Portrait of a Girl Running

by J. B. Chicoine

  She took a bite. “But she probably knows what you’re like.”

  He swallowed. “What? That I’m difficult?”

  She did not want to agree so readily. “You know, ever since I found out that you had a kid—who I thought was dead—I sort of wondered if that’s what made you, you know, the way you are. But now, I wonder if you’ve just always been this way. I just wonder, ’cause if Bonnie knows you aren’t easy to please, maybe she figured that she wasn’t good enough yet.”

  ~

  Myles read the No Overnight Parking sign as they pulled into the state park lot. When they climbed out of his Volvo, he snatched the ticket from her windshield and pocketed it.

  “Let’s walk the beach,” he said.

  It was Saturday, and many people sat or walked the shore, but none ventured into the frigid water. At Leila’s direction, they headed west. Myles’ windbreaker billowed as he tucked his hands in his pockets. She locked her arm in his. After a mile or so of silence, they stood, looking out beyond the crashing waves. He had been trying to round up courage enough to risk a question. “Leila, may I ask you something?”

  “Sure.”

  “You once asked of me what it was I liked about you. I’d like to ask the same question.”

  “You want to know what I like about you?”

  He swallowed with difficulty. “Yes.”

  She seemed to be weighing her words, taking longer than his comfort allowed. “I like your honesty. I like that you understand human nature—I like that a lot. You’re very wise. And you know how to give in. I think you’re very generous.” She glanced at him sideways. “It’s just that being your friend requires a lot of patience. But I don’t think that’s a bad thing. You’re seriously worth it.”

  Myles nodded. He appreciated her honesty. He also hoped Bonnie might someday feel the same way.

  Leila leaned into him and squeezed his arm. After a minute, she asked, “So, did you ever go looking for her?”

  “Of course. After I reported her missing, and when her trail turned up cold, I hired a private investigator. Occasionally a dead body would turn up, but thankfully, it was never Bonnie. Eventually I just started expecting that one day it would be her. A couple times there were hopeful leads, but they turned up nothing. As of five years ago, her trail went completely cold. People go missing all the time. I just figured that she was never coming home….” He pushed back his welling emotion. “… hoping was just too hard.”

  “When was the last time you talked to her?

  “Eight years, ten months and twenty-two days ago.”

  “You know, if you don’t find her, you’ll always have me.”

  He removed his hand from his pocket and put his arm around her as they continued walking. After a few minutes, she paused.

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “Of course.”

  “What do you think happens to a person when they die? I mean, where do you think they go?”

  “I’m not sure I’m the best person to ask about such things.”

  “Yeah, but you have an opinion.”

  He compiled his thoughts and offered, “I think when a person is dead, they’re dead. As far as some eternal reward or punishment, I don’t know. It’s a muddy issue. Just the same, I do think the concept has been exploited and abused by religion to control the masses.” He glanced at her brow furrowed with contemplation. “And if you ever come up with a satisfying answer, I’d love to hear about it.”

  ~

  With one beer in him and another on the coffee table, Joe closed the flaps of a carton where he had deposited the remainder of Artie Sparks memorabilia—old albums and ephemera. He started another box for The Salvation Army. His head still spun from the day before. He picked up the photo and stared at the image of Leila and Marilyn, a duplicate of the photo taped inside his guitar. He would never forget the night it all happened, the night he had been with Marilyn.

  He had been partying all day with Marc and Marilyn, and by the time night rolled around, they were all stoned out of their minds. Marilyn followed Marc to his bedroom, but shortly afterward she showed up in Joe’s bed. He made love to her with all his heart. He had been in love with her for months, but she was his best friend’s steady girl—and a white girl at that. It was to Marc’s bed she returned that night. Marc never said a word, and, as far as Joe knew, Marc never suspected anything. The following morning, Marilyn disappeared. For weeks. Marc and Joe were both heartsick. Finally, she came back—with news that she was pregnant.

