“Whatever,” Ruth said.
“But I was the only one who loved him! And Mommy, she loved him too. But everyone else said he was ugly. Why did the Bogeymen want
him
? Why couldn’t they take a
different
bear? A bear that belonged to another girl?”
“Because, baby,” Ruth replied softly, “Bogeymen take everything they want,
whenever
they want. There is no rhyme or reason to what they do.” She shook the black glittery sand off her towel and shuffled her body into a better tanning position. She had turned very brown. Brown like treacle in a treacle tart, Grace thought.
“Baby?” Ruth went on, looking at the surfers in the distance waiting for the next big wave. “There is something very serious I need to tell you. And I’m so sorry that you don’t have Pidgey O Dollars to comfort you, but look, I have a surprise!” She stopped, turned her head away from the surfers and pulled a teddy out of her beach bag. It was bright yellow with big black shiny eyes that were plastic, and it had a pointy mouth. Grace thought it looked like one of those bears at a fairground that you win by throwing beanbags. She didn’t want to hurt the bear’s feelings but she thought it was Hideous. She wondered if bears like this had souls. She guessed so. Maybe they needed to be loved first to get the soul ticking. But she didn’t think she could love this poor, ugly bear. Her mom only picked out hand-made bears for her. Some of them came all the way from Germany, or Hamleys in London, or FAO Schwartz in New York City. This bear looked like it came from a factory. Like the Factory Farming her mom told her about that was BAD. This yellow bear had been Factory Farmed. It was obvious.
“Look baby, isn’t he cute?” Ruth whispered. “Or maybe it’s a she. What do you want to name this bear?” Ruth was whispering because she had told Grace that in public, they must talk Very Quietly until Grace learned to speak Spanish, and then they could talk loudly again. Mama Ruth’s voice was strange when she spoke Spanish. It was like a song, up and down, and she spoke through her nose a lot. She gave Grace Spanish lessons every morning and then again before bed. She read her books in Spanish, and at the hotel they watched Walt Disney films, only in Spanish. They sounded terrible. The voice of John Smith from
Pocahontas
called himself John Ey-smith. Luckily, Grace already knew the stories so she could understand everything. But all she heard was Spanish, Spanish,
Spanish
. Mama Ruth had told her not to speak to anyone who spoke English because some of them were agents for the Bogeymen.
“Does this yellow bear have a soul?” Grace asked.
Ruth snorted with laughter. “Of course not, silly. Teddy bears don’t have souls.”
“They do too! Pidgey O Dollars has a soul and Blueby and Carrot. All my teddies have souls!”
Ruth rearranged her legs. “Well that’s nonsense. Only humans have souls.”
Grace shouted, “That’s not true! Animals have souls too. Dogs have souls. Dog is God spelled backwards!”
“Now you’re being a naughty girl. What would God say if He heard you say things like that? Huh? That’s blasphemous.”
Mama Ruth had used that word before. Blast Famous. And it was always when she spoke about God. Her God was not like her dad’s God who lived in the flowers. No, not at all. Mama Ruth’s God was mean and spiteful.
Grace watched Mama Ruth play with the little gold cross around her neck. That’s right, she almost forgot—she wasn’t allowed to say that word, “Ruth,” ever again, or even think it in her head.
“Mama
Ruth,
” Grace mumbled, and then louder, “Ruth, Ruth. RUTH!”
“Babeeeey? What did I tell you? I explained that my name was now Rocío. It means dew in Spanish. Like the dew on morning grass. It’s prettier than my old name. I don’t want to hear that other R-word ever again. It’s history. So is your old G-name. Something in the past. Do you understand? I am Rocío. And
your
new name is Adela. Like we agreed.”
Grace dug her tiny nails into the glittery sand. “But I don’t
want
to be Adela.”
“But baby, you chose that name yourself. You picked that name from
The Little Mermaid
, you thought it was pretty.”
“I want Pidgey O Dollars back!”
“But he’s
gone
, baby. There’s nothing we can do about it now.” Mama Ruth sat up on her towel. “Come here, I need to tell you something.” She took Grace by the hand and placed her between her slippery knees—she smelled like sweet cake covered in syrup sauce. “You know that I told you that the plane was delayed and we couldn’t get to Saginaw?” She said “Saginaw” so quietly that Grace could hardly hear. “Well, there has been some terrible news. Just terrible. But maybe you aren’t ready to hear it. I’m sorry, baby. Maybe I should break it to you next week when you’re feeling happier.”
