by Ka Newborrn
“Unfair is dead, buried and laid in the ground,” Aunt Alice kept her voice from trembling. “You can’t change that your momma and daddy are dead. Maybe you could change things to make it fair for the rest of us who are still here. You’re a smart one.”
“You’re at the top of your class with vocabulary,” Miss Hornbeam added, “but you need to work on your arithmetic.”
✽✽✽
A decade later, his acceptance letter to Kentucky State University arrived in the mail. Aunt Alice took a long, hard look at the boy’s clothing and decided that it was entirely unacceptable. She planned a day trip to the Sears department store in Louisville, where Miss Hornbeam would help him select a wardrobe befitting his future. Russell was awestruck by the generosity of his aunt and excited about the opportunities that awaited him.
Four years later, he was practicing his valedictorian speech in front of his dormitory mirror when he suddenly felt dizzy and needed to sit down. Overcome with drowsiness and unable to focus, the sounds of campus activity faded away as he closed his eyes for a few minutes. When he opened them, the walls were adorned with the crayon pictures drawn from the scope of his childhood imagination. Enormous red and blue gemstones were strewn about the room, casting prisms in the afternoon sun.
A hummingbird fluttered in figure eight motion and came to rest on a red gemstone. A tall, broad-shouldered man with rich ebony skin extended a hand in its direction. The hummingbird flew towards the man, trailing a visible thread of silver, and came to rest upon his finger.
“Who are you?” Russell stammered.
The tall man paused eloquently before he responded, filling the air with a lyrical peace.
“I’m Paul.”
“What are you?”
Paul’s eyes were warm and reassuring. He followed his gaze to the hummingbird that had left the perch of his finger and flown out of the open window. “I’m a beacon of clarity to be revealed at various crossroads in your life.” He paused. “Sometimes I am available for counsel.”
“What counsel are you here to give me?”
Paul stood up and brushed away silver threads from his tailored blue suit. “Maybe you can see to changing things to be fair for the rest of us still here.”
“How can I do that?” Russell asked.
“Columbia Law School,” Paul said soberly. He grabbed a gemstone into each of his hands and disappeared in a swaddling of red and blue light.
✽✽✽
In January of 1967, Russell graduated from Columbia Law School and passed the bar exam. Later on in the year he was contacted by the NAACP and asked to provide legal services.
In 1972, He traveled to Washington, DC to attend a benefit gala for the Taborian Hospital. He was on his way back from the men’s room when he noticed a peculiarly beautiful woman with untamed blonde hair wearing a lavender bias cut organza gown. Sensing a familiarity about her eyes, he walked through the sea of party guests to introduce himself.
They spent the rest of the party on the terrace watching the stars and admiring the lilacs in the surrounding garden. Russell talked about growing up in Harlan, Kentucky, attending Columbia Law School, and how his work had brought him to Mound Bayou, Mississippi. Jana talked about growing up with a father named Harlan in Natchez, Mississippi. Somewhere between Mound Bayou, Natchez, and the tale of two Harlans Russell remembered where he had seen those eyes before.
She had been an Anaheim-based pediatrician working for the State of California. Details about her work and private life leaked to the press after she terminated her pregnancy illegally. He didn’t fully understand why she was targeted as a scapegoat. Extortion, probably. Protesters and activists alike made a stink, but the damage had been done. She was harassed incessantly and disappeared off the face of the earth a short time later. The state legislators never tracked down the perpetrators.
He remembered the sullen air reflected in the photos of her that ran in the newspapers a few years before. And here she was, leaning against his arm enjoying a buzz brought on by a well-shaken martini and the last of her valium. In his mind, the logistics were utter nonsense. To his heart, they were perfection.
They married six months later. Calvin was born soon after. Jana mailed a wedding invitation and a birth announcement to her mother. She never heard back. She continued to send letters and photographs to her mother throughout the decade, all seemingly ignored, until the final letter was stamped DECEASED and returned to her.