  Joe stroked the photo, the lines of Marilyn’s face. He set it aside for Leila and picked up an old windup alarm clock when the front door opened.

  Leila stepped in, her eyes fixed on him. The anger he’d seen yesterday had morphed to disappointment. She folded her arms. “So, I guess everything is going to be all weird between us now?”

  Joe fidgeted with the clock, ready to put it in the box on Artie’s sofa.

  He pleaded, “Baby, that’s up to you.”

  Leila didn’t smile. She remained quiet, staring at him.

  He held the clock over the box. “Salvation Army? Or do you want it?”

  She blinked slowly. “So, how long did you know that I was—you know …?”

  Joe rubbed the bridge of his nose. He’d never forget the day Leila was born, the months of build up, so much time to replay that night he had been with Marilyn. Time to fall deeper in love. They never spoke of that night, and she never did acknowledge the love they made, but he always hoped she loved him back. Just the same, he couldn’t help feeling relieved when Leila came out white, but disappointed at the same time.

  He refocused on Leila. “I guess I always suspected I was your daddy, especially when you got older and started looking just like Angela. That’s why I stuck around all those years—I couldn’t help but love you, even if I didn’t know for sure—not until the letter, anyway.”

  He placed the clock in the box.

  She shook her head. “How well did you even know my mother?”

  “I knew her as well as anyone. Maybe better.” The truth was, Marilyn was difficult to know—she had been one way with Marc, and very different with him. The side Joe saw was happy and full of life. But he understood Marilyn had a dark side, too. She’d confided things to Joe that not even Marcus knew.

  Joe sighed. “What you have to understand about Marilyn—your mom—was that she had some bad things happen when she was a little girl.”

  “What kinds of things?”

  “Really bad things. Things she could never shake. But she was real sweet. She always managed to look for the good in people. She just couldn’t see the good in herself.”

  “Am I like her?”

  “Baby, you have her sweetness, her artistic ways, and her eyes, but you’re a lot different from her—you’re a lot stronger and not insecure.”

  Leila looked away, her eyes wandering as if weighing his words. He came up beside her and touched her shoulder. She remained aloof.

  “I know it was difficult for you growing up. Your daddy—he had a hard time being one—we tried real hard, but we had no idea what we were doing. We had no business dragging you around all those years, keeping you from kids your own age. Never giving you a proper home. I’m sorry.”

  So many times Joe wished he could have run off with Marilyn. He wished it could have been him and her raising Leila together, giving Marilyn the stability and love she deserved, and providing their daughter with a real home and family life. But even that would have been far less than ideal. It was one thing for a white man to have a ‘Negro’ woman, but for a black man to touch a white woman, that was as good as tying a lynching noose around one’s own neck, especially in the South where she was born and in the early ’60s with all the Civil Rights strife. In the “modern” ’70s, mixed-race relationships still held a stigma even in the more liberal states. Leila would have known a far different life, perhaps not for the better after all.

  “It’s a little late for a
pologies,” Leila said.

  “I know. But you need to let it go. Trust me. Carrying around resentment toward me and your dad will only eat you up.”

  She folded her arms across her chest. “Just answer me this—why didn’t Dad want to give me his name? Did he suspect I was yours?”

  “No. He didn’t suspect. We actually never looked at the birth certificate till you started school. Marilyn didn’t put anyone as the daddy. Marc actually wanted to make it legal when you were around six, but when he started talking adoption, I was afraid there’d be a paternity test. So I fessed up ’bout me and Marilyn.” He blinked at the memory.

  Had he simply used that opportunity to claim some distinction as Leila’s father—as Marilyn’s one-time lover? Perhaps his confession had sprung from jealousy or resentment over all the injustices he’d ever faced, never allowed to claim anything rightfully his. Or perhaps he had been too stoned to have any discretion and just let the truth slip out.

