by William Bell
I positioned the truck carefully in the airport parking garage, snugged tight against a wall so only the undamaged side was visible, and climbed out the passenger door. Stomach churning, I took the elevator to the departure level, wandered around until I realized I was in the wrong place, and rode the escalator to the arrivals level just in time to see Mom and Dad emerge from their gate.
We hugged hellos and after a few minutes’ runaround—Mom’s guitars had to be retrieved from the oversize baggage counter—we headed for the garage. I made all kinds of welcome-home noises, yapped away about Mom’s flowers and even the weather as I dodged parent-questions about what I had done for the last ten days to fill up my time. I caught Mom and Dad exchanging Who-is-this-babbling-idiot? looks. I walked ahead, pushing the luggage cart like a dutiful son.
“Why did you park here, like this?” Dad asked.
“It was really crowded when I came in,” I said. “And by the way, I’ll drive home. You look exhausted.”
“No, I—”
“Here, I almost forgot,” I cut in, and casually slipped my folded report card from my shirt pocket and handed it to my mother.
While they exclaimed their shared relief—did I hear a note of surprise in my father’s words?—I stowed the luggage in the truck, pushed the cart to the side and slid into the driver’s seat.
“All aboard!” I called out enthusiastically. “Let’s go!”
Mom got in first. As soon as Dad slammed the door I started the engine and drove down the ramp, chanting, “Please don’t look at the hood,” under my breath as I pulled to a stop under a blaze of amber light and paid the attendant.
The drive home was torture. My stomach pumped out the acid. Every time Mom or Dad began to speak I expected a shriek of anger and despair. But nobody said a word about the bent metal in front of the windshield. Instead, my parents talked about my marks. Not exactly congratulatory, they seemed pleased in the reserved sort of way I was used to. You’ve done okay, Zack, but you could have done better—the kind of tone that robbed pleasure and replaced it with guilt. But the unexciting document had diverted their attention.
“Why don’t you guys go on in,” I said when I had parked in our driveway. “I’ll take care of the luggage.”
“My, my,” Mom said. “You take a course in etiquette while we were gone?”
“Yup. Got an A, too.”
“Hmm. I didn’t see an A on that report card.”
Mom walked towards the front door. Dad hauled the biggest suitcase from the truck.
“I guess tomorrow will be soon enough,” he said. “I’m bushed.”
I held a guitar case in each hand. “Huh?”
“To tell me about the truck.”
Chapter 2
“Look let’s get this straight. I admit I misled you. I confess I’m responsible for the truck. I’ll pay for it. But I’m not sorry I went to Mississippi, so you may as well lay off the criticism.”
The three Lanes sat around the kitchen table, an uneaten hamburger long since cold in front of each of us. Mom had performed her post-gig rituals, visiting each of her plants inside the house and out to check on their health. She had done the laundry, pegged the clothes on the line in the yard. Her guitars had been unpacked and polished.
Dad’s routine was to read and answer e-mail, open the paper mail and pay the bills, run the vacuum cleaner around the house. The morning inched by for me as I waited for the guillotine to drop.
Dad barbecued hamburgers as Mom complained about the smoke smelling up her laundry and, because the sun was high and hot he set up lunch in the kitchen. As soon as I said, “Pass the mustard,” he nailed me.
So I told them.
“You what?” My mother had blown up as soon as she heard the word Natchez, and the further I waded into the story the more she fumed and raged, thumping her thighs with her fists.
I left out my tussle with the cops, the bigoted woman at the motel, the rednecks at the gas station. But I recounted the thunderstorm and fallen oak. I said I had met my grandfather, fished with him, gone to a funeral and a picnic. I explained why I had pretended to be someone else at first and how I discovered the reason my mother had nothing to do with him. I made clear the circumstances of my leaving Natchez. By the time I reached the end she was crying, hard and deep.
Relief was the main feeling that flowed in me by the time I was finished, but it wasn’t the only one.
