Snowed

by Pamela Burford

  Her heart skipped a beat at the reminder of happier times. His expression was playful, almost tender. Because of catfish?

  She dug in her heels at the entrance to the restaurant. “I won’t set foot in there, James. I promised myself four years ago.” Her heart was racing, her palms sweating.

  He took hold of her arm to lead her out of the way as a family of seven exited Ma Chum’s. “And you always keep your promises to yourself?”

  “Yes.”

  “Even the silly ones?” He stared pointedly at the sleazy restaurant where she’d slung fish and hush puppies for four interminable years.

  “How dare you judge me.” She jerked her arm out of his grasp and snatched her car keys from his hand. “If I’m—if I’m—obstinate—”

  “Pigheaded.”

  “All right, pigheaded! It’s because it works for me. And if I promise myself I’m not going to set foot in a damn catfish joint—” she gesticulated at the run-down establishment “—it’s because it’s part of the past.”

  “And you don’t want to be reminded of the past.”

  She trembled with anger. “You have no idea how hard I’ve worked so I won’t have to be reminded of the past.”

  His eyes were more eloquent than words. Not true, they accused. Didn’t you go to New York to dredge up the past, to haul it out and examine it in the bright light of day? He might not know the details of the pilgrimage, but that much was obvious. She turned her back to him.

  “Leah...” She felt his hands on her shoulders. “You’ll never know how much I respect what you’ve accomplished and the way you’ve accomplished it. Your dedication, your sense of obligation—even your pigheadedness.” Absently he wrapped her thick braid around his fist. “I want to go in that place and eat catfish with you because...because it is part of your past, because it’s part of what made you, well, so damn pigheaded.”

  She sensed him reaching out to her—and swallowing his substantial pride in the process. His efforts touched her deeply, and though she knew their relationship was doomed, a part of her responded despite her best intentions.

  She sighed raggedly. Why couldn’t she just say good-bye, drive away, and never look back?

  “It’s really lousy catfish,” she said lamely.

  “I’ll never know the difference.”

  “The hush puppies are like lead sinkers.”

  “A perfect match for my cast-iron stomach.”

  “The service is the worst.”

  “Look who they hire.” He gave her braid a playful tug.

  “The coleslaw—”

  He spun her around and hauled her against him, locking his mouth over her next objection. In the instant before their lips met, her startled eyes found his. The sincerity and love she saw there were indisputable. His strong arms molded her to his body until she began to relax, losing herself in a kiss that seemed to go on forever.

  Patrons of Ma Chum’s cast amused glances at them as they passed, and some made lively comments. Finally he released her and she caught her breath.

  “Let’s eat us some catfish,” he said.

  They settled in a corner booth with a green table and sticky beige plastic benches. A few other tables were occupied, but since it was too early for the dinner rush, they had a corner all to themselves. The place smelled of fish and hot grease. The walls sported fake wood paneling well lubricated with the remnants of previous meals, setting off to best effect a prominently placed first-aid poster for choking victims.

  “I just hope Mama never finds out we turned down her glazed ham for this crap,” Leah grumbled. James examined a bottle of hot sauce on the table. “Don’t even think about it,” she warned.

  He glanced around. “Has the place changed much since you worked here?”

  “Well, the damask table linens are gone, I see. And I’ve heard they no longer serve champagne sorbet between courses. But other than that, not a damn thing.”

  He squeezed her hand. “I’m sure no one’s still here who would know you. Today you’re an anonymous customer, not an overworked, underpaid—”

  “Hi, Leah. What’ll y’all have?”

  They glanced up to see a well-padded woman who looked forty and was probably closer to Leah’s age. She wore a stained green polyester waitress uniform and carried an order pad.

  “Hi, Peggy.” Leah shot James an eloquent glance. Anonymous, huh?

  He said, “We’ll have all the catfish we can eat, Peggy.”

  “Something to drink?” The waitress gave him an appreciative once-over.

  “How about iced tea?”

