Gettin’ Merry

by CATHY L. CLAMP; FRANCIS RAY; BEVERLY JENKINS; MONICA JACKSON; GERI GUILLAUME

  “Tea would be great, herb or decaf if you have it.”

  He nodded and went into the kitchen.

  He returned shortly with two steaming mugs and handed one to her. “Herb tea, a cinnamon spice blend.”

  “Good for the season,” she said, and smiled at him.

  Again her smile made his breath catch. It transformed her face from the ordinary to extraordinary. Her beauty wasn’t like a gaudy sunset, spectacular and immediately arresting. It was like a subtle sunrise, pastel-tinted, special, and rarely observed.

  “How have your holidays been so far?” he asked. He wondered why she was traveling on Christmas.

  “Not too good. Remember when you said I should start with asking my family about my father’s people? Well, I did.”

  “And? Did they tell you?”

  “Eventually. My grandparents were upset that I brought the subject up, as expected. But I finally took the initiative and did my research. Much about my father and his family was easy to find. I don’t know why I didn’t do it sooner.”

  “Maybe you didn’t want to rock the boat?”

  Anne nodded. “My grandparents worked hard to make things easy for me all my life. That’s the reason why the others in my family resented me. In return for the care my grandparents lavished on me, the unspoken deal was that I avoid that one taboo subject.”

  “Your race,” Trey said.

  “Exactly. The part of me that is my father and any mention of him. So when I brought up what I’d discovered about my father and my desire to know about my African-American heritage in front of the entire family, the boat not only rocked, it capsized.” She set the mug carefully on the coaster. “It was a pretty bad scene. Basically, I was given an ultimatum—maintain the status quo or get the hell out. I got out.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Thanks. But I guess it was time to go.”

  “It sounds like it.”

  In a comfortable silence, Anne sipped her tea and Trey got up to light the logs in the fireplace. They stared into the crackling flames and Trey wished she’d sat on the couch. He wanted to put his arm around her and snuggle into her warmth while they watched the fire.

  But not only would it be tacky to let this woman into his house and make a move on her; also, he couldn’t understand his attraction to her. She was too different from any woman he’d wanted before.

  “Where do your father’s people live?” he asked, breaking the silence.

  “Not far from here. My grandparents had three children, two girls and my father. I have two aunts, both with children.”

  “What happened between your mother and father?” Trey asked.

  Anne set her cup down on the coffee table and leaned toward him. “My father was a new teacher in a community college, just out of school—he was only twenty-three—when he met my mother. He taught math. She was a nineteen-year-old secretary who worked for the college. They fell in love and she got pregnant.

  “My grandparents furiously opposed a marriage. My mother had me but apparently kept a secret relationship with my father. In the meantime he’d gotten a job here in Atlanta and made a down payment on a house. She’d asked my grandmother to keep me and told her that she was going on a weekend vacation with her girlfriends. She and my father drove to Las Vegas intending to marry. They never made it.”

  Trey absorbed this. “Have you called your father’s family yet?” he asked.

  She looked away, biting her lip. “Not yet,” she said, her voice so soft that he had to strain to hear.

  “It’s just past nine. Your call could be the best Christmas present they receive.”

  “Or it could be nothing more than a nuisance.”

  “What are you afraid of, Anne?”

  She sighed and rubbed her eyes. “What if I’m not like them? What if they can’t accept me?”

  “If so, you’ve lost nothing that you had before. But I doubt that will happen. They are your blood. They are a part of you and your culture as much as anything else.”

  “I barely know anything about being black. No more than the average suburban white woman knows from television and other media. I’ve never been white, but I’ve never been black, either. . . .” Anne’s voice trailed away and she looked dejected.

  The art of being black was only one of the enjoyable lessons that Trey wanted to teach her. “This is a good time for learning about your heritage,” he said.

  “The holidays?” she asked, puzzled.

  “Yes. Tomorrow is the first day of Kwanzaa. I’m one of the organizers of the community festivities. Do you know about Kwanzaa?”

