The Color of Family (39 page)

As she put the fish and the kale in their serving dishes, she thought of what name she might want for the baby. There was Michael, which she thought was a nice enough, even downright lyrical name, but who wasn't named Michael, she thought. Then she thought of all the
J
names she could think of—Jason, Jacob, Justin, Jerry, James, Joseph, Jonathan, John. But then she stopped herself because none of the
J
names would be suitable for her grandson, who was, after all, someone quite special. So she asked Junior, “Have you thought of a name for the baby?”

Junior distractedly answered, “No. But listen. So yesterday I get this call from the emergency room to come down because there's a patient there asking only for me. So I get down there and it's this pianist who teaches down at Peabody and he's broken his wrist. Anyway, he tells me that he was told by somebody that I'm the best orthopedic surgeon. He said the name of the person who told him this, but it didn't ring any bells.”

But before she would give him a chance to finish, Antonia cut Junior off when she exclaimed, “Oh my goodness! Now that's just a great thing, that somebody recommended you so highly to him. It doesn't surprise me, though.”

“Well, thank you, sweetheart,” Junior said with a quickness that said he simply wanted to get on with the story. “Anyway, I set his wrist because it was a simple break, you know. Nothing at all that would need surgery, so I put it in a cast and all. Nice, clean, neat. But today, he comes back to the hospital to see me with all this gratitude for saving his career and invites us to a soiree at his house. Now, he has all this gratitude over me tending to his simple break that only needed a cast, and I told him it was just a simple break, but all he can think is that I've saved his career. And all I know is that it won't be broken anymore.”

“So, did you accept the invitation?”

“Oh yeah. It's for Friday afternoon around four.”

Antonia stared off into space as she tried to imagine what she might wear. Then she looked desperately to Junior and asked with equal eagerness, “Should I go out and get something new to wear?”

“No indeed. You don't need to do all of that. There's plenty in your closet to choose from. Besides, you know, this really isn't our kind of thing, but I accepted out of courtesy, since this guy is so grateful and feels he must do something for me.”

“Yeah, well I know it's not our kind of thing, and especially not our kind of crowd,” she said pensively. “Still, it came up so out of the blue, and something that puts us in the position to know more about the world of a pianist that it makes me feel as if we almost
have
to go. That it's fated that we go.”

“I guess,” Junior said. “I don't know, though. I haven't thought about it that deeply. It is what it is—an invitation.”

Antonia didn't say anything for several weighty seconds, thinking that perhaps she had put far too much meaning into an afternoon in which she and Junior will most likely merely honor their invitation with a fleeting appearance—because they were nothing if not well-mannered. So because she did not want to walk into the man's house to hear his name for the first time the moment they'd be introduced, she asked Junior, “What's his name?”

“Larson Fletcher.”

“G
ive me a chance to get there,” Antonia snapped at Junior as she hurried down the hall, straightening the twisted chain on her fancy purse. “What if he opens the door and you're standing there by yourself? Don't ring the bell till I get there.”

Junior waited for her to get into her place beside him, then rang the bell. “There now, are you satisfied? Besides, nobody could open the door that fast.”

Just then, the door flew open as if on some kind of command from Antonia that would show Junior just how wrong he could be. Someone could, indeed, open the door that fast.

“Well, hello, Dr. Jackson,” Larson said. Then he looked at Antonia, extended a hand, and replied, “And you must be Mrs. Jackson. Please come in. I'm so glad you could come.”

“It was so nice of you to invite us,” Junior said. “All I did was set your wrist into a cast.”

Larson stepped back as if to see all of Junior, then said in a tone that seemed meant to set Junior straight, “All you did was save my career. Do you know how many hacks out there set broken bones wrong? This here just feels right.” And he held up his arm for Antonia to see.

“Well, I've always known he was talented” was all she said.

As Larson took their coats, he started down what seemed as if it would be quite a long and winding road of explanation, telling them that the party started out as a friendly little get-together.
After all, he proclaimed with the flailing of his one good arm and hand, he and his wife give these soirees frequently. But as their list of invitees grew and grew, Larson said with all the drama in his intonation and hand-waving that would normally accompany an interesting story, it just made sense to turn it into what it had been screaming to become.

So as Antonia stood there staring at him, she knew without very little doubt that Junior wouldn't be on the page with her. He had, to her, no other sense besides the five with which he was born. And when she felt the questioning eyes of Larson, she covered quickly when she asked, “So you say you and your wife give these parties frequently?”

“Oh yes. As far as I'm concerned, what's the point in being a musician in the most non-New York City city in the world if you don't make your own excitement for yourself and others in your own home?”

“Well, I guess that's one way of looking at it,” Antonia said with a most feminine laugh that didn't completely resonate with this man. So without a response, she said, “Tell me, then, how will you give this party its New York City excitement?”

