by J. J. Murray
Ouch. “I wouldn’t think of doing that, Candace.”
“Sure.”
“Really.” Painful silence fills the room. “Was, um, was Destiny born in Brooklyn?”
“No. Destiny was born down in Virginia. She spent the first six months of her life down there surrounded by the southern Mills family. She don’t have the accent, though. She’s pure Long Island now.”
Born in March, six months in Virginia…“And when did you come back?”
“Think it was September. And I did have the mail held all that time. Didn’t let Ebony see any of it, though.”
I kneel in front of her. “If you had just let her read one of those letters, just one, none of this would have happened.”
She blinks. “Are you blaming me for this mess? And you better not be blaming me for you getting Ebony pregnant in the first place.”
“No. I’m just saying that I would have…I would have—”
“Would have done what? Quit school and married her?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t believe that for a second.”
“I would have.”
“And what would you have had to offer her? Huh? Your daddy wouldn’t have let you live with him, right?”
I hadn’t thought of this. “Right.”
“And this house couldn’t contain all of us. What kind of a job could you have gotten with only one year of college? What kind of support could you have given to my daughter and granddaughter? I was just saving y’all the grief of a bad marriage.”
“How do you know we’d have had a bad marriage?”
“Oh, come on. You should know all the statistics. Kids who get married don’t stay married long, especially if there’s no money in the house. And don’t give me no jazz about our love would have seen us through. Love is good, but a healthy paycheck is better.”
A little light goes on in my head. “So it wasn’t because I was white.”
“Haven’t you been listening? You were too young, too irresponsible, and had nothing to offer my child. It wouldn’t have mattered if you were black, Asian, Hispanic, Danish, or whatever you are.”
I smile in spite of all she’s said. “So you liked me.”
“I’m about to get Gladys to take you to the funny farm, boy. Liked you? Puh-lease. Why would I ever like you?”
“You liked me, Luwanna, and your daughter loved me.”
“Boy, you need you some lithium cuz you’re on a bad trip—”
I take her trembling hands. “You may have even loved me, Luwanna. I know I loved you. You were my mother, too.” I search her eyes as a few of my tears fall.
“I wasn’t your mama,” she says, her voice shaking slightly.
I kiss the backs of her hands. “You were the best mama I ever had. I’ve been meaning to thank you, so…thank you.” I release her hands and stand. “I’ll stay away from Ebony, though I don’t want to, but I’m not staying away from Destiny, and I’m not staying away from you.” More tears flow, and I have to wipe them away to see Candace clearly. “I used to have this little card in my wallet, had it in there ever since my daddy died. Know what it said? It said, ‘Cremate me and spread my ashes over Mrs. Candace Mills’s garden.’ I don’t know if they ever would have found you, but that’s what it said. It’s out in the ashtray in the car. Want me to get it?”
She whirrs away from me. “No, no. I believe you.”
“Well, I better be going.” Where and to do what, I have no idea. “Um, do you play cards every Tuesday?”
“Yes.”
“As soon as I have a phone, I’ll give you the number, and any time you need a fourth person, just give me a call.” Candace doesn’t respond, but I see her shoulders shaking. “I’ll let myself out.”
I take a few steps toward the door when I hear Candace whisper, “Wait.”
I turn and see her, tears in her eyes. “Yes?”
“Damn, boy, you…you, uh, loved us all.”
Eyes misting again, I nod. “You were my family.”
She wrestles with her hands for a few moments then looks up, her eyes soft. “You know anything about hate therapy?”
“No, ma’am, I don’t.”
“Well, you better read up, get all the ammunition you can. Cuz…cuz I’m about to let you undo five years of hate therapy.”
“What?”
“I said … that you can…see my daughter. I’ll even tell you where and when, but then it’s all on you, boy, all on you.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Mills.”
“It’s Luwanna.”
“Okay. Thank you, Luwanna.”
