The Color of Family

by Patricia Jones

  Antonia punched him playfully on the arm. “I think you might want to keep that one to yourself.” She looked over at the crowd gathered around the tiny boy. “He’ll have a fine name. No matter what it is, it’ll be a fine one.”

  Aaron leaned down and kissed her on the cheek. “I should get back. Will you be joining us or are you still beholding?”

  “I’ll be over in a minute.”

  Aaron moved to let go of her hands and she pulled him back for one more moment. “Tawna is lovely and elegant and smart. She’ll fit right in.”

  She watched Aaron head back toward the couch and noted the smile he received from his girlfriend upon his arrival. Right then Clayton’s twins ran past her in the middle of some game they were playing and she smiled down at them.

  This was a ceremony, all right. Much more of one than Ellen could possibly have imagined when she came up with the idea. It was time for Antonia to join it.

  EPILOGUE

  Antonia wondered if her first real memory of Agnes Cannon would always be her strongest. They were working together in the same house arguing about the best way to make monkey bread. As was so often the case with Agnes and her notions, she had some ridiculous ideas about monkey bread, like using pecans in the recipe, and Antonia tried to make it clear to her that no one who had any measure of self-respect whatsoever would put nuts in their monkey bread. Emeril had just been hired to do some odd jobs around the house and chose that moment to come into the kitchen. When Agnes and Emeril met, Antonia knew without a doubt that something was going to happen between them. What that something was was hardly a mystery, considering Agnes’s reputation. But as she watched Agnes study her brother with those green eyes of hers, Antonia felt a twinge of trouble—a twinge that told her that Agnes would somehow steal her brother away. It left her feeling horribly unsettled. The day got worse after that, with the woman of the house choosing Agnes’s monkey bread over Antonia’s and Antonia just feeling miserable about everything.

  Agnes was Agnes Marquette back then, of course, but as far as Antonia was concerned she had always been exactly the same way, regardless of the name. She would never understand what Emeril saw in her, other than the easy availability. But Emeril should have understood that other women would make themselves available to him. More honorable, worthier women. Women who would provide Emeril with something beyond just base pleasure.

  But in a sense maybe it was time to accept the fact that Agnes had given Emeril something that he would not have gotten anywhere else before he died. She gave him a legacy. And even though it had taken her decades to own up to that legacy, it was an awfully impressive one indeed.

  It had been more than a week since the revelations at Larson Fletcher’s party. Calling them revelations wasn’t really appropriate since for Antonia the events in the parlor that day were much more about confirmation than anything else. But regardless of what anyone called them, it seemed that enough time had passed afterward and that the only proper thing to do was to open a line of communication between the mother of Emeril’s child and that child’s aunt. And so Antonia did what she seemed to be making a habit of doing these days—she took a deep breath and rose above her fundamental instincts. She invited Agnes for a visit because they had to begin their future somewhere.

  The doorbell rang, pulling Antonia away from a past inhabited by Agnes Marquette. The Agnes who stood outside was not in any way recognizable as that woman. She seemed to have fallen lower than Antonia ever thought Agnes was capable of falling. It wasn’t that Antonia hadn’t given any thought to what Agnes had gone through in the last nine days, what with everything she had to explain to her son and the fallout that led to the end of Clayton’s marriage. It was just that until she saw her at this moment, Antonia couldn’t put a face on the experience. But she was staring at that face now and it was a sunken and almost unimaginably world-weary one.

  The very first words from Agnes’s mouth while she stood in the doorway were, “You must hate me,” and Antonia realized that Agnes had no way of knowing what to expect when she accepted the invitation. Their phone conversation had been brief and Antonia could imagine how easy it would have been to get any number of impressions from it.

  She opened the door and let Agnes in from the cold. The woman stepped tentatively into the room, as though she was prepared for some kind of onslaught.

  “I could see how you might think that,” Antonia said as she took Agnes’s coat. “But I don’t hate you. I feel deeply for you.”

  Antonia saw a flash of confusion cross Agnes’s face.

  “I saw Clayton’s eyes when he looked at you. And I saw your heart break in half when you looked at your son and told him what you did.”

  “You have no idea,” Agnes said sadly.

  Antonia took a moment to gather herself. She hadn’t planned on getting this honest with Agnes this quickly, but the moment was presenting itself and Antonia knew better than to ignore the signal.

  “Actually, I can. I had never been able to see it or accept it until that moment with you and Clayton, but I had put that same look in my own son’s eyes more than once—when he was young and when he was older. I guess in thinking about it, the memories of that look are worse when he was younger, because I know he couldn’t understand anything that could help him know why he had so much sadness with him to begin with.”

  The admission drained Antonia a little, maybe the more so because she was making it in front of someone who had represented so many negative things in her life for so long. But looking across at Agnes now, she didn’t see a rival, but someone with whom she had a surprisingly large amount in common.

  “It’s hard for a mother to know what to do,” Agnes said, and Antonia simply nodded at the undeniable simple truth of the statement.

