…The Brightest Flower in the Garden
“This takes me back,” Kenyatta murmured, wrapping her hand lightly around Ororo’s elbow. “I’d forgotten about the hats.” Ororo nodded, her only reply a low “Mm-hmm” as she scanned the spacious annex and felt her taupe pumps sink into the thick carpeted runner in the aisle. It had been too long. Or maybe not long enough, muttered that little voice in her head. She told it to hush its mouth and sit in the corner as they made their way to where N’Dare and Ruth were seated, four rows from the front.
Naturally, just getting there was an adventure:
“Kenyatta! I’ve got a run in these, girl, let me borrow a pair of stockings!”
“We don’t wear the same size, ‘Ro, these aren’t gonna reach up those long legs of yours!”
“I don’t care. I’m not going out of this house to church with bare legs!”
“I wouldn’t, either; they’re ashy. Here, use some of my Keri and cream ‘em!” Kenyatta waved the bottle at her, muttering “Gonna go out the door with ashy legs…”
“Leave me and my ash alone,” Ororo snapped back. She smoothed on some of the thick, cool lotion and rubbed it in impatiently, waiting for it to absorb as she dug into her overnight bag for her shoes with her free hand. “Don’t you even have a pair of knee-highs, Kenya?”
“Momma might.”
“Auntie Ruth!” Ororo bellowed down the stairs, “you got any stockings?”
“I’ve got knee-highs, baby girl!”
“Can I have ‘em?”
“Gimme a sec, I’m combing out your momma’s cowlick, I’ll get ‘em for you in a minute!”
“Thanks, Auntie!” The next few minutes found Ororo patting on some concealer for the faint circles under her eyes and Kenyatta fussing at her to lend her some lipstick. Ruthie met Ororo halfway along the stairs, tossing her the nylons in a rolled-up ball.
“Here y’go, baby,” she beamed. Ororo heard her mother banging away over the last of the pots and pans as she finished putting away the clean breakfast dishes, and she hollered up to her daughter and niece amidst the clatter.
“We are NOT running late so we have to sit all the way in the back,” N’Dare warned them, just this side of coming up the stairs to drag them both down herself.
“Runnin’ on CP time,” Kenyatta clucked under her breath.
“Never fails. This family can never just get out the door. C’mon, let’s motor.”
They climbed into Kenyatta’s little Prius and turned on the heating vents. Not even a half a mile out of the cul-de-sac Ruthie carped “Turn OFF that heathen’s music, this is the Sabbath, and I wanna hear myself think!” Ororo grinned behind her hand as Kenyatta complied, shooting her cousin an evil look. Ruthie fiddled with the radio dial once Kenya popped out the Busta Rhymes disc and found herself a gospel station. Ororo heard her mother humming beside her on the opposite passenger seat, and she was fine for the moment without saying much.
Ororo had a lot of time alone with her thoughts for the past couple of weeks, and her thoughts weren’t good company. No messages showed up on her answering machine, but there were a couple of hang-ups with hollow sounding dial tones left on tape that made her stomach lurch. Her hopes were having their last gasp. She missed him. She was a wreck without him, and it didn’t make a damned lick of sense why she couldn’t retrace her steps and just talk to the man. The weekend after Thanksgiving had been fuzzy and surreal. Her feet didn’t feel like they were really walking her where she wanted to go, sounds echoed in her ears like she was in a tunnel, and the world felt like it was just whizzing by without so much as a by your leave. Kenyatta asked her why she and Logan didn’t stick around the extra day to make it a four-day weekend, and her response had been mumbling and noncommittal.
Ororo skipped calling her mother for their usual end of the week chat and kicked herself for her cowardice, but she was still fuming inside. You only have one mother, he said. The same thought mindlessly drummed through her being during the day as she clicked and typed away at work: She and I are all we have left on this earth; I’m her only baby girl. Attempts to call Logan were equally discouraged, and she would pick up her mobile only to pause, stare at it and drop it back into her purse. If only she could come up with the right thing to say…
Her mother’s phone call out of the blue made her hand lean on the keys while she was composing a project report, and an ugly row of z’s stuttered across the column as her mother’s voice announced who it was.
“Momma?” She stifled a curse as she hit “undo” and collapsed the window. She doodled in the margin of her desk blotter as she asked “What’s up? This is a surprise, I wasn’t expecting to hear from you.”
“Your Aunt Ruthie’s just coming out of the beauty shop right now, Monica redid her finger waves today. Looks pretty sharp. Figured I’d talk to you while I was waiting for our lunch date. We’re headed to Chili’s in a minute.” Ororo could hear the rumble of people in the street and passing cars in the background static of her mother’s mobile connection, but she caught her sigh anyway. “I’d like it if you could come down next weekend to go with me to church.”
“I was planning on coming down for Christmas Eve, like I always do,” Ororo explained, furrowing her brow as she scribbled little question marks. “Do you need anything? Are the gutters clogged up again that fast?” She felt a funny little chill run down her arms at the thought of the last time that she went to church and had to endure the liturgist’s son up in her grill, just because she was still unmarried and her mother had pushed her to just “talk to him, what could it hurt?” She nearly died from boredom…nice enough, sure, but no.
“I’d just like to spend some time with my daughter. And it’s been a while since you visited the Lord’s house. Christmas, Easter, and the occasional wedding or baptism won’t make good excuses when you’re standing in line at the pearly gates.” Ororo sighed, and her mother pulled the guilt card. “It would do your lonely old mother’s heart good to have her lovely daughter beside her so everyone remembers that I have one.” Her tone was cajoling, but Ororo still felt a funny little tug. Her mouth tried to say “no” a couple of times, but she bit her lip against it and steeled herself, chucking her pen back into the cup.
