What Simon Didn’t Say

by Joy Copeland

  “I’m hungry, especially since you’re doing the cooking,” Zoie answered, taking one of the bags from him and wondering whether her eyes were still red from her tears.

  “Hi, boy,” Dylan said, bending down to give Biscuit a hello pat. “If you don’t mind, I’ve brought clothes to change into after our run. They’re still in the car,” he said, referring to his BMW parked out front. “We’re going to run, right?”

  “For sure. After you cook, we clean up, and we give our food time to settle.”

  He wrapped his now free arm around Zoie’s shoulder and yelled out, “Hello, Mrs. Woods,” before Zoie ushered him to the kitchen. “So what’ve you been up to?” Dylan asked as he put his bag on the counter.

  A lot is what she wanted to say. The revelation that her grandfather wasn’t really her grandfather. The mystery of the fortune-cookie prophecies from a homeless man, who she had come to find out looked like her real grandfather. The news of her discovery of her new lineage would have been enough to talk about had it not been for the color issue. In a quick assessment, she determined she wouldn’t—couldn’t, actually—tell Dylan any of it. Perhaps one day he could understand how she’d been hallucinating all that summer or how awful she felt when being told that her grandmother had been forced to abandon her real grandfather because he was too dark. She didn’t have the patience to explain it all or to attempt to educate Dylan in racial issues when she didn’t completely understand them herself.

  “Well?” he asked, setting his bag on the kitchen counter and pushing his shaggy hair out of his face. “Something is up. You seem a little down or maybe deep in thought.”

  “No, everything’s cool. Just waiting for you,” she answered. “I’ve been taking advantage of the silence since Nikki is out with Tina.”

  That answer seemed to satisfy him. How could she explain the horror and the shame she was feeling? There never seemed to be a good way to confer her feelings when it came to black issues to a white person. That had been the case when she lived with Elliot, even with their years of being together. They hadn’t been tuned into the same cultural shorthand. Sometimes she just needed to be around a person who understood exactly what she meant. Someone who’d lived in that same space.

  Perhaps at some point she’d give Dylan the benefit of the doubt. But for now she was still sorting things out for herself. No, she wouldn’t tell him any of it today. Maybe not for a long time.

  About thirty minutes later, Ida Bascomb arrived. When Zoie opened the door, she found her grandmother’s old friend with a white-gloved hand clutching the porch rail and the other leaning on her cane. She was trying to catch her breath. “When are y’all going to get an elevator to take old folks like me up and down those stairs?” she said, chuckling mildly. Ida Bascomb’s colors for this Sunday were green and white—and not just any green but a deep-emerald color that would have made St. Patrick proud. As usual her attire was too large for her slight, bony frame. The large shoulder pads made the garment look as if it were still on a hanger. Her cavalier-style hat, with its foot-long white plume, would most certainly be a vision obstruction to anyone unfortunate enough to sit behind her in church.

  Tail wagging, Biscuit came running to greet the latest arrival. Ida Bascomb didn’t like dogs. With the slightest motion of her cane, she shooed Biscuit away. She caught a glimpse of Dylan, who was peeking into the foyer from the hall, behind the great staircase.

  “I’m sure glad I don’t have to climb more stairs,” Ida said.

  Zoie set up a folding chair for Ms. Bascomb across from her grandmother. “I’ll bring some food in a little bit,” Zoie told her grandmother. “Do you want some eggs Benedict, Ms. Bascomb?”

  “No, child, but I’ll take a piece of toast with some tea when you bring your grandmother’s food.”

  Zoie closed the door and left them to chat.

  “So the boyfriend is here, I see,” said Ida in a half whisper, with a sly smile.

  “Now, Ida, behave yourself,” Frances Woods scolded.

  “Did I say anything?” Ida bristled.

  “No, but I can tell you were going to make some wisecrack. I’ll say it for you. Yes, the boy is white. And he seems very nice. You got to remember things are different these days.”

  Ida raised her eyebrows and smirked.

