Home Stretch

by Jenna Bennett

  “She’ll enjoy that,” Darcy said, and looked up when someone called her name. “That’s my salad. If you’re still around on Friday, maybe we can grab lunch then. The office is closed.”

  I thought that sounded wonderful, and told her so. “We’re supposed to go back to Nashville on Friday. But I’m sure we can have lunch first. I’ll call you Friday morning to touch base.”

  Darcy nodded. “I’ll talk to you then. Have fun tomorrow.”

  She legged it toward the front counter, where she paid for her salad and left. A minute later, our food arrived, as well, and Mrs. J and I got busy eating.

  The Café on the Square has some wonderful bread rolls, dripping with butter, and Mrs. Jenkins turned out to be as appreciative of them as I’ve always been. The rest of their food is also reliably good, and we ate hardy. At the end of it, I leaned back in my chair and smiled at Mrs. Jenkins across the table. “Good, huh?”

  She nodded, and smiled back. And then she gave a sideways glance at the door. “Who’s the girl?”

  The girl?

  “You mean Darcy? She’s my sister. Half-sister. My father’s daughter. You met her at my wedding, remember?” Although we hadn’t known then that she was part of the family. She was there as Dix’s receptionist and a friend of the family. “Her mother owns the store we’re going to next. Audrey. My mother’s best friend.” Former best friend. At least temporarily.

  Mrs. J nodded. She looked worried.

  “Is something wrong?” I asked.

  Her face cleared and she smiled. “No, baby.”

  “You sure?”

  She nodded.

  “Ready to go, then?”

  She nodded. I pushed my chair back and planted my feet. It was getting harder and harder to get up.

  I waddled to the door and outside. And had to stop once I got out on the sidewalk to put a hand against my lower back.

  It was Mrs. Jenkins’s turn to inquire, “Something wrong, baby?”

  I managed a smile. “My back hurts. The baby’s heavy.” And the chairs at the Café on the Square, while elegant and spindly, aren’t all that comfortable.

  She nodded. “Wanna hold my arm?”

  “I’m all right,” I said. Truth be told, I could have used a strong arm for support, but I wasn’t about to rely on Mrs. Jenkins’s. She was stronger than she looked, but she was also a head shorter than me, about fifty pounds lighter, and almost as many years older. If I fell and dragged her down with me, she was liable to break something. Like her hip. And I didn’t want that on my conscience.

  So I made my own way toward Audrey’s. Waddling like a duck. While Mrs. Jenkins trotted behind. I don’t know if she was planning to catch me if I fell—I suspected she was, although I’d squash her flat if she tried—but it was moot. I wasn’t falling.

  And didn’t fall. I made it to the door under my own steam, turned the knob, and went inside. And held the door for Mrs. J to do the same.

  While she looked around, her face concerned, Audrey appeared, like a genie from a bottle, between the racks of clothing. “Savannah!”

  I managed a smile. “Hi, Audrey.”

  “My goodness, you look ready to drop. Come over here and sit down.” She took my arm and dragged me over to an elegant little French chair that looked like its legs would splay if I attempted to lower my bulk on it.

  “I don’t think that’s going to work,” I said, eyeing it.

  “Don’t be silly. Sit.” She put a hand on my shoulder and pushed me down. The chair hesitated, but held. I tried to make myself as light as possible, but it wasn’t easy. “What can I do for you?”

  “I brought Mrs. Jenkins,” I said, gesturing toward the front of the boutique. “Rafe’s grandmother. We’re down early for Mother’s Thanksgiving dinner.”

  And then I remembered that Audrey wasn’t coming, after having Thanksgiving dinner with us for twenty years, and wished I’d just kept my big mouth shut.

  Audrey winced, but tried to hide it.

  “I’d like to get Mrs. Jenkins something to wear,” I added. “We left Nashville in a bit of a hurry. All she has are a bunch of housecoats. I doubt my mother will approve.”

  Audrey nodded. She knows my mother well. And doesn’t have any illusions about her. Especially after the past couple of months.

  “Something nice, but not too fancy. I don’t think she’d like that. Mrs. Jenkins, I mean.” I wanted her to be able to wear it again. “And hopefully not too expensive?” Since I was paying.

