Enigma of the Heart

by Wynette Davis

  “Yes,” Taffy said uneasily.

  “Why are you even doing this if you can’t even get out of the car? You don’t owe them anything, Taffy. You’re always doing shit like this.”

  “Shit like what?” she asked defensively.

  “Shit for other people. For once, stop thinking about what other people want you to do and do something for your damn self.”

  “Maybe this is for my damn self,” she told Nina.

  “Bullshit, Taffy.” Nina’s voice could be heard through the phone, as Taffy held it away from her ear for a second. “Excuse me for saying this, but you’re doing this for your parents. They’re gone, Taffy. I’m sorry, baby, but they’re gone. You need to start living your life for you and stop trying to live your life the way you think your parents would have wanted you to. I knew them, too, Taffy. And they weren’t the type of people to want you to live your life for them.”

  “I’m only trying to mend the rift between my parents—me—between me and my family.”

  “You’re hoping to find acceptance with them, Taffy,” Nina said to her calmly. “You don’t need them to accept you, baby. I just want you to stop trying to make two people who are no longer on this Earth happy. I want you to start making Taffy happy.”

  “They don’t know, Nina,” Taffy said softly. “About Mama and Daddy. I tried to write them, but the letters just kept coming back. I tried to call, and they just hung up on me. They don’t know.”

  “Not even Lou Pearl?”

  “No, Lou Pearl knows. Of course, Lou Pearl and all of that side of the family know,” she said disgustedly. “But they wouldn’t cross the street to give a glass of water to a Rischarde if they were on fire. They for damn sure didn’t go out of their way to inform the Rischardes that Mama was gone.”

  “That’s not on you, Taffy,” Nina said. “That’s on them. They returned the letters! They never returned the calls from your mother or you, or even your father. If they don’t know that your mother is dead, that’s on them!”

  “I have to tell them, Nina. They don’t know.”

  “Then they don’t know. Fuck them.”

  Taffy sat looking out at the kids playing in the street in front of her. She was definitely not on Thoroughgood Street. Kids over there never ventured out to play in the street. They had large yards to play in and a community park. They had swimming pools in their back yards, and nannies to take them to play dates. But as she watched the kids in front of her, she knew that they were having more fun than many of the children on Thoroughgood Street were. One of the older children grabbed a hose from a yard and started to spray the others, sending them scattering in squeals of laughter.

  “That’s easy for you to say, Nina. You have a large family,” Taffy said finally. “There are nine of you in your family. Your parents are still alive. You have a family.”

  “And so do you,” Nina said adamantly. “You have me. And my nosey-ass family, too. You don’t need the Rischardes, Taffy.”

  Taffy was quiet for a few seconds. “I love you, Nina, but—”

  “But you’re still doing it, huh?”

  Taffy sighed heavily into the phone. “Yeah. I’ll call you later.” She hung up with Nina, and slowly got out of the car.

  Her grandmother Monice lived in a neighborhood on the outskirts of Mandeville. The homes weren’t as grand as those on Thoroughgood Street, but they were still large. They were homes built in the early part of the twentieth century for those that worked for the Textile Mill. Most of those that worked for the mill gradually left and moved away. They were replaced with black families that were finally able to buy homes in the 1940’s and 1960’s.

  But the Rischarde home had been one of the original homes built by Nathan Rischarde in the early 1900’s. And the closer Taffy got to the house it seemed like that had been the last time the thing had been painted.

  The front porch sagged, but could be seen to wrap around the house. The roof needed to be replaced instead of the patch jobs that had been done to it over the years. There were several people out on the porch sitting in various chairs and rockers. They stared at her, as she opened the gate to the chain-link fence. The kids had stopped playing in the street to stare over at her. She felt like a gnat under a microscope.

  A large woman stood up from one of the chairs, setting the plate of food she had on her lap in the seat. She walked over to the steps to stare down at Taffy, still chewing in earnest what she’d been eating.

  “Who are you?” she asked Taffy. “We already signed those papers last week about the new property line. That’s been settled by the court. So, who are you?”

  “She damn fine, whoever she is,” one of the men said in the chairs.