Grace had been getting used to this. Yes, no. Up, down. Mama Ruth would say one thing, and then do something else. Sometimes she would promise they’d have tourist food for dinner but then they’d end up eating tamales or
papusas
instead. Or she’d promise they could see
Beauty and The Beast
in American but then say they had to see it in Spanish. Or she’d change her mind at the last second about the hotel they would be staying at, or catch a different bus than the one she’d promised.
“Baby?”
“
What
?”
“Are you ready for the bad news?”
“I
guess
so.” Pidgey O Dollars had been stolen by the Bogeymen. She didn’t have the Computer Engineer Barbie Doll because they didn’t sell them here. The plane that was going to take them to Saginaw to see her mom and dad had broken down. She was forced to wear new clothes that didn’t even look nice—she looked like a boy. Hideous Yellow Teddy Bear. Ugly Boy Haircut. Nothing could be worse than it already was.
Mama Ruth held her close. Her body was pressing oil and sticky scratchy black sand all over her swimsuit. But Grace didn’t care; she hated this new swimsuit anyway. Let it get yukky, she thought.
I don’t care
!
“Baby, I’m so sorry. I really am.” Ruth had wet, sad eyes when she said it. “Your mommy? Your mommy has passed away.” She paused and kissed Grace on her forehead and squeezed her even tighter. “But the good news is that
I
can be your mommy now.”
Sylvia
S
ylvia stood at the back of the church, the only white woman there. But nobody stared at her, nobody begrudged her presence—quite the reverse: on her way in several people had said, “welcome to our church” and smiled. One lady, dressed in a flamboyant red hat, asked her where she had been all these years.
Why, Sylvia wondered, didn’t everyone go to places of worship like this? This was what praise was all about. She actually felt close to God.
She reflected on the hours she had wasted as a girl, bored out of her mind at her own dull church, miming along to the same old organ songs, listening to the clergyman drone on with tight lips, no smile, about the duty they all had to be good Christians. Her mind was always on something else: school, lists, plans, cheerleading. It was different here; she was actually praying with her heart—beseeching God for Grace’s safe return. She felt so much hope in this church. The entire congregation was singing—the gospel music made people sway and dance—she felt as if she were at a rock concert. Sweeps of color flashed about the room. Women in purple and fuchsia pink, their hats like flying saucers or tropical birds, blocking dashes of bright yellow or orange—blocking the other worshippers in the front row. The colors sashayed, shimmied and jived. Pitch-perfect notes, like waves, danced through the room, reaching corners and resting for a second on the crimson carpet, before lifting up again like sweet bells jingling in the air.
The pastor had a sense of humor. Sylvia fixed her gaze on his warm smile and clicked her eyes shut and open, like a camera. She wanted to take a snapshot of his smile and save it in her album of memories, keep it in her mind’s eye for the tough times ahead. She watched him in motion. Little freckles dotted his dark skin, and his robe swung like a slow pendulum when he turned in different directions to speak to his flock. When he got excited, the fabric of his garment swished like the tail of a great cat. He was talking about releasing control, having the guts to let the Lord do the hard work for you, that no matter how hard you try to control your life, it had a way of sneaking up behind you. “And
astonishing
you.” He said that God could be like your “personal assistant,” your “right hand man,” but “the great thing is you don’t even have to pay him! He does all that work for
free
! A
thank you
might be nice, though,” he cried, “just a friendly thank you once in a while goes a long way with the Lord God Almighty.”
