Original Love

by J. J. Murray

  I smile. “Even the part about ‘jumping bones’?”

  She giggles. “I almost gave it all away, didn’t I? You two must have jumped each other’s bones a lot back then.”

  My face flushes. Why am I so embarrassed now? Oh, right. Destiny is now my daughter, not a matchmaker. “Yeah, we were, um, pretty busy in that department. But why did she go to all that trouble when all she had to do was speak to me?”

  “That’s what I told her, too,” Destiny says. “See, we think alike. I like the direct approach, but Mama, well, she’s a little more careful.”

  “I’ll say.” I don’t want to ask the next question, but it’s been nagging at me. “Did Ebony, I mean, did your mama…Has your mama been depressed for the last five years?”

  Destiny starts to speak, then squints. “Where’s this coming from?”

  “Candace told me—”

  “What?” Destiny interrupts. “The bitch! Don’t tell her I called her a ‘bitch,’ I mean, I love her and all, and she is my only grandma, but…She told you Mama was depressed?”

  “She said that ever since my second book came out, your mama was on hate therapy or something.”

  Destiny laughs. “Well, she was, in a way, but she wasn’t seeing a psychiatrist, if that’s what you’re thinking. And she just loves your books to death, and so do I. Weren’t you just a little suspicious when I zeroed in on your book at the bookstore?”

  “It was a little strange, but…So your mama was in hate therapy, but she wasn’t seeing a psychiatrist.”

  “Right.”

  “You better explain.”

  “She should really tell you about it, not me.”

  “But she’s not here.”

  Destiny takes a deep breath, puffing out her cheeks, then lets it out quickly. “You didn’t hear this from me, okay?”

  “You’re sounding like Aunt Wee Wee.”

  “Aunt Wee Wee is my bud.” She rolls her eyes. “But I’d never smoke Camels. Yecch.”

  “You smoke?”

  “I’m an actress. I have to smoke. I don’t inhale, though.”

  “Good.”

  “Okay, what should I tell you about Mama’s hate-fests?” She grabs my arm and pulls me to my feet. “I think I’d rather show you.”

  She drags me through the house to a door going down narrow stairs to a pitch-dark cellar. She stops me at the bottom.

  “Um, aren’t you going to turn on the light?”

  “I will, but you have to be in the proper position first. Take three medium steps straight ahead.”

  “I can’t see a thing.”

  “Oh, you will.”

  I take those three steps, surprised that I don’t fall into a pit. “Okay, you can turn the lights on now.”

  “Ready?”

  “Yes.”

  She turns on the light, and all around me I see Ebony.

  On every easel and on nearly every patch of wall is a painting, drawing, tapestry, or watercolor of Ebony, but she isn’t smiling in any of them. She stares out windows, stands in doorways, sits on a hill overlooking the Sound, all alone with barely a sign of life in her face. Though they’re haunting, they’re also moving, with a consistent tone and mood, almost like an old Hopper painting of the lone person or a film noir from the forties with a touch of Gothic and Hitchcock. The effect is mesmerizing. I don’t understand all there is to understand about art, all those movements and isms and schools, but I don’t have to understand it to enjoy it. Everywhere I look in Ebony’s basement, I see a work of art that I enjoy and understand. And for some reason, they look familiar, as if I’ve seen something like them before, and not just because I remember Ebony’s early drawings.

  “Pretty spooky, huh? I call it Mama’s ‘Van Gogh Period.’”

  Van Gogh, who painted self-portraits when he was in an asylum. “When did she start doing these?”

  “I think I had just turned fourteen. I had braces then.” She flutters her eyes. “I wasn’t always this pretty, Daddy.”

  I doubt that. “Just out of the blue? She just starts doing self-portraits?”

  “Yeah. There used to be a mirror down here. She would stare into it for hours.”

  What happened six years ago? “I don’t understand the timing.”

  “Oh! I remember. It was about the time you and, um, your wife were separated.”

  No wonder I’ve forgotten. “How could Ebony know? We didn’t advertise it.” Who advertises a separation other than movie stars and politicians?

  Destiny shrugs. “She just knew somehow.”