  “Not much. I know it’s some sort of holiday.”

  “The name of the festival is matunda ya Kwanzaa. It means ‘first fruits.’ It was established in the sixties and is held in the tradition of African harvest festivals. The purpose of the festival is to bring together people of the African diaspora in our own celebration of solidarity, community, and family. Seven principles are the basis of Kwanzaa.”

  “Principles?” Anne asked, seeming fascinated.

  “Yes, principles—one for each day of Kwanzaa: unity, self-determination, collective work and responsibility, cooperative economics, purpose, creativity, and faith. The point is to emphasize values. Come over here and look at this.” He stood, took her hand, and led her to the dining room. “These are the symbols of Kwanzaa I’ve set out.”

  Anne circled the small table where he’d set out the kinara, the candlestick holder with its seven candles, three red, three green, and one black candle in the middle, the unity cup, and the basket of fruit on a straw mat.

  “What are these for?” she asked, picking up dried grains of corn he’d scattered on the mat.

  Heat flushed his face. She’d gone to the one symbol that had personal meaning for him. He cleared his throat. “Families usually put out ears of corn, one for each child in the house. I put out the grains because they symbolize the hope of the children I plan to have one day.”

  She carefully replaced the corn on the tabletop and her gaze rose to the flag he’d put on the wall over the Kwanzaa table. “Which country’s flag is that?” she asked.

  “It’s the flag for black people, the African peoples scattered in the diaspora. The red in the flag is for the blood we shed, the green for Africa, the land we came from, and the black for the color of our skin.”

  Trey took a deep breath, surprised at the intensity of his emotions. He wanted to show her all this and more. He wanted to teach her all the positive aspects of her heritage that he would bet she hadn’t learned in the environment in which she’d been raised. But what came out of his mouth next surprised him. “I want you to celebrate Kwanzaa with me.”

  The moment he waited for her reply seemed to stretch out to minutes.

  “I’d love to celebrate Kwanzaa with you,” she answered, a glimpse of that glorious smile hovering.

  He exhaled, relieved. He hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath. His nose was widening for this barely black, dumpy, not-his-type woman, and he didn’t know what to make of it. “Good. One more thing.” He reached over to the end table and picked up the phone. He pressed it into her hand. “Like I said before, what has kept you from the rest of your family all these years was fear. It’s time that you broke the cycle.”

  Anne’s hand tightened on the phone. She stared at it a moment and pushed the numbers that she must have memorized by heart.

  “May I speak to Helen Smith?” Anne asked the man who answered the phone.

  “Who may I tell her is calling?” he asked. He was an older man by the sound of his voice, possibly her grandfather?

  “My name is Anne Donald.” Her sweaty palm tightened on the phone receiver.

  “One moment.”

  “Hello?” a woman’s voice answered.

  “Is this Helen Smith?”

  “Yes. How may I help you?”

  Anne closed her eyes. This was as difficult as she had imagined it would be. “I’m calling a
bout your son, Evan Smith.”

  “Yes.” The woman’s heightened tension was evident in that one syllable.

  “Ummm. Did he tell you about his girlfriend, Lydia Donald?”

  “My son has been gone for many years; please get to the point.” The woman’s tone shifted from buttery cream to vinegary sharpness.

  “Lydia Donald had a daughter by Evan Smith. He’s my father.”

  Silence. Then a moan, more like a whimper.

  “William!” Anne heard the woman call. “William, come here!”

  A moment later the man who had answered the phone demanded, “What’s this all about? You’ve upset my wife so that she can hardly speak. What’s this you’re saying about our son?”

  “I’m his daughter . . . his daughter by Lydia Donald. I grew up in Boston with her parents—”

  “Evan told us about Lydia, but he never told us she was pregnant. Why should we believe what you say is true?”

  “I have evidence,” Anne whispered.

  “Where are you?” the man asked abruptly.

  “What?”

