The Color of Family (23 page)

Ellen looked into her mother's eyes with an empathy for her pain that had, till now, been elusive. She understood the connection, and as naturally, as basic as air, Uncle Emeril was still the foundation of it all. “I think that's what's going to happen to you. You're going to die from your grief over Uncle Emeril's death.”

Antonia's mouth hung open in a way that seemed as if it would be forever void of what to say to Ellen. Then with a laugh that sat on the edge of something that was anything but humorous, she said, “Ellen, what would make you say something like that?”

“Because nothing in the world is going to make you get over his death. That's why—” She stopped before telling her mother of
the plan, because given the state of things—the baby that could come early, those murderers on the loose that won't let her sleep—she couldn't possibly be sure of the prudence of anything said or done.

“That's why what, Ellen? What is it you want to say?”

“Ma, I just don't think you've ever gotten over the death of Uncle Emeril, and as a result, maybe your grief has digressed over the years since he's died into some sort of obsession with him that makes you also obsess on the outlandish possibility that Clayton Cannon is his son. That's why Aaron and Poppa agreed with me last night when I suggested that maybe you need to see someone about it all, because it's gotten so out of hand now. Ma, I want this baby to grow up knowing his grandmother, but more than that, I want his grandmother to know him. I don't want you to lose your mind and end up dying from grief.”

Antonia got up and went to the window where she stood looking out at the gray and white day. She folded her arms together as if trying to keep herself bound together tightly, then turned to face Ellen with dull and hurt-filled eyes and said, “Ellen, you've said things like this before, but I always thought it was just talk. I never in a million years really thought you were serious. So that's what you all were doing last night over at Aaron's?”

“Yes. We talked about it, and we agreed that we'd all like some answers so that what you've done all these years with the whole Clayton Cannon thing can make sense to us.” Ellen got herself up, with some effort, and went to her mother because she knew she had to get to her mother and touch her, and let her feel the warmth of a daughter's heart that missed the part of her mother that had been buried with Emeril. So Ellen wedged her arm into the tight fold of her mother's arms, and when her mother loosened to let her completely in, she held on to Antonia like a child afraid of imagined bogeys in the dark. And when her mother held her in return, it was all complete. “Ma, I don't want to live with this fear anymore. Can you please do this for me? I just need to know if there's an explanation for why you can't live your life without imposing that man Clayton Cannon where he doesn't belong.”

Antonia squeezed Ellen tighter to her, without showing Ellen her bemused eyes and tightened jaws that implied she possibly
had something altogether different on her mind to say other than what she did. “I'll see whomever you want me to see, Ellen. If it will make you happy or take your fears away and give you peace, I'll do it. And believe me, I will tell this doctor everything that he needs to know. There's nothing I wouldn't do for the happiness of my children, and that's something you'll learn when you have that baby. But there's something you need to consider that I don't think you've given any thought to. What if I see this doctor, and he finds me in perfect psychological form? What if your fears aren't abated after this?”

“What are you asking me, Ma? Are you asking me if I'll believe that Clayton Cannon is Uncle Emeril's son if the doctor says you don't have an unhealthy obsession with him?”

“I suppose that is what I want to know.”

Ellen slid from her mother's embrace and went slowly back toward her spot on the sofa, hoping that slowness would give her enough time to think about the gorilla sitting arrogantly in the middle of the room to which she'd never paid attention. What would she do? Would the only alternative, she asked herself, be acceptance of her mother's obsession, which in fact would no longer be an obsession but rather her mother's truth, possibly? She laughed ironically as she sat, wondering why she hadn't seen it coming, then said, “I don't know, Ma.”

“You don't know because you've never thought of any possibility other than me being troubled? Or is it that you don't know because there's something that's keeping you from knowing?”

Ellen lowered her head feeling the full throttle of shame only a mother can impose with nothing more than a disappointed stare. And as she picked nervously at her thumbnail she couldn't look at the discontent she knew was in her mother's eyes when she responded sullenly, “I just don't know, Ma.”