  I try to imagine her at work in this cold cellar, try to see her hands working, her fingers flexing, her eyes…dull and dead? “Was she, um, a little depressed then?”

  “You mean was she crazy?”

  “No, I mean was she depressed?”

  “Maybe.” She looks back at the painting. “Yeah, I think so. She hummed a lot while she worked. And those tapestries—I thought she’d never finish them. She would sit at her loom working and humming for days, and then she’d bring them upstairs and start unstitching and humming. I’m not sure she ever left one of those tapestries completely alone.”

  An unfinished tapestry of half of Ebony’s cheerless face sits in the loom in the corner. Dull grays and blacks shout “I’m depressed!” but the effect is hypnotic.

  “What a show this would make,” I say. “It’s…it’s brilliant.”

  “Mama says she’s always wanted to have a showing of these somewhere. Think anyone would show up?”

  “Sure. I’ve never seen anything like this by any artist.” It’s the work of a genius. But to think that I was the cause!

  I hear Destiny sigh and see her sitting on the bottom step.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “Just thinking about, um, your daddy. Seeing these always makes me think of him.”

  My happy mood evaporates. “Why?”

  “Your daddy was just as gray when he, um, when he…” Her voice breaks. “When he died.”

  I squeeze in next to her and put my arm around her shoulders. “Mr. Cutter tells me you, uh, discovered him that day.”

  She nods. “It wasn’t so bad. He was old. And sad.”

  And I’m the reason for that, too. “So…what did you think of my dad?”

  “I thought he was cool, but he was so serious about everything. I used to laugh at him when he got too serious, right in his face. Then he’d cuss—he taught me every curse word I know—and then he’d smile and say, ‘Come here, you.’ Your daddy was just a teddy bear who only looked and sounded like a gruff, old grizzly bear.”

  I wish I could say the same. “Did he ever tell you any of his famous stories?”

  “All the time. I loved his stories.”

  “Most of them weren’t true.”

  “Oh, I knew that. But that’s what grandfathers are supposed to do, right? I asked him a million questions about you.”

  This I have to hear. “What did he say about me?”

  “That I was a better sailor than you.”

  I nod. “Very true.”

  “He said that you were a great baseball player.”

  “But he never even saw me play.”

  “Well, that’s what he said.”

  “Did he…did he ever tell you about a man dying in his arms?”

  “Marcus Minor?”

  She remembers? “Yeah, Marcus Minor. On the—”

  “USS Thompson,” she interrupts. “It’s one of the stories of his that he made me memorize.”

  That’s warped. “He made you memorize it?”

  “He told me you’d probably ask me about it one day.” She looks up the stairs. “But can I tell you upstairs? I’m getting cold.”

  I stare at the tapestry one more time. I hope Ebony finishes it with a smile, or maybe even a Mona Lisa half smile. No. I’ll bet da Vinci’s model just had a little gas. That wouldn’t do for Ebony at all.

  I follow Destiny upstairs, where we settle into the couch in front
of the window, Seven resting his huge snout between us.

  “I know most of the story,” I tell her. “Shore batteries hit the Thompson, and the Iowa came to the rescue, but how did Marcus Minor end up in the Captain’s arms?”

  She smiles. “I called him ‘Captain,’ too. Mama says I should have called him Grandpa or something boring like that. It was more fun calling him Captain.” She frowns. “I miss him a lot, you know? I mean, he was…he was like my dad for a few years.”

  I know how she feels. He was “like my dad” for a few years, too. “I just wish we hadn’t parted as enemies.”

  “But you didn’t.”

  “Oh, yes, we did.”

  “I don’t think so, Daddy. He told me to tell you that he respected you. ‘Make sure you tell Pete he earned my respect,’” she says in her version of the Captain’s voice, which gives me the shivers.

  “I don’t know how I did that. Everything I ever did after Mom left seemed to earn his disrespect.”

  She shrugs. “Maybe you earned it later.”

  Yeah, and maybe those are just empty words from a man close to meeting his Maker. “So tell me the story of Marcus Minor.”