She waves in the direction of the hallway. “Your letters are in two shoeboxes inside a hatbox tied with a red ribbon on a shelf in Wee Wee’s closet. I don’t have to tell you what to do with them.”
“Are all of them in there?”
She nods. “You were a good writer even back then.”
“You read them?”
More tears. “Yep. Every last one of ’em. William never wrote me anything like that, and I wish to God that I had let Ebony see ’em, but that’s a decision I’ve lived with and will have to live with for the rest of my life. I hope you can forgive me.”
I kiss her cheek. “I forgive you, Luwanna.”
“Now go on, get your letters.”
I race down the hallway and tap on Aunt Wee Wee’s door. “Aunt Wee Wee? It’s me, Peter. Can I come in?”
I hear a window shutting. “Come on in, Pete.”
I open the door, and smoke billows around me into the hallway. Estelle and Aunt Wee Wee look like teenagers caught smoking by their parents for the first time, their hands in their laps, their eyes on the floor.
“I won’t tell,” I say, and I open the closet. There on a high shelf is the hatbox, a bloodred ribbon holding it closed. I reach up to shake it from under another hatbox and pull it toward me—but it’s too light. One hundred letters should weigh more than this! I untie the ribbon, pop off the lid, and see two empty shoeboxes.
“Aunt Wee Wee, has anyone been in your closet recently?”
Aunt Wee Wee smiles. “Another pack of Camels will get me to tell.”
I say, “I’ll get you some,” and Estelle claps her hands.
“Destiny been in there, Pete.”
“When?”
“The other day, I don’t know. I’m old, Pete. Time don’t mean shit to me anymore. Now don’t you forget them smokes.”
“I won’t.”
I return to Candace, who is sipping some lemonade at the card table. “Destiny has the letters.”
“She’s a sneaky thing, that one. Said she was looking for a hat to wear for an audition.”
“She needed a hat for a dance audition?”
Candace laughs. “She told you she was a dancer?”
“Yes.”
“Peter, your child has no kinda rhythm, just like you. That child is an actress. She been tryin’ to get a walk-over or a background role on a soap opera for the last year and a half.”
My daughter’s an actress? “But she’s so graceful.”
“Trust me, Peter. She has to concentrate to be graceful. Never known a more accident-prone child. She used to come home from your daddy’s boat with at least one bruise or bump or scrape every Saturday night. You have to ask her about the time she tried to play golf and came home with a broken nose. It’s why her nose is a little crooked.”
“She got hit in the nose with a ball?”
“No. Somehow the child hit herself in the nose with a golf club. That’s clumsy, ain’t it?”
I wince. I once hit my own nose with a baseball bat. Destiny’s my child, all right. “So, what should I do? Should I call her? We’ve been e-mailing each other back and forth for a few days now.”
“You’ve been e-mailing Destiny?”
“Yeah. So?”
“That child doesn’t have a computer of her own. The girl don’t even have a job.”
“Maybe she goes to a public library.” Which makes
no sense as soon as I say it. She was online well before most libraries open.
Candace starts to laugh, and it takes her several minutes and the rest of her lemonade to calm down. “Peter, we’ve both been had.”
“What?”
“Don’t you see? Where do you think Destiny lives?”
All this time I was thinking she was older and had a place of her own, but she’s been—“She lives in Ebony’s house on Fairchild Street.”
“Yep.”
“And she’s been writing e-mails using Ebony’s computer.”
Candace smiles broadly. “I doubt it. The child barely passed English.”
“You mean—”
Candace nods. “I’ll bet the two of them have been sitting there just a-grinnin’ and typing away.” She slaps the arms of her chair. “Peter, you been talking to both of them the entire time, I’ll bet, the little hoochies. But why’d they put me in the middle of this mess! The nerve! I was about to turn you out completely not ten minutes ago, and they’ve been—I don’t like being had, Peter, not by my own daughter and granddaughter.”
I’ve already been talking to Ebony? And Ebony has already read all those old letters?
And I’m still standing here?