“Does Ruthie want me to bring Kenyatta?” Did bears poop in the woods?
Ororo could hear her aunt’s voice hollering in the background, “Bring that sassy little somebody down here for church, baby girl, she ain’t been to Sunday services for way too long, she’s just as bad as you! Tell her to pack something decent, I have to see these people every Sunday!”
“There you go. Bring your cousin,” her mother deadpanned, and Ororo could hear the smirk creep into her voice. She cracked up.
“I’ll drag her into the car by the scruff of the neck.” If I’ve gotta go, she’s gotta go.
So here she was. Her aunt and mother walked arm in arm to the front steps while she and Kenyatta parked the car and hunted in her glove box for a pack of Tic Tac mints. A strong breeze lifted her hair and made it whip out like a satiny banner. She knew she’d look like a wild woman by the time she reached the chapel, but she didn’t care. Memories of her hair being snatched back and ruthlessly parted down the center, in ponytails with hair bobbles so tight that her eyes looked like a guppy’s haunted her, as well as her mother’s constant fussing at her to sit still, to smooth her dress and straighten her white stockings so the knees didn’t sag. N’Dare’s eyes would follow Ororo everywhere, always searching for any little flaw that would draw more attention to her daughter than she already received. She hovered over her protectively once the children’s story was over, practically hiding her in her skirts, it seemed, on the way back to Sunday school. Some memories still stung, even after they had time to heal.
The opening strains of the organ snapped her back to the present day, and the chapel began to fill as people shook hands and seated themselves in the pews. Ororo declined the usher’s offer of the pen for the guest book, kicking herself for not coming more frequently if they thought she was just a visitor. The sights and sounds brought with them a longing for something elusive that she felt like she’d lost. In an attempt to outdo one another, almost every woman over the age of twenty wore their brightest Sunday hats, ostentatious in the sheer variety of colors and decoration. Netted veils, ribbon-bound hatbands and silk flowers framed faced that smiled with recognition and made moues of pity over sad news as everyone got caught up, and to Ororo felt like she was standing in the center of an elaborate garden. Each flower opened its petals, fighting to be the brightest one in the yard.
Altar Call:
N’Dare felt soft and solid as Ororo edged in closer to make more room on the pew, and her powdery cologne tickled her nose. Ororo leafed through the program and used a visitor information card as a bookmark to save her place in the hymnal for the first congregational prayers.
“Sister Bessie asked me if you were interested in a solo for the Christmas Eve services,” N’Dare prodded, selecting a worn leather bible and laying it in her lap.
“Oh. Oh, Momma, I just don’t know.” Ororo smoothed her skirt as the organist played the thunderous prelude. “It’s just been so long. I don’t know.”
“Sure have missed seeing you up there, baby,” Ruthie sighed, reaching over N’Dare to par her niece’s hand. “I remember listening to you sing your heart out up there and watching everyone in the front row just fall out!” She leaned back in her seat and opened her program. “Think about it, sweetie,” she urged. A gusty sigh escaped Ororo’s lips before the assembly stood to greet the minister as he swept down the aisle. The hem of his dark blue robes fluttered in his wake, and Ororo was on edge, feeling unsettled. Incomplete. The air was charged and tingling with something that felt like unfinished business.
“May the Lord be with you!” bellowed the reverend, raising his arms in broad greeting.
“And also with you!” The response was automatic, and the chorus of voices was strong; the church was packed to the rafters. Next came the request for visitors to step forward and announce themselves and N’Dare hissed at Ororo and Kenyatta both.
“Go! Stand up! Let them see you’ve come back for a change!” Ororo wanted to point out that she live in another state, but she sensed a future lecture on her less than remarkable attendance at her local parish from her mother, whose weekend calls to Ororo on Sunday mornings often still found her tangled in the sheets.
“Mommaaaaaa…”
“Auntieeeee…” Kenyatta chimed in, stifling a pout.
N’Dare took things into her own hands and rose from her seat.
“Yes, Sister N’Dare?”
“Good morning, Reverend,” she greeted him, smiling brightly at hum as she reached for Ororo’s hand and hauled her up to stand beside her. “My daughter Ororo’s come to visit me this weekend and worship with us this morning!” N’Dare’s grip on Ororo was snug as if to brook no protest. Ororo beamed politely and waved at the congregation.
“Praise Jesus! Bless you, Sister!” This was met with a murmur of amens as he added “Welcome back.” Ororo sat down in relief as Ruth subjected Kenyatta to similar treatment before the remaining greetings were made. The chapel was heated to a moderate temperature, but the sense of having been put on the spot lingered, sending a flush over her cheeks. Out of old habit, she closed her program and used it to fan air on her face. The service progressed with intermittent declarations ringing out from the pews, “Praise God!”
“Thank you, Jesus! Bless you, Lord!”
“Yes, Jesus!” A familiar stirring resonated in Ororo as the blessings continued. N’Dare’s fingertips led her eyes over the faded ink of the bible she shared between them as they followed the scriptures.
“Children, obey your parents in everything, for this pleases the Lord,” the liturgist intoned from the pulpit. Mutely heads nodded as the remaining verses were read, but that line struck a chord. I’ve done my best in that regard. Ororo took stock during those moments as her reverend took up his place at the podium and explained the meaning of the Word using examples from his own life to drive home the message. Ororo chuckled over his anecdote and the smile that he aimed at his own grown daughter sitting in the front pew, and the billowing sleeves of his dark blue robe fanned out like wings as he beckoned for the congregation to stand again and pray.