  “You got it, hon.” Peggy wagged her eyebrows at Leah in unspoken approval as she turned on her heel and left.

  “You’re smiling,” he said, wiping crumbs off the tabletop with a napkin since Peggy hadn’t seen fit to do so. “You can’t be suffering too badly.”

  “Talk about your basic blast from the past.” Leah looked around, shaking her head and, yes, smiling despite herself.

  “Sometimes a blast from the past is just what the doctor ordered.”

  She looked down and played with a sugar packet, not wanting to think about the Past just then. Not while she and James were reasonably—if temporarily—at peace with each other.

  When the meal came, James dug into the breaded, fried fish fillets and golden hush puppies and ignored the slimy slaw. He finished quickly and motioned to Peggy for seconds. “Stieglitz oughta be here. With his appetite for fish, he could probably put us both to shame.”

  “Better slow down, cowboy.” She was still picking at her first fillet. “You pack enough of this stuff away and ‘all you can eat’ will turn into ‘all you can do to make it to the bathroom.’”

  “Don’t worry about me,” he said over a mouthful of hush puppy, smacking his midsection. “Cast-iron, remember?” He washed it down with tea and continued his meal in silence. An unreadable, faraway expression came into his azure eyes, as if a battle were being waged behind them.

  When Peggy brought him his third helping, he continued to pack it away, though with waning gusto. When he looked straight at Leah and leaned back, she knew he’d come to some decision.

  He said, “I make promises to myself, too, Leah.”

  She wasn’t sure she wanted to hear this. “James—”

  “Like that adoption business. You say I lied. Maybe I did. I still don’t know why it’s such a big deal.” He paused. “Here’s the thing. I promised myself a long time ago that I’d keep a secret.”

  His gaze was focused inward now, and she knew he was somewhere she’d been many times herself: the place where your secrets dwell, where you’re always alone in the dark.

  She sighed. Whatever he was trying to tell her, it couldn’t change the past. “James, let’s just drop this.”

  The sound of her voice seemed to loosen the grip of his memories. He looked at her. “Leah, If I’m going to lose you, it sure as hell won’t be over this.” To her amazement, he opened his wallet. She was about to remind him that Peggy hadn’t brought the check. “You’re not the only one who carries snapshots.” He removed a small photo from a protective plastic sleeve and tossed it onto the table.

  The picture was upside down and she was almost afraid to touch it. He turned the photo around and held it up. It was old, even older than her snapshot of Annie, but in better condition. She recognized the woman as James’s mother, Antonia Bradburn, in her youth. Antonia was laughing and raising a hand to her dark, wind-whipped hair. The man with her was tall, perhaps in his early forties, sporting neatly cropped black hair and a light-colored suit. An Egyptian pyramid was in the background.

  Without intending to, Leah lifted the snapshot from James’s fingers, her attention riveted to the handsome face in the photo—the wide mouth, the proud Roman nose, the piercing pale eyes...

  She looked at James.

  “Don’t look at me,” he said.

  She turned the picture over. Only a date—the photo was thirty-six years old.

&n
bsp; He said, “This is the only picture of my mother where she looks truly happy.”

  “Who is he?”

  “His name was Carlo Itri. He was a reporter in Cairo.”

  “Itri? That’s not an Egyptian name.”

  He smiled. “He was from a small town near Naples. The Suez Canal crisis brought him to Egypt in the fifties, and I guess he liked it there—he ended up stationed in Cairo, covering the Middle East for the Reuters news agency.”

  Peggy approached their table. “Can I get y’all anything else?”

  “Coffee?” he asked Leah.

  She nodded. Peggy cleared the table and brought them two cups of coffee. Leah’s mind teemed with questions, but she kept silent, knowing he’d fill in the blanks in time.

  He lifted the steaming cup to his lips and blew on it. “Dad went to Cairo to photograph the pyramids and all that.”

  “And your mother went with him.”

