Portrait of a Girl Running

by J. B. Chicoine

  All but Kyle—who sat off to the side, face drawn—played for about ten minutes. Myles caught Leila’s eye and flashed a look toward the door. As he opened it, she rose and stepped outside with him.

  “Thanks for sticking around for a few minutes.” She squeezed his hand.

  “I wouldn’t have missed it.”

  “Yes you would have. But you did it for me, and I appreciate it.” She smiled impishly. “At least the entire evening wasn’t a complete bore for you.”

  “And what do you mean by that?”

  “You seemed to enjoy Miss Angela Phillips.”

  “She was captivating.”

  “But I thought you liked Valerie Jennings.”

  “Oh, Leila,” he patted her shoulder, “you have so much to learn about men.”

  “What—that all men are pigs?”

  “That is a very derogatory way to put it—but yes.”

  “It’s not really true though, is it?”

  “That, my little Leila, is a discussion for another time.”

  Chapter 30

  All week, Joe had been putting off the unpleasant task of sorting through Artie’s personal effects. Finally, last night, he had begun going through his father’s bedroom drawers and clothes. The scent of the man who raised Joe since he was ten—and Joe applied the term ‘raised’ as loosely as Artie’s fathering skills—had stirred a sickening ache. Joe waded through the superficial layer of worn out clothing, leftovers—second hand like the love he’d grown accustomed to. By two am, he was deep into years of accumulated grime matching his darkening emotion. He called it quits for the night, collapsing onto the sofa.

  This morning, he had roused to Leila’s kiss on the cheek before she left for school. He dozed back off to the sound of the door creaking quietly shut and rain pelting the windows. By noon, he woke. Humming a mournful blues tune, he continued processing his father’s clutter along with his own grief.

  Starting with the old dresser in the living room, Joe pulled the uppermost drawer. A shoebox lay atop a disorganized heap of papers. He lifted the lid, revealing old photos. Many of the pictures he had seen, including several of himself when he was a boy. He wondered at the angry eyes. Setting it aside, he lifted one of his mother as a young woman. He studied it carefully. He set it on top of the dresser as thunder rumbled.

  Too tired to stand, he pulled the entire top drawer, carried it with contents to the sofa, and set it on the floor beside his feet. With a sigh, he detoured to the kitchen for a beer. He wanted something stronger—a snort—but hoped the beer would suffice. Lightning flashed as he returned, cracking open the can, almost simultaneously with a crack of thunder. Taking several long and greedy gulps, he sat at the sofa for a few minutes before beginning.

  There was so much more that he wished he could accomplish while in the States, but the timing was, as always, not right. He thought about Leila, then her mother, Marilyn, and then his own mother, and how strange it was to see her after all these years. He could more easily understand Angela Phillips as a woman, but as his mother, she was a complete mystery to him.

  Back in those days, who knew what was the right thing to do with a mixed-race child? Perhaps she should have just given him up for adoption. He remembered only snapshots of his early childhood and the decent black family he lived with, seeing some fine white woman sporadically, never grasping she was his mother. He supposed Angela tried to do right by him, but Joe had paid the price for his mother’s willfulness and independence.

  Even now, he had a hard time forgiving all the hatred and racial prejudice he had contended with, never fitting with the blacks or whites. He seemed forever trying to find his place, and music was the only thing that ever came close to validating him. Consequently, he immersed himself in his music. An overseas audience, too remote from his past to encroach on him, provided the success he hoped would eventually bring validation—from a source he could not define—in a way that would at last allow him to let go of his resentment.

  Joe did not delude himself, imagining that now with Artie gone he would miraculously come to terms with his own past. He had a bigger, looming issue that begged resolution.

  Emptying the beer can, the ugliness of it all encroached. He needed to tweak his mood. From his guitar on the sofa beside him, he reached into his guitar’s sound hole and peeled a small cellophane packet. Through the strings, he stared at a photograph taped to the guitar’s insides. In haste, he rose and headed for the bathroom. With the door closed behind him, he unwrapped the cellophane. A small scoop of white—two deep snorts—and he was ready to dive into the mass of papers.

