by Gwen Florio
It came to Kwame so slowly that Grace could almost see the words forming before he spoke them. ‘My college. That’s what paid for it.’
What was there to lose by telling him? ‘Yes.’
‘Tuition at Gilman?’
‘Yes.’
‘Moving Daddy and Mama’ – he threw a glance at Penelope; for the rest of his life, Mama would now come with an asterisk – ‘out of the city.’
‘Yes.’
The next question came slowly.
‘What’d he get for his money?’
The answer came from Penelope, the quaver suddenly gone from her voice.
‘She kept her mouth shut, that’s what. My father thought he was buying protection for me, so that nobody would ever know. But there’s more to it than that, isn’t there, Grace?’
She was a mess, hair coming out of its bun and hanging white and stringy around her face, mouth long since chewed free of lipstick. But spite firmed up her features, and Grace registered the malicious enjoyment she took in her next words.
‘Hard for your brother to be the great black martyr when he sneaked away from the cause every chance he got to be with a white girl.’
FIFTY-TWO
Penelope knew that the First Families of Chateau would have viewed it as some sort of Mandingo scenario, she and Bobby lust-crazed by the mere proximity of flesh of a different hue.
It wasn’t like that.
She was an only child. Not even a sister, let alone a brother, so boys were alien. And the boys in school were hardly the best introduction, sworn enemies for the first few years, then all of a sudden the girls were supposed to turn around and like them, those same smelly creatures who had pulled their hair, called them names and punched their arms as they sprinted past. Then, seemingly a minute later, they were ogling the girls’ chests, snapping bra straps and trying to grind up against them at school dances. And the girls were meant to enjoy that?
Bobby was different.
Penelope, thrown off her stride by the unfamiliar presence of a black boy her own age – how in the world was she supposed to act around him? – was relieved when he didn’t even talk to her for the longest time. At most, he’d nod from his perch on the ladder when she went down to the river for a dip off the dock. The couple of times she’d gone to pool parties in town, the boys wolf-whistled at the sight of her in her new two-piece, but Bobby just went back to sliding his squeegee down a pane, flicking the excess water away at the last minute.
When he finally did talk to her, that day she came into the kitchen as Grace was murdering the dough for beaten biscuits, he teased her, but in a gentle way that was new to her, one that made her want to tease him back, just to see that slow smile spread across his face.
And that’s all it was. She’d join him and Grace when they took their breaks, the three of them sitting sideways in the patio chairs, legs dangling over the wrought-iron arms, sucking on cherries and tossing the pits at each other. Even Grace would unbend a little, although she always played the big-sister role, treating Penelope and Bobby like troublesome younger siblings.
It could have gone on like that forever, except for the day Todd came by to take Penelope to Ocean City. She wasn’t wild about Todd, but the other girls oohed and aahed over him as if he was God’s gift to the distaff side of Chateau High. He was handsome in an almost-cartoonish way, all blond hair and jutting jaw, and shoulders that made you wonder why he chose baseball over football. The fact that he was a senior and Penelope was only a sophomore gave things even more cachet, despite the fact that he was dumber than the proverbial box of rocks.
Still, she had a boyfriend, something that seemed to be required in high school. A friend just laughed after Penelope told her about the time Todd offered her a ride home from school but pulled on to the marsh road to the Beach instead, stopping the car and turning to her all unzipped and a smile on his face as though the pale stalk emerging from his pants were a precious gift. ‘They all do that,’ her friend said.
Penelope slapped him that day and he promised never again, which is why she agreed to the Ocean City outing a few weeks later. But something happened before she and Todd left. She, Grace and Bobby were taking one of their breaks when Todd arrived. Penelope went upstairs to get ready, and when she came back down, their glasses lay in shards, glittering against the green of the patio’s mossy bricks.