  “We’ll see what we can do,” Audrey said. “Just let me find your grandmother-in-law.”

  She straightened and looked around, hands on her hips.

  Like her daughter, Audrey is tall. A couple of inches taller than me, and the heels put her over six feet.

  However, Mrs. Jenkins is so short she didn’t show above the clothing racks. Audrey frowned.

  She’s an attractive woman. Like my mother, she’s pushing sixty but looks younger. Unlike Mother, who looks soft and pretty, Audrey is angular and striking. Tall, with prominent cheekbones and dramatic coloring. Her skin is pale and her eyes blue, but her hair is jet black, cut in a severe wedge with straight bangs above black brows. And she always wears bright, primary colors—like the emerald green dress she had on today—and bright red lipstick.

  I raised my voice. “Mrs. Jenkins?”

  There was a giggle from somewhere. It sounded little-girlish, and I felt a chill creep down my spine. It was eerie.

  “Come and find me, Oneida!”

  Her voice sounded younger, too. Like a girl playing hide and seek.

  I braced my feet to get up, but Audrey put a hand on my shoulder. “Stay.”

  “She’s my responsibility,” I protested.

  “You’re about ready to give birth. Just stay on the chair. I’ve got it.”

  “Come on, Oneida!” Mrs. Jenkins called. “Come and find me!”

  “Who’s Oneida?”

  Audrey didn’t answer. I wasn’t surprised. I didn’t know, either. Why would she?

  But she was willing to play the game. “Ready or not,” she called, “here I come!”

  She wandered off toward the front of the store.

  It was a short game. The store isn’t big, and there weren’t many hiding places. Mrs. Jenkins ran around for a minute or so, easily tracked by her giggles, and then Audrey brought her back to where I was sitting. Mrs. Jenkins was hanging onto Audrey’s hand, and she was grinning, her dark bird-eyes dancing.

  “Here.” Audrey pulled forward another chair. “Have a seat.”

  Mrs. Jenkins’s face dropped. “Am I in trouble, Oneida?”

  “No, Tondalia.” Audrey’s voice was gentle. “You’re not in trouble. We’re just going to talk.”

  Mrs. Jenkins grinned. “OK.” She had to scoot up on the chair, and her feet didn’t quite touch the ground.

  “Who’s Oneida?” I asked. I’d heard it before. It took a second before it came back to me: it was the name Mrs. Jenkins had told us she’d planned to use had she had a daughter instead of Tyrell.

  Mrs. Jenkins pointed at Audrey.

  I shook my head. “That’s Audrey, Mrs. J. She’s Darcy’s mother. We spoke to Darcy in the café earlier, remember?”

  Mrs. Jenkins looked confused, but I’m not sure whether it was because she didn’t remember Darcy, or because I’d told her that Audrey wasn’t Oneida.

  “I’m sorry,” I told Audrey. “She gets like this sometimes. She doesn’t always know whether I’m me or LaDonna. Or whether Rafe is himself or Tyrell.”

  Audrey nodded. She squatted in front of Mrs. Jenkins and put a hand on her knee. Her nails were painted the same bright red as her lips. “I’m not Oneida.”

  Mrs. Jenkins looked sad. Her lower lip trembled.

  “Oneida was my mother,” Audrey said.

  Huh?

  I straightened on the chair. My lower back protested, but I ignored it. “Who’s Oneida?” And why had I never heard about her?

  “My mo
ther,” Audrey said again.

  “Yes, but...” I turned my head to look at Mrs. Jenkins. “How would Mrs. J know your mother?”

  I remembered Audrey’s mother, but only vaguely. She’d died when I was a girl, I didn’t know from what. I could sort of remember Audrey being distraught and Mother making us go to the funeral. But my own grandparents had also died when I was a girl, so I wasn’t sure I was keeping it all straight in my mind.

  “Oneida was my mother,” Audrey said. “And Tondalia’s sister.”

  Excuse me?

  “But you’re...”

  I stopped before I said ‘white.’

  It would have been accurate, though. Audrey was as pale as I am. Not exactly white—I don’t know anyone who’s white; we’re all more of a pale pinkish, peachy color—but certainly not brown. Mrs. Jenkins was brown, with wrinkled raisin skin and black eyes.

