A Different Kind of Blues

by Gwynne Forster

  “If she thinks I’ll forgive her for it…Well, she’ll wait a long time.”

  Petra didn’t know if she had ever before seen that door closed all the way. “If I start crying now, I’ll flood the place,” she said aloud. She dragged herself into the kitchen and began the after-supper cleaning, something Krista had done from the time she was twelve. “I guess this is not the first change I’ll see, but I sure hope nothing else will be this painful. At least I’m not going to sit still and wait for the devil to get his due.”

  She telephoned Lurlene. “It’s just seven o’clock. You and Twylah want to come over and play some cutthroat?”

  “Don’t mind if I do. Twylah just left here, but I’ll call her and tell her to meet me over at your place. I’ll bring some chips and a big bottle of soda.”

  Half an hour later, Petra’s two friends arrived and sat down at the kitchen table. “Open a window,” Twylah said. “I ain’t got no use for the heat, and I thought you didn’t till you took off to Ocean City. Why would anybody as dark as you want to sit on a beach and bake in the sun? Girl, you were born with a suntan.”

  “She wasn’t after no suntan,” Lurlene said. “I bet she’s after one of those church brothers. Nobody’s gonna make me believe she trying to get her soul saved. Wednesday night prayer meeting at church with her mama is one thing, but a ten-day religious retreat is another kettle of fish.”

  “Get off my case, you two. All you think about is men.”

  Lurlene dealt the cards. “I suppose you know of something better than a good man? I sure don’t.”

  “She don’t neither,” Twylah said, “and if I find something better, I’m gon’ box it and sell it. Where’s Krista?”

  “Krista’s in her room,” Petra said.

  “In her room? Now that she got her diploma, she don’t greet nobody?”

  “Maybe she’s upset about something,” Lurlene said. “Leave her alone. That’s a good girl. Never heard one thing against her moral character.” She threw out a joker, named it an ace, and won that round.

  Petra soon tired of the game and of the company. One part of her mind was on her daughter, and the other fought with her doctor’s diagnosis. “I’m beat,” she said after they played for a little more than an hour. “This has been a rough day.”

  Twylah folded her cards and looked hard at Petra. “I’d think that since you saw your only child graduate from high school yesterday, you be ready to kick up your heels half the night.” She heaved her 240-pound body up from the straight-back chair and raised her arms in a refreshing yawn. “If anybody wants to go on one of the ghost tours, let me know. They won’t be no more of ’em till Halloween, and it would do you good, Petra, to see something silly like a ghost show. Let’s go, Lurlene.”

  For a long time, Petra sat in her living room, the darkness alleviated only by the street light.

  “He’s a musician, so I’ll begin with the Internet. He must have a Web page,” Petra said to herself a couple of evenings later, as she sat in the public library wasting time, avoiding the unpleasantness of her daughter’s barely controlled anger. If she remembered Goodman Prout’s talent and ego, he would have succeeded handsomely in the nineteen years since she last saw him, and he’d make sure that a wide circle of people knew it. She couldn’t find his Web site, but she didn’t doubt that he had one. She called a friend whose daughter graduated from Howard.

  “Louise, does your daughter have any alumni bulletins or directories? I need to locate somebody. His name is Goodman Prout. There couldn’t be two of those.”

  “She has a couple of them. Hold on.”

  Petra tried not to think of what she’d do next if Louise’s daughter didn’t have a directory.

  After four or five minutes, Louise returned to the phone. “There’s a Goodman Prout in Catonsville, and he has a music school or works in one.” She read out the address. “That’s about five miles or so from here. You think he’s the one?”

  “We’ll see,” Petra said, though she didn’t doubt that that Goodman Prout was her daughter’s father. She thanked her friend, hung up, and got the telephone number from the Baltimore operator.

  Although Krista hadn’t spoken to her since she told her that her father was alive, they’d eaten together twice daily, at breakfast and again at supper. That night after the evening meal, Petra told Krista, “You wanted to know where your father is, and I did some research and located him, but until you speak to me and treat me with respect, I refuse to give you the information.” She knew what the Reverend Collins would say to that, but she was tired of her daughter’s rudeness.