Just as the whistle of the teakettle made its way into the room, the doorbell decided to keep it company. Ellen went to get up, but when her mother started to the door, she settled herself back down and said, “I wonder who that could be?”

“Most likely it's your father. I asked him to pick me up from here because I took a cab downtown. Some of these roads are still icy and slippery and I didn't want to drive,” Antonia said as she disappeared into the hallway to open the door.

Ellen heard her father's voice faintly, then heard the affection of her parents exchanging lip-kisses. And she wondered when it would go away, that prickly chill that would crawl all over the back of her ears and the base of her neck that said, somehow, her parents were doing something so very anti-parent. Just as long as she didn't have to see it, she thought, the urge to giggle and blush and hide her face would be forever kept at bay. “Hi, Poppa,” she yelled hoping it would end her discomfort by breaking up the affection.

“Hello, sweetheart,” Junior said, walking into the living room behind Antonia, who was carrying his coat. “How're you doing today?”

“I'm okay, Poppa. I'm just tired as a dog.”

“That's because she hasn't gotten any sleep,” Antonia said with a soft compassion as she stood at Junior's side with her arms crossed, both of them looking down at Ellen from the top of the steps as she sat in the valley of the living room.

“Yeah, my mind just keeps going around and around with all kinds of craziness.”

“Well, from what I can remember with your mother, that's pretty common at the end of the pregnancy. She just couldn't seem to turn her mind off, thinking about the baby and what she needed to do to get ready. Why, I remember one night, when she was expecting you, she woke me up at three in the morning because she didn't know anything about the kindergarten teachers down there at Gwynns Falls Elementary school.” He laughed heartily, then turned to Antonia as he descended the steps and asked with the tenderness of his memories, “Do you remember that?”

“Yes, I do, Junior,” Antonia said with an edginess that seemed offended by the effrontery. She followed him down the steps and added, “But you have to think about those things. There are people who do far crazier things when they're expecting children, particularly when it comes to naming them.”

Junior looked questioningly at Antonia. “Who said anything about naming children?”

“I'm just saying,” she said evenly.

“Well, all I'm saying is that Ellen hadn't even been born yet, and you were worried about something she wasn't even going to do for another five years.”

“That's right,” Antonia said with a definite defiance. “I stood by it then, and I stand by it now.”

Ellen laughed with an absolute abandon of everything that had troubled her. After all these years, she thought with wonderment, after raising two children only to have them pack their worldly possessions and go off all too soon to discover the world on their own, her mother and father were still strong in the fully experienced knowledge of their past, and the propinquity of their present, and the expectation of their future. What they had, she thought as she couldn't stop herself from grinning at them, was set inside diamond—rock solid, but forever changing with the natural shimmer from the light of life. And when it occurred to her that she was staring, she pulled herself from them and said, “Poppa, come on and sit down. Rick is making me something to eat and getting some tea for Ma. Do you want anything?”

Just as she asked, Rick appeared with a tray carrying the pasta and tea. He looked with surprise at his father-in-law, as if Junior was the last person he'd expected to see. “How are you, Dr. Jackson?” he said as he set the tray down in front of Ellen, then stood to shake Junior's hand.

“How are you, son? How're you holding up under the pressure?” Junior said as he eased into the chair by the window after helping Antonia ease into its twin on the other side of a small table.

“Oh well, it's nerve wracking, that's for sure. The anxiety of knowing that this baby is really coming is enough to make me shake in my shoes. Last night I slept in my clothes, and most likely I'm going to do the same thing tonight.”

“Oh yeah, Poppa, he's a mess,” Ellen said twirling the skinny pasta onto her fork, as she split her mind between what she was saying and how the pasta really did have the downy texture of what angels' hairs must feel like on the tongue. And while she twirled away, it struck her that Rick wasn't moving fast enough to get her father whatever he wanted, so quick as lightning her humor shifted when she completed, “Rick, get something for my father. I'm sure he wants something.”

