by Donna Hill
She thought about it for less than an instant. "I have," she said softly.
He paused a beat. "So what time do you want me to pick you up?"
Chapter Twenty
Parris gripped the phone. Her chest rose and fell in jerky motions.
"Took her to the airport..." David was saying. "She didn't say if she was coming straight there, but I went on and gave her Nick's address and phone number."
Her throat was so tight she couldn't swallow. Her mother was coming to New York?
"We talked a real long time. She's done some awful things, but so have we all. But she's sorry, really sorry. You ought to listen to her, try to make some kind of peace. I believe I have."
Parris heard the doorbell in the background.
"That's one of my patients." He laughed lightly. "Opened my office in the house. I know Cora is up there fussing." He shook out a breath. "She wants to see you. Tell you the things you need to know. It's up to you if you let her." The bell rang again. "I gotta go. You take care."
Parris sat there so long on the edge of the bed that the dial tone began to hum in her ear. In a daze she fumbled with the phone until she got it back on its base.
"Hey, babe, I'm going to head on over to the club...." Nick tilted his head to look at her. "What's wrong?"
She looked up at him, her focus distant. "That was Granddad. He said...my mother came to Rudell. She was at the house and he gave her this number and address, put her on a plane...and she's coming here."
"When? Today?" He sat down beside her.
Parris slowly shook her head. "I don't know. I don't even know if she'll really have the nerve to show up." The image of Emma standing on her front lawn flashed through her head. Her body stiffened.
"Hey," he said, putting his arm around her shoulder. "Whatever happens we'll deal with it. Okay?" He hugged her tighter. "Okay?"
"Sure..." she said without much conviction. Emma was coming to New York.
"Your appointment at Artist Records is in an hour," he said, gently hoping to nudge her back to the present and the immediate issues at hand.
This record deal had been hanging in limbo for months and it took a lot of smooth talking and promises on Nick's part to keep Lenny Epps from just saying to forget the whole thing. He thought they'd gotten over most of the hurdles. The last thing he--or Parris for that matter--was expecting was a phone call like this one.
Sometimes it was hard for him to understand why the issue with her mother rocked her so deeply. He could barely remember his mother, and what he did remember, he wished that he didn't. Nick wanted Parris to simply say the hell with it and her mother, and move on. She wasn't worth the anger or the hurt or the time Parris spent agonizing over what her mother had done or not done.
But that's not the kind of woman Parris was, he thought as he watched her get up and walk to the closet to pick out her clothes. The corner of his mouth rose and the hardened look in his eye brought on by the mention of her mother slowly softened. Parris reminded him of the earth; caring and nurturing, rich and absorbing, the keeper of the roots. When she felt, she felt deeply and her emotions shaped who she was and guided her. There was nothing superficial about Parris, and that's why he loved her, and whatever the situation was with this woman who was her mother, he would be there for her, if and when she showed up.
They sat side by side in the outer office of the president of Artist Records. The walls were lined with Grammys, American Music Awards, platinum and gold records that dated back to the sixties all the way to last month's sweep at the Kodak Center where sixteen Artist Records performers took home their gold statues. Lenny Epps had been responsible for not only shaping and building careers, but also guiding the direction of the music industry for decades.
The double wood doors to his office swung open and Lenny stepped out. About five foot six, slightly balding with a signature style of jackets and sweater vests, he always reminded Nick of Quincy Jones, just a little rougher around the edges. They stood as Lenny approached.
"Sorry to keep you waiting. Come on in. Let's talk business."
Lenny didn't waste any time. The moment they sat down he dove into his spiel. "I'm looking to begin a new label at the start of the year. And I want to launch it with you. What you do with jazz, combine it with blues and R and B, is exactly what I'm looking for. I can make your sound transcend generations. I'm looking to do an album a year for three years. We'll start touring you the minute the album drops. You'll be on the road eight to ten months a year. If we're both happy at the end of three then we can renegotiate." He looked from one to the other.
Parris folded her hands on her lap and cleared her throat. "I really appreciate you waiting so long to meet with me," she began. "And your offer is a wonderful one. All I've ever wanted to do was sing. It's like a calling, you know." She stole a glance at Nick. She paused. "But I can't take it."
Lenny lurched forward in his seat. "What?"
Nick held his breath.
"It has nothing to do with your offer, Mr. Epps. It has to do with me and what I need to do with my life. I'm at a place where I'm finding out who I am and I can't allow myself to be reshaped by the stylist and the publicist and the record executives, not even my fans. I want to sing because it fills me up inside, not because there's a production deadline. I don't want to wake up every morning and not know where I am." She took a deep breath and slowly stood up. "I'm sorry. Really I am."
With purpose and a sense of inner peace she walked out with Nick at her side, leaving Lenny with his mouth opened in a half smile of amazement.
"I know I should have told you," she said as she stared at the floor numbers as they descended on the elevator. "But I thought if I did you'd try to talk me out of it. Besides I really wasn't sure right up until I sat down in that chair and looked him in the eye. I knew that kind of life really wasn't for me. I know I probably sound totally naive and idealistic, but..." She looked into his eyes, hoping that he would understand.