Dad had sat silently through it all, his face pale, and his eyes never left my mother’s face.
“I’ve never felt so betrayed in my whole life,” she whispered, wiping her eyes with a napkin. “And by my own son.”
Her hands shook as she blew her nose. She gulped, choked back her crying and cleared her throat.
It sounds strange, but the sight of her attempting to hold on to her grief made my heart ache for her, but I couldn’t get hold of my thoughts, as usual. It’s one thing to feel something and another to put the right words together so that the feelings come out under control, unmixed and unconfused. And so my response showed neither sympathy nor love, only anger.
“Mom, I didn’t betray anybody. You made up your mind a long time ago that you never wanted to see your father again. Okay. But you didn’t share the reason with me, did you? I’m not you. You don’t have the right to decide for me any more. I’m not a kid.”
“Zack,” Dad spoke for the first time. “You’ve got to understand how your mother feels.”
“Dammit!” I exploded, pounding the table. The cutlery jumped and clinked; my mother flinched. “Why doesn’t somebody try to understand how I feel for once?”
And I launched into a long rant, pulled out a lot of old tunes and played them one more time. How they had dragged me from my friends and neighbourhood to a hick town. How they treated me like a five-year-old, forcing me to practically beg to use the truck, making me ask them for money because they wouldn’t let me have a job—I was supposed to spend all my time studying. Nothing was decided by me. Nothing I did mattered. Unless I wrecked. Then it mattered.
My mind was a rage of contrary winds. I hated the weight of my father’s disapproval. I hated the weight of my mother’s pain. I hated myself for my inability to earn their pride.
But at the same time, I didn’t want to be a dependent son any more, a kid yearning for a pat on the head, a teenager who screwed up, again, and waited for judgement. I wanted to be a person to them. Knowing I could never achieve what each of them had, never be their equal, I needed to be treated equally.
All this boiled and churned inside, and all that came out was anger. When I finally lost momentum and wound down, my mother said something peculiar.
“You always were contrary.”
That threw me. “I was what?”
“You never took music at school. You refused.”
She sat there, head down, twisting the damp napkin to shreds. I looked at my father. Slowly, his eyebrows rose as if he expected me to say something, as if he thought I too knew what my mother meant.
“All that talent you have,” she went on, her voice quavering, barely audible. “But you never took music in school. Just to be contrary.”
Then I knew, and the realization was like a blow to the back of my head. She had concluded that I had avoided studying music to spite her. And now she thought my journey to find my grandfather was more of the same.
“Aw, Jesus,” I moaned. “Mom—”
“Now don’t you curse in this house, young man. You—”
“Etta,” Dad said gently. “Let him talk.”
“Mom, when I was a little kid,” I said past the ache in my throat, “I wanted more than anything to be a musician like you. But I knew I could never be good enough. I couldn’t even come close. I’d always be in your shadow. I’d let you down. I didn’t stay away from music lessons to spite you. I stayed away because I was afraid I’d fail.”
She looked up at me then. Amazement passed over her flushed features.
“But you do have t
he tal—”
“And my trip to Natchez? I didn’t go to get back at you, Mom. It was something I had to do, for me. I never knew or understood why you kept me from your—our—family.”
In my mind, it was as if a cloud parted and the ideas I wanted to express became clearer.
“See, Mom, I’ve always felt like your part of me wasn’t as important as Dad’s part. I’ve always been proud to be a Jew, to be part of all our history and tradition. But I never felt that way about being African. I was never ashamed or anything—you and Dad made sure of that. It’s just that I never had anything to build on, I wasn’t connected to anything. Having black skin wasn’t enough. I wanted to see where I came from, that was all.
“Now I know why you and your father are apart,” I said bitterly. “He’s no better than a redneck or a skinhead.”
“I’m sorry you had to learn that, Zack,” my mother said.
