Illustration by Deborah Ann Cidboy

Smoking at the Savoy Dear Sage: Mama is eighty and lives with my wife and me. Mama smokes, which is bad enough, and she tends to go into a sort of trance, with a lit cigarette in her hand. Several times, she’s burned her fingers. I’m afraid she’ll start a fire. What is your advice? Al in Alabama Dear Al: Two things you MUST do. The cigarettes have to go. Be gently persuasive if possible, firm if necessary. And, your mother needs medical attention. What you call a “trance” could be the early stages of Alzheimer’s. The sooner you get a diagnosis, the better. Sage

A girl can do so much with a cigarette. Just the fact that she’s smoking says she’s mature, experienced, a woman of the world. Mysterious behind her veil of smoke, she may be waving a wand or wielding a subtle weapon. Who knows? And, her choice of smoke heightens the mystery. Marrakech? Paris? San Francisco? At the same time, she can use the ritual of the cigarette to accentuate her femininity. For one thing, there’s the business of holding it. Ever so lightly, always between the first two fingers of the left hand, with the wrist bent away from the face, graceful as only a lady can be. On the right occasion, she will accept a cigarette and a light from a gentleman. Their hands touch, she whispers her gratitude, he catches a hint of her perfume, he gives her fire and is left full of it. Richard has come to the lobby, as I have, for an after-dinner smoke. I know his name because, while coming in to dinner last evening, I inquired about a certain table and the Maitre D’ said it was permanently reserved for the man known only as Richard. As is his custom, Richard is sitting with his back to the wall, reading The Financial Times and smoking a short, unfiltered cigarette—Camel is my first guess, but maybe something unanticipated, Egyptian or Indian. He smokes like a man sure of himself—crisp movement, deep inhale, forceful exhale. I open my little gold lamé evening bag and remove my pearl inlay cigarette case. Daddy gave it to me, despite Mother’s disapproving glare, the day I left for college. Daddy’s little girl is all grown up now and needs grown-up accessories, he said as he slipped it into the pocket of my linen jacket. Now, it captures a glimmer from the cut glass chandelier and tosses it around the lobby. I love these European hotels, with their blended bouquets of chamber music and cognac. The movement of reflected light captures Richard’s attention. I take a Karelia from the case. Hardly a woman’s cigarette, but it’s the only reminder I have left from the summer of my Greek seaman. I lift it to my lips, where Richard’s gaze remains while I take my lighter from my purse. It’s the silver Ronson Billy gave me the night before his unit shipped out, engraved with something very private, in French. Billy and I always used the rare occasions of our intimacies to practice our French. Poor, sweet, doomed Billy. But, a girl must get on with her life. I pause, then click-flare-click and it’s lit. Richard collapses the newspaper onto his lap and leans forward. With fingers longer and slimmer than the cigarette, I take it from my lips and hold it aside. I tilt my head back and release a slow stream of smoke in his direction. Through the smoke, I see him sink back into his chair and smile. “Al. She’s at it again.” “What?” “Sitting there, with her eyes closed, waving her cigarette around like some movie star.” “She’s okay.” “Hello? Is this more denial? If you don’t believe me, believe Sage. You wrote to her.” “My mistake.” “Al, we have to do something. I’m willing to take care of her, but I’m not going to be burned up by her. Take her cigarettes now and take her to the doctor tomorrow.” The Sûreté agents are on the other side of the lobby. They’ve recognized me. They have their heads together. The female agent whispers to her male counterpart, tells him to take me now. But he isn’t sure and that gives me time. Hoping to appear unhurried, I crush out my cigarette in the crystal ashtray. I risk an unmasked glance at Richard, but he’s watching the Sûreté. He’s already finished his cigarette and now he puts his newspaper aside. Even from across the room, I see his knuckles whiten on the arms of his chair. Then, he returns my glance and nods toward the big, brass-trimmed double doors that open to the avenue. I rise. Careful. Haste will create unwanted alarm. Careful. “Al. She’s headed for the door.” “Cool it. She’s got her purse, so she’s going to the Piggly Wiggly for more cigarettes.” “Sure. And, maybe, like last week, she’ll throw herself into the arms of the postman and thank him for rescuing her from the Chinese warlord.” “Okay, okay. I’ll keep an eye on her.” The bad cop remains seated but the good cop is up, following me. Now, Richard, now! jimmy carl harris This story and illustration will be published in the Birmingham Arts Journal and is featured in my new short story collection, Wounds that Bind.