  Krista looked at her mother and then lowered her gaze. “Did you know him well?”

  Petra’s lower lip dropped. “Of course I knew him well. We’d been dating for over a year. I’m going to call him and tell him that he can expect to hear from you.”

  Her daughter’s hopeful expression saddened Petra. “Thanks. I guess he wouldn’t believe me if I just called him and laid this trip on him. Is he nice?”

  “He was, but remember how long it’s been since I saw him. I’ll call him tomorrow.”

  “You gonna let me know what he says?”

  “Of course.”

  “Thanks. I…uh…I’ll straighten up the kitchen.”

  Petra’s gaze followed Krista as she carried dishes into the kitchen. Only Heaven knew what was in store for Krista.

  Goodman Prout hopped onto the deck of his suburban home, a sleek, modern brick house between Baltimore and Ellicott City, Maryland, the place of his birth. He’d done well, making a good living for himself, his wife, and his two children, doing what he loved best, playing and teaching music. His sons possessed considerable musical talent, and his attraction to Carla, his wife, began when he first heard her beautiful soprano voice. His life focused on and revolved around music. He attributed his peaceful, happy home life to the love of music that he and his wife shared with their fifteen-and sixteen-year-old sons.

  “One of my students has a recital Saturday,” he said to Carla as he stepped into the kitchen, “so I may stay a little late today to give him extra practice time.”

  “No problem,” she said, after drinking the glass of orange juice. “School’s out, so it won’t matter if the boys eat a little late.” She kissed him on the cheek. “See you this evening.”

  He could take the bus or the commuter train, but he preferred to drive his Lexus, and not only as a status symbol, but because he had at last been able to give his family the recognition they deserved, and the Lexus was a part of his achievement. He strolled into Goodman Music Studios, turned on the air conditioners, made coffee, and sat down to review his schedule for the day. He had four piano students, and his assistant’s schedule included three violinists, a cellist, and a guitarist. What he needed was another soundproof room for a voice teacher, but his present studio couldn’t accommodate it, and he hated looking for another building and then soundproofing each room. He sipped his coffee and leaned back in his desk chair. Life was good, and he didn’t plan to allow greed to burst his bubble.

  The phone rang, and he lifted the wireless from its base. “Goodman Prout speaking. What can I do for you?” The silence annoyed him, but he didn’t react; it could be someone who wanted to begin music lessons and was shy about doing it. “You’ve reached Goodman Music Studios. Do you have the wrong number?”

  “Goodman, are you on a secure line?”

  He leaned forward, his antenna alert. That voice sounded familiar, but be couldn’t place it. “Yes. What do you want?”

  “This is Petra. Petra Fields. I hope you’re all right. I have something to tell you, and I’d rather speak with you in person, if possible.”

  What on earth could she have to say to him after almost twenty years? “Well, Petra, this is a surprise, and you sound as if what you have to say is urgent. Where are you?”

  “I still live in Ellicott City.”

  “Can you meet me at The Crab Shanty at five-thirty? I can’t stay
long.”

  “Thanks. I’ll be there.”

  If he hadn’t expected Petra, he would not have recognized her. About five feet six, taller than he remembered, her hair had lengthened to below her shoulders, her dark-hazel eyes still had that slumberous look, but along with her thick lashes, they gave the impression that she cared for no man. Her body was not that of a girl, but of a beautifully proportioned and voluptuous woman.

  He stood when Petra entered the cozy restaurant and walked to meet her. “You are one lovely woman, Petra. I almost didn’t recognize you. Let’s sit over here.” He walked with her to the table he’d already chosen, called the waiter, and looked at her. “Hot, hard, or soft?”

  “Lemonade or sweetened ice tea. It’s pretty hot out there.”