  “My mother was light-skinned,” Audrey said, her voice tight. “She could pass for white. So she did.”

  Someone walked by outside the window, and she added, with a glance that way, “Let’s take this somewhere else. It’s a long story, and I don’t feel like getting interrupted by someone coming in to look for a party dress. It’s the day before Thanksgiving. I probably wouldn’t get much business anyway.”

  She looked at me. “You remember where I live?”

  Of course I did. She’d lived there her whole life, in a small house she’d inherited from her parents. From her father and Tondalia Jenkins’s sister.

  “I’ll see you there. It’s better if we do this privately.” She helped Mrs. Jenkins up. I could have used a hand, too, to be honest, but I made it to my feet under my own steam. Every time I sat down, it was harder and harder to get moving again.

  We shuffled to the door, and Audrey let us out. I heard the door lock behind us, and watched her turn the Open sign to Closed. Then she flipped off the lights, and hurried toward the back of the store. I pointed to the car, and Mrs. J and I made our slow way toward it.

  * * *

  Audrey’s house is just a few blocks from the square. We got there in two minutes, once we had the car running. She wasn’t there yet, so I pulled up to the curb and cut the engine.

  It’s a cute little house. Not the kind of thing you’d expect Audrey to live in, though. Not judging by the way she looks. She’d have looked right occupying a penthouse apartment in the city, a garret in Paris, or some sort of ultra-modern collection of boxy shapes held together with steel and wood and corrugated metal.

  Instead, she lives in a cottage. One of the symmetrical one-story Victorians—we have dozens of Victorian cottages around town—where the roof comes to a point and there’s a porch across the full width of the front. With porch swings and rocking chairs.

  I turned to Mrs. Jenkins. “Oneida was your sister?”

  She nodded. “Yes, baby.”

  “And she lived here?”

  Mrs. Jenkins shrugged. “Dunno.”

  Behind me, Audrey’s car pulled up to the curb.

  The car doesn’t suit her any better than the house. She’d have looked right at home in Alexandra Puckett’s fire-engine red Mazda Miata. Or even Alton Fesmire’s BMW. Or the bright green car that had been parked across the street from the craftsman bungalow yesterday.

  Instead, she drives a van. A plain gray van. It might be for function—moving merchandise or sales displays or whatever; those certainly wouldn’t fit in the back of a Miata—but it’s undeniably boring. Even more boring than my pale blue Volvo.

  We walked up to the house together. Audrey unlocked the front door and waved us in. “I’ll put on some tea.”

  She headed for the kitchen, and left us in the front room—the living room—to fend for ourselves.

  The inside of the house looks more like Audrey than the outside. The walls are painted in jewel colors, as befits a true Victorian, and although I generally cringe whenever I see all that original dark woodwork painted white, in this case it was a nice contrast to the bright walls. There were a lot of black-and-white photographs everywhere—street scenes from Paris and somewhere in Italy, maybe Rome, in the living room.

  I wondered why Audrey had never packed up and left. She hadn’t married. Her parents were dead. She didn’t have any other family, not after she’d given Darcy up for adoption. And she’d probably enjoy Paris or Rome.

  We could hear her rooting around in the kitchen.

  “Let me take your coat,” I told Mrs. Jenkins. She wiggled out of it, and I hung it, along with mine, over the back of a chair. The furniture was black leather with chrome legs, which I thought was totally Audrey, and it also worked surprisingly well with the Victorian architecture.

  “Let’s have a seat.” I nudged Mrs. J toward the sofa. She dropped down, and I followed suit. The cushions were a lot softer than I’d expected. It felt like the sofa was trying to swallow me. I struggled against it, but eventually had to admit defeat. Flopping around like a beached whale was so undignified. I’d have Audrey give me a hand up later. And in the meantime, I made myself as comfortable as I could and turned to Mrs. J. She was so small and light she just perched on top of the leather like a little bird. “So you had a sister named Oneida?”

  Mrs. Jenkins nodded. “Yes, baby. My big sister.”

  “What happened to her?”

  “Dunno,” Mrs. J said, with a shake of her head. “She left. I didn’t see her no more.”

  “How old were you?”

  She thought back. “Maybe ten?”