A year later, he was contacted by a high-profile law firm in Philadelphia and asked to join as a partner. He moved his family into a large house in Gladwyne. Later on that week, Aunt Alice called and told him that Miss Hornbeam had passed away. He spared no time or expense in making funeral arrangements, hiring a company to pack up her belongings, and moving her into his home.
PHILADELPHIA, PENNSYLVANIA
1972
Margaret
Margaret sprawled face down on the couch wearing a full face of makeup and the white cotton dress and nylon stockings she had put on the morning before.
Sunlight turned the black cloud behind her eyes to a fiery shade of red.
An empty bottle of scotch rolled at her feet. She kicked a patient file out of her path and walked to the bathroom, head pounding. She sat on the toilet and buried her head in her hands, trying to drone out the sound of the television blaring in the kitchen downstairs.
Gin.
She rinsed her face in the sink and regarded her greying blonde curls, puffy eyes and sagging belly in the full length mirror affixed to the door. She felt in the pocket of the dress for her cigarettes. It was empty. She cursed.
The telephone rang from a table in the downstairs hallway. She carefully made her way down the mosaic tiled staircase, only to trip and fall over a pile of red and white polka dotted Toss Across bean bags that Bela had left in the middle of the floor. She cursed again, got back on her feet and picked up the receiver. “Yeah?” she answered gruffly.
She raised her voice in order to hear herself over the television. “What, Lasse?” she began, rubbing her ankle. “You finally got a customer this month? Well, it’s about fucking time. Hold on, Lasse. Bela, turn that down right now.”
She spotted a half-smoked cigarette lying in an ashtray. She raised it to her lips greedily and felt in her pocket for a match. “What do you mean she doesn’t have all the money? Not my fucking problem, Lasse,” she continued as she lit the cigarette. “You’re the talent, you figure it out.” Smoke poured from her nostrils. “I really don’t give a rat’s ass if you take a cut at all; business is business and I charge what I charge, goddammit. Bela! I mean it! This is long distance!” She closed her eyes and rubbed her right temple with her fingers.
“You’re supposed to do all of the work; you’re the talent. It’s an abortion, not brain surgery. You think you’d get it through your skull by now. I’m running this show. I put, Bela! Put that down right now! I put up the goddamn money to get us in business, I own the building, and I get sixty percent for every broad you bring in the joint! A deal is a deal!” Margaret started to slam down the earpiece, thought the better of it and brought it back to her face.
“Once a trick, always a trick, Lasse. I took pity on you and gave you a chance to save your pathetic joke of a podiatry practice and make some real money. This isn’t a charity ball. This isn’t a goddamn bargain basement. If she doesn’t want to be pregnant, she’ll find the dough. I want my full cut, Lasse.” She started to cough and continued her ranting.
“Women are liberated now. Why doesn’t she have the money? She just came here from China and can’t get a good job because she’s not an American citizen and barely speaks English? You fucked her, didn’t you?” Margaret laughed. “I’m a philanthropist at heart; that’s why I’m standing my ground. She wants to be an American citizen? Is that really what you think of me, Lasse? Oh, well. I've been called worse. Then ask Nixon for the money. He likes those Chinese. Oh, well. I've been called worse. Threaten me one more time, and
see what happens. You’re just the talent, you fucking trick. I can replace you in a heartbeat. I’m sick of your shit, Lasse!” Her hands trembled. “Hold on, I’m switching phones.”
She walked to the refrigerator and licked her furry teeth.
Gin.
She pushed aside bottles of ketchup, barbeque sauce, and a jar of Tang looking for the pitcher of orange juice. Then she saw Bela seated at the kitchen table, holding the pitcher and draining the last of the contents into his sticky glass. He dug a spoon into his bowl of Trix and looked up at Margaret. “Morning, Mumma,” he beamed toothlessly. Margaret glared.
She picked up the telephone hanging from the kitchen wall. “I mean it, Lasse,” she barked into the mouthpiece. “You know what I’m capable of whenever you pull this shit!” She leaned against the open refrigerator door and fixated on the jar of Tang. “Remember a few years ago? Remember that folkie pediatrician, Jana Montgomery? You fell hook, line and sinker for that nutcase. She came up short, pardon my pun, and I made her pay. Hell hath no fury like the scorn of a concerned citizen like me, Lasse. I will tip off immigration. I will tip off the Senate. I will turn her ass out to the Archdiocese. I’m hanging up now. You get me every bit of my usual split or I'll send her back to the mainland! Don’t think I won’t, Lasse. Don’t fuck with me.” She slammed down the receiver.