  “Where are you now?”

  “I’m staying with a friend.”

  “Where?”

  Anne gave him Trey’s address.

  “We’ll be there within a half hour.” And the man, her grandfather, hung up the phone.

  Trey opened the door and blinked at the people huddled on the front steps. An older couple was surrounded by a group of younger people who ranged from middle-aged to a baby in arms. “Come in,” Trey said. The older man took his wife’s hand and led her through the door. The others followed like an incoming flood.

  Anne stood behind the sofa, her birth certificate clutched in her hands.

  Trey looked between her and the people who’d streamed through the door. She’d have no need of the proof she held in her hand. Her kinship to those people was etched in her features. She was a young honey-and-vanilla version of the older caramel-colored woman.

  “Merry Christmas,” Anne said.

  Trey saw traces of anxiety in her eyes as she surveyed her family, but she held her chin high and her shoulders resolute. He was proud of her for facing her fear. He knew how much she wanted these people to accept her.

  “I’m Anne Donald,” she said.

  The older woman had put her hand to her mouth, her eyes filling with tears. She embraced Anne in her arms. “My baby’s daughter. My Evan’s child,” she whispered, rocking Anne back and forth.

  Trey watched as Anne was hugged and fussed over by one person after another. She glowed from their acceptance and affection as if she were a star. The room overflowed with warmth and cheer, as satisfying to Trey as his favorite warm eggnog topped with nutmeg and whipped cream.

  He supposed he’d never witnessed a better ending to any Christmas Day.

  Chapter 4

  “Come back home with us,” Anne’s grandmother urged.

  “Anne’s staying with me to celebrate Kwanzaa,” Trey said in a matter-of-fact tone, just as if he were a longtime boyfriend instead of a man she barely knew.

  But it felt right. She crossed the room to Trey’s side, and the warm feeling inside her grew to encompass him. “I promised I’d stay here during Kwanzaa,” she said. “I’m looking forward to the holiday. I’ve never celebrated it before.”

  “We always celebrate Kwanzaa. We’ll be at the community center on the first and last day of the holiday, but we like to kick it off with a family celebration. Why don’t you two join us tomorrow?” her grandfather asked.

  Anne looked at Trey and he reached for her hand. “That sounds great,” he said. “We’ll be there.”

  Anne smiled and nodded, but she couldn’t quite get past the feel of Trey’s fingers entwined with hers. Warm and strong, the feel of them made her breath quicken, a buzz tingle through every part of her body, and her thoughts scatter like seeds in the wind.

  Trey was saying something, but his words didn’t make it through the tumult within her that his touch was causing. “What did you say?” she asked.

  “I said that I’d see you in the morning. I’m beat and I’m going to bed. To her family he said, “I’m looking forward to seeing you again.”

  She watched him walk away.

  “That’s quite a man you’ve got there,” her Aunt Jewel said.

  “Yes, he is quite a man,” Anne said. The hand that had been tangled with his fingers was still warm and tingling.

  “I’ve always admired Trey Fraser,” her grandmother added.

  Anne nodded in agreement, then frowned as she realized that she had no idea where she was going to sleep or the location of anything in this house.

  The next morning, the mixed aromas of brewing coffee, baking bread, and sizzling sausage permeated the air. Anne opened her eyes and immediately felt disoriented.

  Then she remembered and smiled to herself as she threw the covers back. Her newfound family hadn’t left until almost two in the morning. She’d found a room that was obviously a guest bedroom with an adjoining bath, brushed her teeth, and crawled under the covers and must have been asleep before her head settled all the way down on the pillow.

  For the first time in a very long time she was eager to get up and face the day. Standing in the shower as the water sluiced over her body, she marveled over how her life had changed in a single day.

  Her family seemed to want to hear all twenty-two years of her history in one night. Her grandmother sat beside her and would occasionally reach over and touch her hand, as if making sure she was real. The faint echoes of herself within the features of the people gathered around her had seemed surreal. They were all she had hoped for—loving and steeped with intelligence, tradition, and strength. It was as if an angel were looking over her. A Kwanzaa angel, guiding her to her roots, bringing her back home.

