by Tiana Laveen
“I’m happy for Dad. I really am.” His voice trembled.
“I know you are.”
A few minutes passed with nothing else said.
“It’s like … no matter what, the good and the bad, I always had ’im. No matter what time of day or night.” She nodded in agreement, as if they were discussing the poor man’s funeral or something. “I’d call and he’d be there. Yeah, I’d have to hear a bunch of shit, he’d lay into me like a chicken to an egg, but he was always there for me when I needed him most, regardless. Now that he and Mom aren’t together anymore, and he’s got someone else… I guess… I guess I feel like I’m not going to get his time anymore. I won’t have the chance to prove to him that I can really make it, that I can do what I set out to do.”
“Dad’s changing, Joel. Strange as it sounds, the old Dad, though harder to deal with, was more predictable. With this guy, it’s like a crackerjack box.”
“Yeah, you’re right. He’s talking to me now like a man instead of some chump. That’s what I wanted and I’m still not happy. Fuck, it’s true, ya know? I’m such a selfish asshole!” he blurted, throwing her off guard. He gripped the steering wheel tight.
“No you’re not. I get it, Joel. It’s like as soon as you and Dad start getting along better, his time will be more limited. That’s just a fact. But look at it this way… why are you and Dad getting along better in the first place?”
He kept his eye on the road, but could see the shadow of a smile start to transform his face.
“I see where you’re going with this… It’s probably ’cause of Emerald. That house he’s in, all of it, was the beginning of something I couldn’t understand, even now. But he knew better than I did. He knew what he needed, I guess, in some strange way.”
“I believe so, too. I was so worried about him, Joel. That’s why to see him like this… smiling, working hard, laughing all the time like he used to when we were kids—it makes me happy.” Her sorrow lifted, replaced by hope.
“Yeah, he’s definitely changed. He listens better, too. You’re right. Things aren’t perfect between us, but they have definitely improved, and it all started with him giving me an apology. It shocked the hell outta me. He’s never said sorry to me in my entire life… not even once. You know what, though?”
“What?”
“I owed him one, too.”
“Yeah…we all owed each other apologies.” She smiled sadly as she watched the cars all around them.
“Emerald is a nice woman. I mean,” he said, shrugging, “from what I could tell, I can’t complain. Dad is so picky and hard on people. She must be something special if he is not only seein’ her but about to ask her to get married.”
Joel was working out the whole situation in his mind, just as she had early on. She’d probably seen the writing on the wall a bit sooner than her brother, though, being aware that her father would never be truly happy unless he was in a relationship. Dad was the commitment type, loyal to the end. She patted his arm, then folded her hands on her lap. The barren, willowy trees sped by in a blur, their thin branches like spindly fingers reaching to touch the clouds. The sky turned to deep pastel streaks, blending with the land, erasing the distinct separation between Heaven and Earth. As time passed, the shadows crept in, ushering in the twilight.
Joel picked up speed and jumped onto I-95, drawing silent, cocooning himself in a private shell. She let him stay there, for he had things to work out and resolve…and she loved him. They were family. The world was going by so fast, but the love between them remained steady, at times moving at a languid, easy going pace. Sometimes the loveliest things were missed because of speed, life rushing by, ruining the moment. The experience was obstructed, made less beautiful with our fast feet, rapid absorption of information, and an impatience that caused life to never be savored, only wolfed down with no memory of the rich flavors it had to offer.
Michelle suddenly remembered a silly twist Dad had put on the fairytale, ‘The Tortoise and the Hare.’ She thought about the moral of that story and surmised the tortoise didn’t just win the race because he took his time, but because he didn’t want to be a ghost to his own life—taking the journey for granted and missing all that nature had to offer as he made it to the finish line.
What was the use of winning, if you couldn’t even recall the true reason for the race?
