“I am,” he replied.
“Guess you had better come in then.” She still didn’t smile.
Cole opened the screen and entered the small living room. Georgia stood, one hand in a tight fist pressing on her hip, closely examining Cole from head to foot. He glanced about the room for signs of Lottie but the two recliners and small afghan covered loveseat were empty. A small television sat on a round oak table. The walls were covered in pictures and knick-knack cluttered shelves. Between the two recliners sat a basket of various colored yarns that were impaled from all directions with knitting needles.
The room smelled of lilacs and heat. Through a doorway Cole could see the end of a chrome legged table with a red and white checkered table cloth and lacey curtains that blew gently at the window above the sink. The sound of a woman clearing her throat came from the right, down a dimly lit hallway. A soft metallic click also came from the hallway. A moment later a white haired woman, ramrod straight and with the aid of a walker, made her way into the room.
“Hello,” the woman’s voice cracked, “I’m Lottie.”
She smiled softly and reached out her hand to Cole. Her hands were thin but strong. The smooth olive skin of her face was far younger than her age. Her skin was tight and showed no signs of wrinkles or age spots. Lottie’s eyes were bright and sparkled with the anticipation of the meeting. She looked up into Cole’s eyes and held his hand in both of hers.
“Nice to meet you.” Cole smiled.
Lottie brushed a stray lock of her curly hair behind her ear. “Let’s sit,” she said, motioning to the loveseat.
Cole stepped aside and Lottie pivoted on her walker and gently let herself down into a recliner. Her tall thin frame seemed fit and Cole wondered why her movements were so halting.
“I broke my hip six weeks ago. Fell down the back step shooin’ a cat out of my flowerbed.” Her face grimaced as she pulled the handle on the recliner, bringing the foot rest up.
“Lunch will be ready in a bit, would you like a glass of ice tea or something?” Georgia moved to the kitchen door as she spoke.
“Some water would be great,” Cole said.
Georgia slipped into the kitchen. There was an uncomfortable silence. Cole vowed he would not chatter just for the sake of filling in the time. When he looked back at Lottie she was studying his face.
Cole smiled and said, “What do you see?”
“I don’t know.” Lottie laughed showing the same slightly overlapping front teeth that Cole’s father had and that Cole had until two years of orthodontics straightened them out. “You think we look alike?”
“You got my dad’s front teeth thing.” Cole made a gesture overlapping his index and middle fingers. “Mine too, but I had braces.”
Lottie laughed and pushed her front teeth into her bottom lip, exaggerating their size. “I want to show you some things.” She reached for a small shoebox that sat on the coffee table between them. “All I have of my real folks are in here.”
Cole inwardly gave a sigh of relief. Any way to ease the need for coming up with things to say was welcome. She handed Cole the box and he took off the lid. Inside was a small stack of black and white photographs, old greeting cards and papers. He scooped the photos up and attempted to straighten the stack.
“Let me help you,” Lottie said, reaching for the pictures. She quickly sorted the photos into two stacks, one on each arm of her chair. “These,” she began, tapping a stack with her finger, “are the folks that raised me. And these,” she offered Cole the other thinner stack of five or six pictures, “are what you came to see. My mama had a little box camera and would send pictures to her family here in Topeka. I suppose everything else burned. Years ago I met a cousin of my mama’s when I was working at the meat packer during the war. She gave them to me.”
Cole turned the pictures in his hand and looked down at a smiling couple sitting on a blanket with a picnic lunch spread out in front of them. The woman was very pretty. Her long dark hair was pulled back in a long wavy ponytail that was draped over her shoulder. She had the same high cheekbones and almond eyes as Georgia. The difference was that she had a thin nose that turned slightly at the tip, where Georgia had the broader thick nose and lips of her African-American father. Cole stared for a long moment at the image of the man seated next to Mattie. The resemblance to his father was striking. The same crooked smile, but with a mischievous twinkle in his eye Cole had never seen in his father. In the face he saw himself, not so much a strong likeness but a deeper similarity, a genetic echo, a connection by blood and the common memory of genes.
