It wasn’t until she went to college that Sylvia had a mix of friends from different backgrounds and races. At school, the black kids and white kids tended to sit at separate tables for lunch, not because they didn’t like each other or were racist, but because they felt more comfortable with classmates who were most like them, with whom they related to best. Kids would say things like “across the river,” “the East Side,” or “the First Ward,” as if they were foreign countries. Sylvia discovered that these terms all meant the same thing: the poorer neighborhoods where most of Saginaw’s racial or ethnic minority population lived, mostly African American. Things probably hadn’t changed much. The river dividing the city into two geographical areas might as well have been the Berlin Wall.
She never understood this racial chasm, how her parents could adore Jacqueline so, but be struck with shock any time she suggested bringing home a friend “from a different world than ours, honey” (as her mother would politely put it). Once, Sylvia confronted her parents at the dinner table. “How about Jacqueline then, you love her?” she shouted. “She’s black.”
Her father cleared his throat and went quiet. Her mother smoothed her perfect hairdo and said, “Jacqueline is different.”
Sylvia looked at the clandestine box again. Some force was preventing her from ripping it open. It was true what Melinda said about her—she could detach herself. Other people wouldn’t be able to contain themselves the way she could. She’d always done that. Saved her candy in a jar while Melinda ate hers all in one go, and then begged Sylvia to share (which she always did). Sylvia prided herself on her composure; being able to stay cool when others lost themselves. She had lost herself with Tommy and it hurt. Snooping through his cell phone, surrendering herself—losing herself when he made love to her. The unopened box was her way of mastering that control, showing that she wouldn’t crumple with her father’s suicide.
She stood up, had a pee and washed her hands. She turned on the faucet and out poured steaming water. She wished their plumbing in Crowheart could be as reliable. She went downstairs, holding on to the banisters as she descended, because the house was still semi-dark. She went into the kitchen. She opened the fridge door and took out the Sara Lee chocolate cake she’d bought earlier that day, and poured herself a tall glass of milk. Why she felt she could eat Sara Lee only at her parents’ house and nowhere else, she wasn’t sure. A bit like having cream teas in England, or Piña Coladas in the Caribbean; they tasted better in their original environment. Sara Lee tasted of childhood. The Sara Lee chocolate cake had been beckoning her for hours.
She went back upstairs and soaked herself in the tub, her body fully stretched out, carefully eating the cake so as not to let any crumbs fall in the hot water, and glugging the cold milk to wash down the gooeyness of the icing. Something about prolonging the opening of the box made her feel strong, powerful. Some women had eating disorders and wielded their control by not eating. Like Ruth. But Sylvia had willpower when it came to small things.
She thought about Tommy. A tingle of fearful exhilaration crept along her backbone at the idea of moving to LA. She was aware of it being a false, ruthless place, full of phony promises given by people with perfect smiles and wrinkle-free expressions. But there was also an artistic community, a plethora of fascinating individuals if you dug deep enough: yoga classes, hiking, all year-round barbeques, art openings. It could be a fun place for Grace, too, if they found the right neighborhood to move to and a friendly school. It was a fresh start for their family. Crowheart had been a beautiful experience but living there for the rest of her life, however stunning the countryside, filled her with dread.
Tommy. She had in her mind’s eye his hard body, his firm stomach, ripped by chopping wood all winter, the soft down of the hair on the small of his back, the way his jeans hung from his slim hips, and the curves of his biceps. His eyes could still penetrate; just a look could send a double flip through her. Still. After all these years.
