“If you want to go see your mom, honey, that’s totally legit. But for God’s sake, just say so,” Katherine had said, and he’d felt the blood rush to his face as he looked from her to Brad, who sat staring at a point over Anton’s shoulder.
“She’s not my mom,” he replied, aware that he was stammering, angry with Katherine for causing it. “And in any case, that has nothing to do with it.”
He’d sneaked out of his home and into Brad’s car early this morning, and they had arrived at the airport hangar while it was still dark. And now here he was, in the state where he’d been born but didn’t remember, less than a half hour away from the woman who had abandoned him.
If she was even home, that is. If not, he’d have to ask around, which could blow his cover. The People article had put him on the map in unexpected ways. Folks recognized him in faraway places. Maybe he should’ve allowed his oldest friend to come along; Brad was much better at strong-arm tactics. But he hadn’t, couldn’t, let him. No, this first meeting, however it went, was between him and her. For a moment the tears blurred the road ahead of him, and he took his foot off the gas pedal. Damn. After all this time, it still hurt like a son of a bitch, what she’d done. No wonder he never, ever thought about those days. But here she was, popping back into his life at the least opportune time. Things were going well with Katherine, the campaign was finally humming along, he was already meeting with aides to plan the first month’s agenda should he become governor, and now he had to sneak out of town to deal with this unsavory matter. Apart from the mental distraction, there was the risk. If the media got hold of the news, there would be a lot of explaining to do. At the very least, it would remind white voters that despite the Coleman name, he was adopted, the illegitimate son of a junkie. It was the weirdest thing—despite his complexion, his kinky hair, poll after poll showed that voters in his state didn’t think of him as black, per se. They knew he was biracial, of course—but it was as if Pappy and Dad cast a shadow so deep, it hid his blackness.
So far.
Anton let out an exasperated growl. Stop getting ahead of yourself, he thought. Why should he get caught? He had used Google Earth to look up her house, and it showed that she lived out in the country, with not too many other houses around. He would find her, look her in the eye, say what he had to say to convince her that talking to the media would be a bad idea, and then leave. If things went well, he could be making his way back to the airport later tonight. Or, if he was too tired, he’d check in to a small motel—a baseball cap, a pair of dark glasses, and paying in cash should do the trick—and fly back the next morning. Brad had rented the plane from Beau Branson, one of his millionaire buddies who had business interests in Georgia and who had even provided the Lexus he was driving. So really, things had gone as well as he could have hoped for.
He got off the freeway, and the sign said it was twenty-two miles to Ronan. He drove down a four-lane street with the usual big-box stores and fast-food restaurants, a road that looked depressingly similar to any other in the country. But after a few miles, the road narrowed to two lanes, and then he was driving through a series of small towns with brick buildings and mom-and-pop restaurants and ice cream parlors. Despite the summer heat, he lowered the car windows to savor the full experience. He wished he could stop for an order of grits or a bowl of mac and cheese; although his stomach let out a low growl at the thought, he pushed on. The sooner he could finish what he’d come here to do and leave, the better. He searched through his duffel bag and pulled out a small packet of peanuts to nibble on instead.
But letting the Georgia air into his car might have been a mistake, because as he drove out of town and through the countryside again, something within him began to slow down. For a moment he thought that he was drowsy—he had awakened early this morning, after all—but it wasn’t that. It was as if he had let the South into his car and it was acting upon his senses, cradling him, lulling him, and dulling the urgency of the task before him. He heard the whooshing of those elegant magnolias, he felt dizzy at the sight of the vividly red earth, his eyes widened at the sight of a peach tree orchard. He passed a tiny church, its steeple white as Jesus against the deep blue sky. The houses were now few and far between, and already he could guess who lived in which houses—white people in the big, opulent homes with the wraparound porches and blacks in the smaller, modest homes or, worse, in the shacks near the plowed fields. Occasionally, he would see a lone black man, old but straight-backed, sitting on a porch swing, and inevitably, the man would wave at the passing car. Anton felt a choked sensation in his throat the first time it happened, something primitive and familiar pounding in his blood. I am home, he thought, and then, aghast, drove the ridiculous thought out of his mind. He was being romantic. Melodramatic. Sentimental. Idiotic. Georgia was no more his home than Rome was. But this is where your ancestors are from, the voice rose again, and again he snuffed it out. What’re you going to do next? Chew tobacco? Eat watermelon? This was the Deep South, a red state with terrible politics, and he was no more from it than Pappy was.