The second photograph was of Mattie standing on the porch of the house. A little girl was peeking out from behind her mother’s skirts. Mattie held an infant in her arms. Mattie and the little girl both wore long braids.
“This is you and Effie.” Cole turned the picture toward Lottie. She just nodded.
The next picture brought a smile to Cole’s face. It was a close up of Mattie at about sixteen. She had ribbons in her hair and a high collar that was trimmed in lace. The dress seemed too old for the young girl in the photo, but Cole knew in an instant why Mattie had captured his grandfather’s heart and imagination. She was lovely.
“She was a beauty, wasn’t she?” Cole said, not looking away from the picture.
A lump jumped into Cole’s throat as he put the photo of Mattie on the back of the stack and saw the image before him. Seated on the steps of the house in Orvin, George Sage sat with Effie on one knee, and Lottie on the other.
“That one’s got to be just before the fire,” Lottie said softly. “I figure I’m about two.”
“I’m anxious for you to read some of the notebooks your father wrote of that time. It is not pleasant in parts but it shows the great love he had for your mother. It is a tragedy they could not have been together. The terrible troubles he had in later life, I believe all stem from losing her, you and your sister.”
“Since you called I’ve had terrible dreams. I know it’s silly to put any stock in them. In the dreams I’m a little girl, about two, but my thoughts are of a woman grown. I want to cry out for my father to not leave me, but I can’t talk yet.”
“It was a trauma. Those things shape us and affect us no matter how old we are.”
“Tell me about you!” Lottie suddenly was sitting straighter and her voice was lively. She instantly shifted gears emotionally and left the sorrow of the past behind. “You married? Got kids? Tell it all!”
Cole turned to the next picture in the stack. “Well, let’s see. Not married. I have a wonderful daughter. She is married to a doctor in San Francisco who works with children. They have a little girl named Jenny.” Cole paused as he studied the photo in his hands. It was a picture of a house. It was not the farm house, but a large Victorian two story. There were several people in the shot, not posed, completely candid and unaware of the camera. Cole drew the photo closer trying to make out the faces.
“I don’t know what that one is,” Lottie said.” It’s got writing on the back.”
In a simple hand, written in pencil were the words Alma, family and friends. Cole snapped the picture back over. Without thinking he reached over and turned on the small lamp on the table next to where he sat.
“It’s my grandmother. Look here.” Cole leaned over and pointed at the woman on the porch of the house. He then indicated the man beside her. “And that would be Lloyd, the short bald man, her brother.” Cole paused.
In the foreground there was George Sage. Cole hadn’t noticed him at first; he was so intrigued by the house and other people. How could he have missed him? There was no doubt who it was, even though his face was slightly out of focus. Nor was there any doubt as to the expression on his face.
“That’s your father,” Cole said coldly. “Mattie had gone to the house downtown and took this picture of George and his family. From the look on his face he is saddened seeing her there.”
“May I see it closer?” Lottie requested softly. “I
feel a fool. All these years I just brushed by this picture. I only saw the “mean lady,” that’s what I used to call her. That was my daddy’s wife?”
“That’s her.”
Cole had only seen a couple of pictures of his grandmother. They had been posed for, in a formal setting. He tried to put aside the things he read of this woman in the photo he held, but here she stood, on the porch steps of the house he read so much about, as if stopped in mid stride. Her look was fierce. Her head was turned as if she were about to bark a command at one of the children on the walk in front of her. A girl of six or seven, Paula perhaps, was looking up at her. It was plain why Lottie would have named her the “mean lady”. Her features were taut and her eyes narrow with anger. She was truly ugly with hate. The others in the picture all seemed to be looking away from the scene in embarrassment.