  “I hope I get this right. The Thompson got hit, and the Iowa sailed inside the Thompson, you know, to shield it from more fire. They hooked the two boats together and started moving the wounded over. The Captain was out on deck at the time and helped Marcus Minor onto the Iowa. Marcus was burned up pretty bad. The Captain said he had never seen anyone burned so bad, almost like he wasn’t even human.”

  I get a shiver. I’ll bet that the Captain didn’t know Marcus was black, but the other blacks on board either ship, they would have known. They would have seen what the Captain did, would have seen a white man holding a dying black man’s hand. To them—and to me, now, with tears in my eyes—the Captain was a hero.

  “Anyway, Marcus wouldn’t let go of the Captain, and he kept saying, ‘Stay with me, don’t leave me.’ So the Captain stayed and held his hand until Marcus died.” She looks up to see me wipe a tear. “Then—now this is what the Captain said—then he said he cried, right there on the deck of the Iowa. He also said he only cried one other time in his life.” She looks at her hands. “It was on the way back from your wedding. He wouldn’t tell me why he cried, but I’ve always kinda hoped that he cried because you were marrying the wrong girl.”

  I can only nod and wipe the tears from my face. “I did marry the wrong girl.” I look out the window into the darkness. “And where is your mama anyway?” She was the right girl.

  “Like I said, she’s getting ready for a show.”

  “Where’s the show going to be?”

  She sits back and puts her chin in her hand. “You know, I’m not really sure. Want me to call her?”

  My hands start to tingle. “You think she’ll talk to me?”

  “Why wouldn’t she?”

  “Well, the first time I tried, she kept hanging up.”

  Destiny pats my hand. “That was two days ago. You shocked her, you know? She didn’t expect you to show up unannounced at Bethel with her looking all torn up.”

  “Your mama has never looked torn up.”

  “Um, no,” Destiny says with a giggle. “You haven’t lived with her. She can be right scary when she wants to be.”

  “But if she was reading my e-mails, then she knew I was coming to town, right?”

  “Right, but like I’ve said, my mama is very careful. She wants everything to be perfect, and you weren’t with the program that day, Daddy. You were just supposed to go to Grandma’s like I told you to.”

  She gets up and goes into the kitchen, my feet tapping staccato rhythms on the hardwood floor. I try to control my breathing, but my heart won’t let me.

  Destiny glides into the room, stumbling and nearly falling in front of the fireplace. That’s my child again. “Mama? Where you at?” She straightens a picture on the mantel and crosses her eyes at me as she listens. “So are you coming home tonight?”

  I hold my breath.

  “Oh, Mama, why not?”

  I exhale.

  “Look, there’s someone here who wants to speak to you, and the last time he tried to talk to you, you were rude and hung up on him. Please don’t do that again, okay?” She smiles at me, crossing her fingers. “Yes, it’s Daddy. Who else you think it’d be?” She covers the mouthpiece with her hand. “She says she’s really busy, so talk fast.”

  I stand and take the phone. “Hello, Ebony.”

  “Peter.”

  I can’t read her voice. It’s either tired…or angry. I’ll have to hope she’s just tired. “Thanks for speaking to me.” No response. “Destiny tells me you’re preparing for a big show.” Still no response. “Maybe I can come to it.” Still no response. My God, she’s stubborn. “Uh, where’s it going to be?”

  “Destiny knows. I have to go.” Click.

  “She hung up.” I toss the phone to Destiny. “She hung up again. I feel like tearing my hair out.”

  “Don’t do that, Daddy. You’d look funny bald.”

  I stretch my arms up to the ceiling. “What do I have to do to get her to talk to me?”

  Destiny steps behind me and rubs my back. “She’s just tired and cranky. She’s always this way before a show.”

  I turn sharply. “She says you know where the show is.”

  “But I don’t remember. Really. Want me to call her back?”

  I shake my head. “No, don’t bother. Your mama’s too busy to have a polite conversation, and I need to be getting home.”

  Destiny’s lips droop. “Do you have to go?”

  I caress her face. “I’d love nothing better than to catch up on the last nineteen years of your life, but we’ll have time for all that.”

  She nods.

  “Why don’t we go sailing sometime?”