  They sat after that and talked for a good long time. They shared memories of Emeril. Antonia delighted Agnes with stories about her brother as an awkward boy before he matured into a strapping young man, and Agnes told Antonia stories about his tenderness and how he paid attention to her like she was the only other person in the world. They talked about what Clayton was like growing up and about the hundreds or maybe thousands of times that a gesture or an inflection would remind Agnes of Emeril. They talked about the brief period of time they worked together in the same kitchen and Antonia was polite enough not to mention how much she despised Agnes back then.

  And as they talked, Antonia came to accept that there was a lot more about Agnes to like than she ever would have imagined. She had never believed that Agnes really cared about her brother, but Antonia would have had to have been unforgivably hardhearted not to believe it after hearing Agnes speak about him now. And when she told funny stories about raising her son, Antonia just knew that motherhood had bestowed many of the same gifts upon Agnes that it had upon her. If she was truly going to understand family in a new way—and with Clayton and Thyme in the fold now, there was little choice but to do exactly that—she was going to have to find a way to include Agnes in the definition.

  “You know,” Antonia said, “if we had been in a different place than we were and in a different time, maybe you’d be my sister-in-law right now.”

  Agnes reached across to touch her on the arm and Antonia was pretty sure that this was the first time they’d ever touched each other. “I would have been, Antonia. You’d better believe I would have been or I would have died trying. I dreamed in every spare minute I could about a different life for me and Emeril. Somewhere far away from New Orleans. Maybe New York where I could have been something else, something better, and Emeril could have been whatever he wanted to be. He was so smart, you know? And we would have raised our boy to be just who and what he is now.”

  It was a dream that could have come true, maybe even would have come true, if fate had been kinder all those years ago. “It wasn’t until I met Clayton and we both knew that he was Emeril’s son that I realized you took a hell of a bold chance to bring my nephew into the world,” she said. “Douglas C
annon could have ruined your life if Clayton hadn’t looked the way he looks.”

  “I didn’t care,” Agnes said, her head down. “I really didn’t care or think about it until that child came out of me. I just knew that I had to have a part of Emeril to keep, and if Clayton had come out looking black and Douglas had set me out on my behind for tricking him the way I did, well, then my boy and I would have found our way somehow.” She looked up and Antonia could see that Agnes’s eyes had misted over. “I had Clayton and so I still had Emeril.”

  It was Antonia’s turn to look down now. “I didn’t,” she said. “I didn’t have either one after Emeril died.”

  Agnes wiped at her eyes. “And I’m sorry. I am so deeply sorry that I let things get to a place where I couldn’t turn it around.”

  There was nothing said for the next couple of minutes, but it didn’t feel uncomfortable or strange, just like both of them had a lot of thinking to do.

  “You know,” Antonia said at last, “I’ve been chasing after Clayton and what he represents to my family for most of my adult life. But just now I realized that I might have been chasing after you as well.”

  Agnes shook her head skeptically. “I think you might have been just as happy if I disappeared off the face of the Earth.”

  Antonia laughed. “Well, I might have thought that on any number of occasions, but somewhere deep inside, I think I might have known something different. After all, you were the only woman my brother ever loved.”

  “He did love me.”

  “I know that. He told me in lots of ways that I didn’t want to hear. But I hear it now. And I believe in some ridiculously roundabout way, it wasn’t my will that got us to this place at all. It was Emeril’s will to make this patchwork into a family.”

  Agnes looked like she was about to add something when the doorbell rang. It was Aaron and Tawna.

  “I just wanted to come by to tell you that I’m going to be gone for a few days,” Aaron said, smiling at Tawna.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To New York. We’re going to cram our attitudes into my car and take a long drive. And if we don’t kill each other on the way,” Aaron leaned over and kissed his girlfriend on the temple and she playfully pushed him away, “we’re going to eat some very expensive food and see a couple of shows.”

  “Is anything else dramatic going to happen on this trip?” Antonia asked.

  “You never know,” Tawna said with a grin that absolutely split her face in half.

  Antonia glanced over at her son. She had never seen him so eager to be with a woman before. This Tawna was going to turn out to be very good for him.

  “Oh, hey, Mrs. Cannon,” Aaron said, noticing Agnes sitting in a chair in the living room and waving.

  “Agnes,” Antonia said, taking Tawna by the arm, this is my future daughter-in-law, Tawna.”

  Antonia looked up to see her son rolling his eyes at the way she made the introduction, but he didn’t protest it.

  “Well, it’s very nice to meet you, Tawna,” Agnes said, walking toward them and shaking Tawna’s hand.

  “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Cannon,” Tawna said.

  “Call me Agnes. And you too, of course, Aaron.”

  Aaron nodded, then reached over and kissed Antonia on the cheek. “We gotta go. We’ll be back after the weekend.”

  He took Tawna’s hand and they headed out the door and down the walk to the car. They waved and Antonia and Agnes waved back.

  “It’s Aunt Agnes,” Antonia said, calling after them.

  Aaron glanced at her with a confused expression on his face and then opened the car door for Tawna.

  He’d figure it out.

  They all would.

  Let’s Talk

  Hot discussion topics for Reading Groups

  1. The nature of family is the centerpiece of this novel. Antonia risks the family she has to seek out the nephew she desperately wants to claim. Was it a risk worth taking? Why was this so important to her?