Strains of the doxology swept through the chapel, and Ororo’s lips moved of their own accord, her voice blending and rising with those gathered: Praise God from whom all blessings flow, Praise him all creatures here below… Her voice ebbed and trailed off on the “Amen” as her thoughts drifted back to Logan. He’d been so hurt, and so confused. The look of pain in his eyes followed her all the way back into her apartment that night, and the worst of it was, he hadn’t done anything wrong. He’d come at her request to meet her family and she hadn’t stepped up to the plate when they brought the drama and awkward questions. He just sat there, holding her hand while they raked him over the coals. It gnawed and chafed at her that her mother didn’t seem to realize that the old rules and assumptions just didn’t hold water anymore. Maybe they never did in the first place.
Ororo’s favorite part of the morning service arrived with a rush of skipping feet as the reverend called the children to the carpeted altar steps for their lesson. “All right, raise your hand if you did what I asked last week and talked to someone about Jesus!” A flurry of hands was accompanied by “ME! ME! I did! I did!” A handful of children let their eyes wander around the congregation to peek at the adults watching them before hesitantly raising their hands, and Ororo chuckled at the sight. They were darned cute in their Sunday best and shiny patent leather shoes. Sitting slightly behind the flock of children, Ororo spied her niece, Monique, with her dollie Felicia tucked securely against her chest and waved. She shyly waved back, flashing Ororo a grin that warmed her to her toes.
“Who here knows the story about one of God’s followers named Daniel?” The children were rapt, some giggling, as the minister related the story of Daniel walking into the lion’s den and of the angels shutting the lions’ mouths as God’s way of showing his love. Ororo, Kenyatta and their mothers snickered helplessly when Monique raised her hand and asked “Didn’t the lions wanna gobble Daniel up for dinner?” Ororo missed seeing her father’s dark eyes shining at her from the pews as she sat on the steps in her Sunday best and snug pigtails, once upon a time.
The children were excused for their Sunday school classes, and Ororo noticed Monique grasping the hand of an adorable little girl with butterscotch-fair skin and wiry, sandy brown hair pulled up into little “pom-poms” and carrying a pink plastic purse with a Strawberry Shortcake appliqué on the front. They linked arms and strode out with the tide of pattering feet, and Ororo leaned over to N’Dare.
“Momma, who’s little girl was that with Monique?”
“That’s little Jasmine,” she offered, and then nodded to a couple across the aisle, two seats down. “That’s Luke and Jessica’s little girl.” Ororo was surprised when she saw a tall, broad-shouldered man with his arm wrapped around a petite White woman with sable brown hair. “They just started coming here,” N’Dare qualified when Ororo looked at her questioningly.
“Ain’t she cute?” Ruthie gushed. “She told me about Ruth gleaning the corn when her parents introduced me to her the first time.” Ruthie fanned herself and smiled. “How could you not love that precious little child?”
How, indeed…
The minister resumed his place in the pulpit and reminded them, “In times like these, one of the biggest mistakes that we, the children of God continue to make, is that we disobey God when he asks us to love our enemies. ‘Love your enemies, and pray for those who persecute you, that you may be sons of your Father in Heaven.’ I can look any of you here in the eye right now and see what’s going through your heads. ‘Love my enemies?’ Does that include that paperboy who keeps leaving my New York Times outside the door when it rains? Do I have to love my brother-in-law when he doesn’t bring back my miter saw and tells me my kids aren’t as smart as his because he has an honor roll sticker on the bumper of his car? You can take the easy road and talk about what makes your enemy so easy for you to hate, or you can love them, pray for them, and ask that they God lift them up and follow his will.” More “Mm-hmms” and “Yes, Lord, hallelujahs” swept through the congregation, and Ororo’s memories were taken back to all the times that Emma showed up in her office unannounced with more constructive criticism to needle her with when her day planner was so full it could spill.
Emma had made designs on Logan, and Ororo wanted to slap herself for wanting Logan so much, and then not fighting harder to not let their differences be an obstacle. Emma and Logan didn’t have a situation like theirs where their color would separate them, but the mere thought of Emma draping herself over him made her stomach churn with knots. Yes, she thought, loving Emma and praying for her soul could prove to be a bit of a challenge. Okay, a hefty challenge. Okay, perhaps a lifelong struggle…oh, heck.
Programs fanned the air as people squirmed in their seats, letting the day’s message wash over them and evoke responses that varied from more nodding to the occasional keening cry. They’d hit that point in the morning the Ororo and Kenyatta fondly referred to as “everyone getting good and worked up.”
“Don’t just say ‘I hate the IRS, they raised my taxes, PRAY FOR THEM! Don’t gossip about someone who cut in line in front of you at the grocery store, PRAY FOR ‘EM!” His fist banged against the wooden podium as the beginnings of sweat gleamed on his forehead. “First and foremost, when you pray for their souls, PRAY FOR YOUR OWN!”
“AMEN!”
“PRAISE JESUS!”
“It doesn’t just have to be someone who you call your enemy,” he intoned, taking it down a notch and spreading his hands in entreaty. “Persecution, trials that you need the Lord to help you deal with from day to day can come from anywhere. Your work, your home, your spouse, your parents. Don’t just ask God to relieve you of the burdens; ask him for the strength to forgive those who impose those trials and burdens on you! Don’t give in to hate! Love them the way the Lord loves you!”
“UH-HUH! PRAISE JESUS!”
The rest of the sermon became a blur. Ororo clutched the hymnal in her lap until her palms became damp, and she inhaled and exhaled through her nose in sweeping breaths, overwhelmed by emotion. Beside her, she felt waves of agitation within her mother, too, blending with hers, and N’Dare made a small, almost tortured sound in her throat. Minutes ticked by, the minister plowed ahead, reminding his flock that none of them were free from judgment, yet none of them were unworthy of love from their Creator. The clamor of the chapel rose with humming and crying and stamping of feet on the wooden floorboards.