She took the showerhead and turned on the faucet again. She opened her pale thighs wide and let the water spray between them. She raised her hips and rubbed the metal head gently between her legs. She felt her pulse throbbing in her groin like a heartbeat, the water coursing and surging; small vibrations trembling, pounding. She held her breath and pressed herself against the head of it a touch harder. She gasped. It felt so . . . . ah . . . the water was coming hard at her like thousands of tiny pin drops of beating rain. She imagined Tommy and her ex, Lance. But it was only Tommy who had ever made her come, and Tommy she desired. She turned the pressure of the water up and flexed her hips, holding the snaking shower hose in one hand and with the other, slipping her index finger inside herself. She had an image of Tommy’s erection poised at her entrance and heard his groans when he would thrust himself inside her. Sometimes if she moaned a lot, he’d really fuck her hard and she loved that—loved being claimed by him. Dominated. That’s when she really let go of herself.
She could feel her own slick moistness now, despite the bath water. She hooked her finger inside her soft flesh and pressed it high up against her G-spot. Her eyelids were half-closed and her lips parted as she felt the tension build up. It was coming deep from within. She took her hand away and concentrated the spray between her legs again and felt the heat rise through her in a thunderous bolt. Such relief and ecstasy both ripped through her at once. It was almost a surprise it was so intense, so satisfying. It reminded her how badly she wanted Tommy and how she wouldn’t give up on him. She needed him. Doing this alone just wasn’t the same. She wanted his body pressed against her. She needed him inside her.
She wouldn’t push him away anymore.
She lay there recuperating from the carnal after-shocks; closed her eyes and tried to meditate. But the sealed box was calling her name. She stood up in the tub—the suddenness of her movement, and the Sara Lee sugar-rush, caused blood to stream to her head; white stars and water dropped from her body like little diamonds. She stepped out, dried herself off slowly with one of her mother’s soft, floor-length towels, put on her mom’s flowery silk robe, and picked up the box. The scented soap on her skin mingled with its dank, old, bookish odor.
Finally, she succumbed. She needed something sharp to open it with, so took it with her downstairs, grabbed a knife from the kitchen, floated to the dining room—her robe flowing behind her—and set it on the table.
She ran the blade along the lip of duct tape which was sealing the shoebox as tight as a wetsuit.
Inside was a pile of letters, some photographs and a couple of children’s paintings. Sylvia, careful not to shuffle the order, flipped through. They were all of the same person: a little black boy. The little boy playing a toy drum. The boy smiling at the camera, sitting high in a tree. Younger now, holding an ice-cream cone. That one was black and white.
Sylvia spread the letters out one by one, in order, on the table. There were ten. No dates and no postmarks, just hand-delivered envelopes with letters inside. Ten letters exactly, and ten photographs. Two paintings on paper, of airplanes. The last photo showed a boy of about nine or ten years old, dressed up in a military uniform. He was cute, debonair, his skin not dark but a pale caramel, similar to Grace’s coloring. Jacqueline’s son? But Jacqueline didn’t have a son, Sylvia was positive, only daughters. Her nephew?
Sylvia picked up the very last letter in the pile. Beside it was a Polaroid, faded, the colors muted like a watercolor. The picture was of a young black woman holding a baby. She was pretty, with large brown eyes and a wide smile. The baby was wearing a little red cap.
Dear Mister Wilbur,
Please forgive me for not telling you before. I was fritened. I was scared that someone mite take my baby way from me. So I didn’t say nuthing not to you not to nobody. I herd that you got marreed to Miss Debra and I send you my congratulatons. I did not plan for things to work out this way. I was hoping that I could mannage myself. I sure would be gratefull if you could help me money wise. I have a job but I need
money for the baby. I promisse I wont say nuthing to nobody not Miss Debra not nobody. But pleeze help me. His name is Leroy.
Loretta
Not say anything? Oh my God!
Sylvia picked up the last letter in the sequence, which had the photo of the little boy in the soldier uniform attached to it with a paperclip.
Dear Mr. Mason,
You can see from the photograph what a handsome and strong little man LeRoy has become. This photo was taken on his tenth birthday! I am very proud of him. One day, he wants to be a soldier. I hope knowing he’s your son too, makes you just as proud as me.
God bless you and your family.