Alma’s hair was “bobbed” in the fashion of the day, but the harsh expression here was not complemented by her attempt at fashion. Cole’s eyes went back to his grandfather. He stood, in a shirt and tie, a dark unbuttoned jacket and pants with sharp pleats, turned and looking at the camera with a pleading in his eyes. Cole could almost hear him question Mattie, “What are you doing here? Please go!”
“This is a hard thing to see,” Cole said, finally looking up at Lottie. “I feel like a Peeping Tom, seeing people just the way they were, naked so to speak. Alma’s meanness, the effect on everyone around her and the pain of separation your mother and father lived with.”
“It’s their sin,” Lottie said matter-of-factly. “They were living with adultery. Whether it seems unfair or not, it was sin. They knew it and they paid the price. So did I.”
“Lunch!” Georgia called from the kitchen.
“Hope you like pork chops.” Lottie offered. “Can you help me up?”
“Love ‘em,” Cole said, standing.
The table was set in what Cole figured were the best dishes in the house. A bouquet of fresh flowers from the yard stood in the center of the table along with a pitcher of ice tea. The stove was covered with skillets and pots.
“You sit here,” Georgia instructed.
Cole obediently sat at the end of the table farthest from the door. Lottie sat at the end nearest the door. Georgia began bringing the food from the stove and served each place: green beans and bacon bits, fried potatoes, greens and a stuffed pork chop.
“This looks wonderful,” Cole said, smiling at Georgia.
She returned to the stove and opened the oven door. Grabbing the end of her apron Georgia pulled a pan of biscuits from the oven and slid them into a wicker basket lined with a red and white checkered napkin.
“My girl’s the best cook in Kansas!”
“Oh Mama, hush,” Georgia snapped.
Lottie laughed and said, “Stop fidgeting and sit.” Georgia sat without objection. “Let’s take hands.” Lottie reached across the small table and Cole took her hand. Georgia took her mother’s other hand and laid her empty hand on the table palm up. “Lord, thank you for this meal. Bless the hands that prepared it. Thank you Lord for my nephew.” Lottie squeezed Cole’s hand. “Let Your love shine through us and make us family in not just blood, but in spirit and consideration as well. Keep Cole safe when he returns home and keep us all in the palm of your hand. In Jesus’ name, Amen.”
“Amen,” Cole said softly.
“You a church goin’ man?” Georgia said, scowling at Cole.
“I like to go with my friend Carnell and his wife when I can.”
“What kind of church would that be?”
“True Hope Church of God in Christ,” Cole said, hoping he hadn’t messed up the name.
“Mmmhuh,” Georgia said, stabbing a forkful of green beans.
“You don’t like me much do you, Georgia?”
“Sure she does,” Lottie said defensively.
“Oh no she doesn’t. I can tell.”
“I can’t figure what your game is.” Georgia laid her fork down and looked directly at Cole. “That other ‘cousin’, what was that white woman’s name, Mama?”
“Paula.”
“Yeah, Paula, she came nosin’ around with all this family stuff and went off back to wherever she came from and we never heard hide nor hair of her again. Nice for her liberal Chicago activist heart to have some ‘poor colored folks as kin’, she just didn’t want to get too close. So, I ask you, straight out. What’s your game?”
“When was that?”
“What?”
“When Paula came.”
“When I was in high school. Don’t change the subject.”
“First, Paula is no relation of yours. She was Alma’s child with a man named Tom Wilkerson. George Sage killed him. Would you like to know why?” Cole surprised himself with his abrupt straight forward tone.
Georgia didn’t answer, just glared at Cole. Lottie sat still, both hands flat on the table.
“Wilkerson burned down the house that killed your grandmother. I don’t know what her ‘game’ was, but we, my dear cousin, are blood relatives, like it or not. Now, I came here today to meet your mother. You’re a bonus.” Cole gave Georgia a big fake smile. “We can chat, get to know each other, or I can leave right now. It would seem a loss to me since as it turns out, other than my daughter and her family, I have no family at all.