  2. Clayton’s life turns on the realization that he is half-black. Why is this true when he’s been living in the same skin his entire life? Would things have been different for him if the public wasn’t also aware of it?

  3. Why do you think Agnes denies Clayton’s parentage for so long? Does she do this because of race or because of some battle for “ownership” of Emeril and Emeril’s legacy?

  4. Why does Susan find it so impossible to accept the truth of Clayton’s heritage? What is it about the world she grew up in that makes her feel this way?

  5. Food plays a significant role in this novel. In what ways is food used here as an expression of family?

  6. Ellen plans the baby-naming ceremony because she feels her family lacks tradition. Why is this so important to her? Do you think she’s right about her family?

  7. Why does Aaron have such a difficult time making a commitment to Maggie when he easily does so with Tawna? Does it have to do with the women, or does it have to do with the changes in Aaron’s own life?

  8. The relative nature of celebrity plays a function in several relationships here. Do you think Aaron would have had as much trouble dealing with his family connection to Clayton if Clayton wasn’t a bigger star than he was?

  9. Junior’s love for Antonia seems very strong and his commitment to her absolute. Why do you think he feels the need to keep the existence of Thyme a secret?

  10. Why do you think Antonia feels the need to “take in strays” like Jackie the prostitute when her own family longs for more of her attention?

  Tribute to Patricia, A Woman of Courage

  My sister, Patricia Jones’s soul left her body on May 30, 2002. It has taken two years to finally accept that she is no longer here with me physically, but I continue to be warmed by her memory. She will always be for me, the most courageous and spiritual woman I have ever known. She filled my life with love, laughter, excitement, fun and adventure. Patricia’s zest for life could be infectious and one always listened with amazement as she told stories about her various exploits.

  “I was riding the subway from work and the subway stopped. It broke down and we had to walk through the tunnel to get out”; “I was standing on line in the bank and the guy in front of me seemed to be taking such a long time. I was becoming impatient when he turned to leave, seemingly in a hurry, and then the teller rang an alarm. This man had just robbed the bank.”; “I was on the subway and a man sitting beside me fell asleep. He leaned over on me and I pushed him off. He fell on the floor and didn’t move. Someone checked him and found that he was dead. I was so upset. I said, ‘I just pushed him off of me, how did this happen?’ All I knew was that I wanted to hurry and get off of the train.”

  Patricia loved helping and doing for others. Once a homeless youth asked her for money and she took him into McDonald’s and bought him a meal. She took groceries to a family in need, even though she had very little money for her own expenses. Pat’s spirit had a way of inspiring people, such as the many people of Christ Church in Riverdale, who talked about how she had helped to change their lives. There was also her friend who had found a lump but was afraid to see about it. Pat persuaded her to get a mammogram, making the appointment for her and accompanying her to the appointment.

  Pat was nothing less than passionate about various issues. She wrote articles for many magazines, addressing issues of race, interracial relationships, homosexuality, politics and more. In a speech she delivered she says:

  “I must admit that as I stand here tonight, I am wearied. I am wearied with what I consider the tedium of all the hoopla over counting down to January first. But as I think about the year 2000, I think that all the fuss is really not about the number. It’s about one question that none of us ever really think about consciously, but it’s a very basic one: Does the passage of time really matter? Of course we know it does, particularly when we look into the faces of our growing children that came into the world seemingly yesterday. But that doesn’t stop any of us from
taking the passage of time for granted. When I think about the passage of time, I’m reminded of the old maxim that is trite, but nonetheless true: The more things change, the more they stay the same….

  …Four months ago, my first novel, Passing, was published. While I knew that the title of the book would make people assume they knew what the story was about, I wasn’t prepared for what ended up happening because of the title. Because many thought the book was about a black woman passing for white, letters I received through the mail, and through the publishing company’s website, all showed that many people bought the book for the story of a black woman passing for white. Fortunately, they still enjoyed it in spite of it not being what they thought it would be, but it really made me stop and think. Aside from the fact that I think a story about a black woman passing for white would be such a dreadful cliché, passing for white is a term I simply disavow because of the connotation of the superiority of one race over another. Yet, there are so many who still find the topic pertinent. I was actually shocked that in 1999, I got the number of letters I got from people telling me of how they originally picked up the book because they have a black aunt, or uncle, or cousin, or some other relative living in a distant place and living as a white person. But to be the devil’s advocate for a moment here, wouldn’t that be a choice that everyone should feel free to make in terms of how we define ourselves? I mean, if there’s a woman standing next to me looking as white as I look black, even if she does have more black blood than white, why shouldn’t she define herself in a way that makes her feel more comfortable in her own skin? Perhaps this term, passing for white, is another one of those labels that other people have placed on black people with white skin, and this is why I disavow the term. Because in trying to give it shame, the language has imposed on it something that was possibly not intended. At the turn of the last century, blacks with white skin passed for white for survival. Nowadays, survival is arguable, but what no one can contest is that it could quite possibly be done to spite the labels of color that are still so prevalent in an America headed for the twenty-first century.