  She smiles. “I’d like that, but not tomorrow.”

  “Why not tomorrow?”’

  “Um, I think it’s supposed to rain all day tomorrow.”

  “Oh.”

  She walks me to the door, and we embrace. “Good night, Daddy.”

  “Good night, Destiny. You, uh, are you going to be okay here by yourself?”

  She straightens my collar. “I’m used to it. Seven will protect me.”

  I spy Seven spread out and snoring in the kitchen. “I doubt it. He let me in without a fight.”

  “He knew you were family, Daddy.” She grabs my shoulders and turns me around. “Go home. I’ll be all right.”

  “Will I see you tomorrow?”

  “I doubt it…but you never know. I’m your Destiny, remember?”

  I hug her close to me and drink in the scent of her hair. “I’ll never forget.”

  13

  I creep back to the yacht club parking lot and wander down to the docks. A moon floats in the sky, a few clouds obscuring its face. Waves lick the shore and rock several orange Zodiacs. I step into one, start it up, and cruise barely above idle through yachts of all shapes and sizes, all battened down, all dark, all swaying in the moonlight.

  So much—too much—has happened today. My mind and my heart are overloaded and threatening to short-circuit. Today I learned that I had a daughter, almost said good-bye to the only real mother I remember, learned that my father respected me for some unknown reason, and heard Ebony’s voice—her angry, tired voice. I know I have to be patient, but this is getting ridiculous.

  I circle the Argo several times before tying on and climbing up the back ladder. The boat rocks gently, so gently. Maybe I can get ten hours of sleep, and all of this will make more sense in the morning. Maybe it will rain and I’ll sleep all day. I sure could use it.

  I open the cabin door, snap on the interior lights, descend, and stop short.

  I don’t see anyone, but I feel another presence. It’s not like a cold spot that psychics claim to feel in those horror movies, it’s just something different, something a little off.

  “Hello?” I ask, feeling i
nstantly foolish.

  No response. Damn, it’s like talking to Ebony on the phone.

  I shut the cabin door and start to peel off clothes and the weight of the day. By the time I get to the head and sit, I’m only in my boxers. Funny that I wear them. The Captain used to wear them, and I thought he was so old-fashioned. He also used to put on his socks and shoes before he put on his pants. I’ve never done that. I also never used Brylcreem or Vitalis. I’m sure their stock has plummeted now that he’s gone.

  After I flush, I get that feeling again. I listen and hear…nothing. Not even that creak. I must be drunk tired.

  I stagger from the head to the galley, snap off the lights, and stumble to my berth, and as soon as I hit the mattress, I’m falling, oh falling so fast to sleep, but I don’t hear the creak—

  I jump up and bump my head. When am I ever going to learn not to do that?

  Creaks don’t fix themselves. That creak is probably seventy years old, yet tonight when I need it to help me fall asleep, it’s silent.

  I feel my way back to the galley and open the refrigerator before I remember I haven’t bought anything to—

  A bottle of Asti Spumante stares back at me. And the light in the refrigerator works. I didn’t think that light ever worked. I pick up the bottle. 1998. The Captain couldn’t have left it here, so how’d it get in there?

  I smile. That daughter of mine. A welcome-home gift. I wonder if she knows that it’s her mama’s favorite. Just a glass or two and Ebony was feeling fine. Those were the days…

  I wonder what else Destiny has left me, so I leave the refrigerator door open, its light filling the cabin. I open a cupboard and see Easy Cheese and a box of Chicken in a Biskit crackers. Ebony used to snack on these. Maybe Destiny has her mama’s tastes.

  I search several other cupboards and don’t find anything, not even a speck of dust. Destiny takes better care of this boat than I ever did.

  Maybe a snack and the Asti will help me fall asleep. I really shouldn’t drink, but after the day I’ve had, I deserve something. And if that doesn’t work, I can always pop a muscle relaxer or two.

  After peeling the foil off the top of the bottle, I twist the wire basket until it falls into the sink. I’ve never been good at popping the cork, so I aim the bottle at the Captain’s urn, which is solid enough to withstand anything. I twist the cork slowly, squinting just in case, and then—POP! That wasn’t so—