Eddie looked at Brent. Brent knew Eddie was not the kind of man who asked frivolous questions. So he agreed to the test. “Set it up,” he said.
“Will do.”
“Who knows,” Tony said, “the answers could be simpler than we think. The victim could be that kid’s father.”
Eddie nodded. “Could be. But I doubt it.”
Brent and Tony looked at him.
“Go see the kid,” Eddie responded to their looks. “You’ll see what I mean.”
When Eddie left, Brent and Tony looked at each other with that here goes look on both their handsome faces. And then they walked over to Brent’s office door. But just before Brent turned the knob and opened the door, he stopped in place.
Tony, who stood behind him, could feel his anguish. He squeezed his brother’s big bicep.
Then Brent opened the door.
When he saw the young man sitting on his office sofa, and saw those undeniable Sinatra-green eyes, and that Sinatra raven hair, although his was more curly than wavy, Brent knew. That child either belonged to Tony, or to their father, or to him. Since his name was the name in the child’s pocket, and since he was the one who had a string of relationships with black women around the same time as this kid could have been conceived, Brent could not deny it. That paper didn’t lie. That strong feeling of connection that was suddenly overwhelming him wasn’t lying either. The young boy, with that Sinatra blood coursing through his veins just as surely as it surged through Brent and Tony’s, was his.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Brent and Tony sat in chairs side by side in front of the young man, as the young man was leaned forward, his bony elbow on his thin knee, his chin cupped into his small, brown hand. Tony was trying to engage him. He had asked him in ten different ways what was his name, who were his parents, where did he live, but the young man remained mute. But Tony kept at it, using every skill he could muster as a trained psychologist to relax the kid, and get him talking.
Brent sat there, his legs crossed, his hands in his lap, and he wasn’t talking either. He honestly didn’t think he could. His mind was too busy racing with possibilities. He and Tony both agreed that the kid was probably ten or eleven. And in that two-year window, Brent slept with so many different women of African-American or Hispanic descent that he could hardly remember them all. Some he slept with once, some he slept with twice, and a few, like Olivia, and Shania, and Maria, and Denise, and Candace, and a couple others whose names escaped him now, lasted for more than a few times. But did he have unprotected sex with any of them? He tried not to have unprotected sex with anybody. But he was much younger then, and was developing a serious preference for women of the African persuasion, as Tony would put it. He slipped up lots of times. And one of those slip-ups, with one of those women, led to this little raven-haired beautiful child in front of them.
And the agony Brent was feeling. Not only from not knowing who the mother was, but the fact that he had a child in this world for all these years, and he had no clue. No clue at all! And this was his child. Not just because of his looks, which he knew could lead to false positives. But he could feel a connection to that young man as surely as he could feel his own heartbeat. He wanted to hold him and smell him. He wanted to touch him. But when they first arrived in the office and saw him, Tony held him back.
“Children before adults,” Tony reminded his brother. “He’s been through too much. You want answers, and to get closer to him, and that’s natural. But you can’t. Not yet. Not until he comes back to himself and can accept the harsh reality of his existence right now.”
And Brent deferred to Tony, who did, after all, have a PhD in clinical psychology, although he chose to squander it as some half-ass, gossipy, radio therapist.
But Brent’s deference would only go just so far. Because Tony wasn’t getting anywhere with the young man either. And Brent needed answers. Not just for his sake, but for the child’s sake. He undoubtedly wanted his mother. He undoubtedly needed his mother. Where was his mother? Who was his mother? The only way they could begin to find her, they had to ask.
He hated to do it. The kid had already been to hell and back. But Brent didn’t see where he had any choice. He uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. “Brent,” he said to the child, to see if that would rouse him. “Junior,” he said next. But neither name elicited so much as a blink. So he went down the list.
“Olivia,” he said to the child.
Tony responded more than the child did. He looked at Brent, wondering what in the world did he think he was going to accomplish that way.
