by Tabra Jordan
Maria placed a light breakfast before Jillian. Jillian looked at her waffle, link sausage, and egg. The food was just as she had asked—impeccable.
Dressed in his gray suit, Lake walked downstairs and strolled toward the table. Immediately, Maria met him with hot waffles and fruit. She placed them on the table. “Anything else, Mr. Fairchild?”
“No. Maria. As usual, everything is fine.” Lake bowed his head and said grace. When he finished his prayer, he patted his wife’s hand. “It’s going to be okay.”
“I know.” Jillian raised her eyes to look into her husband’s face. His brows were furrowed. “I can’t have a child, Lake. I’m too scared.”
“Well, don’t worry,” he said. “If having a child makes you fearful; we will just be a childless couple.”
Jillian sighed. “Mom and dad aren’t concerned with having a grandchild. I would have thought they’d be chomping at the bit for a granddaughter.”
Lake grinned. “Your parents are into themselves. They wouldn’t have time for grandchildren.”
From the kitchen, Maria chuckled softly. Hearing her laughter, Lake snickered. “See. Maria knows them better than you.”
* * * * *
When Jillian had kissed her husband goodbye, she reached for the phone, then sat down in the living room. She just had to talk to her father. No, she wasn’t a daddy’s girl. That position has been occupied by her younger sister. Never-the-less, she knew her daddy loved her. “Good morning, Daddy.”
“Good morning, bunny. How is my snuggle bunny, today?”
“Not good daddy. I’ve been having that dream again. I’m not sleeping well.” A family portrait hung above the fireplace. Jillian focused on her father’s dark brown skin, and hooded eyes—a family trait she didn’t possess.
“Are you still seeing Dr. Vega, the therapist?”
“Yes. And I’m taking the prescription the doctor gave me.”
“Good girl. You’ll make it through this. You’re a trooper.”
“Daddy.” She hesitated. “Was there a fire in the nursery at any time?”
“A fire?”
“Yes. In my dreams, I’m always a young child. I’m standing in my crib. Someone opens the door. I always see smoke rushing into my room.”
“No. There was no fire, but every now and then, Jesus would burn brush out back. Perhaps, you’re thinking of that.”
“It isn’t the same kind of smoke, daddy.”
“I’m sorry, bunny. I can’t help you.”
“Okay dad. Thanks. I love you,” she said hastily, as she hung up the phone.
* * * * *
Still unsatisfied, Jillian looked at the clock. It was now, 9:05. She placed another call. “Mr. Freemon. How are you today?”
“I’m exceptional,” he said, his voice jovial, “now that I’m talking to my favorite client.”
Jillian cradled the phone against her face. “I’ve got a job for you.”
“Okay. I’m ready. Shoot.”
“I want you to find out all you can about my birth. Dig up birth certificates, birth announcements—everything.”
“Jillian.” Freemon paused. His tone became solemn. “I’ve known your family for years.”
“Do you recall my birth?”
“Well, no but…”
“I want cold hard facts. Something happened when I was very young. I need to find out what.”
Mr. Freemon lowered his voice. “Your family will not be happy about this. I think you should leave well enough alone.”
“Jack Freemon. I’m sick. I have nightmares so debilitating that I need to be sedated!”
“Why, I had no idea.”
“Something happened to me when I was a child.” Her heartbeat grew rapid. “If you won’t help me, I’ll go to another agency.”
“I can’t help you, sweetheart. I work for your dad. He owns the agency. But, I do know someone who can investigate your birth and childhood. He’s a little uncouth, but he’s the best at what he does. ”
“That’s all that I ask. I promise Daddy will never know. This is something I’ve got to do for myself.”
“I understand.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Jillian waited for Mr. Freemon to make arrangements. Meanwhile, she took life as usual. The dreams subsided somewhat, and she slept restfully. After three months, Jillian finally got the call she had been waiting for. “Hello.”
“Mrs. Fairchild. This is Nicky Russo. It’s been a while since we’ve talked, but I think I have something yous might be interested in knowing.”
“What is it?”
“Not, on the phone. Meet me at Gertie’s.”