  Anne quickly pulled on a pair of jeans, one of her favorite pairs, overwashed and frayed to the perfect degree of softness. Anticipation fluttered through her as she ventured toward the kitchen looking for Trey.

  His back was to her as he pulled a pan of golden biscuits from the oven. She eyed his wide, strong shoulders. The muscles of his back were visible through a tight T-shirt. His lean waist tapered down to a rounded and tight rear and eased on down to long, lean legs, slightly bowed. Heavens, the man looked good.

  She cleared her throat. He turned, his gaze assessing. Then he smiled lazily, and excitement and embarrassment raced through her body.

  “Habari gani?” he said.

  “What does that mean?” she asked, walking toward the coffeepot to hide her confusion.

  “It means ‘what’s the word?’ in Swahili. It’s a customary greeting during Kwanzaa. The answer is the principle of the day. Today is the first day of Kwanzaa and the principle is Umoja, which means unity of our families and community. It seems especially fitting since the celebration tonight will mark a reunion with your father’s family.”

  Anne sipped her coffee. “I can hardly believe my luck.”

  “Did you have any doubt that you had good genes?” he said, grinning at her, looking so handsome that her heart skipped a beat.

  “Sometimes I’ve wondered.”

  “It’s great that your family is in touch with cultural traditions. I think family celebrations are the heart of Kwanzaa.”

  The warm glow filled her again, at the memory of her father’s family, her family. “They were so happy about my father having a child. Helen, my grandmother, said it was as if a little of my dad lived on.”

  “Your anxieties seem to be allayed.”

  “Mostly. After you went to bed, I told them a little about what happened between my mother and her family. They were very understanding. They’d known about my mother and apparently my father had mentioned he had a big surprise for them when he came back home. They never dreamed that it would be a child.”

  He set a full plate in front of her—scrambled eggs rich with melted cheese, link sausages, biscuits, and some white substance with melted butt
er.

  “What’s this?” she asked, pointing.

  He looked at her in disbelief. “Grits. Don’t tell me that you’ve never had grits.”

  “I grew up in Boston with white folks, remember? My favorite is hash-browned potatoes.”

  “That’s because you haven’t had grits yet,” Trey said. He sat across from her with his own plate. “This evening the Kwanzaa community program will start. We gather at the community center on the first and last days of Kwanzaa. There are smaller functions and the family celebrations the other days.”

  “So what happens?” Anne asked, mumbling around a mouthful of grits and eggs.

  “Every community and family shape Kwanzaa to best suit them. What’s important is that we highlight the principles of community and family unity and the spirit of Kwanzaa. At the community center, we decided to have a program with speakers, performers, and singers on the first evening of Kwanzaa and a big party, the karamu, on the seventh and last day. Most families also celebrate individually and exchange gifts.”

  “I can’t wait to see how my family celebrates Kwanzaa.”

  “Me, too,” Trey said softly, looking into her eyes.

  Something passed between them and Anne felt flooded with a feeling of belonging that she’d never experienced before. It was as if she belonged in this man’s home, in his life. So instant and complete, it seemed as if they were a couple—two parts of a whole.

  A rush of heat covered her face and she turned her attention to her food.

  “How are the grits?” Trey asked.

  Anne scooped up the last forkful of the delicious white stuff. “You’re right. I love them,” she said. It was mere wishful thinking, a figment of her fevered imagination, to believe that a man like Trey Fraser could actually want a woman like her, much less that they were a couple.

  Maybe he believed she’d only come down to Atlanta because of his suggestion. She wondered if his insistence that she stay with him was laced with obligation. This was so good that it had to be a dream she’d wake from in one fashion or another.

  The ring of the doorbell shattered Anne’s reverie. A tiny frown appeared on Trey’s brow as he left the room to answer the door.