  Back on the sofa, he leaned forward, peering at the drawer’s contents, sniffing loudly. Artie’s tattered old birth certificate, bank statements, and Social Security paperwork had already been removed, leaving a scattering of papers in the drawer. Quickly assessing deposit slips and receipts as refuse, he impatiently emptied the drawer of all but a single large unopened envelope, addressed, not to Artie, but to Joe. He did not recognize the return addressee. At seeing the October 1976 postmark, he rolled his eyes. How could Artie have misplaced this for a year and a half? But then, that was not so difficult to imagine.

  Another bolt of lightning flashed. He counted off five seconds before thunder crashed as he picked up the 9 x 12 envelope. Using his pocketknife, he slit open the packet and shook the contents onto the coffee table. A color photograph wafted to the floor.

  Retrieving it, he at once recognized one of the two women. Marilyn Sanders, Leila’s mother. He rubbed his eyes and nose, blinking in disbelief. His initial high plummeted as he glanced at the remaining contents. Several drawings lay on the table—he assumed Marilyn’s—and peeking out beneath them, a discolored old photograph of her and newborn Leila. His heart pounded as tears came up. Marilyn had been so beautiful then. And so confused. He pushed aside the drawings and exposed a small lavender-colored, sealed envelope with his name printed on the front.

  For a moment, Joe’s heart stopped. His breath evaporated. He swallowed hard as he tore it open, pulling the enclosed letter. He read, My Dearest Joe, It has been such a terrible struggle for me … the words blurred as he read, making little sense of it. He rubbed his eyes and continued, his chest constricting with the weight of each word. He gasped for breath halfway through, reread a line and, shutting his eyes tight, released a stream of tears. By the time he came to the end, reading, I am so sorry for all the pain I have caused—please forgive me. Love forever, Marilyn, his tears stained the letter.

  Lightning flashed again as he covered his face, only vaguely aware of crashing thunder. He saw Marilyn’s sweet face, felt her touch.

  When he regained some composure, he searched the envelope contents for something more, some other context for what he’d just read. Inside, he found a handwritten letter on another sheet of paper. He wiped his eyes until they cleared enough to read. The letter started out, Dear Joe and Marcus, My name is BJ Kerns. I was a good friend of Marilyn for a few years. I met her in rehab in Oregon … but again, within another few words, he could barely make out the print. When he finished, he reread both letters and his heart ripped apart. He headed to the kitchen downed two beers in quick succession and returned to the sofa with a third.

  He picked up one of the photos—infant Leila in her mother’s arms, as another clap of thunder made him jump. He jumped again when the front door slammed.

  Leila peeled off her soaking wet rain poncho and tossed it aside eager to spend more time with Joe. As she rushed up behind him on the sofa, she threw her arms around his neck.

  “Sorry.” She tucked her chin in the crook of his neck. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

  He held a lavender-colored paper in his hand and a picture in his other. She squinted—the photo seemed vaguely familiar.

  “What are those, Joe?” Excited, she flew around the sofa to his side. Now she recognized her own face as a baby—and the woman holding her. “Is that me? Is that my mother? Where did you get that?”
>
  He pushed her away and groaned, trying to tuck the folded notepaper under his thigh.

  “What was that?” She reached to grab it as he tightened his grip. “What is it? Let me see.”

  “No, Leila … Baby.”

  Papers on the table distracted her and she relented, snatching a photograph from atop them. Two women. Her heart pounded. “Is this my mother? Where did you get this?”

  Joe said nothing.

  She refocused on the lavender paper in his hand. “Give me that,” she demanded, pulling it free from his tight grip.

  “No,… Baby. Let me explain first.”