  Goodman ordered lemonade for her and a gin and tonic for himself. “What’s on your mind, Petra? You sounded…well, I wouldn’t say frantic, but at the least, distressed. What’s up?”

  “I’ve been remiss about something that’s terribly important, and now, I’m having to pay for it. I have a child for you, Goodman, and I—”

  He bolted upright. “What? You’re…you’re out of your mind! You can’t be serious.” He slumped in the chair. “I guess you are.” He drained the glass of gin and tonic, signaled the waiter, and ordered another one. “I saw you just before I went to Europe that summer, and you didn’t look right to me, but I consoled myself with the thought that you’d have told me if you were pregnant.” He’d taken the coward’s way out, and he knew it at the time.

  “I didn’t want to know,” he went on. “I had my life planned, and marriage definitely didn’t figure into it. I had a scholarship to spend my junior year at The Royal College of Music in London, and I wouldn’t have let your pregnancy or anything else get in the way. I know it sounds awful, considering how close we’d been, but…It’s funny you didn’t tell me.”

  “Because I knew you’d go through hell or high water to get that degree and that you wouldn’t marry me and ruin your chances.”

  The waiter brought the second drink, and he drank half of it at once. What a bomb! “You’re right,” he said. “I don’t think I would have. What do you want from me now?”

  “Nothing for myself, but our daughter wants to meet her father. I let her believe you were dead, and I finally had to tell her the truth.”

  “You told her what? Good Lord! How’d she take it when you told her I wasn’t dead?”

  “How would you take learning that your mother lied to you about something that important and let you believe it for the first eighteen years of your life? She’ll be eighteen soon and, for the first time ever, she treated me rudely. She’s furious with me. I told her I’d speak with you, and I promised to tell her how this conversation with you went. She’s going to call you, and she’s very nervous about doing it.”

  “What’s she like?”

  “She’s an inch taller than I, looks like you, graduated from high school with honors last week and hopes to go to college this fall. She makes good grades, and she’s neat and well-mannered. I’m proud of her.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned. I know I should have asked you if you were pregnant, because I thought you were. This is going to be awkward, Petra, because I have a wife and two sons, aged fifteen and sixteen. This happened before I met Carla, but there’s no telling how she’s going to take it. I don’t see how I can avoid telling her. Does…What’s her name?”

  “Krista.”

  “That’s a nice name. Tell her to call me at the studio. By the way, she wouldn’t happen to like music, would she?”

  “Indeed, she does. The house is never quiet when she’s at home. Blues, jazz, classical, country, she doesn’t care as long as she’s listening to music. She has a decent singing voice, too, but I haven’t had the money to give her music or voice lessons.”

  She glanced at her watch. “Time really flies. We’ve been here an hour,” she said. “Thanks for coming.”

  “Of course I came. I hadn’t heard from you for nearly two decades, and I knew it must have been important.”

  She lowered her gaze for a minute and then, with what seemed to him a resolute, albeit sorrowful expression, she looked him in the eye and said, “Goodman, I hope you’ll forgive me for not telling you I was carrying your child. If you want her to take a DNA test, I don’t think she’ll object.”

  “No. No…. At least not now. You said she looks like me. Tellher to call. And Petra, there’s nothing to forgive. If I’d known, I might not even have finished college, and I’d probably be far worse off than I am today.”

  “Thank you, Goodman.”

  She left him sitting at the table, and he realized that she hadn’t given him her address. Krista. He had an eighteen-year-old daughter named Krista Fields. Sometimes, life could be a real bitch. Feeling as if he’d been stomped by an elephant, he downed the remainder of his drink, paid the bill, and left. He hated uncertainty, and he was enveloped in it.

  Petra walked home, unmindful of the heat or the distance. What a load off her shoulders! Goodman had been surprised, but he hadn’t been angry or uncooperative. That ordeal was behind her, and she’d gotten off far more easily than she thought she deserved. She didn’t fool herself about Krista’s subdued behavior, though. She knew her daughter could nurse a grudge indefinitely.

