The Color of Family

by Patricia Jones

  “I don’t remember all of that,” Aaron said with an impatience born from the annoyance of having to recall those days. “But I do remember that it happened in the same week that Ma found out—and to this day I don’t know how she did—that Clayton Cannon would be going to the Peabody Conservatory.” Aaron stared off beyond Ellen and looked out the window. Could she have called the school? But he immediately threw that thought out, because even if she had, he was certain they wouldn’t have given that information out to anybody just calling up out of the blue. It was too much to think about. And anyway, he didn’t even know why he was wasting the time. “Ellen, what’s the point of all this?”

  “The point is, Aaron, that it was on that day, when Ma kept going on and on about how he’d just won that competition and everything, that you asked her if she didn’t love you anymore.”

  Aaron regarded her disbelievingly. “I did?”

  “Yes, you did. And you were more serious than I had ever seen you. You took her hand and then hugged her around her waist as if you would have died if you had let her go, and you asked her that.”

  “I don’t remember saying that, Ellie. But what did she say?”

  “She said, ‘Of course not, baby. You’re my baby and I’ll never stop loving you, or you either, Ellen.’”

  Well, what else would she say, Aaron thought. “So what are you saying, that I asked her that because she didn’t nurse me?”

  “Yes. I’m saying that if you had been bonded to her through that experience then it wouldn’t have occurred to you to ask her that question.”

  “How about this,” Aaron said as he stood and walked behind his chair, ready to leave. “I asked her that, maybe, because I didn’t know why she was getting so crazy about some guy she didn’t even know.”

  “Yeah, I think that’s a part of it too. But what I’m saying is that you wouldn’t have needed to ask her if you’d had more of a bond with her. And what you did was ask her what I had wondered myself.”

  “I don’t know, Ellie. I think you’re making way more of this nursing stuff than need be.” And compelled to retreat, to be away from this talk that would only end up spinning them in circles, Aaron shoved his hands into his pockets.

  “Oh, what’s the use,” she said as she got herself up from behind her desk. “You’re a man. I don’t even know why I bother talking to you about something like this.”

  “I don’t either,” Aaron said, as he preceded her out the door.

  The minute he turned the corner into the waiting room, he felt as if he’d been slapped in the face with the memory of his mother dragging him across the cobblestones of Mount Vernon Place on the first day of classes at the Peabody. He remembered the day being overcast, with a piercing chill in the air, as they walked to one side of the street, then back to the other, then stood in front of the main building with his mother’s eyes searching every face that passed and every young man in the distance. And when she thought she saw Clayton, his mother dragged him, poor unwilling Aaron, by the arm down three steps into a dimly lit cellar with floor-to-ceiling shelves lined with faded books that called itself the Peabody Library and Pub.

  Why was he remembering that day, and that place that smelled like old musty books and pipe tobacco? He would never forget the man, the old man who sat in a rocking chair staring straight ahead as if lost in a memory that mingled with the symphony playing low from a small radio by the man’s side. That man, with his craggy yellowing gray beard and pipe, his skin as jaundiced and worn as the pages in any one of those old books, could have been made of wax. Or recently deceased, Aaron recalled, because he never moved, never spoke, never acknowledged with as much as a twitching finger that he was aware that two people had just come in and were dashing by.

  Aaron also remembered how he so badly wanted to leave that place, yet couldn’t until his mother found who she’d come there to see. And as they went into the back where wooden rickety tables sat in no particular order all around the room, there he sat, over in a corner with his head buried in a book that had nothing in it but notes that seemed all jumbled up together. Clayton had his eyes on all those notes as if they were telling him as much as words could and his face expressed pleasure, as if he were actually hearing the music, Aaron recalled thinking with a certain awe. An awe that made him doubt he would ever be that special.

  When Clayton Cannon did finally look up, it was only to ask the waitress for more coffee. And when his eyes met Antonia’s for seconds that had seemed as long as minutes, and then met his own young eyes, Clayton gave them both a knowing smile but went immediately back to his music. That’s when his mother did what he, even now with all the years gone by, could not come to understand—she turned to Aaron and said, “Let’s go.”