Ororo’s mind drifted back to dinner at Logan’s father’s house. Back to his stepmother’s warm greetings and the way he ever so slightly pulled away. Lingering over the look he exchanged with his older brother when he mentioned their absent mother, and the frustration in the set of his shoulders, telling her the sting still hurt. All the answers she wished she’d given her mother at Thanksgiving dinner tumbled through her thoughts like so much litter:
“Did they give you the runaround? How did they treat you when you walked into their home?” Like the daughter they never had from the moment I walked through the door. Scratch that; from the moment that his stepmother figured out how to pronounce my name, as though she gave a damn.
“Now when were you going to tell me he wasn’t Black?”I should have from the jump if I’d known you would give him the third degree after he drove several hours to bring me there. I thought it meant something when I told you how much he cares about me, doesn’t change the TV from my favorite shows if I’m already watching them and rubs my feet just like Daddy used to with yours. But if he’d been Black, you would have fawned over him? Rolled out the red carpet? How is that fair?
“Why couldn’t you have brought home someone like your father? He treated me like a queen from the jump. You grew up with an excellent example of how a Black man treats his wife and daughter, Ororo, so I guess I’m confused as to why a White man’s sitting in my kitchen, with you out here calling him your boyfriend.” Daddy was one of a kind. That’s like telling me to find another four-leaf clover, Momma. But if you want me to bring home a man who treats me like a queen, look no further than Logan. If he had done any less, he never would have set foot on your doorstep. I’m calling him my man, Momma. I love him so much!
“There’s still a few of us good ones left, too, baby girl.” Okay, that had been her uncle Marty who gave his two cents that time, which still wasn’t worth a plugged nickel. What was she supposed to say, “Somebody rally the hunting dogs, we’re going on a manhunt, just gotta keep on looking!” No, no, and no.
“Why make things harder on yourself and any children you might have in the future? Do you see how much attention women with mixed children get when they walk down the street?” This time, her first answer felt like the right one, even though spitting those words out so indignantly, even though she felt entitled to her reaction, seemed like a slap: “It probably wouldn’t have been any more attention than people gave you when you walked me down the street, or when Daddy did. But he always seemed proud of me, anyway.”
“What does he think of you? Your color? Your history? How do people react to you two being together when you go out?” Simple: When I’m with him, everything, everyone else just falls away. Women occasionally glanced at them when they walked by, hand in hand, but as near as Ororo could tell, it was done with envy on account of the handsome man by her side, carrying her bags and holding her doors.
“I think you’ve stopped trying to find a Black man to share your future with.” No. I’ve stopped looking for ANY other man to share my future with.
…at least, she thought she had.
The choir rising from their seats and the responses from the assembly dwindled to a dull roar, and the organist began to play again, the chords of a song that used to make Ororo sway in her seat enveloping her. The notes were tentative and pleading as the ushers moved up the aisle for the collection of the tithes. The women dug deep into their purses for stray bills, and Ororo clutched a Kleenex that she discovered tightly in her fist before the plates came their way, realizing that she might need it shortly. She was strung too tightly right now.
She caught a glimpse of her watery eyes in the gleaming brass collection plate’s rim as she dropped the offering into it and handed it over to her mother. She began faintly humming the melody of the hymn, her voice low and throaty, and to her surprise, her aunt and mother joined in. Kenyatta checked her calls on the tiny screen of her mobile. The ushers stepped, passed and paused at the ends of each pew before they strode back to the front of the chapel for the blessing. The reverend patted his forehead once more before resuming his place at the pulpit, beckoning everyone “Those of you who would like to approach the altar for some personal time with the Lord may do so now, and feel free to take your time. Reach out to the Lord with your troubles, let him carry your pain. I can sense some of you are shouldering burdens…harboring sorrows…suffering from regrets. Come. Come share it with God. Lift up his name,” he offered again.
Slowly people began hesitant strolls up the aisle and the outer walkways between the pews and the windows, holding hands with loved ones or escorting those who couldn’t walk themselves. The sight pulled at Ororo, and the choir hummed the lyrics at a low, chanting volume, calling out to her. Her limbs moved without any direction from her; the hymnal was tucked neatly back into the rack, and she set down her purse on the bench, leaving behind the faint warmth of her mother’s sleeve against her arm. Her feet glided up to the altar, taking the steps without stumbling. Mutely she nodded to the minister who stared back at her with kind and inquiring dark eyes.
If she wanted to talk things over with Logan, there was somebody else she had to talk to first.
“Forgive me, Lord. Bless you, Father.” She folded her hands, lacing her fingers together around the crumpled Kleenex tucked in her palm, and let the tears roll down her face as she poured out her sorrows over the past few weeks in a fervent prayer.
Help me make him understand. Anoint my words, Lord. Speak through me. Help me to let go of this pain. Help me to let go of his anger. Carry me through this sorrow, Lord. Help me make my mother understand that I love her, even though she can’t see my reasons for loving someone she wouldn’t have chosen for me. Help her to understand why I chose him, Lord, help her to see! Behind her members of the congregation sought prayer requests from the minister, and she gradually felt the faint swish of his robe brushing her ankle as he approached, laying a hand on her shoulder, offering comfort. She answered yes when he asked if she was suffering from a burden. She didn’t argue when he stepped down to ask her mother to join her. N’Dare knelt by her daughter’s side and tugged Ororo’s hands apart, taking one and grasping it firmly in hers. She stared into her daughter’s face, where her anguish was plain, before she whispered that she, too, was sorry. N’Dare’s murmured comforts mingled with Ororo’s sobs as she released it all, their minister looking on and uttering a blessing over them both. N’Dare rocked Ororo as she hadn’t since her husband passed away, and reassured her as she hadn’t since she was a young child that she loved her. Minutes passed as they absorbed the tingle of the spirit moving through the room, anointing them, taking away the pain, carrying them through their troubles. When Ororo made her way back to her seat, she and her mother supported each other, arm in arm. She wasn’t surprised when Kenyatta and Ruthie’s eyes were also damp.