I glance at the door.
“I know what you’re thinking, boy. Get me the phone. At least let’s make sure they’re both home this time.”
“No,” I say. “I want it to be a surprise.” Like a conquering hero, like a man on a quest. Knights didn’t call in advance, and neither will I. What did I write a few days ago? A quest just wouldn’t be any fun if she found me first.
“You sure?”
“Yeah.”
“What if no one’s there?”
I smile. “You have a key?”
She nods. “Now you’re thinking. It’s in the kitchen on one of the hooks next to the door.”
I go into the kitchen to get the key and see Gladys smiling from ear to ear and dabbing at her eyes with a Kleenex.
“I think it’s all so beautiful, Peter,” she says. She holds up a copy of The Devil to Pay. “I’ve read this book three times now, and it just keeps getting better.”
“Are you in on this, too, Gladys?”
“I’ll never tell.” She sighs. “Go get her.”
“I will.”
I nearly collide with Candace on my way back into the living room. “Gladys, what’s this I hear about you being in on this?”
“Why, Mrs. Mills, I’m only here to make sure you’re well taken care of,” Gladys says.
“I never should have hired you, woman. You’re too much of a nosy-body—”
“And you didn’t hire me, Mrs. Mills,” Gladys says. “Remember?”
Candace blinks. “I thought I did.”
Gladys winks at me. “It’s the medication, dear. Ebony hired me to look after you.”
Candace turns to me. “Never have a daughter, Peter. Wait a minute. Too late. Um, you had better be careful of what Destiny has in store for you when you get old.”
I kiss her forehead. “Whatever it is, I just can’t wait.”
12
If there had been any Huntington town police on West Shore Road, I doubt they would have been able to catch me. I park in the empty driveway and am staring at Seven’s drooling mug in less than five minutes, but as soon as I turn the key, I hesitate. Will Seven take to me or will he take a bite out of me?
I stick my head in first, which is a stupid thing to do. Seven jumps up and puts his entire six-foot frame on the door and licks me up and down. “You’re not much of a guard dog, are you, Seven?” Were the Danish ever good at defending anything?
After shutting the door behind me and batting Seven’s head from between my legs, I walk over to the fireplace and see photograph after photograph of my little girl growing up, while Seven sniffs my pant legs. I will have to commit these pictures to memory, and maybe one day I’ll remember her as a child without the help of pictures.
I wander down a short hallway to the kitchen. Spotless. Beautiful walnut cabinets with a matching walnut table and chairs. So much light shines into this house on all this dark wood. God, I love these contrasts.
I stand in front of a skinny flight of stairs going to the second floor, while Seven’s tail thumps against my leg. “Should I go up, Seven?”
Seven barks.
“I don’t know if I should.”
Seven barks again and thunders past me up the stairs.
“Well, I guess I could—”
“Seven! You’re not supposed to be up here!” a female voice shouts. “Git!”
Ebony’s here? But there wasn’t a car in the driveway! I back away from the stairs and fall back into a kitchen chair.
First, I see a set of manicured toes on the stairs, then the sculpted, toast-colored legs…of my daughter. When she gets far enough down the stairs, she sees me and smiles.
“Hi, Daddy.”
Where’s my voice?
“You lookin’ for Mama?”
I nod.
“She’s not here. You hungry?”
I can only nod. Why can’t I speak?
She slips past me, Seven trailing behind, and opens the refrigerator. “You like macaroni salad?”
“Um, yes.” There’s my voice.
Seven tries to worm his head into the refrigerator. “Seven, stop! Mama makes her macaroni salad from scratch, so you know it’s better than the shit you get at the store.” She stands straight up and stares at me. “Are you always this quiet?”
“I’m just…I’m…I’m amazed.”
“That I’d offer you macaroni salad or that Mama makes macaroni salad from scratch or that I just said ‘shit’ or…something else?”
The tears start again. “Can you…can you come over here and give your daddy a hug, Destiny?”
