Roy's World

by Barry Gifford

  “Was my dad a mistake?” Roy asked her.

  “No, Roy,” she said, “I was just too young to know what I was doing.”

  His mother was really thirty now, not twenty-nine. How old did a person have to be to not be too young? If his father were still alive, Roy would ask him. It was not a question, he decided, that his mother could answer.

  Deep in the Heart

  After she graduated from high school in Chicago, Roy’s mother had gone to the University of Texas in Austin. When he was ten, Roy asked her why she had gone to college so far away.

  “Your Uncle Buck was training to be a pilot at the Naval air station down there and he thought it would be a good idea for me to get away from the nuns and our mother. I was very shy. I’d spent ten years in boarding school being bossed around by the sisters and the priests, I’d never been on a date alone with a boy.”

  “Did you like Texas?”

  “The girls were nice but sometimes they played tricks on me.”

  “What kinds of tricks?”

  “Oh, one time at breakfast instead of two sunnyside up eggs they put two cow’s eyes on my plate. But I liked how blue and enormous the sky was and singing ‘Deep in the Heart of Texas’ and ‘The Eyes of Texas Are Upon You’ at the football games.”

  “How long did you stay there?”

  “Almost two years. My brother washed out of pilot school and got stationed in Philadelphia. He and Diana were married by then. My girlfriends talked me into entering a beauty contest at the university and I won. I was offered a modelling job in New York, so I went there and stayed with my Aunt Lorna and Uncle Dick.”

  “Aunt Lorna’s the one I punched in the eye when I was two.”

  “That’s right, when she came to Chicago to visit. She and Uncle Dick had a beautiful house on 65th Street off Fifth Avenue. I was making my own money for the first time so I didn’t see the point in going back to college.”

  “I got sick, though, so after a few months I came back to Chicago and spent a few weeks in the hospital being treated for a severe case of eczema. The doctors said I had a nervous condition and should avoid stress. Eventually I went back to work modelling furs for wholesale buyers in the showroom at the Merchandise Mart. I was only nineteen then. That’s when I met your father. He was twenty years older and knew how to take care of me. Boys my own age didn’t. So I married your dad and we honeymooned in Hollywood and Las Vegas. He arranged a screen test for me and his friends out there introduced me to some movie stars.”

  “Like who?”

  “Oh, Errol Flynn and William Holden were the most famous ones. And that terrible Lawrence Tierney.”

  “What was terrible about him?”

  “He was forward with me at the studio but then your dad’s friends let him know the score and he apologized.”

  “I didn’t know you could have been in the movies.”

  “I couldn’t act, Roy, I didn’t have any experience, so nothing came of it. Hollywood is full of pretty girls. I had fun, though. Your dad had business to do in Las Vegas so we spent quite a bit of time there. In those days everyone stayed at the El Rancho, it was the place to be before Ben opened his hotel.”

  “Who was Ben? Was he a friend of Dad’s?”

  “Yes. He was murdered in Los Angeles while we were with his girlfriend’s brother in Vegas.”

  “Who killed him?”

  “They never found out. When you’re in business, it’s easy to make enemies. People never know who their real friends are, anyway.”

  “I’ve got real friends.”

  Roy’s mother smiled at him. She had beautiful teeth. They were sitting at the kitchen table and she patted him on his hand.

  “Of course, Roy,” she said. “I wasn’t talking about you.”

  Unopened Letters

  “Roy, would you please take out the placemats that are in the bottom drawer of the dining room dresser? The red ones underneath the candlesticks.”

  “Sure, Mom.”

  Roy’s mother was preparing the house for a dinner party that evening in honor of her Aunt Lorna, who was visiting from New York. Roy was fifteen and had not encountered his great-aunt since he was about two years old, an occasion of which he had no recollection. Lorna had helped Roy’s mother establish herself as a model in New York twenty-five years before and she had always been grateful to Lorna for her kindness and generosity; having a dinner party for Lorna during one of her rare visits to Chicago was the very least his mother could do.

  “Ma, who’s Frank Jameson?”

  “What, Roy? Did you find the placemats?”

  “Yes, but there was a marriage certificate and a bundle of unopened letters with a string tied around it underneath the placemats. The marriage certificate is between Nanny and a man named Frank Jameson. Who is he?”

  Roy’s mother came into the dining room and Roy handed her the certificate.

  “And these letters all have a return address in Kansas City. They were sent to Nanny here in Chicago.”

  “The letters are from your grandfather to Nanny. She never opened them because she was married at the time to Frank Jameson.”

  “You mean that she and Pops got divorced? You never told me.”

  “No, Roy, I didn’t think it was necessary for you to know. Maybe I was wrong not to tell you, but you and Pops were so close I didn’t want anything to interfere with that.”

  “How long was Nanny married to Frank Jameson? You must have been a little girl then.”

  “Ten years, from when I was six to sixteen. He had a heart attack and died on Christmas day, just after my sixteenth birthday. Pops wanted to re-marry my mother but she didn’t want to. He used to stand in a doorway across the street from our house and when she came out he’d try to talk to her. He’d gone to live in Kansas City after they divorced, then he moved back to Chicago after Frank died. Pops still loved Nanny and wrote her letters but she wouldn’t open them. Half of those letters he sent while Frank was still alive.”