  He nodded. “They’d been married less than a year. She was ten years younger than him, and he sort of swept her off her feet. He’s been known to have that effect. Anyway, by the time they were in Egypt, she was already desperately unhappy.”

  “Divorce was less common back then,” she observed, trying to comprehend how a woman could remain in an abusive marriage.

  “Especially in their social crowd,” he agreed. “Her family would never have been supportive if she’d left him. It’s not that they were insensitive, it’s just that, well, a wife was expected to put up with a lot. Only, I’m sure none of them knew just how much she put up with.” He paused, sipping his coffee, lost in thought.

  Leah reached across the table and touched his hand. “What happened in Cairo, James?”

  “When Dad left to go back to the States, Mom stayed on for a few months with friends over there.”

  She was ahead of him. “And she met Carlo.”

  “Yes.”

  “Your real father.”

  His unwavering gaze met hers. “Yes.”

  In a heartbeat, everything around her was swallowed up into nothingness—the sleazy restaurant, the other patrons chattering over their meals, the sights and sounds and smells of the place. One thought—one crucial, incontestable, extraordinary thought—crowded out everything else.

  James isn’t my brother!

  She stared at the photograph. There could be no doubt. He looked just like this handsome Italian reporter and nothing at all like his blond, dark-eyed namesake.

  She asked, “They were very much in love, weren’t they?” She recognized the expression on Antonia’s face. It was the way Leah looked when she thought of James.

  “Yes. Carlo begged her to leave her husband and marry him.”

  “But she said no?”

  “She said yes.” He turned the picture around and stared at it. “Before she could act on her decision, Carlo was killed in a plane crash while on assignment.”

  Leah bit her lip. “Oh, James...”

  “After his death, Mom was still determined to leave her husband. Then she found out she was pregnant.”

  “So she stayed with him.”

  He took a deep breath and returned the photo to his wallet. “Yes. Because of me.”

  She wondered how much misplaced guilt he’d inflicted on himself over his mother’s predicament. Probably as much as she’d inflicted on herself over Annie’s death, she thought.

  “How did you find out about Carlo?”

  “It’s funny,” James said. “All during my childhood I used to fantasize that I was not the son of James Bradburn, Sr., that his blood didn’t flow in my veins. In junior high school, when we did blood typing in bio lab, my fantasy started to look more like reality. Turned out I’m type B.”

  “And your father?”

  “Mom and Dad were both type O.”

  “That would be a neat trick,” she said, knowing that blood type is inherited. Two O’s can’t make a B.

  “I didn’t mention it to anybody. And it wasn’t until Mom was dying that my suspicions were confirmed.” He paused while Peggy refilled their coffee cups. “She told me about Carlo five weeks before she died. Told Dad, too.”

  “Oh my God.” No doubt this was the driving force behind James Senior’s attempt to cuckold and humiliate his son.

  “Dad never talked to her again after that.”

  “He just abandoned her when she was dying?”

  “Believe me, it was for the best,” he said. She squeezed his hand, and his answering grip was painful in its intensity. “Mom kept her secret for a quarter of a century. And after she told me, I vowed to respect her memory by keeping it to myself. What she did—her one extramarital affair—might not seem like such a big deal nowadays, but reputation was very important to her.”

  “And your father—I mean, you know, James Senior—he didn’t tell anyone?”

  “And admit to the world that his wife had made a fool out of him, had tricked him into raising someone else’s son as his own? Not a chance. He kept his mouth shut, though it had to be eating him up inside. I can only hope so, anyway. Only my brothers and I know. No one else.”

  “Except me,” she murmured.

  “Except you.”

  “Now I understand why you didn’t tell me earlier.” She thought about the secret Antonia had carried with her for so long. At least she’d had her son—the product of a union of love, a physical reminder of the one man who’d made her happy. Such a reminder could be both a blessing and a curse, she supposed. Merl had kept her secret for just as long. Not that Leah had been the product of a loving union—quite the opposite.