It was in this laconic-agitated state that he went over the railroad tracks and almost missed the small road sign for his mother’s street. He braked hard and turned sharply onto the gravel road. She really did live in the middle of nowhere. He hadn’t even passed another house for the last five minutes or so. He drove down the bumpy road, a flat, heavy feeling in his chest, bracing himself for squalor, dirt, dysfunction, a falling-down shack, maybe, like several others he had passed.
And so he wasn’t ready for the sweet light yellow bungalow that bore her address. Nor for the neat front yard with a vegetable garden on one side and a flower bed on the other. He checked the address on his phone against the one on the mailbox, and it was right. Knocked off course, knowing he needed to recalibrate, he kept driving down the gravel road past her house, taking in deep breaths, gathering his nerve, asking himself what this new information meant. Finally, unable to decide, he turned around and headed back. There was a gravel driveway to the left where he parked behind an old-looking red Civic. He sat in his car for a moment, ran his fingers through his short hair, looked at himself in the rearview mirror, and then pushed open his door. He waited for a dog to bark and come rushing toward the vehicle, but nothing stirred. The place was so quiet he could hear the buzzing of the afternoon air. He walked to the front of the house and stood looking at it. Now that he was up close, he noticed the areas where the paint was peeling, the fact that the third step leading up to the front porch had a large crack running through it. It was a modest house, to be sure, but it looked neat and well-maintained.
He shook his head. What the hell was he doing, standing in the middle of her yard, worrying about peeling paint? If she sensed the slightest wavering in him, even a hint of weakness, she would take advantage of it. He would not allow himself to feel sorry for her. He would not. He would be polite but curt. Businesslike. He had come too far, risked too much, to fail. He was scowling as he knocked on the front door. The muscle in his jaw worked compulsively when he heard her unlocking it. But the face that appeared at the door was so guileless and alert, the eyes so clear and kind, her recognition of him so immediate, the smile that flooded her face so wondrous, that he felt an immediate reciprocal warmth. He stood there, staring back, his mouth slightly agape, so that when she moved toward him and touched his cheek with her thin brown hand and said, “That you, Baby Boy?,” he had no choice but to become nine years old again and respond, “Yes, Mam. It’s me. It’s Anton.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Anton. Anton. Anton.
Anton. Anton. Oh Lord, Lord, Lord.
Praise be Jesus.
Anton.
Juanita said his name over and over again, chanting it like a prayer, yelling it out loud in disbelief and excitement, wiping her tears away, and then saying it some more. He laughed the first few times she did it, caught up in her giddiness, flattered by being the object of her obvious joy, but when she didn’t st
op, he fell quiet, embarrassed by the flagrant display of maternal devotion, then puzzled by it, then distrusting. He looked away from her and around the room, relieved at how tidy and clean it was, far more neat, truth be told, than his own apartment. Katherine was forever straightening up for him when she visited. Katherine. Damn. He should’ve called her again before he went in.
“Anton,” Juanita said. “Baby. Here, sit. My goodness, you so tall. Sit in this rocker. It’s the most comfortable. How tall are you, anyways?”
He laughed self-consciously. “Just a little past six feet. Not that tall, actually.”
She nodded. “Your daddy was—” She caught herself and stopped midsentence, and he allowed himself not to notice.
He lowered himself onto the chair, and before he could sit back, she said, “You want something to eat, son? I make you a PB and J?” She smiled. “Every time I make them at Sal’s, I think of you. How you used to love them.”
“Sal’s?”
“The diner. Where I work. In town. I work in the kitchen.”