“Gertie’s?” Jillian frowned. “I’ve never heard of Gertie’s.”
“Get in a cab. Gertie’s is in the South part of town.”
“Okay. But, aren’t there thugs and drug dealers there?”
“Yep. But, you’ll be with me. We’ll be safe. I’ll give yous two hours to get here. I have something you’ll want to see. I’ll be waiting.”
Jillian hung up the phone and rushed up stairs to change clothes. If she was going to a ruthless part of town, she wanted to wear jeans, and not her nice dress slacks. One never knows. She might need to run for her life. Nausea rolled inside her stomach. As she pulled the black knit top over her face, her head pounded. This could be more than she’d bargained for.
As expected, the taxi ride was long. Though she hated cabs, she’d bite the bullet and bear it. Yes, she had grown accustomed to having a faithful limo driver—one trained in self-defense. The windows on the limo were bulletproof, and there was a gun hidden inside a special compartment on the door. Going across town gave her the jitters. Jillian felt vulnerable without her trusty guard; in response to her fear, she zipped her suede jacket. This was the only life she knew. Always protected. Always pampered. Was she just as spoiled as her sister?
* * * * *
When the taxi reached Gertie’s, Jillian took in her surroundings. Gertie’s was a greasy spoon on the lower part of Jefferson Street. She paid the driver, got out of the cab, and plunged forward.
A male was standing in the doorway of the small establishment. His Italian features defined who he was. The manila envelope tucked beneath his arm drew her attention.
“Jillian Fairchild. I’m Nicky Russo. It’s good to finally meet yous face to face.” He extended his hand and Jillian shook it. “Yous come inside. Have a seat.”
As restaurants go, Jillian had only seen places like this one on television. If the health department got wind of it, surely it would be history. “Of course.”
“Hey. I know you’re a high class gal and all, but yous need to see something.”
She looked over her shoulder to see if anyone was watching, then she gazed inside the dank and, tumbled diner. “If you say so.” Jillian noticed Nicky’s leather jacket, and striped gray shirt. Because his temples were graying, he appeared to be in his mid-forties. His stomach was rather plump, an indication that he loved to eat. She sighed. “So you have something for me?”
“More than you know, Sista.” Nicky pointed to an unoccupied booth. “This is the best seat in the house. I’ll sit on this side. The springs in the seat might rip your nice jeans.”
Jillian smiled brightly, and then she sat down. “What do you have?”
“Yeah.” He snickered. “I got a little something. The internet is good, but sometimes you need to put your finger in the middle of the pie. Know what I mean?”
“I think so.” Jillian shrank under his sardonic tone.
“Hey. Yous want something to eat. I’m starvin’ myself. They got good food here.”
“No. I’m fine. Help yourself.”
Nicky turned toward the counter. “Hey. Trizia! Get your lazy butt over here. I’m hungry. Know what I mean?”
Behind the counter, Trizia was pouring a cup of coffee. “Yous been warmin’ that seat for an hour, Nicky. Now you wanna put the rush on me. Shad-up!”
“Nice kid.” He winked.
“She loves me.”
Jillian cringed. “Okay,” she managed, drumming her fingers on the worn table. There was no doubt she was nervous. “I’ll have a cup of coffee.”
Nicky made small talk while Jillian became frantic. Finally, she spat it out. “Mr. Russo. I’m ready to pay you for any information you might have. Please get to the point.”
“Oh. I’m sorry. I shoulda known you was a busy lady. I’m just trying to getta rise outta Trizia.” He picked up the envelope. “Now. I don’t do things on the up-and-up, so don’t ask me nuttin’, okay. Just look at what I brung ya.” Nicky reached inside the envelope. He pulled out Jillian’s birth certificate and slid it across the table. “First of all. This ain’t real. It’s been doctored-up.”
“I’ve seen this certificate for as long as I can remember. It says Ester and Leonard Tapia are my parents. I was born on July 4th 1985 and weighed 7 pounds.”
“That’s what it says, alright.” Nicky turned his head, and addressed the server. “Hey! I’m starvin’ here. How long does it take to make a meatball sandwich?”