But Brent kept trying. He was grasping at straws, but at least he was grasping at something. “Shania?” Nothing from the child.
“Maria?”
Nothing.
“Denise?”
Still nothing.
“Candace?”
Brent thought he saw something respond in the boy, a flicker in his eyes, after he said the name Candace. Brent looked at Tony. Tony nodded. He saw it too. Brent moved further to the edge of his chair. He and the boy were very close. “Is your mother’s name Candace?” he asked him.
But as quickly as the boy had showed some sign, he clammed up again. And although Brent continued to feed out Candace’s name, the boy didn’t take the bait.
“Does he favor her?” Tony asked his brother. “Does he look like this Candace person?”
The sad thing was that Brent had no idea. He barely remembered what any of those women looked like. When it was over with Brent, it was over. “I don’t know,” he said. “God help me, but I don’t have a clue.”
Tony heard the pain in his brother’s voice. And Brent didn’t care anymore. His son was in trouble, and in pain himself, and he couldn’t care anymore. They were getting nowhere with the name game. He had to change the game.
He stood up and went to his son. His son continued to stare at some spot in the floor when Brent reached down and stood him up by the catch of his arms.
“That’s not a good idea,” Tony said as he rose to his feet too. “Brent, we could lose him. That’s not a good idea.”
But Brent wasn’t listening. This was his child. A child who needed him now unlike he probably ever needed him before. Brent lifted his son, and pulled his small, fragile body into his massive arms. And to his shock, and to Tony’s utter surprise, the boy didn’t resist him. He didn’t fight, he didn’t curse, and he didn’t demand to be released. He didn’t succumb to Brent’s show of affection either by showing affection too, but he didn’t resist him.
And then an amazing thing happened that brought tears to Brent’s eyes, and to Tony’s as well. An amazing feat for both strong men in and of itself. But they couldn’t help it. Because it was truly remarkable. Because the child finally gave up that burden of isolation, of fear and confusion that had been weighing him down like a burden his young body could not bear, and laid his head on his Brent’s shoulder. And then he spoke.
“You’re my father,” he said.
Tony looked at Brent in pure shock. Brent, beyond shock, lifted the boy’s head and looked into his eyes. “What did you say?”
“You’re my father,” he said. “You’re Brent.”
Tony was filled with joy and hope.
But Brent was filled with questions. “How did you know that?” he asked the little one. “Who told you I was your father?”
Nothing from the boy.
“Did your mother tell you?” Brent asked.
The boy nodded. Tony held onto Brent’s arm.
“Who is your mother?” Brent asked.
But the boy said nothing.
“Name names,” Tony suggested.
And Brent named the same names again. Olivia. Shania. Maria. Denise. Candace. And, one again, when he mentioned Candace’s name, there was a flicker of recognition from the child. But the flicker quickly went away, and the boy refused to speak.
“What’s your name?” Tony asked him. But the boy laid his head back on Brent’s shoul
der. But it was confirmed as far as they were concerned. Brent was this child’s father and somebody brought him here to prove it. Something went horribly wrong in the transport, but any doubt was now gone.
And for nearly an hour, Tony stood back as Brent held his son as if he was holding a newborn baby for the first time. He held him and rocked him, he squeezed him and asked him questions he would not answer, and he teared up with joy and pain and grave concern. Because this was no easy reunion. The boy was found with a dead body, and a murder weapon in his hand. Which meant the boy’s future could be in jeopardy.
But Brent believed in his soul his son did nothing wrong. He believed it with all he had. No child that looked this innocent, no child of his, could do something that horrific. And if the boy was forced to go there, Brent thought with anguish in his heart, he went there because he had to go there. But Brent couldn’t even began to process that horror. This was life altering enough. He therefore closed his eyes to any background noise, and continued to hold his son. Until his son, now completely protected, went to sleep.
“Why don’t you lay him down?” Tony asked.
But Brent was nodding his head. “Not here,” he said. “I’m getting him out of here.”