“But that’s just it, Mom.” I was calm now. But I wanted to make sure she knew. “I had to learn it for myself. But I also saw where our ancestors came from and I met some of our family. I like them. They’re nice people. I liked Lucas, too—”
Mom’s eyes shot up when I called my grandfather by his first name, but that was what I had called him down there, and it seemed right.
“At first.”
And then the doorbell rang.
Chapter 3
“I’ll get it,” Dad said, clearly exasperated by the interruption.
My mother rose slowly from her chair, turned on the tap and splashed water on her face, then used the dish towel to dry herself. She gathered the pile of shredded paper from the table and rolled it into a ball and put it in the garbage catcher under the sink. Then she sat down again.
I filled a glass with water and gulped it down like a marathon runner at the end of a race. Behind me I heard my father’s voice.
“Someone to see you, Zack.”
The Book looked wilted and hot in the kitchen doorway, wearing a shapeless dress plastered with big yellow sunflowers, and red plastic slip-ons, fanning herself with a large manila envelope. A few strands of hair stuck to the perspiration on her forehead.
“Er, hi,” I blurted.
Dad introduced Song to my mother, who offered her a glass of lemonade, and we all gathered around the kitchen table, the Lanes fresh from an intense family skirmish and the Wicked Son’s teacher—ex-teacher, I corrected myself, since I was then officially a graduate. A visit from a teacher never meant anything good.
The three of them made small talk about the weather—they all agreed it certainly was hot and that the humidity sure made it seem hotter—and Song told Mom she had all three of her CDs and loved them, and I waited impatiently for Song to get to the point. My paranoia grew with each inane sentence they added to their conversation. Has Song come by to tell us that my history mark was an error, that I hadn’t graduated after all?
My teacher finally got to me. “Zack, I’ve been trying to call you all week but your phone was out of order.”
My father favoured me with a sour look.
“And I’ve been so busy I couldn’t come over until today,” she went on in her usual breathless manner.
Mom shot me a What-have-you-done-now? glance. I shrugged.
“Mr. and Mrs. Lane, as you know, Zack wrote a research paper to salvage his history mark. It was so good I took it to the county historical society—the Grand River and this area in particular are rich in history—well, I suppose everywhere is, isn’t it?—and you must be fascinated, living on Pierpoint’s very homestead, not to mention finding significant artifacts in your yard—Anyway, to get back to what I was saying—I’m always digressing—it drives my students crazy, doesn’t it, Zack?—no, don’t answer that!—Anyway, on the basis of the paper, which was extremely well written and beautifully researched, they, the historical society, that is, want to offer Zack a history prize—it’s only a hundred dollars, with a small plaque, but quite an honour—and a recommendation—which carries some considerable weight, by the way, and might just offset Zack’s, um, not-so-high marks.”
By the time The Book finally came up for air my parents were totally confused. So was I, but I thought I had heard the word prize.
“Ms. Song,” Mom said, “I’m afraid I don’t follow you.”
“Oh, forgive me,” my teacher said, flustered. “I haven’t been very clear, have I? Zack has won a history prize.”
“Research paper?” Dad said, catching up.
“I didn’t tell them about it, Ms. Song,” I explained.
“Why ever not?”
Because I was pretty certain I’d screw it up, I was tempted to answer. And if I did, it would be Zack the Lame Brain all over again.
“I wanted it to be a surprise.”
“Wonderful,” my mother muttered. “Another surprise.”
“An award?” Dad latched on to another fact.
“Yes.”
“And this historical society thing will help him get into university?”
“It could.”
Mom’s eyebrows arched.
“Provided, of course, he takes his degree in history.”
The Book sat back, crossed her hands on her lap and smiled. She had delivered her good news.
Dad looked at me as if I had just burst through the door wearing a clown suit, holding a bunch of balloons on strings.
“Did you hear that, Etta?”
“But you haven’t been accepted by a university yet,” Mom said to me. Then a hint of a smile touched the corner of her mouth. “Or is there more?”