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Beans Don’t Burn On The Grill…
Aunt Sugar dumped pinto beans in a huge silver pot filled with white rice. She described in great detail how she’d top everything with shredded pork, then add a large helping of boiled cabbage, thinly sliced green peppers with bacon grease on the side. Emerald cradled the phone against her neck and tucked her feet beneath her butt on the living room couch. Sloan was due over soon, but she’d suddenly became exhausted after a long day at work—two emergency extractions and a badly needed crown. Why did it seem that people’s teeth always acted up on a Friday? She chuckled at the notion as Sugar went on and on about the fabulous spread she was preparing, but then, something the woman said had her pause.
“I been readin’ up on Nikki’s condition.”
“Condition?” Emerald rolled her eyes. “Sugar, she’s not sick. This isn’t diabetes or cancer.”
“Well, I don’t know all the right words, but I been readin’ up on it and though I don’t understand it, I can’t possibly see the appeal of two women rollin’ around in the bed rubbing they coochies against one another. I understand how she ain’t ask to be like this.”
“You think that’s all this is about, Sugar? Sex? It’s not. It’s about how she feels about another human being. Look,” she said, tapping a finger on her chest. “I’m a heterosexual woman. I am not sexually attracted to other women either, but I don’t find my daughter to be strange or disgusting.”
“I ain’t say she was disgustin’. I just said I didn’t understand it.”
Sugar’s low voice suggested she might be fishing around for the right words to say, but failing miserably. Emerald decided to cut her some slack, let her work her thoughts out, and perhaps the words to match would soon follow.
“Nikki is a smart girl; always has been, Emerald. I was thinking when you first told me, that it must’ve been ’cause her daddy and you got a divorce, or maybe she got molested or somethin’. But then why ain’t you gay, too? And somebody touched me as a child, and I ain’t gay… didn’t make no sense to me. I sat here and cried about my brother and Nikki, Emerald. I prayed… and then I told myself that maybe I need to read a bit about it, you know? I don’t know much about homos, bulldykes, ’nd things like that.”
“Sugar… callin’ someone those names is seen as offensive.”
“Well, all right… but I didn’t know much about it. I sat here and thought about James, about any clues I may have missed. Only thing that came to mind was just like you said… how he ain’t go to no girls, ain’t ask for no dates. He wasn’t interested; we thought he was just shy. None of the fairies ’round here looked like him. Those guys were flamboyant, wearin’ wigs, fake nails, and make up. James didn’t do any of that. He looked like any other man, like Daddy and your Uncle Kirby.”
“And that’s why it’s important not to stereotype.”
“I believe that to be true, ’cause everybody is different. I still think it’s a sin, but you were right, Emerald. It ain’t for me to judge. I love my brother, despite it all.”
“As you should.”
“And I love Nikki, too. I can’t stop loving them just ’cause they gay. Let me ask you something.”
“Yes, what is it?”
“You think… you think this run in families?” Sugar asked timidly, as if she felt silly even forming the words.
“I honestly don’t know, Sugar. There are some who believe it does, and some who believe it doesn’t. I have no idea. What I do know is there have been a lot of people who’ve remained silent and afraid to tell the truth because they don’t want to be alienated by their families and lose thei
r friends. I couldn’t let that happen to my baby… not on my watch.” She grimaced and shook her head.
“Like James… He never showed signs he was depressed, lonely, or upset.”
“He did; he was just good at hiding it. I’d see him out the corner of my eye, the worry stretched all across his face. I’d hear him pacing about late into the night. I’d notice him not coming home, working himself to the bone so he could avoid this thing we call life. Even when he was diagnosed with prostate cancer, he pretended he was okay, but I knew better. You only saw what he wanted you to see, Sugar. Daddy was definitely lonely, and his religious beliefs caused him increased anguish. He wanted to protect me and my brother, and you, too. He scarified himself. He died with no one to call his own.”
Sugar drew quiet on the other end—no running water from her faucet, no television playing on low in the background. Only the sound of her breathing could be heard, as if she were saving her breaths for something special, a rainy day, or the final moment right before her maker came to collect his due.