The doors swooshed open. "Let's just say I'm...stunned. I never saw that one coming." They stepped out and walked to the exit. The cold hands of the wind wrapped around them, drawing them together. "But," he added, exhaling a cloud into the air, "I'm proud of you. It takes a lot to turn down that kind of offer. To realize that your happiness and convictions are more important than anything else." He stopped on the street, turned her to face him and held her by her shoulders. He looked down into those incredible eyes, her hair blowing wildly in the wind. "You are something else," he said in amazement, emphasizing each word. She grinned, relief washing over her face. "Guess those dreams of me kicking back and reaping the benefits of your labor are out the window, huh?"
She reached up and kissed him. "Pretty much."
They laughed all the way back to the car.
For days after the phone call from David, Parris's nerves were thrumming like overly tight guitar strings. She worked hard to try to hide her mounting anxiety, which vacillated from high to low and back again. Nick had enough on his mind with the renovation of the club going full steam ahead. She found herself spending more time with Leslie and Celeste, and that invisible bond that drew them together strengthened as they talked about their lives, hopes and dreams for the future. She was astonished to find out what had transpired between Leslie and her mother, and the change in Leslie was brilliantly obvious. She was calmer. The edge had diminished. She smiled more often and seemed to be working on her wardrobe and her hair. When she spoke of her mother now, the acid was vacant from her tongue. It was a softer, gentler Leslie.
Celeste, too, had begun a shift in her personality and direction. Although she and her mother hadn't passed a word between them since that afternoon at her apartment, with her commission check from the sale of the club, Celeste was looking for someplace that she could reasonably afford on her own, before the inevitable rug was pulled out from under her. She was working full-out at the real estate office, not to mention that she and Sam were an official item.
However, as much as Parris occupied her time with her new friends or the goings-on at the club, that jangling sensation in the pit of her stomach wouldn't go away. She jumped every time the phone rang. When she walked the streets she saw Emma's face in each woman she passed. But after more than three weeks since David's phone call, she was drawing to the inevitable conclusion that Emma wasn't coming. And it was just as well.
Nick shrugged into his jacket. "I'm expecting a delivery at the club this morning," he said in a rush, brushing his lips against hers. "I totally forgot and I'm running late. See you this afternoon."
"I might stop by. If I plan to I'll give you a call," she said to his departing back.
"Sure." He darted out.
She finished cleaning up the kitchen and planned to spend the balance of the morning going over the club's finances and the stack of bills that had been rolling in like a midwest blizzard. Staying on top of what was going out was essential, especially since until the club opened there was no revenue. They were operating on the bank loans and the money that Nick and Sam had set aside. And the last thing that either of them wanted was to open the doors of Rhythms in the red.
She took the accordion folder where she kept the bills and the ledger, and went to work in the living room. Although Nick's small home office had all of the comforts, it was in one of the windowless in-between rooms that were common in these prewar buildings. So there was no natural light. She'd worked in there for a few hours once before and thought she'd go out of her mind. She put the folder down on the coffee table and went to the window to pull back the curtain and open the blinds. She was about to turn away when a figure across the street caught her attention. She moved closer to the window, peering down the three stories. The blood, like drums, began to beat in her ears, throb through her veins until her body vibrated. So intent was her stare that the image began to blur. She blinked rapidly, her heart pounding as she pressed closer to the glass, her breath against the cold causing patches of fog to obscure her vision even further. And then she looked up. Their gazes connected. Parris stumbled backward.
It was her. This time it was not her imagination. It was Emma standing across the street looking up at her window, looking up at her. Parris took a tentative step forward, reached out and slowly pushed the curtain aside, a part of her believing that the woman would be gone as all the others had been, all the other times, on all the other streets.
But she wasn't.
Oh, God, oh, God, what was she supposed to do? She glanced again and there Emma stood, seemingly as undecided as Parris. Then the thought that Emma may decide to simply leave without trying to contact her leaped into her head. She was afraid to take her eyes off of her, sure that if she did, Emma would vanish--this time for good. But neither could she stand eternally at the window.
She spun away, grabbed the keys from the hall table and ran all three flights downstairs. She pulled open the front door and gasped out loud to see Emma standing on the top step, close enough for her to see the light brown flecks in her green eyes.
It felt like an eternity had passed between them, countless images, questions, hurts and fears zigzagged back and forth like lightning during a storm. So quick you couldn't catch it but you witnessed its power, the beauty it could be or the destruction it could render.
Parris gripped the door frame. Her stomach tumbled.
"Hello, Parris."
Finally Parris found her voice. "So...who are you today, the loyal waitress at the bistro or the startled lady of the house?"
"Neither," she said softly, struggling to maintain eye contact with a gaze that held such contempt. "I'm here as your mother, although I know I hardly have the right to call myself that."
"You don't!"
Emma's lips tightened. She nodded in agreement. "I was hoping...that you would give me the opportunity to talk with you...about things." She swallowed, her voice straining. "Us. Your grandmother. Your father. All the things you deserve to know." She waited. Parris didn't move. Didn't speak. "Please," Emma finally said.