The organ soared again as people took their seats, and the choir director lifted her hands to launch them into the joyous chorus of words that made the congregation practically dance in the aisles:
“This little light of mine,
I’m gonna let it shine,
This little light of mine,
I’m gonna let it shine,
This little light of mine,
I’m gonna let it shine,
Let it shine, let it shine, let it shine!
Everywhere I go,
I’m gonna let it shine…
Ask, Seek, Knock…
Logan parked his car across the street from a small but well landscaped house and stepped outside, feeling like he was trespassing, even though he was invited here. The phone call from a week ago echoed in his ears as he made his way up the front walk:
“Hello, this is Elizabeth, who’s speaking?”
“Mom?”
“…oh, my God, Jamie?” (pause) “Hello.’
“Hi.” Logan’s fingers itched to dig into his coverall pockets for a cigar, but he settled for twisting the telephone cord into a wiry knot. “John…I saw John at Dad’s for Thanksgiving dinner last week. He was doing well. Kids are getting big,” he offered, searching for anything to say that would fill the awkward silence. His mother clucked something like agreement into the receiver, and Logan could picture her fidgeting as she spoke, with that funny little divot that she got between her eyebrows when she was upset or just baffled by something.
“Did your brother mention if he ever got that box that I sent for Thomas and Eliza?”
“Nope. Not really.” Then, “I didn’t really ask. We didn’t talk long.” He’d been in a hasty rush to get out as soon as John had mentioned their mother’s wish to contact him. Elizabeth seemed to be processing that information as Logan peered into the dregs in his coffee cup, knowing he didn’t need a refill, as keyed up as he already was.
“How’s your father? What’s he up to?”
“Mom…do ya really wanna know?” His tone was incredulous, and a flush of chilly tingles swept over his scalp. Frustration, remembered rage, regret…sorrow…he was running the full gamut in this one call.
“Yes. I do, Jamie.” Logan heard her clearing her throat. “Is he well?” Once again, Logan could almost “hear” her physical gestures, this time visualizing her tugging that loose tendril of hair that always worked its way free of her braid.
“Yeah. He’s alive and well. Still trying to beat his own golf game. I know ya don’t wanna hear about it.”
“You only think you know. I wanted your father to be happy, Jamie, that didn’t change just because I left.”
“Didn’t it? Ya wanted yourself to be happy, while ya were at it!”
“Fine. That’s fine. I did. It’s true. I wasn’t happy.” Logan shut his eyes against the truth and raked his fingers through his hair, making it more disheveled than usual. “Is that what you wanted to hear?”
“No. Shit, no. I really wanna hear my mom telling me she wasn’t happy in our home for who knows how long!” Logan’s voice was low but gruff. “Thirty-five friggin’ years, Ma. I mean…were me, Johnny and Pop keeping you from anything? From EVERYTHING?” Bile rose in his throat. “Were we just some friggin’ obstacle?”
“Don’t ever think that.” The injunction was a harsh whisper that chastened him, warning him that he had overstepped himself. “Don’t think that for a moment, Jamie. I loved your father a long time…”
“He said you didn’t want any part of him anymore,” Logan informed her. “Sounds like you stopped loving him at some point.”
“Sometimes you can love someone and never really know them, sweetie.”
“Don’t give me that crap!”
“You called me. You wanted to talk. I’m sorry if you don’t want to hear what I have to say…I think I’m hanging up now, Jamie ““
“Wait!” His fingers were clenched against his forehead, knuckling their way into his hair and pulling on it as he stared down at his desk. “Ma…don’t. Don’t hang up.”
“Can you hear me out?” Logan could hear her fear, as though she were afraid that he was about to scold her like an errant child.
“Yeah.” He reached for a tin of Altoids in his desk drawer, a habit Ororo had started him on, and popped one into his mouth, letting the stinging bite of spearmint tickle his palate.
“Leaving your father wasn’t a decision I arrived at easily, and I don’t want you to think that it was. There were just too many ways that we didn’t connect anymore, Jamie. Your father was so absorbed in his business, and he and I never really saw each other anymore. Even when he took time off, we spent time together, but never really ‘together.’ He’d be out in the garage with his tools, I’d be inside with my quilting and tole painting, and we’d hardly ever talk. We ran out of things to say. Our children were grown and gone, and being a homemaker for so long left me with a resume that didn’t impress anyone!” She laughed helplessly, and Logan swam in guilt, wondering how much of her life she really put aside to stay home to raise him and his brother.
“That sucks,” he sympathized. She heard the tinge of hurt in his voice.
“No. I would have done that part all over again, being there for you. What was really tragic was that your father and I never really worked as hard at being man and wife as we did at just being “Mom and Pop” or even just “Jonathan and Elizabeth.” He was who he was, I was who I was, and we slept in separate rooms, and lived under the same roof. We just didn’t ‘live together’ anymore.”
“You were never really into his cars, not the way he was.”
“No one was ever really into his cars the way your father was, except you!” Logan’s harsh bark of laughter rattled out of his chest. She had him there. Her next words changed the expectations that he had for their call when he first dialed and shook him deeply.