“Ellen, honey, I was just about to ask him,” Rick said as if trying to keep tight hold of his patience. Then he turned to Junior and asked, “Dr. Jackson, can I get you anything?”

“Well I'll take a cola if you have one.”

“We sure do. Can I get you something to snack on, like some cheese and crackers?”

“That might be nice,” Junior said.

“Come to think of it, Rick, I wouldn't mind a few myself,” Antonia said.

“No problem,” Rick said as he turned to leave. “I'll just bring a tray.” Then he looked at Ellen, as if he knew he'd be expected to ask, “Honey, are you all set? Can I get you something else?”

“I guess some water, please” was all she said before sliding another forkful in her mouth. And before she took another bite, she said, “So you two don't have to rush back home, do you? Why don't you stay for dinner?”

“Dinner?” Antonia asked, surprised. “I would think that pasta might be your dinner.”

“Well, Ma, dinner's not for another three or four hours. I'm sure I'll be ready to eat a little something for dinner. The point is not what or whether I'll eat, it's that you two don't have to worry about dinner when you get home,
and
I'll get to spend some time with you.”

“Before you send me to the crazy house,” Antonia said jokingly.

Ellen's face fell so suddenly that tears seemed immediate, and then she realized the levity her mother had found in it all. She looked at Antonia then cocked her head one way and the other. There was so much about this child of New Orleans that Ellen would never understand, much in the same way she could never quite get her mind to process that place in the bayou that had a box for every shade in the race of black folks. And it was in this moment that she knew her mother was like the jazz whose roots also grew up out of the Big Easy—never the same way twice, and much more complex than the simplicity of a mere melody. And because of her mother's ability to laugh off something quite so hurtful as her family wanting her to have her mind checked for cobwebs and cracks, Ellen said, “Ma, are you really okay about this? I mean you're joking about it now, but does it hurt you?”

“You told her?” Junior said, regarding Ellen with the shock of his widened eyes.

“Yeah, Poppa, and she said she'd do it.”

Junior sat forward in his seat and turned his whole body
toward Antonia and said, “Antonia, you're really going to do this? I thought you'd kick like a mule.”

“Junior, please. How long have you known me?” And she hesitated as if she'd let him answer, but before he could, she continued, “For as long as I can remember everybody thought I was crazy. Fou-fou. I knew a long time ago that I wasn't crazy. That's always been enough for me. Because whether you're crazy or whether you're sane, somebody, at some point, is always going to think they have cause to question your sanity. Remember that. Both of you.” Then she leaned toward where Ellen sat on the sofa and lowered her voice as if she was attempting to whisper—but not really—and said, “And remember, honey, down south, you don't ask people
if
they have crazy people in their family, you ask which side they're on. It's just your bad luck that they're on both, because this one isn't playing with a completely full deck either,” she said, raising her eyebrows drolly and pointing playfully at Junior. But not so playfully. “Anyway, it's like the Bible says, ye who has the truth lives without fear.”

Ellen let out a child's giggle knowing she was the only one who saw her father shake his head from a years-old vexation and frustration with her mother—his wife—and all those biblical non-quotes. Then, as her laugh faded, she smiled distantly and to no one else, and thought about her baby boy and just what he might think of her, his mother, forty-one years hence. Yet it was a thought too daunting to ponder thoroughly, placing herself across the room in her mother's shoes, sitting with her son and his wife—oh, heaven forbid his wife!—with their talk of having her mind checked for the same cobwebs and cracks that she thinks are in her own mother's mind. And so she looked despondently at her mother and thought about jazz.

 

Aaron sat at his computer fighting against the momentum of his heavy, nodding head that could have slammed his face down onto the keyboard in a solid sleep. After the night he'd just had with Ellen—and until she gets that baby out of her, he thought, any time with her was more than one man should have to bear—and having gotten only an hour of sleep after that, he couldn't imagine how he would get through the newscast. He'd hit a wall hours ago, and now all that was keeping him awake was sheer will.