Grace looked at her wild-eyed, as though she hardly recognized her. Bobby’s hands were clenched. His chest heaved. Kathleen Mavourneen paced a few yards away, whining softly, tail low, sure signs of agitation. Only Todd seemed unchanged. ‘Let’s go,’ he said, grabbing Penelope’s arm and steering her through the house and into his car before she could object, waving off her questions by accusing her of having an overactive imagination.
She didn’t wait for the traditional mid-morning break the next day but confronted Grace in the kitchen as soon as she was sure her parents were gone. Grace was making beaten biscuits again, and this time there’d be no need for Bobby to urge more force. She walloped that dough so hard the whole counter shook. Penelope had to yell to make herself heard. ‘Grace. Grace!’
She whirled to face Penelope with the rolling pin raised high. ‘What you want?’
Penelope jumped back. She waited until Grace lowered her arm.
‘I just wondered what happened yesterday.’
Grace’s free hand strayed to her chest. ‘Nothing.’
‘On the patio. Something happened out there.’
‘Oh, that. I dropped the tray.’ She turned back to the dough.
‘No. Something else. While I was upstairs.’
Grace dealt the dough a blow so vicious the rolling pin splintered, one end flying across the kitchen. She shoved the other, jagged-tipped, in Penelope’s direction.
‘Now look what you made me do. How am I going to finish these biscuits? Get out of my kitchen.’
Penelope got out.
For once, Bobby was not washing windows, though the ladder leaned against the wall at one of the guest rooms just past Penelope’s bedroom. She wondered why he even bothered. Nobody ever stayed in those rooms, which dated to the days of horse and carriage, when previous Smythes threw fancy dress balls and the guests stayed over for days, the men hunting ducks at dawn, the ladies rowing sedately on the river at midday.
Of course, Bobby had no way of knowing that. His instructions were to wash windows and so he did, creating sparkling new views for Quail House’s residents and visitors alike. Penelope checked the sheds, but they stood musty and empty. She did a slow circuit around the house, thinking to find him weeding one of the flowerbeds. But the peonies bobbed heavy-headed, undisturbed by anything but a breeze just strong enough to discourage all but the most bloodthirsty greenheads. She flicked a couple from the tender skin inside her elbow and continued her search.
She found him up on a stepstool, going after the boxwood with the hedge clippers, branches flying high from his energetic slashes, landing in heaps at his feet. Mindful of how Grace had turned on her with the rolling pin, she called out in plenty of time. ‘Hey, Bobby.’
Even so, she found herself staring at the pointy ends of those blades, their gleaming surfaces smeared waxy green with vanquished leaves. He saw her looking and snapped them shut. He stepped down from the stool and set them aside.
‘Hey, Penelope.’ He wiped his brow. She wished she’d brought him something to drink.
‘What happened here yesterday?’
‘Here?’ He looked around at the surrounding hedges, taller than their heads. ‘These things grew another two inches, seems like.’
Penelope was tired of being treated as if she was stupid and said as much.
‘Something happened out on the patio. When I was upstairs. And don’t tell me it was nothing, the way your sister and Todd did.’
‘Todd told you nothing happened? Yeah, I’ll bet he did.’
She folded her arms and waited.
He sighed and looked away. ‘Look. I hones
tly don’t know. But something happened between Todd and Grace.’
‘What do you think it was?’
‘I think he put some kind of a move on her.’
‘So?’ She thought of Todd that day in the car, the way he grabbed her hand and tried to put it on him. She’d slapped him so hard it left a mark on his face and told him never to try anything like that again. And he hadn’t.
‘All she had to do was tell him to knock it off.’
He bestowed a look upon her, a hurtful mixture of pity and contempt. ‘That might be all you have to do. But it’s different for Grace.’
Even as he spoke, her mind went elsewhere. She should have been more upset at the thought of Todd going after Grace. But she wasn’t, not at all. A twinge of relief shot through her at Bobby’s words. She finally had an excuse to break up with Todd. It would be tricky to explain at school. But all she’d have to do is say, ‘He’d rather be with another girl,’ which would set off the sort of feeding frenzy that would sweep away any further questions.