  Audrey came back into the living room in time to hear this part of the conversation. Like Mother, yesterday, she had put together a tray with cups and saucers, cream and sugar, a plate of little cookies, and cloth napkins. She put the whole thing down on the coffee table. “Oneida was the eldest daughter. There was one more, Eurelia, and a boy. And then Tondalia.”

  The kettle in the kitchen whistled, and she straightened. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

  She walked out. I noticed she had kicked off the three-inch heels as soon as she came in, and was padding around barefoot. I usually do that, too. I’ve been taught to suffer for vanity, but I don’t see the point in suffering if nobody’s watching. Or nobody important, I should say.

  She came back thirty seconds later with the teapot, and started filling cups. We all had a sip. Mrs. Jenkins grabbed a cookie. I wanted a cookie, but I couldn’t reach them, being stuck in the clutches of the sofa, and it was probably just as well. I didn’t need a cookie.

  “So,” I said, when the silence had gone on for a while, only interrupted by Mrs. J’s munching. “Your mother’s name was Oneida.”

  Audrey nodded. She wasn’t eating a cookie, but she kept her mouth shut as if she were.

  “And she was Mrs. Jenkins’s sister.”

  Another nod.

  “Oneida, Eurelia, a brother, and Tondalia.”

  Audrey nodded.

  “How did Mrs. Jenkins’s sister come to be your mother?” She didn’t say anything, and I added, “I mean, that’s a pretty big coincidence, isn’t it?”

  “Not really,” Audrey said. “You’re looking at it from the wrong perspective.”

  I was?

  “Didn’t you ever wonder how Tyrell Jenkins, an eighteen-year-old black kid from the city, even met a fourteen-year-old Sweetwater girl like LaDonna Collier?”

  Of course I had. I had asked Mrs. Jenkins about it just an hour or two ago. And it wasn’t the first time the question had crossed my mind. But so far, nobody I’d asked had had an answer.

  “He was here to see you,” I said, as light dawned.

  Yes, that made a lot more sense. Mrs. Jenkins wasn’t coincidentally related to Audrey; Mrs. Jenkins’s son had been here in Sweetwater, and had met LaDonna Collier, because he was related to Audrey.

  “He came to see my mother,” Audrey said. “She was still alive then.” She sighed and shook her head. “It didn’t go well.”

  “Why not?”

  “That will take a while,” Audrey sai
d and leaned back. She folded one long leg over the other. I struggled into a more comfortable position in the clutches of the sofa.

  Fifteen

  “My mother was born Oneida Jefferson,” Audrey began. “She was born in the late 1930s. Before World War Two. Thirty years before the Civil Rights movement.”

  I nodded. I knew when the Civil Rights movement had taken place. I’d learned about it in school.

  “It was hard to be black back then,” Audrey said. “It isn’t easy now—just ask your husband—but it was harder then. Did you know that in 1955, a fourteen-year-old black boy was lynched in Mississippi because a white woman said he’d whistled after her in a grocery store?”

  I had heard of that. I had also heard that the woman later recanted and said the boy hadn’t done anything inappropriate at all. But by then it was far too late, of course.

  Audrey and my father and mother had been born into that time. Oneida Jefferson would have been a teenager when Emmett Till was murdered. Not much older than he’d been. Than he ever got to be.

  “Here.” Audrey got up from the chair and disappeared into the other room. A moment later she came back with a framed photograph she handed me.

  It was a wedding photo. Black and white, in a silver frame.

  The couple was young, maybe not even out of their teens. The man was tall, with that distinctive Elvis-look to his hair, and what looked like a carnation in the buttonhole of a dark suit. I could see Audrey in the cheekbones and jaw. The woman next to him was dressed in a lovely fifties-style dress, calf-length, with a wasp waist and a wide skirt. She was carrying a small bouquet of flowers, and had a white hat covering most of her hair, except for a few dark ringlets framing a face memorable mostly for a pair of cat’s eye glasses.

  She did not look black.

  She didn’t look much like Audrey, either. But I recognized some of Darcy’s softer features, like the big, dark eyes.

  “She could pass for white,” Audrey said, as I handed the framed photo to Mrs. Jenkins. “So she did. She met my father and married him, and she moved to Sweetwater, and never told anyone that she wasn’t as white as they were.”