  He smiled. “Eight years ago I visited my father’s—my real father’s—hometown near Naples. I met my relatives.”

  “Did they accept you?”

  He laughed. “My grandparents thought they were seeing a ghost at first. Yeah, they accepted me. They were so happy, they cried. I have cousins over there, aunts and uncles. I’ve been back twice.”

  “Did you learn to speak Italian?”

  “Sure. Manicotti, linguine, calamari—all the important words.”

  She hesitated. “James...why did you tell me this?”

  “You know why.”

  She nodded, feeling her throat constricting. With this revelation he’d bared his soul to her...trusted her...taken the first step. Now she knew that their relationship was untainted by the specter of incest. Love between them was possible. But would he want her—could he want her—the “real” daughter of the man who’d caused him and his family so much misery?

  She squeezed her eyes shut. He cradled her icy hands in his large, warm ones. He whispered her name.

  “This is so difficult,” she murmured.

  “I know.” He lifted her hands and placed a kiss on her knuckles. His eyes glowed with devotion. “I love you, Leah.”

  “I love you, too, James.”

  His grip on her fingers intensified and his eyes closed for an instant. He’d never heard those words from her before. “Trust me,” he said. “I won’t let you down. I promise.”

  She tried to yank her hands from his grasp, but he held fast, locking his gaze with hers. She took a deep, shuddering breath. “We’re both orphans, James.” His features darkened as wary bewilderment replaced his smile. “Annie wasn’t...wasn’t my sister. She was my mother.”

  Some of the color left his face as the magnitude of her disclosure began to sink in. She tried to continue, but a tide of anguish welled up within her, closing off her throat and stinging her eyes. She’d never had to talk about it before, never had to say the words.

  Without thinking, she jumped up and bolted from the restaurant, leaving him to toss some cash onto the table and charge out after her. He caught up with her as she was fumbling for the car’s remote entry button with fingers that shook uncontrollably.

  He took the key ring from her. “I’ll drive.”

  She fought the tears that choked her. “Damn it. I promised myself I wouldn’t cry for her anymore.”

  “
Get in the car, Leah.” Gently he led her around to the passenger side.

  He slid behind the wheel, gave her hand a reassuring squeeze as she composed herself, and started driving. Not in the direction of the airport, but she didn’t think he cared at that point. As they approached a railroad grade crossing, the flashing red lights and ringing bells told them a freight train was approaching. They stopped at the tracks as the red and white crossing gate swung down. She knew they’d be stuck there for several minutes—some of these trains were eighty cars long.

  Finally he spoke. “Annie would’ve been only...” He let the thought trail off, obviously unable to accept what simple arithmetic would seem to indicate.

  “Fifteen. She was fifteen when I was born.” She closed her eyes, trying to find the strength to relate the next part.

  She never got the chance as a startled oath erupted from his throat at the same instant the diesel locomotive charged past the windshield, whistle blaring, followed by the first of dozens of freight cars. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel, his face rigid with shock. He seized her arm in a brutal grip.

  “My father...?” he rasped.

  “James—”

  “What did my father do to Annie?”

  She swallowed hard. “He wasn’t your father. James, please...” She tried to wrench her arm out of his grasp.

  He released her and tore out of the car, slamming the door and pounding the hood with his fist. She flinched as the car shook under his blows. She let herself out to stand at a distance, watching him. Other cars were lining up behind theirs as a string of tankers and boxcars rumbled by a few feet away. The ground quaked under their feet.

  He was breathing hard, his body as taut as a wound spring. His face was a mask of pure unadulterated rage. Had she made a mistake telling him about Annie?

  He stared at her across the roof of the car. It seemed an eternity before he spoke. “You’re his daughter.”

  She forced herself to hold his fierce gaze. “Yes.”

  His expression never softened. Her entire body tensed, as if anticipating an attack. At length he seemed to become aware of the line of cars waiting behind them, filled with curious eyes, and of the train thundering by. “Get in,” he ordered.