He must’ve driven right past it on his way to see her. How strange. Half an hour ago, he had not known that his birth mom held a job, lived in a modest but decent home, far removed from the squalor and dissolution he had imagined for her. And this small brown face, framed by a schoolgirl’s pigtail on either side, the big brown eyes, alert, trusting, with not a hint of the sloth and meanness he had been bracing himself for. They were his eyes, he realized with a start, a different color but the same shape, and yes, even the same warmth and guilelessness that people always commented upon.
She was staring at him, an uncertain smile hovering on her lips, and he realized she was awaiting an answer. He shook his head. “No, thanks,” he said. “Nothing to eat.” He saw her disappointment, realized that hers was the kind of face unable to hide its emotions, and despite his intentions, he understood that he couldn’t bear to see her hurt. “But I will take something to drink,” he added politely. “Do you have some pop?”
She cocked her head. “Pop?” Her face brightened. “You mean Coke.” She laughed. “You’re a real Yankee now, boy.” She rose, chuckling to herself as she went toward the kitchen. “Pop, he says.”
He heard her opening the fridge and took the chance to look around the room. The couch was worn but had three cheerful-looking embroidered cushions on it. Had she embroidered them? Did she know how to back when they . . . he . . . in the old days? He tried to remember but couldn’t. The room was painted a light green, and one wall was covered with several framed pictures. He rose to his feet and walked over. There were a few pictures of her, looking improbably young, with an older woman he assumed was her mom. His grandmother. His childhood name for her came to him suddenly. Nana. And then he was staring at several baby pictures of himself. The hazel eyes were an immediate giveaway, and Lord, did he have a wild mop of hair. She was holding him in one of those pictures, her slender face staring straight at the camera with not a trace of a smile. But there was something so protective and maternal in her stance, as if she were carrying a child she would risk her life to hold on to. Something stirred in Anton’s chest as he gazed at that picture, and he knew that if he allowed it to, the feeling would swallow him whole. He turned abruptly away from the photograph and briefly studied one of him at probably six years old. It had been shot at a photo studio, and he was wearing suspenders and a cap and grinning as if he didn’t have a care in the world. Anton looked closely at the picture, trying to detect something in that boy’s eyes—fear, wariness, distrust—but found only brightness. This was not the look of an abused or neglected boy.
He heard her footsteps and returned quickly to the rocker but rose to help her when he saw she was carrying a small tray. There was his Coke, and she had made him a PB&J sandwich anyway. He opened his mouth to protest, but she shushed him. “Try it,” she said. “It’s your mama’s sandwich. No one will make it for you like me.”
She said it defiantly, but he heard the dip in her voice, saw the trepidation in her eyes, as if she were awaiting his judgment. He sighed. She was not making this easy. He had prepared himself for so many scenarios, but a mother who missed her son was not one of them. He picked up the sandwich and took a bite. And closed his eyes to the flood of memories that assaulted him.
He spoke with his mouth full. “I came to see you,” he said, while chewing, “to talk—”
“Yes, you did. Praise the Lord. When I sent that letter, I never—”
“—to you about . . .” He swallowed. “Yes, the letter.”
“A miracle, that’s what it is. A million times I pray—”
“Mam.” His voice was loud, harsh, shattering the quiet of the afternoon. But he had her attention. She looked at him with those big eyes, her face tilted upward, a penitent awaiting his judgment. He felt a moment’s unease at how easily she had submitted to him but ignored the feeling and plowed ahead. “I came to see you because, as you know, I’m running for governor. And we can’t—we don’t—we can’t afford any media attention about . . . this . . . about what happened. In the past.” He knew he was stuttering, losing his thread and perhaps his authority over her, and found himself desperately wishing that Brad were here with him.