  “No.” She yanked herself from his grasp and came to her feet, glaring at him. Unfolding the paper, she looked again at the photograph and then began reading,

  My Dearest Joe,

  It has been such a terrible struggle for me, and I’m sure for you too, but I can’t seem to escape what I’m about to do. Perhaps you’ve suspected it all along, but I feel I need to tell you myself, now before I go, that Leila Mae is your little girl …

  Leila’s heart stopped. Her breath evaporated and her mouth dried. Joe reached for her and the note. “Baby, wait!”

  She shoved him away and continued reading in an undertone.

  … I know you remember when it happened. I was never with Marc that night, and I know that I have thought about it every day since then. I tried to pull myself together—you don’t know how hard I’ve tried. And not just once—over and over again. And now I’m just so tired, and I can’t stand the pain anymore.

  Joe touched her shoulder. She flinched with fury, her whole body aflame. “Don’t!” Through blurring vision, she continued reading …

  I have always loved you as much as Marc, I think sometimes more. I am so sorry for all the pain I have caused—please forgive me and kiss our baby for me.”

  I will love you both, always.

  Marilyn

  Dizzy and reaching for the sofa, Leila caught enough breath to say, “This isn’t from my mother. Who wrote this?”

  “Leila ….”

  “Who wrote it? Did you?”

  “Leila, no—you know I’d never do that.” His eyes welled. “Your mother did write it … I’m so sorry.”

  Her disbelief flashed to anger. “Where did this come from?”

  “A friend of your mother’s—I only found it and these other papers just now, unopened—Artie must have misplaced the envelope.”

  “What does this letter mean?” her words were quiet, but in her head it sounded like a shout. “Why did she write it?”

  “She was messed up.”

  Tears streamed down her overheated face. “She killed herself? This is a suicide note?”

  “Baby ….”

  “It’s not true—she never slept with you ….” Her voice squeaked. “You’re not my father!”

  He hung his head and looked away, saying nothing.

  She yanked him to face her. “Is it true, Joe?”

  He stood motionless, anguish distorting his face.

  “You both lied to me!” She shook the letter at him. “You did this to her! You turned my mother into a whore!”

  She flung around, grabbed her poncho. The door slammed behind her.

  ~

  Ian’s anxiety increased along with the driving rain. His wipers beat frantically. Bolts of lightning out over the Atlantic increased in frequency, turning his concern for Leila’s state of mind into worry for her safety. Nearly forty-five minutes had passed since he left his house after a call from Myles who had just received a call from Joe Phillips. As Ian advanced toward the second causeway bridge, he hoped for Leila’s predictability.

  He approached the parking lot where her solitary Bug parked in her usual spot. He pulled in on her driver’s side. She was nowhere in sight. Zipping his hooded rain slicker, he headed against the wind, toward the oceanside path. Rain pelted his face, more raw than cold. From the top of the dune, Ian scanned from east to west. With visibility less than three-quarters of a mile, he headed east where he had once found her.

  The surf was high. Rain poured in sheets over the dark churning sea that merged with the sky, splitting as lightening streaked across it. Rumbling thunder followed. His breath mingled with precipitation as he ran nearly half the length of the beach. The rain had let up just enough to discern her sitting figure in drab green amidst the grassy dunes. Leila’s body moved in a heaving rhythm as she sobbed. He approached and called her name. She did not respond.

  “Leila,” he repeated as he crouched beside her, his hand on her shoulder. She startled violently.

  Her red face and eyes contorted. She shrugged him off.

  “Leila.” He replaced his hand. “Let’s get out of here before the storm rolls around again.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” she cried, burying her face.

  He sat close beside her. She recoiled.

  “Leila, it’s not safe to be out here. Let’s go back and sit in the car.”

  “You go sit in the car if you want,” she shot back through tears. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “And I’m not going anywhere without you.” Lightning flashed with instantaneous thunder. “Let’s just go to the car and talk.”

  “Talk?—Talking isn’t going to change anything—it won’t bring my father back. It won’t change the fact that my mother was a junkie whore—and it won’t bring her back either.” Her breathing deepened and quickened.