  He continued, “Nearly broke us up. But since we had a lot at stake with the band—and you—we decided to just raise you together. You already knew Marc as Daddy, and you were both white, so, we figured it would be best for you if we kept it secret. Besides, we were afraid that if we filed papers, they’d end up taking you away from both of us. I guess we always meant to tell you, but—” he shrugged, “—we never quite got ’round to it ….”

  She heaved a sigh and twisted her lips. He stared at her, begging for some kind of reaction.

  Her gaze shifted and returned. “What do you want me to say?”

  “That you forgive us.” He could not conceal his anguish. “Please. Not just for me, but more for yourself.”

  She wagged her head, her eyes exuding pity.

  “I guess we did okay,” she said without smiling. “I know you tried hard. I remember how kind you always were to me. I wish you hadn’t left.”

  His eyes darted from hers. “I know. It was bad timing.”

  “I missed you so much.”

  “I would have come home if you’d asked—but you never did.” He took her hand. “I should have come back anyway, but I can’t change that now. Leila, Baby … come back to Amsterdam with me.”

  Leila’s eyes welled. “I can’t, Joe.”

  “Why not? You’d love it there.”

  She shook her head. “I need someone I can count on. I can’t count on you.”

  Her words cut. He had that coming, but he looked at her with bewilderment.

  “Do you honestly think I don’t know?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  She continued shaking her head. “You raised me around a bunch of worldly musicians—I know the lifestyle. You think I don’t know what drug abuse looks like?”

  He licked his lips and rubbed his cheek, his eyes evading hers.

  “I love you Joe—but no. I won’t have any part of it.”

  Chapter 32

  The waitress gave Myles an inquisitive look when he again turned down a coffee refill. He refused to check his watch for the tenth time in thirty minutes. Bonnie had said, “At the old diner on the corner of Snyder and South 15th Street, where we used to go after my orthodontist appointments when I was a kid ….”

  This was the only diner he ever remembered taking her to. And the triangular intersection was the only corner at Snyder and South 15th. Perhaps she had changed her mind. She hadn’t seemed eager to meet with him, but she knew he would be driving all the way to Philadelphia just to see her. True, his making contact after so many years had upset her, but hadn’t she softened a little when she called him back a few days later? She hadn’t wanted him to come to her home but to “the old diner,” she had said, “at noon.”

  He caved and glanced at his watch. Forty-five minutes late.

  Myles understood that children of divorce often had justifiable anger. He pledged not to make excuses or defend the decisions he had made, although in the end, after all the divorce and post-divorce proceedings, there was very little in the outcome that reflected what he would have chosen. He did not want the divorce. And he did not want his daughter moved to the West Coast.

  As the minutes ticked by, he thought of Bonnie when she was little, the perfect crown jewel, born only a year after he married Michelle, before his wife turned restless. For a time, she continued to present herself as the perfectly beautiful wife in a perfectly happy marriage, with a perfectly behaved little daughter, in a perfectly predictable ticky-tacky neighborhood. But something in Michelle had been changing, or at least surfacing. Society clung to stability by a thread, back just before JFK had been assassinated, and before the first organized Vietnam War protests.

  Michelle Myles had made her husband believe he was lovable, that she relished his complexities. She had broken through his walls and made him vulnerable. He loved her so much, he had even forgiven her infidelity. He should have picked up on her underlying selfishness, but all the while, she appeared the epitome of domesticity and devotion. In the end, it was all too cliché. She had dreams of stardom and Hollywood. Myles never imagined she would follow through—not until the court served divorce documents.

  He regretted that he hadn’t fought harder for custody of Bonnie, but courts did not separate a child from her mother back in those days. And what did he know of raising a thirteen-year-old girl?

  “Decaf,” Myles said as the waitress again approached his table.

  “You know,” the waitress said, pouring and chomping gum. “If you’re waiting for someone, maybe they just aren’t going to show up.”

  Myles glared. She backed off.