“Well, in different ways,” Larson said, as he handed Antonia's and Junior's coats off to some man who had come to him obviously at his implicit command. “For example, Antonia, you have an accent that has the sweetest, most lyrical southern lilt at the end of every single thing you say. But it's not a twang, so I'm guessing that you're from somewhere way south of here, but have been up here for quite some time. Am I right?”

“Yes, you are,” she said, dragging out that last syllable as if it had far too much heft to simply say it and then leave it be. Then with widened eyes that said she just might have had something to declare, she smiled at Junior as if she had just been mystified by some sideshow conjurer. She took the glass of champagne Junior handed her from the waiter's tray who was passing slowly by. Then she continued, “We're both from New Orleans. But no one ever guesses that.”

“Well, if you had given me a little more time, I would have,” Larson said, sharing a laugh with Antonia and Junior.

Junior sipped from his champagne, then said, “So, I guess you're not from here since you're trying to recreate New York City
in the most—what is it you said, ‘the most non-New York City city in the world'?”

Larson smiled with a certain arrogance that was nearly undetectable, then said, “Why of course not. I'm from NYC. But this place, in its way, has things to offer, just not on the same scale. What drives me crazy about Baltimore, I have to say, is that the city's sidewalks roll up somewhere around eleven. If you don't have a nine-to-five schedule, it can feel very limiting.”

“Yes, I can imagine,” Antonia said as she took a swallow of champagne, knowing full well that not only couldn't she imagine, she really didn't care.

Larson moved closer to Antonia, then said, almost apologetically, “But don't think for a moment that these sort of genteel parlor games are the limit here. I've turned this party into a reception for a former student of mine who's moved back to Baltimore and is giving his first concert here. I'm so excited, and so proud of him. He's living, in a way, the life that I wanted. But what is it they say—‘Those who can, do. Those who can't, teach.'”

Antonia knew that this was her turn, either because she was the only woman in the group or because someone needed to salve such an indictment, but all she could do was stare into the face of fate. Stare as if she had been struck in such a way that words would not bond with her voice for any readily understandable thought. If this wasn't one of those serendipitous moments, then they simply didn't exist. In a voice smaller than she'd ever heard come from herself, she asked, “Clayton Cannon was your student?”

“Yes, he was, and in a way still is,” Larson said with a prideful grin. Then, as if it had suddenly hit him, he said, “Oh, and you must know all about him, being that he's from New Orleans.”

“Yes, he's the pride of the Big Easy,” Junior said as he finished his glass of champagne and looked across the rim of the glass with desperate eyes that were so alive with some sort of passion they could nearly speak.

She understood that language, the one his eyes spoke. And boy, did she ever want to give in to their command, because she knew what they wanted. The problem for her, though, was that there was not one miniscule part of her reasoning that believed this was merely a bizarre coincidence into which she and Junior had just miraculously tripped. No, this was akin to a tap on the shoulder
by God; except God didn't just tap to get her attention. With this, she believed, He had just thrown a massive hard red-clay brick smack into the center of her forehead in a gesture meant to stun her so that from that point on she would have to know that if she were going to bring her nephew home, only her tenacity could make it happen. Antonia handed her empty glass to Junior as a waiter neared. Then she said to Larson, “I would love nothing more than to meet Clayton Cannon again.”

“You've met him before?” Larson said with surprise.

And because Antonia knew she didn't necessarily have to, but if she did, it would certainly take that look of wonder out of Larson's eyes, she elaborated. “I met him not so long ago down at Harbor Place. We were both there for lunch, and he invited me to share his table when he saw me looking for one.”

“Oh, that's just like him,” Larson said, smiling as if he were bragging about a son. “He's a good person.”

“Yes,” Junior said desperately as he put his and Antonia's empty glasses on the passing tray. “That's exactly what I told Antonia when she told me the story. Would you excuse us for a minute?” he said, taking Antonia's arm firmly and moving them away from Larson's earshot. And as soon as they were far enough away, Junior started, “Antonia, now I know what you're thinking.”

“You have no idea what I'm thinking,” Antonia said with a particular edginess as she grabbed her arm away to make herself clear.

Then taking a half-step back, Junior looked determinedly at her. “Oh, I don't, huh? Well, how about this. You're thinking that this is a moment God must have sent to you. Only mere fate brings coincidences, is what you're thinking. But God, He sends you what's meant to be.” He stepped closer to her again, then asked, “Am I right?”

“Well, if you know, then why ask? What's the point of all this close, quiet talk? Let's just let God send what's meant to be,” she said plainly, yet with a clearly resolved passion. She gazed around the room as the doorbell rang, then she turned to Junior and said, “I really don't know what's going to happen here tonight. I really don't.” And she didn't. She only smiled as she watched Clayton Cannon step across the threshold into the room. Behind him was
Susan, his wife, she knew, and next to Susan was Agnes. But even with both of them in his presence, all she could see was Clayton because in her mind he was positively glowing, bringing a light into the room that only the deserving, like she, could come close enough in which to bask. In that room, Clayton was all that really mattered.