Tony was surprised. “Is that proper, Brent? I mean, isn’t he a suspect?”
“No. And he hasn’t been arrested, and he hasn’t been charged with anything. We’re getting out of here.” He began heading for the exit. “You can stay if you want.”
“No thanks,” Tony said with a smile as he grabbed Brent’s hat. “Where to?”
“I’m going to get that DNA swab first,” Brent responded. “Before anybody tries to prevent it. It’s obvious the mother didn’t want me to know, or she would have revealed it by now. And after that? We’re going to see Mom and Dad.”
Tony put Brent’s hat on Brent’s head. Brent looked at his younger brother. “By the way,” he said, “I thought you said holding him was a bad idea, Mister Psychologist.”
“I did say that,” Tony admitted.
Brent continued to stare at him.
“What?” Brent’s stare wouldn’t ease. “Why are you looking at me like that? I am a psychologist! I didn’t say I was a good one, but I am one.”
Brent smiled and shook his head. That Tony.
Tony smiled, too, and opened the door. “Want a lift?”
“In that bat mobile of yours? Not a chance.”
“Not funny,” Tony said, offended by the slight, but he followed Brent.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Breakfast at Charles and Jenay’s was always unpredictable. Most days, Charles didn’t bother to get up early enough and it was just Jenay and little Bonita. Other days, it was all three of them, with three of their grown children, Donald, Ashley, or Bobby stopping by. And they usually only came by to talk shop and stayed for breakfast because it was there. Because all three of them worked for their father now. Donald was still at the Jericho Inn, working directly under Jenay, as the Inn’s General Manager. Bobby was still, on paper, the Property Manager of Charles’ rental properties in Jericho, although his future in that position was gravely in doubt. And Ashley, their African-American adopted daughter, worked directly under Charles as his Office Manager.
She and Donald had just sat down, along with Jenay and Bonita, and was enjoying a full breakfast when Charles finally joined them.
“Kind of early for you, Dad,” Ashley said with a smile.
Charles had on his bathrobe, and looked unshaven and uncombed, as he sat at the head of the table. “I couldn’t resist the smells,” he said.
“Of us, or the food?” Bonita asked.
Charles laughed and pinched her cheek. “You, of course,” he said with nothing but affection in his eyes.
“Where’s Bobby?” Bonita asked. She hadn’t seen her brother in a couple weeks, and it was worrying her.
Charles and Jenay glanced at each other, but Charles grabbed a muffin instead of answering his child’s question. He was still angry with that boy of his and couldn’t discuss him without revealing that anger.
“Has anyone heard from Robert?” Jenay asked Donald and Ashley on behalf of Bonita. Not to mention on her own behalf.
“He came to see me,” Ashley said, and everybody looked at her.
“How is he?” Jenay asked.
Ashley was their most direct and honest child. Like Charles, she didn’t mince words either. “He’s tripping,” she said. “He looked pretty bummed-out to me. I tried to talk about Kaci, since that usually cheers him right up, but he didn’t want to talk about her.”
“Now that’s news,” Donald said. “That airheaded girl is his world.”
“She’s no longer appealing to him,” Charles said. They all looked at him. “It never fails. That desperate, I can’t live without you kind of love Robert was displaying loses its’ appeal really quickly when you pay too high a price to have it. And he’s paid a high price. Losing yourself and your integrity is too much to pay. I told you children years ago to name your price in this world, and never go over it. Robert went over it and then some. There’s a name for a man who goes over that far.”
“Sucker,” Bonita said.
Ashley laughed. “Oh, no you didn’t!” she said.
“Oh yes she did,” Donald said, laughing too. Then he looked at his kid sister. “You hang around Tony too much.”
“I like Tony,” Bonita said. “He spends time with me, which is more than I can say for you and Ash and Bobby. And I never get to see Carly.”
“She lives in California,” Ashley said. “She can’t just drop everything and come over.”
“And you forgot Brent,” Donald said. “Why does Brent always get a pass?”