  “Let’s go,” he said aloud.

  “Let’s go where?” Ellen asked as she pressed for the elevator.

  “Let’s go downtown to the Peabody Pub,” he said without knowing that he would say it.

  “It’s kind of pricey there, even for lunch.”

  “It’s my treat. I just want to be someplace that makes us feel a little special today.” And with that he said no more as the elevator doors opened and he stepped in after his sister, still thinking of the man who was special enough to read the language of music.

  CHAPTER

  3

  It was nearly one in the afternoon by the time Antonia got downtown and pulled her car into one of numerous empty spaces. This was one of those days, she thought as she looked around at the parking lot, barren at high noon, that always made her wonder why Harborplace even bothered to open up in the wintertime.

  She stepped from her car with care, since the ground was wet with sloshy snow, and headed to the parking meter. Grabbing a handful of quarters from her purse, she began pumping them in, one right after the other. It would take her a good three hours, she thought, to do what she’d come to do. She could be just in time, or have missed him altogether. There was no way of knowing. But when she woke that morning, she was sure she had to satisfy the inkling that pulled her to this place. Just to see him in the flesh, just to hear his voice. It would all be so very innocent. Once she saw him, and heard him, and maybe even had an accidental chance to touch him, then that would salve her until he knew. And he would know. She couldn’t tell when and what the circumstances, but just as water can never stop itself from rolling down a hill, truth can never stop itself from, in time, rolling into the light of day.

  So as she made her way across Light Street, wondering who she just might run into first—Clayton or Agnes—Antonia thought of how she’d conduct herself, particularly if she saw Clayton. And then, she was there, poised on the threshold of the apartment building where Clayton lived. Once she entered the lobby of Harbor Court, she let out the long breath she’d been holding since she left home and strolled ever so calmly to the doorman’s post. Smiling gently, she quietly asked, “So, this is where the pianist Clayton Cannon lives, huh?”

  “Yeah, this is it,” he said as he looked down at something he was writing. Then he looked up, smiled inquisitively and continued, “This place has really been put on the map, in a way. I mean, it’s now a stop for tourists who’re fans of classical music. They come in here to the lobby, look around, take some pictures and leave. Many of them even run into him.”

  “Really,” Antonia said as her eyes perked with the enthusiasm of a sycophantic fan.

  “Oh sure. He’s just a regular guy. Comes and goes, you know. And he always stops and talks to people. He’s not in any way stuck up like a lot of those folks are. He’s real salt of the earth. That man will talk to a junkyard salesman with the same ease as he’d talk to a king.”

  “That’s nice to know,” Antonia said with a distant smile. Then, from the corner of her eye, she caught a familiar movement. Turning quickly, she could scarcely believe that her fantasies hadn’t completely conjured what she saw. But, she was sure that no part of her mind deceived her when she snapped her head back to the doorman, w
ho regarded her with an unexpected smile.

  “Well, speak of the devil,” he said. “There he is now.”

  “Oh my,” was all Antonia could say. Then over her shoulder as she turned to leave with steps already quickened, she said to the doorman, “I’m going to run and see if I can catch him.”

  Outside, she hadn’t caught him, but not because he was out of reach. If she’d wanted to be so obvious, so overbearing, she could have been right up beside him in no time with the way he sauntered. Even in the cold, she thought, he moves slower than molasses pouring uphill. So she dallied behind him, pretending to look for something in her purse then, grabbing a mirror which was the first thing her hands could find, she patted her hair back into some imaginary place. With him moving at the speed of nearly nothing, the halting hand of the traffic sign had brought him to a dead stop before Light Street’s passing cars, so she just had to wait and pretend. As the light changed, she exhibited great restraint in staying ten or so paces behind him. When they got to the other side, a swirling gust of wind picked up nearly everything on the ground that didn’t have its own heft to stay put, and it was so blustery that it nearly felt to Antonia as if it could snatch her clothes clean off. This, she presumed, was the thing that got Clayton to pick up his pace, because after that assault of wind, he was moving along at some clip.

  She found herself following him through the doors of the Light Street Pavilion—or the goodies pavilion, as she’d affectionately come to call it. Anything under the sun she wanted to eat, she thought as she followed him through the short vestibule and through the second set of doors, could be found right in this building.