As if he'd just seen gold across the room, Larson's eyes lit when he saw Clayton, nearly at the same time Antonia saw him. So Larson walked over to the Jacksons and said, “Please come with me, Antonia and Dr. Jackson. I had no idea that I would have at this party the present for Clayton of two, count them, two people from New Orleans. He'll be tickled. Nobody will be able to tear him away.” So Larson grabbed Antonia's hand and snaked his way through the crowd, with her hanging on in tow. Junior had no place else to go but to follow his wife over to where Clayton stood.

When Clayton turned around toward Larson, he saw Antonia as if he could see only her. “Miss Antonia?” he asked as he walked closer, moving farther from his wife and mother.

“Yes, it's me,” Antonia said quietly. Then she reached for Junior's hand and pulled him closer, and said in a diffident manner, as if she was expected to explain, “This is my husband, Dr. Jackson. He fixed Larson's broken wrist, and Larson was kind enough to invite us here tonight. We only found out just about fifteen minutes ago that this reception was for you. What an honor it is for us to be here.”

“And what a coincidence!” he said, bending to kiss her cheek and lightly hug her. When he stood straight again, he took Junior's hand firmly and said, “It's a real pleasure, Dr. Jackson.”

“Please call me Junior,” he said smiling as if he were struck in some way.

“I sure will. Thank you,” Clayton said humbly. Then, heading toward Larson for a hug, Clayton said, “So, Larson, I can't tell you how nice it is that you'd do this for me.”

“For you, Clayton, it is never going out of my way,” Larson said, hugging Clayton as if he were Larson's personal pride. “But I have an even bigger gift, which, since you already know Antonia, you may already know. But Junior and Antonia here are from New Orleans.”

“Oh yeah! I do remember you told me that, Miss Antonia,”
Clayton exclaimed with an ebullient laugh that seemed to linger sweetly. “Boy, Larson, this is such a treat, having New Orleans natives at a party for me. This has got to be good luck. And Miss Antonia, you know my mother, too, don't you?”

Antonia's smile faded to something that only slightly resembled its former joy. But she answered, “Yes, Clayton. Yes I do know your mother.”

“Mama, come on over here. There's somebody here you know,” Clayton said, turning to look for his mother.

And when he found her, her face slowly fell so low that it wasn't quite clear if she were truly surprised or simply wished she had not been found. And since it was not clear at all, when Clayton called for her again, she walked slowly to Clayton, and Larson, and Junior Jackson,
and
Antonia. When she reached them, she looked only at Antonia and said in a way that tried its best to sound heartfelt but just couldn't make it, “This has got to be the biggest surprise of my life, seeing you here.” Then she hugged Antonia and pulled back but still holding on to Antonia's shoulders while looking her squarely, unblinkingly in the eye. “What on God's green earth are you doing here?”

“Mama,” Clayton answered instead of Antonia, “Dr. Jackson, here, Miss Antonia's husband, took care of Larson when he broke his wrist. That's why it's in a cast.”

Larson held his arm in midair to display his cast. Then said, “It'll be back to new before I know it, thanks to Dr. Jackson.”

The conversation seemed to be lulling until Larson asked, “So Antonia, do the two of you ever get back to New Orleans much?”

“Junior does,” Antonia said, sure she would stop right there, because even though it stayed on the edge of her mind and the tip of her tongue nearly every minute, she wasn't going to announce to them all that Junior had been unfaithful with that awful Cora. So she continued, “I don't go back there terribly often—haven't been back in almost twenty-five years.”

“My goodness!” Larson said. Then gawked at Antonia as if she'd been living with some kind of mental lapse. “A great city like New Orleans. Heck, I'd be back there whenever the wind blew south.”

“Well, it's not so easy for me,” Antonia said, plucking another glass of champagne from a passing tray. She took a sip, then
looked at the floor, then up at no one in particular and continued, “I had a twin brother who was killed in a car crash when I was seventeen.” She took another sip to get through the rest of the story, then said, “We were so close. Knew each others' minds, you know. Anyway, when he died, I had one more torturous year in the place before I went off to college, and when I did, I never looked back. It just didn't seem to make sense if Emeril wasn't there.”

“Well we can all understand about not wanting to go back to a place, or even talk about it once you've left,” Agnes said with every word soaked in a desperation that seemed not to want to talk about New Orleans. “That's how I feel about New York. I'm so relieved that Clayton moved his family away from that place. Thank God I don't have to visit New York anymore.”

Larson looked sideways at Antonia, then cut a quick eye over to Clayton, but went back to Antonia. His forehead creased with the wrinkles of a man whose mind was thinking and crunching and figuring out, then Larson said, “Wait a second! Your
brother's
name was Emeril?”

“That's right,” Antonia confirmed. “Emeril Racine. And the most amazing thing is that my Junior here was almost in that car crash with Emeril and Junior's cousin. Junior just decided not to go with them that day. But I could have lost everything. Thank God I have Junior.”