Loretta
Leroy—or LeRoy—belonged to her father? Her dad fathered a little boy? Impossible. She would have known! That wasn’t his style at all. He was so conservative. But then this obviously happened before he married her mother. How did he and Loretta meet? Sylvia held the two letters side by side. Ten years must have passed (one photo for every year?) and each one had its distinctive style of writing, the first of an uneducated teenager, the final one as if the writer was a completely different person. Yet both from this woman called Loretta. How could she have never heard about this woman? She, Sylvia, was now thirty-six years old! How, in all those thirty-six years, had this been held as a secret from her?
Did her mother know? God forbid, she didn’t think so. She would be rolling in her grave now. Her upstanding husband, father of an African American child? No, her mother wouldn’t have borne that for a second, nor the ladies at the country club. Where had this box been all this time? Sylvia had never seen it before, yet as a girl she’d sneaked into her parents’ closets on a regular basis, rootling around for Santa’s Christmas gifts, catching any loose change from her dad’s suit pockets. Could this box have spent its life in the attic? Or the garage? Her mother didn’t like the garage—at least she never spent time there. Her father did have his little workshop going on. How could someone keep a secret for her entire life—for thirty-six goddamn years?
Sylvia scanned the letters, running her eyes along them, the white paper framed against the dark of the French-polished mahogany table. When did the writing style start to change? She noticed one which was typed: letter number seven with its photo. This photo was the one with Leroy in a tree.
Dear Mr. Mason,
College is great. Thank you from the bottom of my heart for giving me this opportunity. I am learning a lot but it is tough! When I come out I will have the skills to get a very good paid job.
Leroy is doing good. His grades are pretty okay at school and he has lots of nice friends.
I still have not had the heart to tell him bout you cos I want him to be happy with what he got. If he sees your fancy house and fancy car he could feel bad about himself. He still thinks his Daddy died in ‘Nam an that’s what I tell his teachers at school. I think it best to keep to that old story.
Loretta
A frisson of both excitement and worry shot through the back of Sylvia’s neck, the pale hairs on her arms erect. She had a half-brother who maybe still lived somewhere in Saginaw, at the other side of the river, perhaps, who had been told that his father had died in the Vietnam War. He must be about thirty-eight or forty by now. Her parents had been married a few years before she was born. Did anybody else know? Did Jacqueline know this Loretta lady? Was Loretta even still alive? Why did the letter stop at number ten, and the photo too? Why wasn’t Leroy (or LeRoy as it was spelled in the most recent letter) provided for in her father’s will? Where was he now?
And how on earth—with no last name to go on—was she going to find him?
CHAPTER 12
Grace
Grace was howling, her little body heaving with sobs. Mrs. Paws was dead. The cat lay near the barn, the same barn where the blackbird’s nest was. Poor Mrs. Paws had dried blood and foam in her mouth. Her sharp little pussycat teeth stuck out as if she was crying out in pain, covered with frothy spit. She was all stiff; her pure white fur no longer as soft as snow but matted and cold. Splotched red.
“Mrs. Paws is dead,” wailed Grace. “Miss . . . is Paaw . . . Haws—”
Ruth walked up to Grace and cradled her arms around her shaking little body. She stroked her dark hair. “There you are! I was looking for you. Up so early this morning?”
Grace continued to wail, her breath hitching, swallowing great balloons of air.
“Baby, it’s okay. It’s okay baby, Mrs. Paws has gone to a better place.”
Grace didn’t understand how any place could be better than this. Mrs. Paws had the perfect pussycat life! She was free and everybody loved her! “There is no Better Place for Mrs. Paws,” she wept. “She loved living here. She loved her life!”
“When animals pass they go to a special place,” Ruth soothed.
“You mean Heaven?” They’d spoken about Heaven at school and her mom said that Grandpa had gone to Heaven.
“No. Only humans go to Heaven,” Ruth replied quietly. “Animals go to a ‘special’ place. Anyway, now those blackbirds are safe from being killed by that cat. Don’t you see that’s better?”
