saw the old bat wipe away tears. I kept quiet and continued eating that gumbo, which was one of the few things my pregnant hormones could handle. So, I sat there, eating delicious gumbo, and answering their questions with ‘yes sir’ or ‘no ma’am.’ His father was livid but had the good decency to show his anger in private with Senior. Senator told his oldest son that he’d disown him if he married me. Senior stood his ground. He said I was the smartest, prettiest girl he’d ever met. He would not give me or his baby up and he didn’t need their money. We were getting married, with or without their blessing.”