From the serving window Trizia yelled, “Shad-up, you disturbing my customers.”
“Mr. Russo.” Jillian touched his hand. “What else do you have?”
“Oh.” He reached inside the envelope again, and pulled out another clipping. “This.”
Jullian picked up the yellow paper. I was an article from the society column. She looked at the picture. “That’s my mom and dad when they were younger. Couple returns from Paris,” she read.
“Yeah.” He nodded. “Look closer.”
Beside her parents, there was a baby stroller. “That’s me.”
“Yah. It’s you. But you didn’t get off of that ship.” The server placed the sandwich in front of Nicky. He grinned and immediately reached for it.
“What?”
“It’s all for show, doll face. When you ask about your baby pictures, what do your parents tell you.”
“They said, there was a robbery. We lost a lot of family heirlooms.”
“Yeah. Right.” He bit into his large sandwich and chewed. “Excuse me. Have some.”
“No thank you.” She leaned back against the booth.
“Well. It looks as if your family made up the whole thing. Just for show. Look at the date on the paper.”
“It’s dated October 30th. 1985. So what?”
“You ain’t no infant. That’s what. You’re at least two years old.”
“You’re right! What? How?”
“Hold on to that pretty little head of yours. I got more stuff for ya.” Nicky put down his sandwich and unfolded another clipping. The headlines read. “Toddler Still Missing.” There was a small picture of a baby girl on the front page. An article followed.
“Are you saying that—that is my picture? It’s so small and distorted. Why, it’ hardly looks anything like me.”
“Not only do I believe it’s you. I think I can prove it. I ran down the mother’s name. Fran Dryfus. Fanny Franny. A known prostitute and crack head.”
“What are you saying?” Jillian grimaced and pushed the article away. “Are you saying that this woman is my mother?” She shook her head. “Well. We have to find her. We have to prove you’re wrong!”
“Already done that. I found ‘er. Live down on Industrial Blvd.”
“Industrial Boulevard. They’re on the news all the time. Cuttings, shootings, drugs…”
“Hey. You wanted to know, right? I don’t care where she lives, I just wanna make sure you don’t try to stiff me on my money.”
“That’s no problem, Nicky. I’ll pay you. Will you take me there?”
“Sweetheart.” Nicky took a large bite of his sandwich and munched. “That will cost you two grand.”
“You’re kidding? I can go there by myself.”
“Yeah. You can.” He swallowed. “But I doubt yous can walk inside the building, once you get there.”
“I’m not scared.”
“Well. You need to be scared. Being scared is good in this part of town.”
“Okay. I’ll pay you the two grand. Let’s go.”
“Can I finish this delicious sandwich first? You’ve waited almost thirty years. You can wait another five minutes, huh?”
“I’m sorry, Nicky. I’m just anxious to meet my real mother. I’ve got to make sense of my life.”
Jillian pounded the table. “How dare they lie to me like this.”
“Babe. I assure you. They did you a favor. See. Right now. You ain’t thinking with a clear head.”
“Of course I am! I want to know who I am.”
CHAPTER SIX
Jillian got into Nicky’s rickety old car. She pulled the twisted and frayed seatbelt across her shoulder. Nicky had a toothpick between his lips. He slammed the car in gear and looked at Jillian. “Now. This ain’t gonna be a pretty sight.”
“I’m ready,” she snapped. “Just drive.”
As it was, many of the buildings were substandard, decaying, and crumbling. However, Jillian’s view of the city got even worse. There was no doubt, this was the slums. The neighborhood housed mixed cultures. Young men walked along the street wearing tee shirts and displaying their boxer underwear. Pregnant teens walked about or sat on the front steps of their apartment buildings. Though this was a school day, young children ran rampant in the streets. On the sidewalks, vagrants slept inside old boxes while holding onto crumpled paper bags. Trash littered the streets. Hopefully, this was not where her real mother lived. Her stomach heaved at the sight.
Disturbed by the spectacle, she asked, “Are we almost there?”
Nicky pulled the car over. “We are now.”