Jacqueline stood by Sylvia, in her white suit and hat. Still. Plaintive. She was older than Sylvia remembered. She wore her hair swept up in a loose bun, revealing her fine bone structure, her straight, graceful nose. Like the pastor’s, it was also peppered with freckles. Sylvia had always thought Jacqueline so beautiful. She originated from the West Indies, from Trinidad, and had come to Michigan when she was six years old. She had one daughter and four grandchildren, all now at college. Sylvia watched her out of the side of her left eye. She wondered if Jacqueline was mulling over her father’s funeral the day before, and asking herself,
what next
? Was she sad, or accepting? Or both? She had acted like a psychologist to Sylvia’s mother all those years. Never judging, always there, listening, nodding her head, and every now and then throwing in a gentle suggestion, her quiet voice wise, sagacious. Sally, Sylvia’s mother, would say, “Huh, Jacqueline, I hadn’t thought of it that way—very interesting,” or, “Really? You think so? You really think that’s a good plan?” She would ask Jacqueline what outfit she should wear. What flowers would go well for the party she’d be giving that weekend. Where she should hang a particular painting or place a vase. Sally even wanted Jacqueline’s opinion on Sylvia’s choice of college.
After the service was over, Sylvia rode home with her. She’d left the Buick behind on purpose. The two hadn’t had a chance to talk at the funeral, especially with everyone gathering around Sylvia like butterflies on a spring flower, to commiserate about Grace. Although she didn’t feel like a spring flower at all, but like a half-eaten fruit going bad, because guilt and remorse were nibbling at her.
It felt to her as if everyone was almost grateful to not have to mention her father or the overdose. It had all been glossed over and passed off as “accidental” but perhaps they had an inkling? They all concentrated on Grace’s disappearance instead. Everyone was doing their bit: chain e-mails, Facebook posts, telephone calls, flyers. Middle America was kind. These were wholesome, caring people who had a sense of community and loyalty. Sylvia never thought she’d even imagine it, but the idea of coming home to Saginaw was a welcoming relief. It was where her heart lay. She was glad, now, that Tommy had wiped LA off the table.
Jacqueline adjusted her seatbelt and checked the rear-view mirror. She seemed too fragile for this vast dinosaur of a car, the same old Oldsmobile she’d had for nearly thirty years. “So what did you think of our new pastor?”
Sylvia’s lips twitched a smile. “I thought he was wonderful, a real live spark.”
“He’s that alright. Some of the old folks think he’s a little too crazy with his ideas.”
“Are there always more women than men at your church?”
“You noticed that too, huh? The congregations of African American churches are predominantly women yet the pastors of our churches are nearly all male! Why do you think that is? Why aren’t black women serving as spiritual leaders? That is something I sure as sugar would like to know. I don’t know what other female churchgoers make of that, but I do wonder. Church, I guess, is more important to us than to the men. It must be, or why wouldn’t more of them show up?”
“I guess the Catholics,” Sylvia added, “must be really cheesed off. I mean, women don’t figure
at all
as their leaders.”
“Uh-huh.” Jacqueline was concentrating on maneuvering the huge steering wheel, which she sat sunken behind like a tiny child—her almond eyes fixed on the labyrinth of the parking lot from which she was trying to exit. “It’s clear as daylight that we need more women clergy and for women to be in positions of pastoral leadership. We are in the twenty-first century! But I don’t even know if women themselves have pondered much on this gender inequality in the church. They’re too busy worrying about what dress to put on!”
Sylvia nibbled her lower lip. Only half an ear was taking in what Jacqueline was saying. She was thinking about Grace twenty-four hours a day. But also chugging away in her motor-mind was the mystery of her half-brother, LeRoy. Did Jacqueline know about the box of letters? She assumed that she must have been aware that it was in the closet. Maybe she even put it there herself. But its contents? Should she say something or just let it rest? She could trust her, she was sure. Jacqueline had never, in thirty-six years, breached her confidence or that of her parents. But did she really need to burden her with this can of worms—the disillusionment of who her father was? Or rather, what he’d done?
“Did you trust Daddy?” Sylvia asked suddenly.
Jacqueline looked over at Sylvia with a quizzical look as if she’d said something ridiculous. “Yes siree, I trusted that old fool with all my heart. He never let me down. Not once.”
But he let down your side
, Sylvia thought. Not owning up to having an African American child was cowardice.
“Was he honest with Mom?”
Jacqueline squinted. “Now honey, what is that supposed to mean?”
“Did he always tell her the truth?”
“Does
anybody
always tell the truth?”
“Sometimes things unsaid are as good as lies,” Sylvia ventured, also thinking of Tommy and the Bel Ange. She watched Jacqueline’s face for a reaction. But she stared ahead, peeping through the steering wheel of her colossal ship of a car.