She jerked her attention back to Bobby. ‘What do you mean, it’s different for Grace?’
Contempt overtook pity. ‘She’s supposed to tell a white boy to knock it off?’
Penelope’s hands went to her hips.
‘Yes. Because things are different now.’
‘What if I made a move on you? You think I’d get away with you just telling me to knock it off?’
Their eyes locked. Penelope’s hands fell to her side.
‘I wouldn’t tell you to knock it off.’
As soon as Penelope said it, she knew the truth of it. She saw the surprise and doubt in Bobby’s eyes.
His kiss started angry, plenty of ‘Oh, yeah?’ in it, and then turned soft and sweet, and went on and on, her arms sliding around him and his around her, and that’s how it began.
FIFTY-THREE
The keys lay in the middle of the table where Kwame had thrown them.
‘I need some air. I’m gonna walk home. Grace, you can take the car.’
He crashed out of the house before any of them could stop him.
Penelope’s lips thinned and stretched in a smile. ‘Happy now, Grace?’
Grace sat so still Nora wondered if she was even breathing.
Penelope patted her hair back into some semblance of order.
‘Mother, Grace, please. Can’t we leave the past behind? It was all so long ago. I’ve just found out I have a brother. All I want to do is get to know him better.’
If Nora had thought to placate her mother and Grace – who was what, exactly, to her now? If Kwame was her brother, did that make Grace a sort of aunt? – she’d thought wrong.
‘Why would he want to get to know you? You covered up for the cop who killed his son.’
‘I turned in the phone as soon as I found it!’
Grace snorted.
Nora’s next protest lacked the vigor of the first.
‘And Alden’s been charged. It’s not at all like that other case.’ Too late, she realized she’d tossed the focus back on her mother.
‘You’re right,’ Grace said. ‘Bobby’s killer was never found. But he could be. Your mother knows what happened that night. Don’t you?’
Penelope lifted her hands, palms up. ‘No one knows what happened that night.’
The wind rose again, the window screens no impediment as it swept through the room, the temperature dropping by the moment. Rain chased it, fat drops splashing through the screens on to the counter.
‘That’s not true. The person who shot him knows. And your father knew. He protected him, didn’t he? That’s why Todd Burris – excuse me, Mayor Burris – is walking around owning the biggest car dealership in the county instead of rotting in a prison cell.’
‘Todd didn’t do it.’ Penelope spoke with such finality that Grace blinked.
‘If he didn’t, who did?’
Penelope shook her head, silently underscoring the fact that she had no intention of telling.
Nora rose to close the windows, happy for something to do, anywhere to look other than at those two faces, one serene, the other contorted in fury.
‘What’s the point in holding back now? Did your father kill him? Find out that you’d taken up with him when he came back, no way to send you away and hide another black baby if you got pregnant again?’
‘My father didn’t kill anyone!’
Rain lashed the windows with a volley of sharp retorts.
Grace’s voice dropped nearly to a whisper, so loaded with menace that Nora shivered.
‘If he didn’t, then who did?’
Nora knew her mother well enough to see her hastily restored façade cracking, lips quivering, fingers knitted tight together.
‘Who did?’
Grace was on her feet and at Penelope’s throat so quickly Nora didn’t have time to stop her.
She lunged across the table, grabbing at Grace, surprised at the strength in the elderly woman’s arms, ropy muscles gone taut beneath loose skin. She was screaming and Penelope was screaming and Grace was, too. ‘Tell me! Tell me!’
The dog scrambled to his feet, nails scratching and sliding on the floor. The cat fled for safety, leaping to the sideboard, colliding with the silver tea service. The coffeepot crashed to the floor, its lid popping open, something falling out with a clatter.
All three women froze, Grace with her hands still at Penelope’s throat, Nora clinging to Grace’s arm, Penelope’s eyes wide, fastened in terror and resignation on the small pistol spinning across the kitchen floor.
Nora knew right away.