  Taffy didn’t walk onto the porch, but stayed on the bottom step looking up at the woman. “I was wondering if Miss Monice is home. I’m Taffy.” She thought about what she was saying and changed her strategy. “I’m her granddaughter Trisha Thibodeaux.”

  “Ho-lee shit,” the woman said, not trying to hide her shock. She stayed standing on the porch with her hand perched on her full hip. “Well, ain’t this something? You’re Wilma’s daughter.” She laughed loudly, throwing her head back as she bellowed.

  “Is Miss Monice home?” Taffy asked again.

  “Yeah,” the woman said to her, nodding her head. “Yeah, she’s home. I’m her daughter Clara. That’d be your Aunt Clara if that’s what I wanted you to call me. But it ain’t.” She leveled a look at Taffy that told her the old feelings had not faded away. “You can call me Miss Clara. Come on.”

  Taffy followed her into the house. It was darker inside, with dark hardwood floors, and thick drapes on the front windows blocking out most of the afternoon sun. A thick haze of smoke hung low in the air, telling her that there were several smokers in the house. Large curios stood in the living room to the right filled with knick-knacks and silver picture frames of various family members. They were of people she’d never met and had never met her. Strangers. They were familial strangers.

  Clara stood in the doorway to what Taffy assumed was the kitchen in the back of the house. She couldn’t tell though, since Clara was almost as wide as the doorway and blocked her view.

  “You ain’t gonna believe this shit, Mama,” Clara said and finally stood to the side.

  Taffy walked into the kitchen to see several people sitting around a large table in the middle of the room. The kitchen was very large. The type that was made for large families and early morning breakfasts. The haze was thicker in that room, but at least light could be seen filtering through some of the windows with the shades only half drawn closed.

  Old cabinets surrounded half of the far wall with the white knobs that were all the rage in the seventies. A large white refrigerator stood next to a white stove to the right, where several pots and pans sat on the burners. The whole room had the cloying scent of boiling meat, cigarette smoke, and underneath it all, the smell of something pickled.

  Taffy had never seen her grandmother before. There had been no pictures of her in her later years. The only photos she found in her mother’s things had been of a younger woman with her hair curled and teased on top of her head. There were three women sitting around the table along with three men. They were all older women with no distinguishable traits among them. Her grandmother could have been any of the women. A deck of cards lay in front of them on the table with several small ashtray tins and glasses of sweet tea in front of them. She assumed the last, since Nina told her it was basically the official drink of the south.

  All eyes were on her, but one woman in particular seemed to stare at her the hardest. “I’ll be damned,” the woman said aloud.

  “I–I’m Taffy,” Taffy said to the woman staring the most at her.

  “No, shit,” the woman said. “You’ve got your ever-lovin’ nerve to show your ass up here, girl.”

  The woman’s voice was gravely and deep. A voice that had seen years of heavy smoking and heavier drinking. A voice of the matriarc
h. The woman was her grandmother. She felt it.

  “Are you my…my grandmother?” asked Taffy.

  The rest of those around the table broke into laughter including the woman. When they had calmed, the woman leaned back in her chair and leveled a glare at Taffy.

  “Not to you I ain’t,” she said. “To you I’m Monice Rischarde. You can call me Mrs. Rischarde. Am I her grandmother?” She laughed to the others around the table.

  “I wanted to meet you,” Taffy said to her. “That’s all. I just wanted to know who you were. All my life, my mom had told me about her family. She told me about her mother. She missed you. Just in case you’re wondering. She truly missed you.”

  “Damn, she look almost white, don’t she, Monice?” said a woman sitting beside her grandmother.

  “Yeah,” Monice said with a look of derision. “I suppose that’s what happens when you mix up with a white man, ain’t it? Taffy.” Monice took a cigarette from a pack that lay beside her glass and lit it. “That’s what they call you, huh? Blonde hair and, what?” She leaned over the table as if she were actually making an effort to study Taffy. “You got light brown eyes? Or are they blue?”

  “I think they call them hazel,” a man said to Monice.

  “Yeah, her motherfuckin’ father—”

  “Don’t you dare talk about my father,” Taffy hissed through her teeth.