  On the second floor, she followed him around, wondering where his final destination might be. With great amusement, she watched what caught his eye as he passed the peddlers’ carts. He looked at exquisite silver necklaces. He touched a sheer silk scarf in vibrant shades of blue. And she had to subdue a chuckle when she saw him look with more than a passing interest at a stuffed snake in bright primary colors that descended from the top of a cart as if it were alive enough to strike. It lit something quite intense in her to know that a part of his little-boy self was still alive.

  When he reached where he was headed, he talked to the young people behind the counter as if they were long-held chums. Once he picked up his tray and paid, she followed him toward a table closest to the window, and then passed by and went to Aunt Annie’s for a pretzel with cinnamon. She fumbled through her wallet and pulled out a five-dollar bill, handed it to the woman, and said, “You keep the rest of it. Buy yourself something cute.” She didn’t have time to wait for change. There was no telling how fast or slow an eater Clayton might be.

  How fortuitous. Every table immediately around him was empty. So she went to the one directly next to his and sat, so that when he looked up he would see only her. The moment she saw that he was looking in her direction, she caught his gaze and smiled. Her heart was quick with something very close to fear, but despite every raw nerve in her body, she managed to say, “You’re Clayton Cannon, aren’t you?”

  “Yes ma’am, I am,” he said kindly, welcomingly.

  “I’ve followed your career for years,” she said, amazed at her unintended honesty. In any context, she thought, it was the innocent truth. And so her nerves were at rest now.

  “Have you really?” he said, as if he wanted to know.

  “I sure have. I’m from New Orleans myself, and so when the buzz about this child musical-genius began to swell, well I was as proud as if I knew you.”

  Clayton laughed bashfully, then said, “I guess that’s how it is back home. We’re all so connected that when somebody comes out of there doing something good, we all just claim them.”

  “That’s right,” Antonia said as she watched Clayton move his food around, and as he did, it was only then that she was aware that he was eating with chopsticks. “So you eat lunch over here every day?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I do,” he said, skillfully picking up a salmon roll. “Since I’ve moved back here, this place has become my favorite spot. But when I was in school here, I never came down to Harbor Place. It was still so new that it was always packed. But now, I guess because I have kids, it’s certainly a large source of our entertainment when we want something to do after dinner. We just come over here and get an ice cream or fried dough and sit and look out on the harbor. The kids love it.”

  “I’ll bet they do,” Antonia said cheerfully, picturing the smiles on the small faces she could only imagine. “So what made you move back here to Baltimore?”

  “To tell you the truth, I’m not exactly sure what brought me back. I guess mostly it’s because in our hearts, my wife’s and mine, we see our family as a southern one. As the kids got older, the thought of raising them in a place like New York with me on tour for long stretches throughout the year was just too much for my wife. She’d been dying to leave New York since she gave birth to the twins. So since I wasn’t about to move back to New Orleans, Baltimore seemed to be the most reasonable compromise.” He ate the piece of salmon roll, then smiled as he continued, “To tell you the truth, I like this city well enough, but it doesn’t charge me up, you know. It’s okay. I find the people interesting enough, but there’s a sameness, if that makes any sense.”

  “It certainly does,” Antonia said with a knowing laugh. “I’m sort of like your wife in that I followed my husband and his career here. It’s okay, but it’s still better than being in New Orleans.”

  Clayton looked at her with a kindred smile and said, “Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I don’t like New Orleans. It’s just that there’s so much I left back there without fully understanding, and to go back would end up driving me insane.”

  “I know exactly what you mean. It’s a wonderful place, but the layers of life and all those ghosts would just pile up on me down there.”

  “Exactly. The layers of life,” Clayton said in a small voice and seemingly to himself. Then he looked off past Antonia, as if in deep contemplation, before reconnecting with her. “Ma’am, would you like to join me? It feels kind of strange to talk across tables like this.”

  “Well, thank you,” Antonia said, not once considering she decline politely for decorum’s sake. She sat in the chair next to his, then placed her pretzel—of which she had not taken one bite—on the table.