All those years ago. She’d been, what? Ten, twelve, maybe. Down near the river with her grandfather, squinting at the Mason jar atop a hay bale. Her grandfather’s gentle, patient instructions.
‘You never take off the safety until you’re ready. Ready? Good. Wrap your hand around the slide and pull it back. Hold it with both hands when you aim it. Line up your target with that little sight on the end of the barrel. Breathe in. Breathe out. Don’t jerk the trigger, just a steady pull … now.’
Nora squeezed. Nothing happened. She squeezed harder. Still nothing. She yanked. The gun bucked in her hands, the movement startling her more than its retort, and she tumbled backward, her shot going wild, leaving the Mason jar unscathed but scaring the hell out of an audience of jeering crows.
She blinked tears from her eyes as the crows soared and wheeled, returning to the trees with a final volley of aggrieved squawks.
‘It gets easier. Your mother picked it up pretty quickly. Come back to the house. I’ll show you something. I got it for your mother when she turned twelve.’
Nora had expected something small and elegant, pearl-handled with some decorative engraving, the kind of thing a woman might hitch up her skirt, pull from a garter and smile as she saw the realization spreading slowly across a bad guy’s face.
The velvet-lined rosewood case her grandfather set before her only strengthened her anticipation. But there was nothing beautiful about the thing that lay inside, unless deadly efficiency counted as beauty. It was black and stubby, so small it nearly disappeared within her grandfather’s knobbed hand as he offered it to her. She took it cautiously, careful to point it away from either of them, surprised at the solid weight warming against her palm.
‘It’s a Baby Browning.’
‘What’s it for? It’s so tiny.’
‘That it is. It’ll fit inside a handbag, or a coat pocket. Self-defense, mostly, and it’s not even very good for that. You have to be close, almost too close, and shoot straight. Here’s the thing about a gun. Sometimes, just the sight of one is enough to stop somebody. And that’s what you want. You don’t ever want to shoot unless you absolutely have to. You kill someone, even someone who’s trying to kill you, it stays with you the rest of your life.’
Had he been speaking from experience? If her grandfather had shot someone while on duty, she’d have heard about it. But what about when he was off duty? At nigh
t, in a secluded spot along the river?
She saw the same thought come to Grace.
‘This is it, isn’t it? The gun that killed him? The one they said they never found. It’s been here all these years?’
Penelope nodded.
‘And your father killed him?’
The storm lashed the house with increasing fury, rain drumming so loud Grace had to raise her voice.
Nora strained to hear Penelope’s answer.
Her mother’s lips pursed, forming the single syllable.
‘No.’
FIFTY-FOUR
1967
They were so young. So stupid.
Truly, though, is any stupidity more blissful than first love? Don’t people spend the rest of their lives willing to trade every single thing away for just a few more moments of that same unthinking stupidity?
Because that’s what Penelope did when she heard Bobby Evans was back in Chateau.
Her parents must have known. The Chateau Crier disappeared from the house. ‘Their circulation department is having some sort of problem. It should start up again in a few days,’ her mother said, when she looked for it one morning to read the comics.
Rather than tuning in to a station that featured news and weather on the half-hour, her mother switched to one that played classical music all day and night. When Penelope accused her of trying to drive her crazy, her mother retorted that it was never too late for Penelope to improve her mind.
And, where her parents always watched the local news and Walter Cronkite at night, they found a sudden enthusiasm for bridge after dinner, rushing through the meal and setting up in the library, where there was no television to tempt everyone. Penelope’s husband gamely went along, doing his best to adjust to yet another bewildering circumstance foisted upon him in this new place.
Hiram was a good man, and Penelope loved him in the grateful way you love someone who pulls you from quicksand, oblivious to the fact that some indefinable part of you remained trapped just below that heaving, sucking surface. That part of her might have stayed submerged forever and she might even, over time, have fallen truly and deeply in love with Hiram or at least settled into the sort of bland contentment expected of her, but for a surprise visit from Jayne and Alice, two former schoolmates at Chateau High and, like her, newly married.