Bela cleared his throat. “Morning, Mumma,” he repeated. Margaret rolled her eyes. “It’s Margaret,” she scowled. She glanced at the portable TV resting on the edge of the table. “What the hell are you watching, anyway?” She grabbed the Tang out of the refrigerator and slammed it onto the counter.
“Bette Davis,” Bela sang. He grabbed the sugar bowl and heaped a staggering amount onto his cereal. “I’ve written a letter to Daddy,” he continued, “because he sent me his picture.” He picked up a piece of yellow construction paper decorated with red glitter, purple stars, and gobs of excess glue. Daddy was spelled out carefully in the center.
Margaret’s stomach lurched at the sight of the overly-sweetened cereal. “That’s disgusting,” she muttered. She grabbed the empty pitcher from the table, dumped in an unmeasured amount of Tang and thrust it under the kitchen faucet. Her knees crackled as she stooped down to open the cabinet below the kitchen sink. Her puffy eyes rummaged through a sea of empty liquor bottles as she retrieved a near-empty bottle of gin.
She mixed a cocktail and was immediately reminded of cigarettes. She found her purse and opened it, but there were no cigarettes inside. A quick check of her wallet revealed two pennies and several dog eared receipts.
She passed gas and sipped her gin and Tang. "Elvira's coming in an hour. I’ll call her and have her stop at the bank before she gets here.”
“It’s Sunday!” Bela screeched. He jumped up from the table, shook his behind to the ground and hooted with delight. “It’s Sunday, and you farted,” he sang, reveling in the knowledge that the bank was closed, the housekeeper had the day off, and he had outsmarted the likes of his drunken mother.
Margaret's eyes narrowed at the sight of the horrid little entity dancing before her. “I see,” she said. “Come here, Bela, I wanna talk to you.” She took a sip from her cocktail. Bela frolicked to her side.
“I hear you’re the hottest thing this side of the second grade since sliced bread,” she began. “Your teacher, Mr. Aldrich says you’re in a special reading class with a bunch of older students and reading from a fifth grade text. You must be pretty proud of yourself.”
Bela shifted his weight from side to side and beamed.
“How about a little vocabulary quiz?” she continued. A sardonic grin crept over her aging face. “Why don’t you bring Mr. Wiglet in to sweeten up the pot a bit?” She winked.
Bela perked up at the mention of Mr. Wiglet, his beloved ceramic piggy bank. Confident in the knowledge that his adeptness at vocabulary earned him consistent prizes from Mr. Aldrich’s candy jar, he ran through the house and up the stairs to his room to retrieve Mr. Wiglet and the fifth grade vocabulary book. He placed them on the kitchen table and panted to catch his breath.
“Want to hear the words I memorized for my lesson?” he asked sweetly, “I know them all by heart.”
“No,” Margaret mused. “I already have a word. Epiphany.”
“Epiphany,” Bela mimicked. “A-P-”
“This isn't a spelling lesson.” Margaret shrugged. “It's more of an existential one. Epiphany,” she repeated. “Do you consider your life to be a good one, Bela?”
Bela knit his brow. “Yeah?” he answered hesitantly.
“Well, I should think so,” Margaret snickered. The glaring sunlight had worsened her headache, and she walked over to the kitchen drapes to close them. “Let’s see,” she pointed out. “You get hungry and I feed you. I consistently provide you with clothing, and you wear it out like there’s no tomorrow. You come home every night expecting a place to sleep, and I provide you with a bed.” Margaret paused for a moment to finger a snag on her nylon stockings. “I even give you indoor plumbing, color television, and a vast array of reading material, all of which are non-essential luxuries,” she growled.
Bela clutched Mr. Wiglet firmly against his body and rubbed his eyes with his right hand. “But I’m six years old.”