  When three hours had passed, he retrieved his billfold and pressed a ten on the table. As he rose in defeat, tucking his wallet into his hip pocket, he turned and stood face to face with a striking blond woman who could have been Michelle’s twin. It was as if twenty-five years condensed. His heart leapt into his throat, bringing a sting to his eyes.

  “Bonnie.”

  She didn’t quite smile. “I was wondering how long you’d wait.”

  He swallowed his heart back down. “I’m glad you came. Would you like to sit?”

  “No. Let’s walk.”

  He followed her out, stunned at how grown up she was, though at twenty-eight he should have expected as much. She could have stepped off the cover of Cosmopolitan in her clingy dress and heels. As he held the door for her, she slung her designer bag over her shoulder.

  As they strode side by side past storefronts, he said, “I know this is awkward for you.”

  She glanced at him, and then fixed her gaze straight ahead. “Probably more awkward for you. I doubt you’ve been in therapy preparing for this moment.”

  He nodded. In fact, nothing could have prepared him for the sight of his daughter, for the loss he mourned in that moment, knowing how little he’d had to do with the self-assured woman she presented.

  She fluffed her hair. “So, how did you find me?”

  “Your friend Marilyn Sanders was the mother of one of my students—Leila. She and her father—that is, Joe, only last week received the envelope you sent.”

  Her step faltered as she flashed a look at Myles. For the first time, her countenance wavered. She covered her mouth.

  “Oh my God.” She wiped a tear and breathed deep. It took a moment before she continued. “Is she alright? I had hoped I would hear from Joe.” She shook her head. “I wish there had been something I could have done ….”

  “Leila is a fine young woman. And resilient.”

  She folded her arms across her full bosom. “Do you have such close rapport with all your students, that they share such personal tragedies with you?”

  “No. Leila is special.” As soon as the words left his mouth, he wished he could retract them.

  “How nice for her.”

  Myles remained silent, hoping he might coax her tender side again. They continued walking as she glanced into the occasional storefront and again fluffed her hair.

  “So, tell me about your life.” H
e shoved his hands in his pockets. “I mean, what do you do?”

  “I went to FIT for fashion design, and currently I’m working for an interior designer.” She looked at him as they rounded the block. “I have a three-year-old son.”

  “You have a son?”

  “Yes. His name is Peter.”

  The notion both startled and pleased him. “Is there a father in his life?—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.”

  “No. There isn’t.”

  “I’d like to meet Peter.”

  “Perhaps in time.”

  He stopped walking, hoping she would pause with him. When he had her full attention, he said, “I know you don’t need me in your life. You’ve made a life of your own, all on your own. I’m proud of you for that.”

  She kept her eyes on his, her rigid demeanor softening.

  He continued, “If this is the last time you’ll allow me to see you, I’ll have to accept that, but I have never stopped loving you, Bonnie.”

  “Dad—stop. Please.”

  “Bonnie, I—”

  “I’m not ready for this. I thought I was.” Her eyes misted. “Seeing you after so long … this is hard for me. I hoped it wouldn’t be this hard.”

  “I know I wasn’t the best father. I know I was aloof and didn’t spend enough time—”

  “No you didn’t, in fact I have very few good memories of you. You didn’t know who I was then, not any more than you do now. You had no idea what my life was like. The endless auditions. The disappointments. Being paraded around at parties, in front of agents—the alcohol and drug scene. I was a child, for God’s sake.” She shook her head with disgust, reclaiming her composure. “But none of that matters now. I’ve moved on. I’m clean and I’ve made a life. I have a beautiful child. I’m in control now.”

  Myles couldn’t bring himself to say another word. If she meant her words to cause injury and to silence him, she had succeeded. What more was there to say? He simply nodded as they again walked, enveloped in the sounds of passing traffic, and turned another corner.

  They arrived back at the diner parking lot and she stopped beside a cherry-red Camaro. “This is my ride.”