  Clayton gawked at the mountain of snowy sugar Antonia had put on her pretzel.

  “That’s funny,” she said as she settled herself and rested her purse on the table. “My son would look at my pretzel the exact same way you are. He doesn’t even like to see me sweeten iced tea, if you can imagine that.”

  “I sure can. Just the sight of too much sugar can make my jaw lock up,” he said with a good-natured chuckle. “So how old is your son, Mrs.—? I’m sorry, I’m at a disadvantage. You know my name, but I don’t know yours.”

  “Oh, I’m Antonia Jackson, and my son’s thirty-seven,” she said, extending her hand to him. And when he took it and then smiled, her heart leapt with every passion in it that knew Emeril. She looked into his eyes, and in that moment of connection, hand in hand, eye to eye, deep within Antonia was reborn the part of her soul that died on a Mississippi road forty-five years before.

  “Are you okay?” Clayton asked her. “You look stricken.”

  “Stricken,” Antonia quietly repeated. And when she came back to the present, she looked at him and saw him for himself, saying, “I’m sorry for staring. You put me in mind of someone I knew back in New Orleans. It’s a powerful resemblance.”

  “Is that so?” Clayton said laughing, as he dipped a piece of salmon roll into the tiny container of soy sauce. “Maybe you knew my father. I mean, we didn’t look alike at all to me. But you never know what people can see.”

  Antonia’s heart nearly stopped. How did he know? But he couldn’t know, she immediately reasoned. He couldn’t know because Agnes would never allow him to know. Unless, she thought again, he had found out the truth from a pl
ace where Agnes could not see. But what place would that be? So she said to him softly, “I’m sorry, your father?”

  “Yes. My father, Douglas Cannon. Did you know him? He was a mortician down in New Orleans. Cannon Funeral Homes. There were three around the city.”

  “Ah yes, Douglas Cannon,” Antonia said, feeling a strange relief. “Well, I certainly knew of the business, but I did not know your father.” Suddenly this had become far too much for her to take. She felt intrusive, and bothersome, and voyeuristic. Something had brought her there, she thought. But she couldn’t let it take her any farther than that moment. And she was afraid of what she just might say next. So she wrapped her pretzel lightly and stood. She extended her hand to Clayton and said, “My goodness, I just remembered that I’m late for an appointment. It’s been a pleasure, and I do hope to see you again. But if not, I want you to keep playing as brilliantly as you’ve always played.”

  “Yes ma’am I will. And I’m sure we’ll run into each other again. New Orleans doesn’t keep her children apart for too long.”

  Antonia had no response to that. She only smiled and walked with a clip toward the stairs.

  CHAPTER

  4

  The very next morning, dawn’s virginal light slid slyly through the window and crawled on the floor, quietly announcing the new day. Across the room, where the creeping sun was headed, Clayton Cannon stood in front of the mirror, legs apart, arms raised, comb in hand, poised to do battle with the brown in the shade, just shy of red in the sun, curly, disobedient hair that had driven him to distraction all his life. It was the kind of hair that looked downright woolly on humid days, less so on dry ones. A crimp away from having the same tight kink as pure Negro hair, his hair had always intrigued him, since neither his mother nor father had hair like his.

  He combed through with one stroke, paused, then watched as it sprang back into unbridled corkscrews. So he combed through again, but this time, just that fast, his attention had been dragged downward to the trash can right beneath the mirror. Not so much the trash can itself, but it was what was inside, sitting all alone with no other refuse to keep it company: a letter ripped in six pieces and scattered carelessly. On one large piece, he was able to see that it was addressed to his mother at her home in Louisiana. And from another piece of the envelope was a zip code. A Baltimore zip code and half of an address that he couldn’t seem to make out without actually going into the can and picking it up, which he simply would not do. But whoever wrote this letter, he thought, had handwriting so flourished they were either someone who lived life just on the edge of drama, or simply lived life longing for flourish. He couldn’t have cared less about that, though. It was all in the whereto and what-for. Why had his mother torn it up? And what would his mother know of anyone else in Baltimore, other than him? Because if she knew someone else in Baltimore, he reasoned, certainly he would know.