  Monice chuckled again. “You got your damn nerve coming up into my house and telling me who I can and can’t talk about. Apparently, you weren’t raised with any kind of respect toward your elders.”

  “You give respect, you get respect,” said Taffy. “You disowned my mother for falling in love with my father. What kind of mother does that?” She looked at Monice incredulously. “Respect? Like you would know what that is? Mom tried to write to you. She tried to call you. She tried to do everything she could to connect with you and you pushed her away. Why?”

  Monice stood and walked over to the fridge. She took out a pitcher of tea and refilled her glass, taking a long drink from it before she spoke again. “I told her, I gave her a choice. I said Wilma, you leave with that Thibodeaux man and you’ll never hear from us again. She knew how we felt about the Thibodeauxs. She knew!”

  “That stupid feud?” asked Taffy. “That stupid feud that has nothing to do with any of the family that’s alive now? A feud that no one even knows how it started! That’s why you abandoned your daughter?”

  “You ain’t from around here,” Monice said, staring at her. “So don’t even try to understand what you think you know. You met me, now go on.”

  “You’re right,” Taffy said, staring down at the yellowed linoleum floor, until she heard a voice yelling out.

  “Y’all back there!” the voice said from the front of the house.

  A tall black woman, with light chocolate skin and a bright smile, walked into the kitchen. She was skinny and had her hair braided into a high ponytail. For some reason Taffy felt at ease with her. Unlike the rest of those in the room.

  “Hey, I’m Tangela,” she said holding her hand out to Taffy.

  “Hi, I’m Taffy,” Taffy said, taking Tangela’s hand.

  “Oh! Oh sweet Jesus,” Tangela said with her hand over her mouth. She then pulled Taffy into a warm hug. “You’re my Aunt Wilma’s daughter! Oh my goodness!” She pulled away from Taffy. “I’m your cousin, honey. Berneatha’s daughter.”

  “Oh! Aunt Berneatha. Tangela? It’s nice to meet you.” It was a breath of fresh air compared to the greeting she’d gotten from her grandmother.

  “I thought this was a wake in here the way y’all are moping about,” she said taking the bag she’d been holding and putting it on the counter. “It’s so much smoke in here. Y’all could crack a window you know.”

  “Leave my house the way I like it, Tangela,” Monice said to her with a glare.

  “Don’t mind them none, Taffy,” Tangela said to her. “They’ve been mad at the world since they were born. Just old and mean. Huh, Nana?”

  “Is that all you came to do, girl?” Monice said to Taffy, as she sat back down. “Cuz if it is, you can leave.”

  Taffy stared back into to Monice’s icy glare unwavering. “I wanted to meet my grandmother. I don’t know why I had my hopes set on you actually being happy to see your granddaughter. The granddaughter you never met. It seems your hate extends down family lines, doesn’t it?”

  “I don’t hate, girl. I never hate,” Monice said sternly, which got a grunt from Tangela. “But if your mama wants to make nice after, shit, thirty damn years? I’m right here. But if she comes here, she’ll come without that man.”

  “So, after all of the returned letters, and unanswered phone calls she’s tried to make over the years to you, you have the nerve to say you’re right here? Now? Now? Pitiful.”

  “You can leave.” Monice said. “Tell your mama what I said.”

  Taffy took a deep breath and slowly released it. She glanced over at Tangela, who gave her a sympathetic smile. “I can’t,” she said finally.

  “Well then, that’s on you then ain’t it?” Monice grinned at Taffy satisfactorily.

  Taffy had never been a spiteful kind of person. She never went out of her way to hurt anyone. Nina had often told her that she was too nice to a fault. But at that moment, she honestly wanted to hurt the old woman. But she hadn’t done what she had come to do yet. And for some reason, she wanted to see the look on Monice’s face when she told her.

  “I can’t because two years ago this past April, two men walked into my parents’ store with a sawed-off shotgun and shot them,” she said staring over at Monice.

  “Oh, my Lord,” someone at the table whispered.