“Because Brent is on Daddy and Mommy’s level,” Bonita said. “He’s not on your level.”
“Says who?” Donald asked.
“Says my daughter,” Charles responded, because he couldn’t agree with Bonita more.
“Anyway,” Ashley said to Charles, “Bobby did ask about you and Mom. He wanted to know how you guys were doing.”
“We’ll do better when he do right,” Charles said. “He let some fast-ass girl turn him into some weak, punkish---”
“Don’t raise your blood pressure, Charlie,” Jenay said. “It’s not worth it.”
“I know, babe. But every time I think about that boy walking out of that door with a slickster like Porter Keith, I want to---”
“Not in front of the children, you don’t,” Jenay said, motioning toward Bonita.
Charles exhaled, glanced at his young daughter, and gave up the fight. He ate instead.
After several minutes of everybody eating without talking, the front door was unlocked and opened. “Knock-knock,” Tony said, prompting Bonita to yell Tony, and run from the table and into his arms.
“There’s my princess!” Tony lifted her into his arms.
Brent leaned over and kissed her. “Hey, Nita.”
“Hello, sir,” Bonita said to her oldest brother, but her attention was already on the pretty little boy that stood beside him, holding his hand. “Who is that?”
“Who is who?” Jenay asked, and Brent, with Junior beside him and Tony and Bonita bringing up the rear, walked into the dining room.
The room went silent when they looked at the little boy. Everybody immediately saw the connection, except Ashley. “What a cute kid,” she said with a smile. “Who is he?”
Brent pulled the boy in front of him. He leaned against Brent and Brent placed his arms across his chest. Brent knew all eyes were on him, waiting for an explanation, but he only had eyes for his father and stepmother. “We don’t know his name yet,” he said, “but we call him Junior.”
Charles frowned. “What’s going on, son?”
“What do you mean you don’t know his name yet?” Ashley asked.
Jenay could see Brent’s distress, which was highly unusual for a poker face like Brent. “Why don’t you sit down?” she suggested.
; Brent took her up on the suggestion. He sat in the seat Bonita had vacated. He sat directly to his father’s left. Junior stood beside him, very close, and stared at the strangers at the table. And Brent didn’t hesitate. “There’s been no DNA confirmation,” he said, “but I believe this young man is my son.”
An audible gasp filled the room. Ashley covered her mouth, Donald dropped his head in shock, Jenay looked at Charles, and Charles pushed his chair back from the table. If they were shocked, Charles was far beyond any shock they felt. “Your son?” he asked.
“Since when?” Ashley asked.
“I just found out earlier this morning.”
“Wow,” Donald said. “This is like wow. Brent has a son?”
Bonita looked at Tony, who still held her in his arms. “Brent has a son?” she asked.
Tony smiled. “It would appear,” he said.
“But why wouldn’t you know his name?” Ashley asked. “And how could you be certain he’s yours?”
Donald looked at her. They were best friends, but there was an uncomfortable truth about Ashley. She was beautiful beyond words and sweet as syrup, but brains are us she was not. “Look at that boy,” Donald said to her. “He’s a Sinatra just as surely as I’m a Sinatra. Or Brent. Or Tony. Or Bonita.”
“But that’s my point. Just because he looks like y’all doesn’t mean he’s Brent’s child. He could be your child, or Bobby’s, or Tony’s.”
“There was a note in his pocket at the crime scene,” Tony said. “Brent Sinatra, Jr. was written on that note.”
Jenay frowned. “What crime scene?” she asked.
Tony looked at Brent. Brent looked at his son. “Junior, I want you to go with Uncle Tony and my little sister. I’ll be there to get you in a minute.”
“Come on, June,” Tony said.
“Leave it to you,” Donald said to Tony, “to give a boy whose name you don’t even know yet a nickname of a name that’s probably not even his.” Donald shook his head.
But Ashley frowned. “Say what now?” she asked him.
Brent Sinatra: All of Me Page 13