  He moved to put his arm around her. She shoved him away.

  “Don’t touch me—” She wept into her hands.

  He attempted to stroke her back.

  “Get away from me!” she gasped.

  “Just calm down, stop breathing so fast. Slow down.”

  She sobbed, “I think I’m losing my mind—” and panted, “—I feel so—so—I’m losing my mind—”

  “You’re not losing your mind. You’re hyperventilating. Slow down.”

  “I can’t!”

  Rain returned in a torrent.

  “Put your head between your knees.”

  She parted her legs and plunged her head into her lap, then threw herself back. “—I can’t breathe.”

  He massaged her neck. In a second, she flung her head back. He stood. “You need to get moving to use up your oxygen—come on. It’s time to run.” Grabbing her hand before she had a chance to resist, he pulled her lethargic body up. Once standing, her defiance returned. He gripped her tighter, moving her forward.

  “Come on—” he said, leading her toward the firm sand nearer the shore.

  They ran together, nearing the path back to the parking lot when an earsplitting peal of thunder and simultaneous bolt of lightning touched down on the beach ahead of them. Like a slap in the face, it jarred them, leaving his ears ringing. They stopped in their tracks.

  “No more running, Leila.”

  He prodded her up the dune and down the other side.

  As they neared her Bug, he spotted the keys in the ignition; he flung the door open and snatched them.

  As he straightened, she grabbed at him. “Give me my keys!”

  “I’m not letting you drive, Leila. We’ll come back for your car tomorrow.” He reached to open his Saab’s passenger door. “I’m taking you home.”

  “I am not going back there. Now give me my keys!” She tried to pry them from his grip.

  “Fine,” he said. “We don’t need to go back to your place, we can just spend the entire night right here.”

  “I’ve got a better idea. Why don’t we just go back to your place! Isn’t that all you really want anyway? Isn’t that why you’re really here? Hoping that I’m just like my mother, all screwed up and willing to do it with anyone?” Her nostrils flared. “Why don’t we just climb in the back seat and do it right here?”

  He recoiled. She covered her face and whirled around, then rushed toward her car. Ian grabbed her arm. She yanked herself free.

  “Leila, don’t be difficult—just get in and let’s
go.” He gripped both her shoulders from behind, maneuvering her toward the car as Leila drove her elbow, full force into his ribs. He gasped, releasing her. Bent over, he exhaled, “Jeez, Leila.”

  She whirled toward him, again burying her face in her hands.

  Wincing, he pulled her into an embrace. She sobbed and, without a fight, dropped into the seat. He pressed the lock button, shut her door, and then locked up the Volkswagen. Wringing water from his hair to the pavement and shaking sand from his feet and legs, he slipped into his seat and shut his door. She wilted as he sighed. His ribcage and diaphragm ached. He tried to take her hand, but she withdrew, slumping into the door.

  As they crossed the bridge, rain streamed down his windshield. Ian’s head pounded along with the wipers.

  “I’ll take you to Myles’ house. I’m sure you can spend the night there.”

  ~

  “Spare me the lies, Phillips.” Myles spoke into his phone. “What did her mother confess? That you’re Leila’s father?” It was not an imaginative deduction. The similarity between Angela Phillips and Leila sparked the possibility that there might have been added reasons why Angela had shown up and seemed especially preoccupied with Leila.

  “Yes,” Joe finally admitted. “I always suspected, but the letter confirmed it.”

  “Well, that’s helpful information. I’ll let you know if I hear anything.”

  George the cat wound herself around Myles’ legs until he lifted her to his shoulder.

  “Yes, I know,” he said as headlights rounded the corner and pulled into his driveway. He breathed relief as Ian opened the passenger door and Leila climbed out. “Looks like we have company.”

  He set her down. As the front door opened, the cat scampered to her hiding place.

  Stepping in, Leila would barely meet Myles’ eyes. His attention turned to sopping and vanquished Ian.