“Hmm. Gonna have to think about that.” She shuts the refrigerator door, nearly taking off the tip of Seven’s nose. “Finished.” Then she runs to me and tries to hug the life out of me, while Seven barks.
Neither of us speaks, unless sobbing and sighing for ten minutes while a Great Dane slobbers on both of us is a conversation. She places me back in my chair, sits next to me, and won’t let go of my hand.
“You’re quite an actress, little girl.”
“Thank you. But did you really think I was twenty-eight?”
“Yes. I feel so foolish.”
She winces. “And wrinkly. You gonna wear that to see Mama after twenty years?”
I look at my clothes, the shirt Destiny picked out looking almost ragged. “Guess I better go change before—When does she usually get home?”
“I’m not sure if she’s coming home tonight. She’s busy getting a show together.”
“A show?”
“Yeah, of all her work, Dad.”
She called me “Dad”! My eyes mist up again. “You’ll have to forgive me if I tear up at a moment’s notice, okay?”
“Okay.” She squeezes my hand. “Hey, you have to settle a bet me, Mama, and Grandma have. They say I look more like Mama, but I say I look more like you.”
I drink her in again, this time with my newly acquired father’s eyes. “Aside from the streaks in your hair—mine streaks, too, when I’m out in the sun a lot—and your nose, I’m afraid I’ll have to agree with them, Destiny. I could never have made anyone as beautiful as you without your mama.”
Destiny rolls her eyes. “You’re only saying that so you can get on Mama’s good side. I know deep down that you agree with me.”
I only wish I could. “Um, I didn’t think anyone would be home. Where’s your car?”
“What car?”
“The Honda from the other night.”
“Oh. That’s Mama’s car. I’m not even supposed to be driving. I have my license and everything, but I’m only supposed to be driving to and from work because of a tiny little accident I had last month on the LIE. But since I don’t have a job—yet—I’m kind of stuck walking or riding my bike unless
Mama is in a forgiving mood. I have another audition later this week.”
“For a soap opera?”
“Yeah.”
“Which one?”
She wrinkles up her nose, just like her mama. “You know, I don’t remember. They’re all the same to me. I just want to be seen.”
“I’m sure you’ll get the part this time.”
“I hope so.”
I have a thought. “But if you drove your mama’s car that night, she had to know about our date.”
“Knew about it? Mama set it up.”
My mouth drops open.
“Don’t be so surprised, Daddy. I was surprised, too, and she’s my mama. I didn’t know I was even going on a date with you till she said, ‘Girl, you’re meeting your daddy at Xando tonight, put on your sailor outfit, and act like you’re a friend of mine trying to get us back together.’”
“I’m confused.” I am. “So ‘Ebony-three-fifteen-eighty-two’ isn’t your screen name?”
“No. Why would I put ‘Ebony’ in front of my birthday?” She flairs her nose. “I am ‘Destinique-Seven,’ thank you very much.”
Ebony answered my original e-mail as Destiny, then set up our date, then—“Have you even read any of my e-mails?”
“I haven’t seen any of them. Mama is a very private person, Daddy. I thought you knew that.”
“So it wasn’t you on all those Instant Messages?”
“You Instant Messaged me? That’s so sweet, but it wasn’t me.”
I had been manipulated that day, but by Ebony, not Destiny. And today, I just wrote a heartfelt letter to my daughter that her mother probably read.
“You looked stressed, Daddy.”
“I am. Um, did you tell her everything I told you at the beach?”
She jumps up, says, “Wait a sec,” and zips upstairs. She returns with a microcassette recorder, placing it in front of me. “Most of our conversation is on there. I, um, forgot to turn it on at Xando, and, uh, it ran out of tape before I drove away, so, um, Mama doesn’t know about Cece Wrenn. I wouldn’t tell her about Cece if I were you.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“Mama’s very thorough.”
“She taped our conversation?”
“Relax, Daddy, she liked what she heard.”
