Daughters (16 page)

She smiled a false smile. “So do I.”

To play it safe, Marie arranged a security escort to and from the hotel for Karen. Fortunately, no further incidents occurred during the remainder of their trip.

They talked about Richard after returning home.

“So what are you going to do?”

“About my marriage, you mean?”

Karen nodded.

“I’ve been thinking about this a lot. And the only thing I’m sure of is that whatever I do won’t have any effect on what Richard does. He’s going to do what he wants to do no matter what. That’s just Richard. So I may as well file for divorce. At least then I’ll have the freedom to see someone else if I want to. And if the judge doesn’t grant the divorce because Richard was convicted of a felony after I left him, then I’ll just have to deal with it.” She glanced at Karen. “What do you think?”

“Or the judge may not grant it for other reasons.”

“Just because it’s not done very often you mean?”

“Something like that. Did your attorney say what he thought the chances were that a judge would grant it?”

“He said it depends on the judge.” Marie met Karen’s gaze. “And Richard knows judges.”

“Is he really that influential?”

“Mr. Cavanaugh did a little checking up on him and said he has potential for being a big earner, and that’s why the Outfit is interested in keeping him around. My guess is that’s why cops and politicians keep him around as well. It’s all about money. Richard is all about money.”

“What about your other issues? What are you going to do about them?” Marie was puzzled, but was pretty sure she knew where Karen was going with her question. “Now that you’re involved with your new family, what are you going to do about…well, you know…who you are.”

Marie stared past Karen, out the window and into the dark night sky. They hadn’t discussed Marie’s race issue since they had the fight. “Until I figure this out, I’ll have to keep pretending I’m white,” she said. Marie shrugged her shoulders and fought to keep back the tears. “I don’t know what else to do.”

The two women sat in awkward silence while they sipped wine. “It’s just not fair,” Marie said softly but with a tense jaw. “At least Negroes with dark skin know where they stand, know their place. It’s not right, but that’s how it is. And as light-skinned as Jonathan is, he’s dark enough so everyone knows who he is. But I don’t even have that!”

Karen smiled a weak smile. “And to think we wouldn’t even be having this conversation if it hadn’t been for that fat Southern…woman. You would never have had a clue you were anything but white.”

Marie’s mind drifted back to the incident with Southern-born and -bred Mrs. Hollingsworth, the woman who had called her a half-breed nigger girl. It had been a life-changing incident. “You’re right. I wouldn’t have had a clue if it hadn’t been for good old Mrs. Hollingsworth. I have her to thank.”

Karen met Marie’s gaze and cocked her head in a once-again-I-don’t-understand-you sort of way. “What would be the worst thing that would happen if you just continued to be white?”

She flinched at Karen’s continued ignorance, or perhaps naiveté. Karen was pushing her again, but Marie was convinced she didn’t even realize it. How could someone be so narrow-minded? “The guilt would eventually consume me.”

“Guilt about…?”

Marie fiddled with her empty wine glass before responding. “Denying the fact that my father is colored. Denying my race.”

“Denying your race.”

“Denying my race.”

“As you are well aware, I know a little something about guilt,” she said, referring to her husband’s suicide. “Guilt is all about something you did. You, my dear, haven’t done anything.”

“The guilt I have is about what I haven’t done, and believe me, that can be just as bad.”

Karen’s eyebrows came together as one. “And exactly what is it again that you haven’t done?”

She knew Karen would never understand. She drew in a big breath and let it out slowly. “By going through life pretending to be white, I’m denying the existence of my Negro heritage.”

“Look, guilt is like a dam that holds you back. You have to break through it. Otherwise, you’ll never reach the other side—another thing I learned in therapy after Ed died,” Karen explained. “And I know we’ve been through this, but at the risk of us getting into another fight, which I don’t want to do, I just have to say this. You’re forgetting about basic human traits, and as a result, you’re shortchanging yourself.”

“I’m not following you.”

“I think you’ve set some unrealistic goals for yourself, your dreams, and it’s just going to end in failure. If you’re more realistic about things, how the races are not compatible, for example, you can set more realistic goals for yourself.”

Now Karen sounded like that little voice in Marie’s head she often tried to ignore. She took a moment to collect her thoughts. “Karen, somewhere in this mixed-up brain of mine, I think I’m somehow ostracizing Negroes by not acknowledging I’m one of them, like they’re inferior or something. And I don’t feel that way at all. In fact, I find that very offensive.”

“Okay, so let’s say you join the Negro side. Then aren’t you ostracizing us whites?”

She cringed at Karen’s choice of words but knew she didn’t mean anything disrespectful by it. “I shouldn’t have to choose. I want to be included in both worlds. I want to be loyal to both sides. I
am
both sides.”

“You can’t change the world, Marie.”

“I know. But I don’t want to have regrets after it’s too late to do something about it.” She had given this considerable thought ever since she had confirmed Jonathan was her father. “Believe me, I wish some light would go on inside my head and guide me in the right direction. Because if I don’t do the right thing, the guilt will continue to be that noose around my neck.”

“Well, I think you’re beating yourself up over something you have no control over.”

Marie sensed Karen was trying to bring closure to the conversation, and that was probably a good thing.

“You’ve tormented yourself over this, and now you’re in a no-win situation.”

Marie digested Karen’s words. “I don’t have the answers, Karen. I wish I did. All I know is living like this is like living without a floor beneath you. Do you know what I mean?” She didn’t give Karen time to answer. “I just wish I knew someone like me, someone who’s faced the same issues as I’m facing, someone who understands what I’m going through and knows what to do.” She heaved a sigh and got up from her chair. “I had hoped that would be my father, but…”

Later that evening and alone with her thoughts, Marie poured herself another glass of wine, turned on the radio, and curled up on the sofa half-listening to Frankie Laine sing “That Lucky Old Sun.”