“No, Mom. I haven’t been accepted.”
“Zack’s marks are a bit low,” Song said for the second time—unnecessarily, I thought. “But, as I said, the historical society is full of people with, um, influence at the universities. Maybe it’s a long shot but … well, we can hope.”
I could have kissed her. She was determined to keep this news upbeat.
“What’s this research paper about?” Dad asked.
Song beat me to it. She tapped the envelope. “It’s right in here, Mr. Lane. And it’s absolutely excellent. The historical society knows about Pierpoint, of course—so do I—but Zack’s methodology, for a high-school student, is very fine. I knew he had it in him. But it took those artifacts he dug up in your yard to light a fire under him.”
This time, both parents fixed me with a joint-effort stare.
“I was going to tell you about that, too,” I said weakly.
Mom rolled her eyes and let out a theatrical sigh. Dad just laughed.
Ms. Song saved me by jumping to her feet and pushing her chair tight to the table. “Well, must rush,” she announced. And she did.
Jen flew in from Calgary the next day. As soon as I got her call, I drove over to her place to pick her up.
It was weird. We were shy with each other, as if we’d just met. I knew why I felt so strange. So much had happened, it seemed we’d been apart for a long time, but I couldn’t figure out why she acted differently. Had she found another guy in Calgary?
I drove down to a quiet spot on the river and we spread a blanket out on the long grass where a big maple threw a pool of shade along the bank. The water purled by, brassy with afternoon sunlight, the way it had for thousands of years, and a pair of kingfishers took turns diving down and skimming along the surface.
Jen was as beautiful as ever. Out of the sunlight, her thick auburn hair took on a deeper shade. She was wearing a halter top and shorts that did nothing to hide her curves.
We sat silently for a few moments before she turned to me.
“Miss me?”
“I sure did.”
“Prove it.”
A few minutes later we unclinched, and I knew my fears about a cowboy lover out west were unfounded. Jen waded into the river up to her knees, far enough out that she was showered with sunlight. I pulled off my T-shirt, rolled it into a ball and lay back, using the shirt as a pillow.
“I have something for you,�
�� Jen said. “A present.”
“From Calgary?” Dammit, I thought, I should have brought her something from Mississippi.
“Nope. From right here in beautiful, boring Fergus. It’s in my backpack, in a blue box. Get it out.”
I got to my knees and rummaged around in the pack until my fingers closed on a small gift box. I held it up.
“Well, open it, dopey.”
I took off the lid and dropped it on the blanket, then removed a layer of white fluffy packing. What I saw knocked the breath out of me.
It had been cleaned and buffed so that the impurities contrasted sharply with the soft glow of the gold. A tiny ring had been skilfully soldered onto it and a gold chain passed through the ring so it could be hung around my neck.
I felt the water gather in my eyes, so that Pawpine’s gold looked like a small moon in the palm of my hand. I heard Jen splash to shore. She knelt beside me and hugged me.
“I knew it almost killed you to part with it,” she murmured. “So I phoned Mr. Piffard from Calgary the day after you left and asked him to let me buy it for you. He told me he realized you didn’t really want to sell it and he was planning to keep it in the shop in case you came back for it. He came up with the idea of making a pendant out of it.”
She gently took the nugget from my hand and unclasped the chain. Then she put it around my neck and refastened it. With her fingertips she brushed the water from my cheeks. She stared at the gold nugget, shaped like a musket ball, resting on the dark skin of my chest.
“God, that looks sexy,” she whispered.
“Do you know what miscegenation is?”
“No. What?”
“Come here,” I said.
Chapter 4
The damp, loamy soil of the garden was cool under my bare feet, and as my hoe rose and fell, Pawpine’s gold nugget bumped against my sweating chest. It was a few days after Jen had come home. Dad had quietly suggested that it might be a good idea to do a little labour in Mom’s flower garden.