“Jamie? Just because my love for your father changed, that doesn’t change the way I love you. You’re so much like him, Jamie, but everything I ever loved about him is plain as day when I look at you. Every good quality he ever had went into you, and you’re greater than the sum of your parts! Might not be saying much, considering who your parents are!” His eyes stung as he laughed again, this time with more feeling.
“Mo-ommmmmm!” he groaned.
“It’s true,” she declared. “Johnny’s always kind of taken after me, just kind of does his own thing without so much as a by your leave.” She stirred her coffee thoughtfully. “Next time, though, maybe I’ll do a better job of explaining myself before I run out the door.”
“It was hard. It was hard, Ma. Finding him like that, without you around, scared the crap out of me.” His voice was soft and trembling. “I didn’t have a clue of what to do.”
“And you shouldn’t have had to find out like that,” she agreed. “Sometimes it haunts me at night, baby boy. I ask myself that. I don’t like asking myself that…”
“Ma, don’t.”
“…would things have been any different if I had stayed? Was our argument that last thing on his mind before he fell and started having chest pain? Was he still angry with me for not being there? Was he scared?” Her own voice was shaking, and Logan wished he could reach across the line and embrace her, and tell her that he was trying to hard to just let it go. He didn’t want to be angry anymore. “Were you scared, Jamie?”
He missed her. He wanted his mother back.
“Yeah, I was scared. I was, I won’t lie. But ya know, Ma, it could’ve been different.” He swallowed thickly before adding “It could’ve been you lying there.” One day, it could, indeed, something he didn’t want to linger on, since a cold sweaty flush washed over his skin and his heart started thudding in panic. Life, he acknowledged, was short. So he took a different tack.
“Pop…he’s really happy. Amelia’s good to him. She keeps the house up nice. Makes a decent pot roast.” Somehow, he needed to find the right thing to say. The words were clinging to the tip of his tongue, and he couldn’t spit them out. So he pulled random consolations and good news that he felt would relieve her out of thin air instead.
“Ahhh. Yes. Your father and his beef. Make sure to check the car for pouches of that horrible beef jerky, he still liked to sneak some every now and again, last I looked.”
“Still does. Amelia chases after him and nags him to take his aspirin and fiber supplements every day, so it’s all good. She knows prying the jerky bag out of his hand is a losing battle.” This time their laughter was shared and comforting. Logan exhaled a pent-up breath and wiped his damp eyes.
“Well, Jamie, it’s been a long time. Your father’s hogged you to himself long enough. It’s my turn to see you.”
“I still don’t have any grandkids to bring home for ya ta play with,” he pointed out.
“Bring me home a daughter-in-law first,” she advised bossily. That halted him in his tracks.
“Yeah. Sure, Ma.” He rubbed his hand over his face, and Elizabeth heard what he wasn’t saying.
“Are you having some trouble, Jamie?”
“Uh-uh.” He batted the possible replies back and forth in his head and weighed them for plausibility:
a) “I might have to get back to you on that. The woman I love just walked out of my life in a huff, her mother couldn’t stand me on sight, and I don’t have a freakin’ clue of what to do about it.”
b) “Nope, still single.”
c) “Actually, I was just thinking about getting a nice golden retriever and naming her Daisy.”
He decided on option D.
“I’ve been seeing someone. Well, I was seeing someone.”
“Was, huh? What’s this past tense stuff? What happened?”
“It’s hard to explain.” Logan felt like a powder keg waiting for a spark, and his mother sensed that.
“Get your behind to my house this weekend, then. You haven’t seen the house yet, and I’ll bake an apple crisp.” Her injunction was stern and determined, reminding him of when he was a teenager and she would nag him to buckle down and study. She gentled it with “I really can’t wait to see you, Jamie boy.”
“Me too, Ma.” He sighed as he hung up the phone and settled back in his office chair, letting it swing from side to side.
So that left him here, waiting outside his mom’s front door, wondering whether to knock. His fist hung in the air a moment before he decided “what the hell” and rapped on it sharply, leaning inside the screen door and shrugging more deeply into his jacket.
The door flew open, and his mother rushed forward. “JAMIE!” Forget about awkward greetings. She practically bowled him over as she wrapped her arms around his waist, and the air in his lungs shussed out in an “OOOMPH!” His arms crept up of their own will in a tentative embrace, and his earlier urge for a cigar disappeared. The reality of his mother’s warm bulk wrapped around him, welcoming him home was dizzying and overwhelming, and his grip slowly tightened on her.
“Ma,” he whispered. “Ma…I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have just-“
“Hush, Jamie. Oh, just shut up and hug me! I love you!” Her voice was muffled in his jacket as she clung to him, and he could hear the tears in her voice.
“Love you too. So sorry.” He was sniffling too, but he didn’t give a damn. A guy could hug his mother hello, goddamn it. She smelled like baking and shampoo, just like she had when he was a kid, that same old sweet “mom” smell that he’d missed for so long.
“Come on in, before you let out the heat! Hang up your coat, let’s have some of that apple crisp I promised!” She kept a tight grip on them and pulled him inside.
Minutes later he was leaning his elbows on his mother’s kitchen counter, straddling a stool as he tucked into a generous bowl of apple crisp topped with a scoop of vanilla ice cream and a dollop of Cool Whip. “Man, I’ve missed this.”
“Should’ve called me sooner,” she chided him, “but I know why you didn’t.”
“We don’t have to talk about that.”
“But we can. Don’t feel like you can’t tell me how you’re feeling, Jamie. That whole thing with your father and I splitting up aside, I’m still your mother. Now,” she said, getting to the business at hand, “what’s my strapping, hardworking son still doing single?”
“I was seeing someone. She was nice. She IS nice. But the holiday didn’t really go the way we thought it would.”