  Monice sat staring at Taffy with glassy eyes. “Daddy never regained consciousness,” Taffy continued. “He—he died in surgery. He wasn’t in pain. I’m thankful that he wasn’t in pain. Mama—” She took a deep breath. “Mama died in my arms.” She didn’t try to stop the tears that breached her eyelids and ran down her cheeks.

  Tangela was by her side, putting her arm around her. “All she kept saying to me was, ‘Tell my mother I love her,’ and ‘Be happy, Taffy.’” She wiped her tears away. “I tried to tell you! I called and you hung up on me! I sent letters and you returned them! I was alone!”

  Tangela held her in her arms, glaring over at her grandmother. Taffy sniffed loudly and tried to compose herself. “They didn’t want a funeral.” She laughed softly. “They were always smiling. They were always happy. They were always together. They loved each other so much. And me.” She smiled. “They would always tell me not to mourn too long for them when they went. They wanted to be cremated together and scattered at Disneyland. So, that’s what I did.”

  “The happiest place in the world,” said Tangela. “That’s sweet.”

  “My baby’s gone?” Monice said finally. “No.” She stood and walked out the back door.

  Clara, who had been standing by the far cabinets, looked over at her with tears trailing down her cheeks. “Willie’s gone?”

  Taffy nodded to her. Tangela still had her arm around her, rubbing her shoulder consolingly. Taffy patted her hand, and walked over to stand in front of Clara. “Willie. Yeah.” Taffy nodded. “Mama told me you were the only one that used to call her that. Why, Miss Clara? Why did you hate her so much? What did she do but fall in love?”

  Clara stared down at the floor. “Mama said that by marrying that man, she all but spat on the Rischarde name. She said she didn’t deserve to be called a Rischarde, and told us that Wilma hated us. She said she showed how much she hated us by marrying that…” Clara seemed to think about it for a second before she continued. “Andre.” Clara slowly raised her head, and stared into Taffy’s eyes. “I loved that girl. But I couldn’t go against Mama.”

  “No, no one ever goes against Nana, do they, Auntie?” Tangela said loudly. She wiped her tears from her eyes. “All of y’all bow and scrape to Nana because she holds control over this family with her money.”
She glared at those around the table. “All of her brothers and sisters let her speak to them like they’re slaves to her, and I guess y’all are since you’re too afraid to speak up against anything she says to do. ‘Marry this person,’” she said in mock imitation of Monice. “‘You better whoop them kids.’ ‘Nobody better ever mention Wilma’s name in my house again!’ Right, Auntie? Now Auntie Wilma’s dead, and we never got the chance to say good-bye. Hell, I never even met her. I just heard all the shit y’all said about her. For thirty goddamn years y’all have carried on with this shit! All out of fear that Nana would yank her money out of your businesses, homes, and lives, huh?”

  Everyone was silent, as Taffy looked around at them. “Is Aunt Berneatha…?”

  “Mama’s alive. She moved to Charleston about four years ago,” Tangela said to her. “But even she won’t go against Nana’s orders. Nana helped Mama start her beauty salon. She still holds the lien, and Mama won’t do anything against Nana out of fear of losing her salon.”

  “What about you?” Taffy asked her.

  Tangela laughed softly. “No. Not with me. I’m a financial analyst for IsoTech in Charleston. I make my own money.”

  Taffy nodded slowly and then started to leave. “Wait,” Clara said to her. She did the most amazing thing then. Clara walked over to Taffy and hugged her. She wrapped her large arms around her and hugged her warmly.

  Clara pulled away, taking her hand and touching Taffy’s soft curls around her face. “Taffy,” she said nodding. “It suits you, girl. You look like Wilma some around the mouth and nose.” She hugged Taffy again, and then walked out the back door as Monice had done.

  Taffy stared over at Tangela. “Don’t look at me,” Tangela said. “I’m just as surprised as you are.”

  Taffy left with Tangela telling her to call her during the week. But a large hundred-pound weight was now lifted from her chest. She sat silently in her car breathing the tension away. “All right, Mama and Daddy. I did it. But that’s it. The Thibodeauxs are another story, and I will not be going down that road.” She drove toward the house. They’d started work on it a few days ago, and it brightened her mood to have that to look forward to.