“I wish things had been different, Emerald. I find this all so…strange.” She said wearily. “But when you told me what happened, I cried ’cause I knew you wouldn’t lie ’bout nothing like that—not as much as you loved your Daddy. Plus, deep down, it didn’t strike me as totally unbelievable. I just think I was in shock is all, though I shouldn’t ’ve been. It ain’t fair how life do us, huh?”
“Life is far from fair, Sugar. You, me, Daddy… we learned that early on. I got an older brother who never grew up. Willie has been in and out of prison because he’s too afraid to be responsible, and he hates himself ’cause his mother left him like he was a piece of trash. Everyone copes differently with the hand they were dealt, and sometimes people refuse to play the game at all, while others call their bluff. Daddy wasn’t afraid of much, Sugar, but he was afraid of the consequences if anyone found out. I suspect he would secretly date every now and again, but I never caught him with anyone ever again.”
“If Mama knew about this, she’d roll over in her grave, and Papa would try to kill him from the afterlife.” She gasped then. “Now that I think on it, maybe that’s why he never told me to stop tryna set him up with your mother. He needed a cover… folks may have gotten even more suspicious. You know what?”
“What?”
“It’s funny what we forget, but I recalled something just now. Long time ago, before you were even a glimmer in your Daddy’s eye, me and James were out on the bank fishin’. Papa come down there with a couple of his brothers. They was throwin’ back beer and talking loud. Uncle Bud was drunk off his ass. He come lookin’ at James and said to him, ‘A big boy like you, you ain’t never tryna get you no pussy. You bet not be no faggot.’ Papa got real mad about that, so much so, tha two of them got down and rolled around cuttin’ up and cussin’ and hittin’ left and right.
My other uncle, Clarence, got to yelpin’ and me ’nd him and James got them pulled apart. Papa looked madder than a footless man locked in a shoe factory. His reaction ain’t make no sense… See, that’s one thing James and Papa had in common, Emerald. They was real laid back. Papa ain’t yell at nobody, and it took a whole lot to get him worked up. So now that all of this comes back to me, I think… maybe Papa knew all along. Seems to me, we sometimes get the maddest when the truth is the saddest…”
“Dread…”
“That’s one letter too long.” He slid the sharpened number two pencil behind his ear and glared at the children’s activity book filled with puzzles, connect-the-dots games, and illustrations for coloring that he’d stolen out of her kitchen.
“Head.” Emerald scratched her knee. “Fed… is it three letters or four?”
“Four.”
“Dead.”
“You already said that.” He set the booklet down on the coffee table, along with the pencil. “You’ve been obsessed with death ever since you got a hold of more of Peter Jones’ books. It’s ironic, right?”
He leaned against Emerald’s couch, plumped one of her over-stuffed chaise pillows behind his head, and got a waft of the can of sardines and crackers he’d devoured a few moments after coming through the door. Famished, he’d wolfed down the first thing he saw in her pantry.
“He was a good writer.” She picked up the remote control and turned off her television.
“Yes, he was. A lot of writers have stolen his style as of late and these new readers have no idea they are reading recycled work.” He shook his head in disgust.
“But isn’t that how this works? Everyone is an inspiration to someone, right? We observe, learn and emulate.”
“There’s a difference between gaining an angle based on someone else’s talent and learning a thing or two versus copying it to the letter. For instance, your furniture… You’re either restoring or improving an original idea, correct?” She nodded in understanding. “What you’re working with was already established. It’s no mystery. You don’t claim to have built the furniture from scratch. Your expertise is not in furniture making; it is in restoration.
“You’re using the original structure and building upon it. No one is fooled or misled, and yet, still, your art and craftsmanship are respected as such. I had a lawsuit a couple of years ago against someone who plagiarized key passages from several of my books. I could not go after him for ideas… ideas are free and open and rarely is there a completely innovative one within itself. What we do with the idea is what makes it original. He did not place any ingenuity into the work; he simply changed my character and location names, but my premise and plot were stolen.”
“Did you win?”