“Why?”
“We visited her family fer dinner. From the way they reacted when I walked in through the door, I wasn’t what they were expecting.”
“What were they expecting?”
“You know that scene in Blazing Saddles when the townspeople meet the sheriff for the first time, and they can’t hear what the mayor’s yelling over the bell before they see that he’s Black?” She stifled a chuckle; she loved that movie, too.
“Sure, sure. That’s a great moment.”
“Not when it happens in real life.” He fortified himself with another bite of dessert before continuing. “She never got around to telling her mother that I was White before we actually met. Turned out that was important information that she left out.”
“So she’s not White?”
“Nope. Her mom’s from Kenya, and her father was Black. Worked as a photojournalist. Both of her parents had a few degrees behind their names.”
“You almost had one, too. You could have finished it, if you wanted to,” she reminded him, but her manner wasn’t one of nagging. She filled his coffee cup to the brim and ladled a heaping dose of sugar into her own cup before pouring in enough creamer to change it to a medium beige. Mom never liked the hard stuff, he grinned to himself.
“I don’t regret not going back, though.”
“Didn’t figure you would, either. Your father was thrilled when you first came to work for him, too.”
“He talked to you?”
“He told Johnny, who mentioned it to me once when he visited with he, after I moved my things out of the house.” She sipped her drink and cradled her jaw against her palm, gazing at her youngest with warm eyes. “Johnny was frustrated with me for leaving at first, too, back when your father had his spell, but he was older back when your father and I began to not get along anymore. He remembers a little more, Jamie.” More than anything, Logan remembered little things, like his mother never wanting to go with them to car shows on the weekends, claiming she didn’t want to stand outside in the hot sun all day. That and the funny look she always gave his father when he could cavalierly tell her “Do what you want, the house is your domain, Elizabeth, I’ll leave it up to you.” It only now struck him that maybe she wanted something more.
“Ma…did ya ever think about working with dad in the shop? Ya know, bookkeeping, handling the register, anything like that?”
“I asked him once. I never asked him again after he laughed it off. I joined my bridge club and never looked back.” Logan’s shoulders shook as he chuckled at her wry look. She saluted him with her coffee mug, cocking an eyebrow, which only made him laugh harder. He’d gotten that expression from her, he decided. There was no denying it.
“So…what is it you like about this girl of yours?”
“Everything. There’s no one like her.”
“What did she say about her mother’s reaction to you, Jamie?”
“It was a mess.” He let his spoon clatter into his empty bowl. “We had a doozy of a fight, calling ourselves talkin’ on the ride home, and it just got out of hand.”
“Oops. Doesn’t sound good, Jamie.”
“No shit…”
“Language, Jamie!”
“Sorry,” he muttered. “My bad. Still…it’s a mess. I told her that if our relationship was going to create problems between her and her family, that maybe we shouldn’t continue it. I don’t wanna stir the pot and make trouble. That’s her family.”
“Did she fight for you?”
“Eh?”
“Did she speak up for you? Did her mother say anything to actually say she didn’t want you in the family if the two of you decided to take that next step?”
“Mostly she just said that she’d prefer it if ‘Ro married someone Black, and some other nonsense about ‘not making it harder on ourselves.’ Ororo told me later that I could have a Nobel prize on the shelf with my name on it, and her mother still would have grilled me, but still…this is about me not being Black, not having an education, and not meeting her expectations, whatever those are.”
“Making it harder on yourselves…good Lord. Being two different colors is the least of your problems in a marriage! Did I ever mention that your father’s mother couldn’t stand me when we first met?” He looked incredulous, brows drawn together. He couldn’t imagine anyone not liking his mother. She had been on the PTA and made cupcakes for every bake sale, damn it, how could you not like her?
“I was a girl with a drinking father from the wrong side of the tracks, and my mother bought our groceries with food stamps. I had an education, for all the good it did me, but she knew what kind of family I came from, and she didn’t want her grandchildren raised by a trashy girl who had to walk her dad home from the pub. Your Grandma Claire was never the easiest person to please when we first married.”
“She never was when she came here, either. She liked Johnny best; all she ever did with me was tell me to quit slouching and fix my shirt.” She smelled like peppermint candies and perming solution, too. His mother always looked unhappy when Grandma Claire came to visit. It was nice to finally understand why.
“That’s okay, Jamie. Your grandmother pretty much snatched Johnny out of my arms the first day after we brought him home from the hospital and spent every waking second telling me what I was doing wrong with my baby. At least when you were born, I got to hog you all up for myself,” she declared with a huff, and Logan grinned. It was good to be home.
“Anyway,” she said, pulling him back to his own grievances, “if you’re lady friend is smart, and if she loves you at all, she won’t let her family or her mother or anyone else stand in the way. She’d be crazy not to snap up a little sweet patootie like you.” She reached for the glass carafe and topped off his coffee. “As long as she’s not the one complaining about your color and education, then it’s no skin off your nose. I might not seem like the one to tell you how to handle your relationship, but I can definitely tell you a few things to avoid. Letting her mom run your ranch and make you feel badly about what you have together is one of ‘em.”
“We haven’t spoken since that night, after we fought,” he sighed.
“What’s stopping you? Do you love her?”
“God, yes.”
“Call her. If she doesn’t pick up, then leave her a message. There’s nothing wrong with that, Jamie. But don’t overdo it and leave too many, or she’ll call the cops and charge you with stalking.” Logan nearly choked on his coffee. Yup, he’d missed his mom.
“Gotta bail. Thanks, Ma.” He considered something. “Where’s Jack?”