  An awkward moment passed.

  “Well, I told her,” Frances Woods said in a low voice.

  “Told who what?” Ida’s voice indicated irritation with her friend.

  “Told Zoie about Laurel’s real father.”

  “Oh, that. That’s old news,” Ida said with the wave of her gloved hand. “About time you got around to telling someone the truth besides me. How did she take it?”

  “Not sure, but she seemed all right.”

  “As you said, things are different these days. Having a baby without getting married is a regular thing. Plus, it’s easy to tell a secret when all the people who’d get hurt by it are gone.” It was clear Ida was referring to Laurel and Calvin.

  “I guess you’re right, Ida,” Frances Woods said, sighing. “Nobody is gonna get hurt. But as much as I would have liked to have the whole thing off my chest, I didn’t tell Zo everything.”

  “For God’s sake, Fran! What more is there to tell?”

  “I didn’t tell her that Gabe had planned to come for me and Laurel. I was going to runaway with him. Do you remember that I told you I was planning to leave Calvin?” She pressed her hands to her mouth as if to stifle the source of such a shameful confession.

  “Oh, that. Now, Fran, that was a long time ago,” Ida said, attempting to console her friend. “And the truth is you never left Calvin, because Laurel’s father never came. No sense getting upset about ‘could haves.’” Ida always made things simple.

  With a solemn face, Frances Woods nodded in weak agreement. It was as if all that stored up pain was coming to the surface.

  “And you never did find out why he didn’t come, did you?”

  Frances Woods didn’t answer. Staring out the window, she thought back to those heartbreaking weeks of expectation—the weeks she expected to find Gabe standing at the door of their basement apartment in Shaw. But whatever they had planned was never meant to be. God meant for her to stay with Calvin, and only God knew why Gabe hadn’t come.

  Then Ida asked, “If he’d come as he said he would, would you really have left Calvin?”

  Frances Woods sighed and, with a weak voice, said, “I don’t know. I really don’t know.”

  Queen arrived just as Dylan finished fixing brunch. Queen was glad to be back. She liked being at the Brandywine house better than being at her own place, where her brother and his grown son ruled the roost. Since the days after the fire, Queen had been like one of the family.

  Queen brought food to Frances Woods and Ida Bascomb. In the kitchen Zoie and Dylan cleaned some of the mess before they sat down to eat. When the doorbell rang, Biscuit headed for the door.

  “I’ll get it,” Queen said. “You all just get my kitchen back in shape.”

  Zoie knew that Queen wasn’t joking about the kitchen. She rolled her eyes, and Dylan laughed. “Wonder who that could be? I’m not expecting anyone. Are you, Queen?” she asked.

  “It might be my brother. I made an extra pie to bring here and left it sitting on my stove.”

  Queen left the two in the kitchen and went to answer the door. She looked out the side panel on the front door. There was a tall black man on the porch. He didn’t look familiar. He was well groomed, and his hands were crossed in front of him. “Oh, God, I hope it ain’t Jehovah’s Witnesses. Nowadays even the Mormons come around. But usually in twos,” Queen said. She looked over to check that her baseball bat was in the umbrella stand.

  Queen held Biscuit back and opened the door.

  “Hello, ma’am.” The man looked as if he were about to choke. “I’m here to see Zoie Taylor. Is she home?”

  Queen looked him up and down and decided he looked decent enough. “Zoie!
” Queen yelled to the back of the house. “You have a visitor.”

  “Who is it, Queen?” Zoie came bounding from the kitchen just as the man stepped inside. She stopped in her tracks. It was as if she’d seen a ghost. It was Jahi Khalfani. He’d just been on her mind. She must have conjured him up. But something about him was different. He was thinner than the last time she’d seen him. His proud long dreads were cropped short, and instead of his usual T-shirt and jeans, he was in a starched white collar shirt and dress slacks.

  He stood by the door, and Queen stood nearby, holding back an anxious Biscuit. “Hello, Zoie,” he said. “I’ve come to say I’m sorry.”