“Oh. My God. Please tell me my mother doesn’t live here.” She cast her gaze up the side of the two-story brick apartment building. Windows were broken or missing. Tattered curtains waved through open screenless windows. The scent of frying food floated in the air, it sickened her. Surely, this was not where she was born.
Suddenly, there was a commotion outside. A woman wielding a knife chased an elderly man down the steps of an apartment. “And don’t come back here!” she yelled, “I’ll cut you wide open if you do!”
Jillian looked at Nicky. He shrugged. “I told you. It ain’t a pretty sight. Let’s go.”
With trembling fingers, Jillian opened the car’s door. “Mama,” she whispered. “I’ve gotta see her for myself.”
“Oh, yeah. You’ll see her.” He cast his gaze upwards. From where she was standing Jillian could tell he was looking at a particular window.
“Hey Fanny!” he bellowed. “It’s me. Open the door.”
A Black woman who wore a bandanna, came to the window. She peered down at the street. “Nicky. Get your buns on up those stairs.”
“You still gots the dog?” he called.
“Yeah,” she sassed. “Cutie ain’t gonna hurt you.”
“He’d better not. I’ll put a bullet in that nasty flea bag.”
Jillian cocked her head to the side. “Cutie?”
“Yeah. A Rottweiler. He’s a guard dog. She keeps him in the stairway. Can’t be too careful around here.”
Fearful for her life, Jillian grabbed Nicky’s arm and looked behind her. “Let’s hurry along, please.”
Once they made their way past Cutie, Jillian found herself standing in front of a door. It was dripping with filth and hadn’t been painted in many years. “Yous ready?” Jillian nodded.
She inhaled, and groomed her hair. “Yes.”
Nicky knocked.
The woman opened the door, and Jillian frowned. Somehow, this woman was not what she pictures. “Are you Fran Dryfus?”
“I used to be.” She rolled her brown eyes, then swept her gaze over Jillian’s petite frame. “You supposed to be my missing daughter, huh?”
Jillian sighed. “That’s what I want to know.”
“Got any money.” She extended her hand. “I can tell you anything you wanna know.”
“Are you my mother?�
�� Jillian pushed her way inside the dingy apartment, following the woman.
“Maybe. Maybe not.” The woman turned her back, shifted her weight, and walked away.
Jillian softened her voice. “Please don’t play with me. I must know.”
Fran turned. She gazed deep into Jillian’s eyes. “Tell you what. You put up the dough, and I’ll sing.”
“Of course.” Jillian reached into her purse. “Is a thousand dollars enough?”
“You’re kidding me, right?” She reached for a crushed pack of cigarettes resting on the kitchen table. Then she took a noisy slurp from a beer. “I know you’re worth more than that. I’ve seen you, and your handsome Caucasian husband splattered all over the papers. You’re worth millions.”
“Yes.” Jillian drew back. “That is true. But, I will not be pressured into paying you for information. How do I know you’re even my mother?”
Fanny looked at Nicky and nodded. “Smart kid.”
“Look. Give me five thousand and I’ll tell you ‘bout yourself. It don’t matter to me anymore, anyways. Sit down.”
Jillian made her way to the soiled sofa. It smelled of urine, and dog—she was sure fleas scurried past her view. Sitting on the sofa, she opened her purse once more. This time, she pulled out five thousand dollars, and placed them on the coffee table. She shoved a few bills forward. “Are you my mother?”
Fanny looked at the money. She lit her cigarette and blew the smoke toward Jillian’s face. “Yeah. Yeah. I’m anybody you need me to be.”
“If I don’t get answers,” Jillian warned, “I won’t give you a dime.”
Fran sashayed toward the sofa, throwing her wide hips. She snatched the bills from the table. “Yeah. I’m your mama.” Holding the money in her fist, she turned around with arms extended. “Do you like what you see?”
Jillian picked up another bill. “Who is my father?”
Smirking, Fanny stuffed the money in her bosom, then folded her arms. “The butcher, the baker, or the candlestick maker.”
“Are you saying you don’t know who my father is?”
“I told you the truth. Now, give me the dough.” Fanny jerked the money from her fingers.