I am a man of simple tastes, I live alone. I work hard and am proud of what I do. I have what you might call a girlfriend, which seems silly because she is over fifty, who is actually anxiously awaiting my return in her beautiful floating home in San Francisco Bay. Kelly, that’s her name, is pure of heart and innocent of motives and is dying for me to call her when this little get together is over and tell her all about my long lost relatives. So that’s the ‘game plan’.” Cole took a deep breath and smiled.
“Damn boy, you do go on,” Georgia said, and laughed.
“Swearing is not necessary. Cole you are going nowhere. Can we please just eat in peace? Pass a biscuit.” Lottie winked at Cole.
He picked up the basket of biscuits and took one and laid it on his plate. “After thee comes me.”
The three laughed and the tension that hung in the air was cleared. Georgia took the floor and for the next ten minutes told Cole her life story. They laughed, bantered and Lottie corrected. Georgia teased and got as good as she gave. Cole found himself growing fonder of this brash woman by the minute. She was witty, bright and had the acrobatic command of words of a poet. Lottie beamed as she saw that Georgia let down her guard and was giving Cole a chance.
Georgia was a good student. She won a scholarship to Washburn University and planned to become an English teacher. She had writings published in several literary magazines and even had an essay on the effects of Brown v. Board of Education on the people of Topeka twenty years after the ruling printed in the New York Times. All of her teachers agreed she had a brilliant career ahead of her.
Then she met Eddie Ridgeway. Eddie had won a track scholarship and was on his way to the Olympics. Georgia ran track throughout high school and loved to run the 200 high hurdles, so when she got to Washburn she went out for the track team.
“Tall black boy meets tall black girl and sparks flew!” Georgia giggled and Cole saw an innocent eighteen year old in her smile.
Two years later and against the counsel of family, friends, coaches and anyone with a “lick of sense” they were married. They got a little apartment off campus, Eddie worked as a waiter in a fancy restaurant downtown owned by a rich Washburn alum and Georgia tutored for the English department. Everything was going great until she got pregnant. She was sick from the start and missed a lot of morning classes. Eddie bragged to anyone who would listen but worried privately about what would happen when the baby was born. He saw his Olympic chances slipping away and they began to fight. As Georgia put it, “playing house was over and the reality was a heavy burden for a couple of college kids.”
In the sixth month of her pregnancy Georgia lost the baby. The harsh words of some of their argum
ents haunted Eddie. He blamed himself for the miscarriage as if he somehow brought it on by his cruel remarks. Three days after Georgia left the hospital, Eddie used a jump rope to hang himself from a basketball hoop in the gym.
Georgia moved back home and never finished school. She worked as a copy writer for the Penny Saver weekly newspaper and for a time at The Topeka Capital-Journal, but the lack of a degree kept her in the want ads department and out of a copy desk.
Then on a whim, she got a job in the diner where she frequently ate lunch, as a cook and had been working there for the last fourteen years. She told the story without bitterness or self pity. “Life happens” punctuated her story and there was more laughter than tears, but Cole felt a pain for her. The “what might have been” was a hard pill to swallow. Georgia had come to peace with it long ago and now did her shift at the diner, took care of Lottie and went to church on Sunday morning and Wednesday night.
“Do you still write?” Cole asked, hoping she did.
“Here and there. Not much.”
“I would like to read your work.” He could have been talking to a fellow journalist or author, his respect was evident.
“Maybe,” Georgia said, picking at the corner of her napkin.
“I hope so.”
“So, Lottie,” Cole said, taking the attention off Georgia. “Have you ever been back to Orvin?”
“No, nothing for me there really. I would kind of like to see the old place where I was born.”
“Then I think you should.” Cole smiled. “I leave in five days, ‘til then it’s open house. Could you come this week?”
“Well I don’t know,” Lottie replied softly.
“I could show you the notebooks and you could even stay over and rest if you want. Plenty of room. What do you think, Georgia?”
“You’ve talked about it for years, Mama,” Georgia said, giving Cole a quick glance.
“Well if it isn’t too much trouble.”
Cole Dust Cole Page 35