Parris stared at this woman who so much resembled her grandmother, and for a moment she nearly forgot the real reason why she was there. It's up to you if you let her. Her grandfather David's words echoed in her head. But it would feel so good to turn her away, Granddad, tell her to go to hell with her explanations so that she would know how bottomless dismissal could feel.
She stepped aside, holding the door open for Emma to come in and follow her up the stairs. Parris's hands shook as she tried to fit the key into the apartment lock. It took several tries before she was able to get the door opened.
"Come in," she said in a voice so taut she didn't recognize it as her own. She walked ahead into the living room, concentrating on breathing and walking at the same time. "Have a seat."
Emma took off her wool coat, sat down and draped it across her lap. She glanced around. "He's a musician...I understand," she said, lifting her chin toward Nick's sax.
"You said you came here to talk to me. I'm sure it's not about Nick being a musician," she said, each word meant to sting.
Emma's cheeks colored and Parris realized how easy it must have been for her. Looking at Emma no one would ever guess that she had a black mother. She'd sat right across from her in the bistro and she didn't know. She'd only thought that Emma was a beautiful white woman, with lustrous black hair that tumbled in waves to her narrow shoulders, luminous green eyes and skin as pale as porcelain.
Parris took the hard-backed chair next to Nick's sax stand and sat down.
Emma fidgeted with the label on the inside of her coat.
Parris folded and unfolded her hands.
The rubber-band silence stretched as far as it could go until it finally snapped.
Parris jumped. "Something to drink?"
Emma bobbed her head, tried to smile. "Yes. Thank you."
Parris, grateful to find a reason for escape, hurried off to the kitchen. Once there she leaned over the sink, drew in deep lungfuls of air. She turned on the faucet and tapped her face with cold water to cool her burning skin. This is what you wanted. This is the moment that you've lived for from the instant your grandmother told you she was alive. The truth can be no worse than the images in your mind. She pulled a paper towel from the roll above the sink and dried her face. Put one foot in front of the other and went to the refrigerator, poured a glass of iced tea and returned to the front room. Emma was still there.
Parris handed her the glass and took her seat.
"Thank you." She took a sip and set the glass down on the table. "Your grandmother was one of the most highly respected young women in Rudell," she began, her voice soft, almost lulling in its cadence. "Your great-grandfather, Joshua Harvey, was not only the spiritual leader, but also the community leader as well. When he and your great-grandmother Pearl were murdered in that fire, the town took your grandmother under its wing. David loved her, but it wasn't enough to keep her from pursuing her dream to sing. She left Rudell and moved to Chicago. She found a job working for a wealthy white family, William and Lizbeth Rutherford. She never made it as a singer, and shortly after the Great Depression hit she returned to Rudell and married David. I was born seven months later."
Parris's heart leaped in her chest.
"The day I was born, David took one look at me and knew I could never be his. He walked out, leaving your grandmother to raise me alone. Everyone believed that she'd tricked the beloved doctor, that she'd gone off and slept with some white man in Chicago and the town that once revered her turned their backs on her and on me. I was trapped between two worlds, neither of which I could belong to, not back then, not in a small-minded town like Rudell.
"I grew up alone, teased, laughed at, talked about and ignored. And each day I resented the woman who'd saddled me with this curse of white skin and green eyes in a black-and-brown world. One day all that changed. That night by the Left Hand River," she said in a faraway voice. She told Parris of the man who thought she was a white woman and the realiza
tion that came to her. How from that day on she began sneaking into the white part of town, sitting in their shops, walking their streets, and she knew she'd finally found freedom. She told Parris about finding the letter from Cora's friend Margaret and the mention of William Rutherford, the picture in the newspaper article and how she began to put the pieces together. And one day she left Rudell, got on the bus and headed to New York.
Emma reached for her glass of tea and took a long cool swallow. She gently set the glass down.
"That's where I met your father." She looked Parris in the eye. "His name is Michael Travanti. He was a soldier." She drew in a shallow breath. "He was the first person in my entire life who showed that they cared about me, told me that they loved me, did everything they could to make me happy, make me smile," she said, her voice lifting for the first time with a hint of joy. "I came alive and the feeling was so exquisite, so new and perfect, I knew that I would do whatever I could to hold on to it." She paused, looked away then down at her hands. "Then one day, there was an article in the paper about William Rutherford. He was having a big fund-raiser. And that need to know, to confront my worst nightmare, bloomed inside of me. I got in to see him...and the moment I told him who I was, he knew, and I could see the guilt in his eyes."
She told Parris about her demand for money, and how she dropped it at her feet on her way out of the door.
"I never saw him again after that. He would never openly claim me as his daughter, no matter what I looked like on the outside. He'd raped my mother--a black woman, his housekeeper--when she was barely out of her teens. He could never have anyone know that. And that part of my life I'd closed the door on. It no longer mattered.
"Michael and I married shortly after that and in less than a year I was pregnant...with you. I was terrified. But I convinced myself that I looked white, I'd married a white man and, of course, I would have a child that could pass. But you couldn't."