“Working. He had to drop off a shipment of sod. I scheduled him some appointments with a few families that live in that brand new subdivision. These days, everyone’s on that new weird contract when they buy a new house, where they have to landscape the back yard and install sprinklers within six months of moving in to ensure the resale value. Business is good,” she boasted, helping him into his jacket and shoving his hands aside when he tried to zip it himself. He shook his head at the old habit and sighed when he noticed that her black hair was a little more salt and pepper than he remembered, the creases beneath her eyes a little deeper. But the same warmth and affection shone in her dark blue eyes, which twinkled at him as she hugged him goodbye.
“I almost forgot, here.” He reached into his deep pocket and pulled out a small, dark green box with the Boyds stamp on the bottom. “Amelia helped to pick this out. She still loves all those figurines ya left behind and takes care of them like they were solid gold.”
“They might as well be, they’re worth mint now! I’m glad she appreciates them, though,” she recovered, and lifted the flap on the box. “Oh, she’s good, how could she know I’d love this?” she exclaimed, pulling out the little resin figuring of an intricately engraved teddy bear with angel wings and a halo. She hugged him snugly with her free arm and kissed his cheek loudly, with a big smack. “Don’t be a stranger.”
“I won’t.” With another thought, he added “I’ll call ya later ta let ya know what I’m doin’ fer Christmas, once I figure it out.”
May She Who Gave You Birth, Rejoice
“Your father was good at taking the pictures, but there were always so many funny things that the two of you would do that I had to snap a picture,” N’Dare murmured as she pointed to a black and white photo of Ororo sitting atop a pony at a birthday party, with her father holding the animal’s reins. “You were just a little thing, then. You’d already lost your two front teeth.” The album warmed Ororo’s lap as they flipped through it together on her mother’s couch while Ruthie and Kenyatta fussed in the kitchen about what to have for dinner.
“I always wondered why we didn’t have more pictures of you,” Ororo mused.
“Camera shy. Your father liked to try to catch me before my hair was combed,” N’Dare explained. “He was incorrigible.” Then she removed one of Ororo’s school photos from the sleeve, examining it. “You were always the tallest girl in your class.”
“Don’t think they didn’t let me know it,” she grumbled. “From first grade through ninth, I was ‘Sasquatch.’ It was awful.”
“What did they know?” N’Dare grumbled back. “If you go back to your high school reunion, who do you think they’ll remember the most? Probably that ‘tall girl Ororo with the pretty blue eyes’ that towered over everyone else and stood out.”
“Momma? What was it like? When you were around other people and they saw you with me, what did they say?”
“It depended on where we lived. When we lived down south, it was a bit harder, baby girl. They saw me, looking like I do, carrying this caramel-colored baby girl with a shock of white hair and eyes as blue as a robin’s egg, and the questions just jumped out of their mouths. Sometimes, though,” she sighed, “it wasn’t just about you. The same people that acted like they had a problem with how you looked, and how you could possibly look that way, were the same people that had an opinion about my being Black to begin with. Or about your father marrying a foreigner.” She gazed fondly at her daughter as she reached up to smooth a lock of her hair behind her ear. “It was never about you.”
“It was hard sometimes, trying to prove I was Black enough.”
“That’s ridiculous; as though you can even measure such a thing,” N’Dare scoffed with a roll of her eyes. “Why does anyone feel like they’re an authority?”
“Happens,” Ororo shrugged.
“Ororo…I’m sorry. I was taken by surprise when you brought in your young man to have dinner with us, and I said some things, and acted like I was angry at him for things that had nothing to do with him.”
“I think Daddy would have been okay with him, once he got over the shock,” Ororo considered.
“That doesn’t mean he wouldn’t have given him a hard time, however; no matter who you brought home to a family dinner, especially for a holiday like that, your father would have tried to glare him out the door for wanting to take his baby away from him. Back when you went to the prom and your date showed up with your corsage, and tried to pin it on you, David just glared at him like he was ready to break his arm!”
“We’re kind of past corsage pinning,” Ororo admitted, glancing at her mother through her eyelashes.
“I’m getting old, Ororo, I can’t take it when you tell me these things!” N’Dare fanned herself for emphasis.
They continued to leaf through the old pictures, coming to Ororo’s college graduation photo, with Ororo garbed in her cap and gown, Kenyatta grinning and hanging off her shoulder as they waved to the camera. “Your cousin’s a mess,” N’Dare chuckled.
“She’s my homegirl,” Ororo admitted.
“I always wished you could have gone to Spellman, that was my dream school.”
“Umm.” Ororo shrugged again.
“It would have been nice for you to go to school with Black people that wanted the same things you did.”
“I know. But the whole world’s not made up of nothing but Black people that want the same things that I do. So I went where I was supposed to go. I think so, anyway.”
“How much education did your young man have behind him when he left college?”
“More than he lets on. He dropped out after three years after he originally took a semester off to take care of his father.”
“That’s a shame.”
“That’s life. If that’d been Daddy, I would’ve done the same thing in a heartbeat.”
“You didn’t have to,” N’Dare pointed out.
“That’s because you were here. Logan did what he had to do. He’s a good man, Momma. He takes care of his own.” The two women thumbed through the albums, occasionally laughing or sighing over them before they put them aside.
“I want you to have what your father and I had.”
“Logan doesn’t have to be just like Daddy for me to have that. He just has to be there. He just has to love me.” Her eyes misted. “I think I ruined that, Momma. I drove him away. I don’t know how to bring him back.”
“Do it the old fashioned way, baby girl. Get down on your knees and beg. And pray.” N’Dare rubbed her daughter’s back soothingly as she pondered the ways that she, too, could make amends. Her future grandbabies were on the line.
They had a son-in-law to win back.
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