“Excuses,” Margaret spat. Bela wiped his face in uncomfortable silence and stared at Mr. Wiglet.
“How much am I giving you for allowance these days?” Margaret asked. Bela lit up with importance.
“Two dollars a week,” he answered proudly, sticking out his bony chest.
Margaret shook her head in disbelief and folded her arms across her chest. “Unbelievable,” she continued. “Not only do you have the privilege of unlimited access to these amenities, you get paid to do it.” She sighed dramatically and burst into a fit of hiccoughs.
Bela grabbed his sticky glass from the table, ran to the faucet, and filled it up with water. He handed it to Margaret who drank it down in one gulp and promptly resumed her ranting.
“How much money do you have in Mr. Wiglet?”
“Thirty-six dollars.”
“And I assume you know what day it is.”
“April 9th,” Bela rattled proudly. “Daddy told me in the letter. It’s the anniversary of Paul Robeson’s birthday and the fourth anniversary of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.’s funeral.”
Margaret looked up in surprise. “Allow me to welcome you back to the here and now. Today,” she slurred, “is the sixth day before Tax Day.”
Bela’s smile disappeared.
“And according to my calculations, you earned ninety-six dollars in allowance last year.”
Bela picked up Mr. Wiglet and clutched him tightly.
“That means you owe thirty-two dollars in taxes.”
Bela clasped Mr. Wiglet under his left arm and inched backwards, fearful eyes glued upon Margaret’s demonic gaze.
“And no son of mine is going to prison for tax evasion!”
Bela ran.
An overturned kitchen chair hit the linoleum with a dramatic crash. Margaret chased him through the living room, up the staircase, and eventually cornered him in front of his bedroom door. She flung herself against the door dramatically, arms stretched out at her sides. Bela reached for the doorknob and burst into tears.
“An epiphany,” Margaret wheezed, “is having a sudden and absolute understanding of something.” She wrenched the ceramic pig from his grasp. “Have you reached an epiphany about life today?”
“It’s not fair!” Bela hyperventilated as he reached for Mr. Wiglet. He gasped for breath and fell to the floor, screaming.
“Good work, son. You get an A."
Panting, she walked down the stairs and into the foyer. She grabbed her coat from the hook next to the front door and instinctively felt for the keys to her Lincoln. Mr. Wiglet jingled as she tucked him under her armpit, tail exposed.
“I’ll bring your change,” she called up the stairs. “I’m just going down the street to Johnson’s.” She c
losed the door behind her.
“It’s not fair!” Bela howled. He drooled and pounded his heels into the carpet. Margaret ignored his screaming and hummed as she walked to her car.
PENSACOLA, FLORIDA
1959
Margaret
Eighteen-year-old Margaret’s parents consistently demonstrated that life would be better if she were a boy.
Her father doted on her younger brother. He complimented the unbecoming ducktail that the boy insisted on at the barber shop. He praised his banal attempts at artwork inspired by paint-by-number guides and cereal box renderings. He encouraged the boy’s fascination with anything and everything pertaining to race cars.
“I should have been born a boy,” Margaret confided to her mother one evening as she opened the refrigerator door and retrieved a jar of peanut butter and a loaf of bread. “Then I, too, could live out my existence with an astounding lack of taste and everybody would still kiss my ass.”
“Language, young lady. Language!” her mother admonished. She wiped the refrigerator handle behind Margaret with a Lysol-saturated cloth.
“Where’s Dad, anyway?” Margaret huffed. She opened a drawer and selected a butter knife. “I’m starving. Why do we have to wait for him to start dinner on the nights that his trials run late?”
“Manners, young lady. Manners!” Her mother’s tone was simplistic. She waited until Margaret had walked to the opposite side of the kitchen and sat down at the breakfast nook before carefully wiping down the drawer handle. “Your father,” she recited, “is a very important professional man who works very hard to support us. It isn’t easy being a lawyer, you know.”
“Then why are we so piss poor if he’s such a big time hot shot?”
Her mother followed her to the breakfast nook, cloth poised and ready for battle. Margaret shielded her face and cursed.