by Africa Fine
He answered on the first ring, as if he was expecting my call.
“I’m sorry to bother you again. But I have so many questions. I was hoping we could meet again, that you could tell me more about my aunt. About Lily.”
I hoped that by mentioning Lily it would somehow get him to admit he knew something about her. I still believed he had lied about not recognizing the name.
He sighed. There was the sound of rustling, maybe a newspaper or the pages of a book.
“I’ve already told you too much. Why don’t you just ask Gillian?”
I paused. “Well, I can’t ask her. I mean, I can, but I’m not sure she can answer.”
I tried to be vague, but he was too alert.
“I understand if Gill won’t answer. But she can’t? What do you mean?”
“She’s sick. Alzheimer’s.”
He caught his breath. A long time passed before he spoke again. I wished I had told him before. I wished we could meet instead of being on the telephone.
“I’m sorry for that. No matter what Gillian thought about me, no matter what happened, I always loved her.” His voice was sad, resigned. I imagined that my aunt wasn’t the first person he had known with this terrible disease.
“So you see why I want to come see you again? I need to find out more, about my parents, about Lily.”
“Look, I understand why you want to know. But did you ever stop to think that there were reasons Gill never told you all this? Good reasons?”
“Now you sound like my aunt.”
He laughed. “Is that so bad? Gillian Jones was a hard woman in a lot of ways. But she was a smart woman. Smarter than me, smarter than anyone I ever knew.”
I was frustrated, sensing that he wasn’t going to tell me more.
“So you won’t help me?”
Another pause. “Let me tell you about my family. I was an orphan for a long time, and I don’t remember much about my family except this. I think I was just three or four years old when my grandmother told me the story of the night my mother was born. It was like a bedtime story to her. She talked about herself, my mother, and my grandfather like they were characters in a play instead of my family.”
Jeremiah told his story in a mechanical voice, as if he had never told it before and it felt unnatural on his lips.
“My grandfather’s name was Carl,” he began. “He was one of those hard men who believed that beating a woman was a necessary element of a marriage. Women needed to be kept in line so they would stay at home and do their jobs. I always asked my granny why she was missing two teeth on the side, and when she finally told me, I was sorry I asked.
“She was pregnant the last time Carl beat her. She had this long dark-red hair, and she remembered that when her head hit the wall, she couldn’t tell where the blood was coming from unless she touched the wound.
“Carl kicked her in the stomach, over and over. Granny curled into a ball and stared at her hands. She always remembered how white her knuckles got as she clutched her knees, waiting for the next blow, and then the next one.
“Carl’s beatings were more vicious because Granny was what they called a half-breed. Actually, she was probably more white than black, but she didn’t try to pass, and somehow this made Carl angrier than he would have been with a brown-skinned woman.
“When the blood started gushing down her thighs, she whimpered for Carl to help her, telling him the baby was coming. He spat in her face and left. She never saw him again, and that night my mother was born.
“Delilah Jones was a ten-pound baby with a head full of curly, reddish-brown hair. She looked just like Carl. Granny was never able to have any more children and she hated Delilah for reminding her of my grandfather.
“When the nurses asked her why she named the baby Delilah, she told them it was from the Bible. It meant that her daughter would always look out for herself first and never let a man control her.”
Jeremiah paused. I could hear the heavy sound of his breathing. He sniffed once, and I wondered if he was crying.
“That’s all I remember about my family. Some nasty little story about an abusive grandfather, Granny, and a mother who left me in foster care for good.”
The sadness settled around my shoulders like a cloak. “Why are you telling me this?”
His voice was impatient. “So you can understand that sometimes, not knowing is a gift.”
I started to reply, but he stopped me.
“Good-bye, Tina. Good luck.”
The line went dead.
* * *
I didn’t want it to end there. I wanted to tell him I was sorry for all he had endured, sorry that his family abandoned him. I wanted to make him understand that I couldn’t live with not knowing.
But he was an old man, and he had given me a lot already. I didn’t have the heart to bother him anymore. I stayed in the hotel room, watching television with the sound turned down too far to hear until I drifted off to sleep.
* * *
The next day, I made a stop at city hall, where I applied for a copy of my own birth certificate. I must have had one at some point when I was younger, in order to get a driver’s license and a passport, but I hadn’t needed it in years and I couldn’t find it in my files. It was just a piece of paper, but it was a link to my parents. At this point, any connection to them was better than nothing.
On the way to the airport, I drove back to Aunt Gillian’s house, surprising myself with a sudden burst of sentimentality. I had spent my childhood here, much of it lonely, most of it unhappy. But it would always be home, and I expected never to see it again. I strolled through each room, lingering in my old room, touching the places on the walls where my posters of Michael Jackson and Prince had been. I remembered Aunt Gillian’s horror at Prince’s overt sexuality, and how I’d snuck off to see Purple Rain behind her back. I remembered the pleasure I took in listening to music in my headphones night after night, escaping into the sounds of that strange mixture of pop, soul, and rock that was eighties music. I remembered Will, and I remembered secret snacks shoveled into my mouth before my aunt could catch me. I remembered the girl I was, and I let myself feel proud of the woman I had become.