  “But she lived for twelve years after Frank Jameson died, until you were twenty-eight. Why didn’t she open them for all those years?”

  “I don’t know. I only discovered them after Nanny died. I didn’t want to just throw them away.”

  “Did you tell Pops you had them?”

  “No. I meant to but I never did. I don’t know why exactly except that because of things my mother said I blamed Pops for breaking up their marriage. And after he died, I hid them away.”

  “Along with Nanny’s marriage certificate to Frank Jameson. You grew up with him, Ma. Did you like him? What was his profession? And why did Pops and Nanny get divorced?”

  “Frank was all right to me but not to my brother. I was sent away to boarding school, so I didn’t spend much time with him. He didn’t want anything to do with your Uncle Buck, and since Buck was fourteen years older than me he was already pretty much on his own. The Jameson family were fairly well-to-do. They were Irish, the father and mother were born in County Kerry, and there were four brothers, including Frank. They owned warehouses in and around Chicago. Frank was a devout Catholic, so Nanny began going to church regularly. She became close friends with the Mother Superior at St. Theresa’s, near where we lived.”

  “She was in our house a lot when Nanny was dying. I remember her. I’d never seen a woman with a mustache before. What about Pops and Nanny? Why did they split up?”

  “Pops had a girlfriend, Sally Carmel, who lived in Kansas City. I guess he met her on one of his business trips. He still loved Nanny, though, and wanted her to go back with him. I think that’s what’s in those letters.”

  “Love letters.”

  “I suppose.”

  “Are you ever going to open them?”

  “I don’t know. Perhaps it’s better to leave them unopened. They’re addressed to my mother, not to me. I’ve oft
en wondered why she kept them. I should probably burn them.”

  Roy’s mother replaced the letters and the marriage certificate in the bottom drawer of the dresser and closed it.

  “Let’s not talk about this any more now, Roy. I’ve got to have everything ready for the dinner. Aunt Lorna will be here at five.”

  She went into the kitchen. Roy sat down on a chair in the dining room and looked out the window. The sky was gray with black specks in it, a snow sky. He wondered what else his mother thought was unnecessary for him to know.

  Walking to St. Tim’s the next morning, Roy asked his friend Johnny McLaughlin if he thought either or both of his parents kept secrets about their family from him and his brothers.

  “The Catholic church is all about secrets,” said Johnny. “It’s the mysteries keep people comin’ back for more, hopin’ they’ll some day get filled in on the real goods. My Uncle Sean is always goin’ on about the Rosetta stone, you know, that hunk of rock found in Egypt over a hundred years ago has pictures of birds and half-moons on it symbolize something important. My parents ain’t no different. They just tell me and Billy and Jimmy what’s necessary to keep us in line. Only the dead know the meaning of existence, and they don’t answer letters.”

  “They don’t even open them,” said Roy.

  Chicago, Illinois, 1953

  Roy and his mother had come back to Chicago from Cuba by way of Key West and Miami so that she could attend the funeral of her Uncle Ike, her father’s brother. Roy was six years old and though he would not be going to the funeral—he’d stay at home with his grandmother, who was too ill to attend—he looked forward to seeing Pops, his grandfather, during his and his mother’s time in the city.

  It was mid-February and the weather was at its most miserable. The temperature was close to zero, ice and day-old snow covered the streets and sidewalks, and sharp winds cut into pedestrians from several directions at once. Had it not been out of fondness and respect for her father’s brother, Roy’s mother would never have ventured north from the tropics at this time of year. Uncle Ike had always been especially kind and attentive to his niece and Roy’s mother was sincerely saddened by his passing.

  She and Roy had first stopped on the way in from the airport to see Roy’s father, from whom his mother had recently been divorced, at his liquor store, and were now in a taxi on their way to Roy’s grandmother’s house when she told the driver to stop so that she could buy something at a pharmacy.

  “Wait here in the cab, Roy,” she said, “it’s warmer. I’ll only be a couple of minutes.”

  Roy watched his mother tiptoe gingerly across the frozen sidewalk and enter the drugstore. The taxi was parked on Ojibway Avenue, which Roy recognized was not very far from his grandmother’s neighborhood.

  “That your mother?” the driver asked.

  “Yes.”

  “She’s a real attractive lady. You live in Chicago?”

  “Sometimes,” said Roy. “My grandmother lives here. Right now we live in Havana, Cuba, and Key West, Florida.”

  “You live in both places?”

  “We go back and forth on the ferry. They’re pretty close.”

  “Your parents got two houses, huh?”

  “They’re divorced. My mom and I live in hotels.”

  “You like that, livin’ in hotels?”

  “We’ve always lived in hotels, even when my mom and dad were married. I was born in one in Chicago.”

  “Where’s your dad live?”

  “Here, mostly. Sometimes he’s in Havana or Las Vegas.”

  “What business is he in?”

  Roy was getting anxious about his mother. The rear window on his side of the cab kept steaming up and Roy kept wiping it off.