Show me that river,
Take me across
And wash all my troubles away

Even though she thought Karen might be right about her being in a no-win situation, she wasn’t going to give in. At least not yet.

Like that lucky old sun,
Give me nothin’ to do
But roll around Heaven all day

She thought about her deceased mother and asked herself the same questions she had asked so many times before.
Why didn’t you tell me, Mom, and why couldn’t you have helped me through this when you were alive?

The third glass of wine took effect, and Marie’s thoughts remained with her mother, a mother who had devoted her life to Marie and would have done anything for her. Except tell her who her father was. Was there a special significance to the things her mother didn’t tell her before she died? Or was it that she didn’t know how to deal with it herself? As usual, Marie had more questions than answers.

Before falling asleep that night, she picked up a copy of
The Call
, a weekly Negro newspaper she bought whenever she was in Kansas City. She mindlessly flipped through it, her thoughts still on her mother.

The tiny announcement in the lower right-hand corner of the page caught her attention. “Doretha Scott of Atchison, granddaughter of famed abolitionist and women’s suffragist Harriet Tubman, died in her home yesterday, the cause of her death unknown.”

CHAPTER 11

Paul

“This isn’t good,” Karen said to Marie on the phone. “It’s like World War II all over again.” It was June, 1950, and war had broken out between North and South Korea. President Truman had sent U.S. troops to aid in the defense of South Korea. “Paper said fifteen other countries have sent troops over there. That scares me. Just when I thought things were getting back to normal, this happens. Why do we have to stick our nose in other people’s business? It’s not our war. Damn Koreans.”

“Well, I’m sure there are many factors we don’t know about.” Karen rarely showed much emotion over current events; her reaction to the news surprised Marie. “Before you damn an entire culture of people, though, just remember their soldiers have wives, mothers, fathers, brothers, and sisters just like ours.”

“They’re terrible people. They eat dogs.”

“Karen!”

“Well, they do.”

What frustrated Marie more than anything was that more people likely thought like Karen than not, people who made judgments about an entire group of people based on some of its individuals.
Let someone walk in my shoes for one day. Even Karen.

“Let’s get our minds off war. Would you like to go with me to the antique show at the fairgrounds this weekend?”

“Sure. Maurice is busy with some big case he’s working on. Won’t see him all weekend.”

At the antique show, Marie and Karen meandered arm in arm through dozens of dealer booths. Halfway through, Marie stopped to admire a collection of Roseville pottery. “May I help you with something?” asked the man who tended the booth.

Marie examined the pottery in awe. “I have a couple of pieces in this foxglove design, but nothing like this.”

“Well, if you’re interested in any of them, let me know. I can give you a good price.” He extended his hand. “My name is Paul Foster. I own the Treasure Trove in Leavenworth,” he said with a dimpled grin. He shook Marie’s hand and then handed her his business card. Tall, slim, with tousled, sandy-colored hair, Marie found him to be boyishly handsome.

The two of them chatted about his collection of pottery. Karen wandered over to another booth where there were items of more interest to her.

“I have more in my shop. If you’re from the area, why don’t you come by someday and have a look?”

She got caught up in the quietness of his eyes for an instant, his sea-green eyes. “Thanks. I may just do that.”

“Well,
he’s
a cutie,” Karen said when Marie caught up to her. She hooked Marie’s arm. “Wasn’t he?”

Marie didn’t give her the satisfaction of a smile. “Mm-hmm.”

“And he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, either.” She gave Marie’s arm a squeeze. “I saw the way he was looking at you.”

“Cut it out, Karen,” Marie whispered roughly, “and keep your voice down. I’m just interested in his pottery, that’s all. But…he did invite me to visit his shop in Leavenworth. Want to come with me?”

“Nope. He’s
all
yours.”

“You just don’t get it,” Marie said. They walked to the next building. Marie glanced at the bag Karen carried. “What did you find?”

“Coolest set of cuffs ever. English Dowlers.”

“You’re sick, Karen.” Karen’s bizarre collection of antique handcuffs, leg irons, and chain nippers, also known as come-alongs, constantly amused Marie. Karen claimed she couldn’t remember exactly how she got started collecting them, which made the whole thing even more bizarre. They finished the show and went home.

Marie decided to visit the Treasure Trove the following weekend. She thought about her father as she drove down the back roads to Leavenworth, roads rich with horse ranches similar to the one he owned. She pictured him riding one of his horses, sitting so tall in the saddle with his head held high. Her mind wandered to her Christmas visit with him six months earlier. He rode with such purpose, as if to dare anyone to challenge him. She longed for that kind of confidence.

Located on the corner of Cherokee and 6
^th
Street, right in the heart of the quaint downtown district, the Treasure Trove resembled an old Victorian home, its storefront complete with gingerbread trim, shutters, and stained glass windows. Two rocking chairs sat on each side of an old rain barrel on the wraparound front porch.

More excited than she expected to be, she walked inside and was greeted by the familiar smell of a large collection of antiques. Paul’s cheery greeting soon pulled her back to the present.

“Hi!” His eyes were wide and his smile open, letting her know he recognized her right away. “I was hoping you’d come in for a visit.”

He turned around toward the pale young woman who stood on the other side of the main room. Noticeably underweight, she wore orthopedic shoes and an ill-fitting brown dress. “Beth, can you please mind the store while I show this young lady around?”

The woman nodded. She unclenched her bony hands and pointed. “There’s a fresh pot of coffee and some cookies on the buffet…” Her soft voice gradually faded to nothing.

Paul was all smiles. “I’m so glad you came in...” He stopped mid-sentence. “I’m sorry. I don’t know your name.”