I couldn’t say I would miss the old house, and I didn’t miss the girl who’d lived there. But even the bad memories had a certain sweetness to them. They were mine.
Chapter 22
“Tell me about Lily”
The Monday before Thanksgiving, Marvin, the plastic surgeon from the hospital, called. I was off for the week and Elaine had taken Aunt Gillian out to a movie. My aunt had never shown any interest in movies when she was younger. When I was a teenager, she had refused to let me see The Breakfast Club and most of the other films that defined my adolescence. She claimed that watching people pretend on screen was a waste of time, that if I wanted to get into medical school, I needed to study. I was already an A student, and I already knew I didn’t want to go to medical school, so I sneaked out to see matinees on afternoons when I was supposed to be studying. There was a lot about school that I didn’t tell Aunt Gillian, including the fact that the homework was so easy for me that I finished it before the end of seventh-period study hall.
Now she loved going to the movies. Maybe it was the first time in her life that she needed to escape from reality. Or maybe she just liked the taste of the oily popcorn Elaine bought her. Either way, going to the movies had become a weekly treat for my aunt. She often could not recall the movie she had seen, or she recounted the plots of popular 1950s-era movies that were not playing at the Muvico 25. It fascinated me that a woman who, at some point in her life, had loved movies enough to remember every detail of Imitation of Life, had spent much of my childhood advising me not to go to the movies.
So I was alone in the house that Monday afternoon when my cell phone rang.
“Tina? This is Marvin.”
It took me a few moments to remember who he was. I hadn’t thought much about him since the day we met. I assumed he would
n’t bother to call me, and I didn’t really care. I had been too busy with school and Aunt Gillian to entertain much else.
“How are you?”
There was an awkward pause. He filled it by asking about Aunt Gillian’s care. I told him it was nice of him to be concerned and waited for him to reveal the real reason for his call.
“Tina, I know this is out of the blue, but I felt like we had a connection when we met. I wondered if you’d consider going to dinner with me.”
I wasn’t sure I’d call what we experienced a connection, although he was one of the most handsome men I’d ever seen.
“Dinner?”
“Just dinner.”
I went over the pros and cons. Cons: seems like a superficial jerk. Pros: handsome, doctor, wants to take me out; I’m bored and I need to get out of the house. Before I could talk myself out of it, I decided that Marvin could be just what I needed to take my mind off everything at home.
“Dinner sounds great. Saturday night?”
“Perfect.”
* * *
Later that day, Jack came over to say good-bye. He was leaving the next day to spend Thanksgiving with his father and stepmother in Phoenix, a trip that he had been dreading for months. Jack’s relationship with his father was just as conflicted, in different ways, as mine with Aunt Gillian. He respected his father for raising him alone after leaving Jack’s alcoholic mother. But his father had been generous with his financial support and distant with his emotions. When Jack turned sixteen, his father told him he was a man now, remarried and moved to Arizona. He left Jack to live with friends, sent him a monthly stipend and set up a college fund. He told him to fend for himself in all other matters. Jack raised himself through his adolescence and now visited his father only under duress. This time, duress came in the form of a rare plea from the woman who had been his stepmother for twenty-six years but who still was a stranger.
“Your father and I are getting older,” she had told him.
“Is Pop okay?”
“He’s seventy-five years old. For an old man, he’s okay.”
Jack wanted to tell her to call him back when his father was not okay, but he was too good a man for that. So he was flying to Phoenix Sky Harbor International Airport the next day.
“I don’t even like turkey,” he complained, plopping down on the sofa next to me.
What I said next was a mistake, although I didn’t know it until after I said it.
“This guy I met at the hospital just asked me out. Marvin.” I was still so wound up after talking to Marvin that Jack’s anger didn’t register for a moment.
“You met a guy at the hospital?” He glared at me.
“What? You always say I should get out more.” I was startled by the force of his disapproval. I remembered the argument we had had in my office about Dr. Ortiz.
“At least he’s not Aunt Gillian’s doctor,” I teased.
“That’s not funny.” He looked away. There was that attitude again, the one that seemed a lot like jealousy. I was pretty sure he dated. Why shouldn’t I? Instead of saying that, I told him about Marvin, thinking the story would make him laugh.
“Then he as much as said I needed Botox,” I said, trying to laugh and make it all seem lighthearted.
“He sounds like a creep.”
“He is kind of a creep. But I just need to get out, do something different. I can’t sit here every night. You said I needed to get a life, remember? I deserve to have a life? Well, I’m doing it.”
Jack stood up and walked to the door. “I can’t believe you.” The door slammed behind him. I sat still on the sofa for a while, trying to understand what just happened. Then I called Monica, who was driving down the next day to spend Thanksgiving with me. I told her that Jack was leaving, Elaine was spending Thanksgiving Day with her cousins, and I needed someone to help me with Aunt Gillian. It was true; I did need help in a practical sense, but what I needed even more was her company.