  “My mother’s been in there a long time,” he said. “I’m going in to find her.”

  “Hold on, kid, she’ll be right back. The drugstore’s probably crowded.”

  Roy opened the curbside door and said, “Don’t drive away. My mom’ll pay you.”

  He got out and went into the drugstore. His mother was standing in front of the cash counter. Three or four customers in line were behind her.

  “You dumb son of a bitch!” his mother shouted at the man standing behind the counter. “How dare you talk to me like that!”

  The clerk was tall and slim and he was wearing wire-rim glasses and a brown sweater.

  “I told you,” he said, “we don’t serve Negroes. Please leave the store or I’ll call the police.”

  “Go on, lady,” said a man standing in line. “Go someplace else.”

  “Mom, what’s wrong?” Roy said.

  The customers and the clerk looked at him.

  “This horrible man refuses to wait on me because he thinks I’m a Negro.”

  “But you’re not a Negro,” Roy said.

  “It doesn’t matter if I am or not. He’s stupid and rude.”

  “Is that your son?” the clerk asked.

  “He’s white,” said a woman in the line. “He’s got a suntan but he’s a white boy.”

  “I’m sorry, lady,” said the clerk, “it’s just that your skin is so dark.”

  “Her hair’s red,” said the woman. “She and the boy have been in the sun too much down south somewhere.”

  Roy’s mother threw the two bottles of lotion she’d been holding at the clerk. He caught one and the other bounced off his chest and fell on the floor behind the counter.

  “Come on, Roy, let’s get out of here,” said his mother.

  The taxi was still waiting with the motor running and they got in. The driver put it into gear and pulled away from the curb.

  “You get what you needed, lady?” he asked.

  “Mom, why didn’t you tell the man that you aren’t a Negro?”

  Roy’s mother’s shoulders were shaking and tears were running down her cheeks. He could see her hands trembling as she wiped her face.

  “Because it shouldn’t matter, Roy. This is Chicago, Illinois, not Birmingham, Alabama. It’s against the law not to serve Negroes.”

  “No it ain’t, lady,” said the driver.

  “It should be,” said Roy’s mother.

  “How could they think you’re black?” the driver said. “If I’d thought you were a Negro, I wouldn’t have picked you up.”

  The Colony of the Sun

  Gina Crow played Hoagy Carmichael records every Saturday morning. Certain records she played more than once. One day Roy heard “Hong Kong Blues” and “Old Man Harlem” twice, and “Memphis in June” three times. Usually, the last song Mrs. Crow played was “Stardust”. All of these versions featured Hoagy Carmichael with solo piano, except for “New Orleans”, on which he sang a duet with a woman. Roy liked to sit on his back porch from about eight to nine o’clock listening to the records during the year Gina Crow and her daughter, Polly, lived next door. Polly was twelve, a year older than Roy. She had cat’s eyes, billiard ball black with yellow flames in the center. Polly looked and acted older than she was, and she had a sharp-edged manner of speaking that made her sound mean or angry. She made Roy feel uncomfortable but excited at the same time.

  “Martha Poole told me that Gina Crow’s husband is getting out of prison.”

  “I didn’t know she had a husband.”

  “Martha said he was busted in Toledo, where they used to live.”

  “What for?”

  “Embezzlement. She thinks he worked in a bank.”

  Roy’s mother and her husband were washing and drying dishes while Roy was sitting at the kitchen table eating a bowl of cereal.

  “What’s embezzlement?” he asked.

  “It means he stole money,” said his mother.

  “Is he coming to live with them?” her husband asked.

  “Martha doesn’t know.”

  “If he’s
on probation, he’ll have to stay in Ohio. For a while, anyway.”

  “I’m just glad he didn’t rape or murder anyone. I wouldn’t feel comfortable having a murderer living next door to us.”

  Walking home from school the next day, Roy was following behind Polly Crow and her friend Vida when he heard Polly say that her father was coming home soon, and that she had not seen him for a long time.

  “Where’s he been?” asked Vida.

  “Far away, in the Colony of the Sun.”

  “I’ve never heard of that place. Is it in the United States?”

  “I think it might be in Canada, or Antarctica.”

  “What was he doing there?”

  “Working on a big project. My mother told me he was exploring for something that could save the planet.”

  “You mean Earth?”

  “Yeah. My mother says pretty soon there won’t be enough coal to heat all of our houses.”

  “Maybe he was digging oil wells. They use oil to heat houses, too.”

  “Could be. She says the men there have to shoot polar bears and seals to have meat.”

  After Vida turned off at her street and Polly was by herself, Roy caught up to her and said hello.

  “Oh, hi, Roy. Were you walking behind me and Vida?”

  “Yes. I heard what you said about your father being in Antarctica.”

  “It gets even colder there than here in Chicago. We might move to New Orleans, where it’s a lot warmer. My mother lived there when she was a little girl.”

  Polly was taller than Roy. She had long brown hair and very white skin. The wind blew her hair across her face and she kept pushing it back into place.

  “How long has it been since you’ve seen him?”

  “I was eight. We were in Toledo then.”

  “I like the records your mother plays. Sometimes I sit on our porch and listen to them.”