  However, the odor of food cooking that greeted her when she opened her front door relieved her anxiety about the mood in which she would find her daughter when she reached home. She dropped her pocketbook on the living room sofa and headed to the kitchen.

  “What did he say, Mama? Did he say I could call him?”

  Not even a greeting? What had she expected? “Your father said you may call him at his office. Here’s the phone number.”

  Chapter Two

  As she prepared to leave for work, Petra passed her daughter’s closed bedroom door, turned back, and knocked. From birth, Krista had been the joy of her life, the reason why she had worked at demeaning jobs and struggled to attend night school while working days, the reason she had willingly allowed the best years of her youth to pass…never having enjoyed it. Their strained relations pained her, and she didn’t know how to repair them. The door opened, and Krista stood there in her pajamas, her entire demeanor declaring her obstinacy. Did an eighteen-year-old high school graduate plan to spend the day lolling in bed rather than looking for a job? And did she dare broach that subject? It was best to cut to the chase.

  “Did you call your father?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m scared.”

  “You can be certain,” Petra said, “that he’s more afraid than you are. There’s no point in thinking you can punish him by making him wait; he has a family, and he’s happy with his wife and two sons. I hate to say it, but you’re the outsider, so try to be considerate. While you’re hanging out here in your room, your classmates are getting the few available summer jobs. I’ll see you this evening.” She no longer expected Krista’s childlike kiss on the cheek, nor her happy hug when something especially pleased her. She walked out, locked the door, and headed for work.

  You should tell Jack that you’ll be leaving, her conscience nagged, and you should give him a chance to hire your replacement so that you can teach her the job. What you’re doing isn’t right.

  But what was she supposed to do, sit at home and wait for the inevitable? She punched her card, went to her office, and sat down to work. “I don’t feel as if anything’s wrong with me,” she said to herself, “but I know there’s something, because these headaches are getting to me.” She went to the cooler to get a cup of water so that she could take a pill for her headache.

  “There you are,” Jack said. “I…uh…I’ll be away at a conference over the July Fourth weekend, and…uh…Jennifer is taking leave, so you’ll have to run the ship for the next six days.” He patted her on the shoulder. “But I know you can do it. That’s why I promoted you.”

  “I’ll do my
best. Don’t forget to brief me on anything that’s pending.”

  She shook her head in wonder. Jack had a beautiful wife, and three bright and intelligent children yet he’d risk that by going on a tryst with his secretary. Maybe being single wasn’t such a bad idea. She’d prefer it to life with a faithless husband, provided someone would invent an automatic libido control mechanism.

  “Who am I to talk? I’m not perfect, and I still have to deal with all these wrongs I’ve done to innocent people,” she admonished herself. She shouldn’t have told Jack what everyone in the office other than he knew, that Sally and Gail were lovers. She’d told him as a joke when she caught him cataloguing Gail’s assets, but he’d roared out of control, and it was then that she remembered Jack’s homophobia and his intolerance of people with physical defects or who spoke with any kind of accent.

  Properly chastened, thanks to that incident, she no longer engaged in the office gossip, something that she had once relished. She’d never cared much for Sally Kendall, and since Jack fired Gail, Sally had become unbearable. Still…. Though she didn’t usually procrastinate, she decided not to speak with Sally until Jack went to the conference and she would be in charge of the office. She reasoned that, if she were boss, however temporary, Sally would be less likely to make her the recipient of angry venom.

  On the morning of Jack’s first day away, Petra telephoned Sally in her office. “Hi, Sally. This is Petra. How about lunch today. I have something I want to tell you.”

  “Me? You want to tell me something? Oh, all right. Meet you in the lobby at twelve-thirty?”

  “Perfect,” Petra said and immediately wished she had just walked into Sally’s office and had the conversation there. Now, she had to eat with the woman, and anybody who saw them could assume that they were an item. “Don’t be an idiot, girl,” she said to herself. “Just do what you know is right.” Scratch that. It’s what Reverend Collins said was right.