I told Monica about Marvin, the date, and Jack.
She sighed. “Why are you always the last to realize things?”
“Realize what?”
“Jack is in love with you. Tina, tell me this isn’t news to you.”
But it was. We’d had that disastrous first date years ago, the second date that wasn’t really a date, and since then there had been no romantic interest on his part. I was too impulsive, too bookish, too me for Jack. Inside, I was still the fat girl, and I couldn’t believe that Jack wanted me.
“Jack doesn’t love me.” I waited for Monica to convince me otherwise. I wanted him to love me so much I couldn’t bear any false hope.
“Right. So I guess his hanging around your mean old aunt, going all the way to Cleveland to help you pack her stuff, being there for you whether you were fat or skinny—all that he’s just doing for his health. When was the last time he dated anyone?”
I thought about it. “He dates.”
“Who?”
A few years ago, I was at Jack’s house and noticed an invitation to an engagement party lying on his coffee table. The envelope was made of expensive card stock: sophisticated, elegant, perfect. Tate Newcomb’s parents had requested Jack’s presence at their perfect party thrown at a perfect hotel in Palm Beach. The heavy cream paper, the embossed lettering, the smooth script—it all rose up from the table, mocking me. You are not good enough, it said. You will never be good enough.
This Tate was getting married to Matthew Miles. I recognized the name. He was a state senator from our district. The newspaper columnists loved him. He was on track toward Congress, the governorship of Florida, maybe even the White House, some people said.
A knot formed in my stomach. The Newcombs must be a prominent family. Was this the type of woman Jack wanted? How could I compete with that? Then I reminded myself that I wasn’t competing with anyone—Jack and I were friends, and that was it.
I put the invitation back in the envelope and walked to the bookshelf where Jack kept his photo albums. I picked one out and flipped through the photos. There was one of a woman, a professional shot of her shaking hands with another woman at an event. She wore a sleek auburn bob, which looked like it was created every morning via an hour of careful blow-drying. Her makeup was subtle and she wore a tailored black suit that must have cost a fortune. It fit precisely on her trim, exercised figure. Tall black heels completed the outfit. Her porcelain skin shone with good health and wealth. I pulled the photo out of its sleeve just to make sure. Tate Newcomb 1999 was written on the back in Jack’s handwriting.
I heard Jack walking back into the living room. I put the photo away and turned to look at him.
“Who’s Tate Newcomb?”
“A woman I dated. She’s getting married.”
His voice was casual, as if Tate Newcomb didn’t matter. But something in his tone made me suspect he was lying.
“So you’re still friends with Tate?”
He shrugged. He was holding a tray of iced tea and cookies. He set the tray down and picked up the invitation. A small smile played on his lips.
“Tate doesn’t really have friends. Not in the way you mean.”
This was cryptic. “So why would she invite you to her engagement party?”
He laughed. I detected a note of bitterness there. “Probably to show me what I’m missing out on.”
“What does that mean?”
He sat down, television remote in hand. “Tate and I used to be engaged.”
My jaw dropped open.
“I never knew you were engaged.”
He turned on the television, his eyes focused on the screen.
“It was a long time ago. Before I knew you.”
He looked at me briefly. “Why are you so interested in ancient history?”
I tried to look as if I didn’t care.
“I don’t know. It just seems weird that you never mentioned it before.”
He changed channels, found the Food Network.
“Yeah, well, it
didn’t exactly end well. I wasn’t good enough for Tate and her parents. Not a senator.”
So Tate had broken up with him. Did he still have feelings for her? Creeping jealousy left chill bumps on my arms.
“So are you going?” I could see he didn’t want to talk about it anymore, but I couldn’t stop myself.
He shook his head. “I already know what I’m missing.” His face brightened. “Look, Bobby Flay is on.”
I tried to forget about Tate. “Jack, Bobby Flay is always on.”
He smiled at me. “And that is what’s great about the Food Network.”
* * *
If Jack dated other women in the time we had known each other, he never told me about it, which was how I wanted to keep it. Don’t ask, don’t tell. Ignorance is bliss. Whatever. I preferred to think Jack wasn’t with other women. I could say with certainty that neither of us had been in a serious relationship since we had known each other. I didn’t feel like telling Monica about Tate. I redirected the conversation.
“Jack and I had that date, remember? No sparks.”
Monica laughed. “Who said there were no sparks? You made that up to justify the fact that the date was a disaster. And didn’t he meet you when you were hauling your fat ass around the YMCA?”
I felt as if I were on trial. I wished I hadn’t called Monica.
“If he loves me, why hasn’t he said something?”
“He just did—when he practically begged you not to go out with this Marvin guy. Who, by the way, does sound like a huge creep. What kind of guy picks up women in the medical center cafeteria?”
“He didn’t pick me up. Whatever.” I feigned a casual tone, as if none of this was important. Then I changed the subject.
“So when does your flight get in? I’m making a turkey. We’ll eat ourselves silly and pass out afterwards.”