“Damn straight I did, but that’s because I had a good attorney and the money to chase this guy down. Not to mention, my fans called bullshit and started a petition. Peter is not alive to go after all of these people; nor, as you know, did he have any heirs to do it for him. Once someone dies, their work becomes prey to vultures, incessant pirating, and legal loopholes are in place that allow this rampant theft. So yeah, Peter probably learned from some of the masters, and I learned from him and many others, but he never stole their ideas, intellectual property or words, and claimed them for his own. Everything has degrees of recyclability; the extent of that degree is what defines what is yours and what is mine.”
“My daddy used to tell me there was nothing new under the sun, but I suppose even if that’s true, sometimes you can make something shine a bit brighter under those rays.”
Smiling, he leaned in close and brushed his lips against the bridge of her nose. “From all that you’ve told me about him, your father sounds like he was a great man.”
“He was. Not a day goes by that I don’t think about him.” She looked down thoughtfully into her lap.
“What traits of his do you think you have?”
She looked at him curiously, as if no one had asked her that question before. Perhaps they hadn’t.
“I look like both of my parents, but I do have a sense of loyalty, of knowing right and wrong, and of respecting the golden rule. He won a settlement from a job he was working at, and instead of living off it, he opened his own car repair business. I believe I’m that way, too. I have enough saved up where I would be okay if I became conservative with my money. But why?” She shrugged. “I tend to keep things to myself unless it just becomes too much, just like him, too. I’m always learning… ’cause each day, life class is in session, Sloan. But, I’ve learned not everything needs to be kept bottled up inside, and sometimes being angry and saying so, right when the offense happens, is okay, too. I’ve been portrayed to be one type of woman, but was really someone else.
“My Daddy taught me how to hide in my own skin. This isn’t to say I wasn’t authentic, but nobody, not even me at times, was allowed to get the full scope. That’s a hindrance. As Sugar says, ‘Don’t block your blessings by being stubborn.’ I had the nerve to wonder where my Nikki got her stubborn streak from.” She laughed sadly.
Sloan caressed the skin along
her wrist, comforting her while she let him that much closer into her heart.
“For some reason,” he said, leaving a trail of pecks along her neck, “I believe…” She sighed, melting into his embrace. “…I’ve been loving the real you.” With one final kiss on the cheek, he leaned back against the decorative pillow, sliding his arm beneath it. “Can I give you a test to make sure you’re the real Emerald, and not some imposter?”
She smirked, eyebrow arched in question. Crossing her arms against her chest, she leaned back onto the couch.
“Bled.”
“Excuse me?” he asked, not certain what that meant.
“The four letter word you were looking for, was ‘Bled.’ The clues were ‘red’ and ‘punctured’.”
A slow smile graduated across his face. “Did that just come to you?”
“No, I just wanted to draw it out…because it was fun.”
“Somehow I knew you knew the answer. Not really certain though what tipped me off.”
“And why didn’t you know the answer?”
“Who’s to say I didn’t?” He sucked his teeth in a satisfied sort of way.
“You didn’t.”
He burst out laughing and nodded. “You’re right. I’m a little preoccupied… got things on my mind.” He clasped his hands together and leaned forward, staring straight ahead at a pitch black television that disseminated his own convex reflection of reality in muted shades.
“What’s wrong?”
“I’m haunted.”
“You’re not haunted. Your house is haunted. But that’s old news. You’re dealing with it.”
“Yes, I made him an altar and promised a sacrifice,” he teased. “But that’s not what I’m talking about. See, Emerald…” He whipped out his lighter, cocked his head to the side, and lit a cigarette. Taking a long inhale, he exhaled just as slowly, trying to come to terms with the speed of his heartbeat as each second birthed and died against the Earth’s timeline. “There are good hauntings and bad hauntings. When you’re passionate about something, it haunts you, too. You think about it all the time, to the point you rarely get a good night’s rest. It becomes an obsession, but it’s positive… because the outcome is always beautiful.