Grace’s skinny arms clung to Ruth, her hands clutching the material of the flowery dress that was just the same as her mom’s. She gulped another mouthful of air and said, “Maybe Mrs. Paws didn’t like the tonic water. You said you had just the tonic for her.”
“No, baby,” Ruth reasoned in a gentle voice, “I think a coyote killed Mrs. Paws in the night.”
“We need to tell Mrs. Paws’s mommy. She lives over the hill in the big white house.”
“Okay, baby, I’ll call her later.”
“We can give Mrs. Paws a funeral.” Her mom had explained about her grandpa’s funeral.
“No, baby, animals don’t have funerals.”
“Why not?”
“Because a funeral is when you say goodbye to somebody who has passed away, like your grandfather.”
Grace furrowed her brow. That Pass word again. Pass Away. Her mom had taught her how to pass the bread at dinner, or the salt. She said it was Good Manners. Like saying Please or Thank You. What did Pass Away mean?
“Has Mrs. Paws passed away?”
“Yes baby, Mrs. Paws has passed away.”
“Then why don’t we get to give her a funeral, to say goodbye?”
“Like I said, animals don’t have funerals, baby. I’ll just chuck it in the trash.”
Grace’s tiny body began to tremble again and tears gushed from her large eyes. “I want for us to give Mrs. Paws a funeral! I want to say goodbye!”
“Okay, okay, we’ll give it a funeral,” Ruth mumbled. “But we need to hurry.” She drew Grace close to her and kissed her on the head.
GRACE HAD HER knees tucked up under her and she was sitting on her bed thinking about Heaven. She pressed the pocket clip on her magic pen to start recording:
“We buried Mrs. Paws. Auntie Ruth dug a little hole and I said a prayer. Not a real Jesus prayer but a song I made up. We put her under the big oak tree at the end of the garden. I cried a lot.
Auntie Ruth says she’s going to buy me a swimsuit. Maybe a white one, with pink flowers. My favorite color! She says we’ll be going swimming but Mommy didn’t say anything about swimming.
Right now Auntie Ruth is downstairs and very busy. She has made lots of Skype calls on her laptop. She sounded very serious but she was not talking to Mom. She said she had business calls to make and asked me to play in my room. She spent a lot of time looking in Mommy’s filing cabinet. She has everything out on the floor and was putting papers into piles. She told me that she was Orgon Izing as a special surprise for Mommy. Wait. Hold on, Auntie Ruth is calling me.”
Grace clicked the pocket clip back up to stop recording.
“Grace? Grace, baby, who are you talking to?”
Grace heard the footsteps come into the room. She quickly shoved the pen under her bedclothes. The iPad—which she made paintings with—was on the bed, open. She couldn’t
decide which she preferred. The iPad was more grown-up but the pen was so secret, she felt like a police detective when she used it.
Ruth entered the bedroom and glanced about. She had foam in her hair, piled high on her head like a lathered-up helmet. “Hi, baby. To whom were you talking?”
“My teddy bears,” Grace lied.
“Okay. Cute. Who is your favorite bear?”
“Pidgey O Dollars,” she lied again. She really wanted to say, “Blueby.” She could wind Blueby up by a key on his heinie and he’d play the tune: “When Teddy Bears Have Their Picnics.” He was her number one teddy since Pidgey’s accident with the Jack Russell. But she owed it to Pidgey O Dollars to love him the most.
“Will you be taking Piggy O Dollars with you to Saginaw?”
She giggled as if Ruth had said the silliest thing in the world. “Not Piggy . . . Pidgey.”
“I thought it would be a good idea to get your packing done early. You know, so your dad doesn’t have to worry. Do we need to pack Pidgey?”
“I guess.”
“But I think we should leave Daddy’s iPad home, don’t you, baby? I saw you playing with it earlier.”
Stolen Grace Page 9