She opened her mouth, but he held up a hand to stop her. “I’m trying to say.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out her letter, aware that his right hand was shaking, hoping she didn’t notice. He leaned forward as if to share the letter with her. “This part here, where you say I chose . . . I decided to live with my . . . new family.” He willed himself to look up and stare her directly in the eyes. “Why would you say that? I mean, why the lie, when everyone knows you gave me up? I mean, if you think you can intimidate me with this lie.” He stopped abruptly, noticing the stricken look on her sallow face, the tears glittering in her eyes. Oh, shit. This was going to be easier and harder than he’d imagined. He had braced himself for a confrontation with a drug addict. He was unprepared to deal with a woman who looked as if he were ripping her apart with each word he spoke. Maybe Katherine had been right. Maybe, just maybe, he had misread both the letter and her intentions?
“That’s what you think? That I gave you up?” Her voice was sharp, raw as glass. “You think . . .”
He looked at her incredulously. “Well, of course you did. I think that’s beyond dispute.”
Her lip curled. “That’s what you think of me? All this time. That your mama is the kind of woman who would give up her only child? To white folk? What’s the matter with you, boy?”
He felt the balance of power in the room shift away from him and toward her. It was the way she had called him “boy.” Powerful-like. Stern. Like a mother. “Look, I didn’t come here to argue,” he tried. “All I’m saying is, there’s nothing to be gained from renegotiating the past. Or—”
Her voice was flat, her face affectless. “You’re a lawyer, right, son?” She nodded. “You act like one. Like those white lawyers in town.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
She leaned forward in her chair and looked him in the eyes. “You know exactly what it means, boy,” she said softly, and kept watching him as he flushed. She looked away for a moment and then pinned him with her eyes again. “Why did you come here, Anton? What do you want?”
It was hard to answer that question honestly, but he did. “To get your word—your assurance—that you’re not going to the media with your story.”
She spat out a laugh. “And what story would that be, boy?”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Don’t call you ‘boy’? Then why do you act like one? You find your mama after however many years, and all you think is that I want something from you? And you had to come before I go tell my ‘story’ to the papers?”
He slammed his hand on the side table. “Look. You’re the one who gave me away,” he said. “You’re the one who made a deal with the devil. What kind of woman locks a kid up for seven days in an apartment? What kind of mother—” His
face contorted, and he wiped his nose with the back of his hand.
“A bad mother.” Her voice shook, but it carried across the room. “The worst kind. A monster. Okay?” Her face crumbled. “But Anton. I was tryin’. All the time I was in prison, I was tryin’. I was clean. Did it cold turkey. You know how hard that is, son? But I did it. For you. But you couldn’t wait for me. You were angry at me. I get that. I’m not blaming you. You were just a kid. I know. And those rich white folk, they had so much to offer you. All those skiing trips and all. I had nothing in those days. I . . . I couldn’t . . . compete.”
His head was pounding. “What do you mean, I couldn’t wait? Wait for what? How?” All at once he felt sleepy, the activity of the day catching up with him, and he closed his eyes briefly. But then he was wide awake, his attention caught by something she’d just said. “The skiing trips. How would you know about those?”
She shrugged. “He told me. How else?”
“Who?”
“Who? Mr. Coleman. The man who wanted to be your daddy. When he came to see me.”
The world stopped; in that pause Anton heard the ticking of the clock, heard the song of an unknown bird in the yard. He sat still, his mouth dry. When he could speak, he said, “When?”
“I don’t remember the exact date. When you’re in prison, you know, the days just roll into one big mess of nothing.”
“He came to the prison? To see you?”
She looked as puzzled as he felt. “But you knew this, baby. You just forgot. You were so young.” She looked at a spot beyond Anton’s head for a minute and then collected herself. “No, not to the prison. They brought me to some, I dunno, office building, I think it was. At night, when there was nobody there but him and one other gentleman.”
This woman was more conniving than he’d ever imagined. To think that he’d almost fallen for her act a moment ago. Anton felt something akin to relief—she was just an ordinary con artist with a ridiculous cock-and-bull story. Let her go to the media with it; they would simply laugh her out of town. He felt triumphant, giddy, and also strangely let down. He fought down an urge to laugh. “My dad brought you to an empty office building?” he said mockingly. “Really? At night?”
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