Mattie's Call (29 page)

Clayton whisked me to Atlanta on my ninth birthday; April Fool's Day in 1984. I'd made a yellow cake in my Easy Bake oven, and before I could lick the milk chocolate frosting from my fingers, Aunt Mavis told me to go outside and play in a tire swing until my ride came. She joined me a few minutes later in the opposite swing, wearing her white nurse's uniform.

We smiled at each other and she said, “Hard decisions have deep consequences.” She stood and gave me a tight hug. “This will make sense when you get older. We're doing this because we love you.”

A speeding, shiny, black Chrysler Laser interrupted my “What do you mean?” The car topped the hill with a plume of smoky dust chasing its fender. The car skidded to a halt, and out jumped Cousin Clayton, a high school English teacher and the family grammarian. Tall, pencil-thin, and rubbing an immaculate goatee, he looked at us, his dark eyes misty from crying.

“Honey, have you heard the news?” he asked Mavis.

“What's wrong?”

“Cousin, Marvin Gaye is dead! His father shot him in the chest earlier today. The grapevine—no pun intended—is saying he was strung out on cocaine and spending hours watching porn videos in his bedroom. He was wearing a maroon bathrobe he'd had on for days. He was convinced someone was going to kill him. I told Russell something wasn't right when we went to Marvin's last concert, but he wouldn't confirm or deny anything,” said Clayton, peppering the rehash with sweeping hand gestures. His purple, short-sleeved cotton dress shirt and tie were soaked, as if he'd run a marathon, and his black slacks were equally wet. Clayton and Georgia heat were archenemies.

“Oh my,” said Mavis, clutching her chest. “What a waste of talent. I bet Russ and the other sound engineers are devastated. I know how you love your entertainers and how much you love Russ's studio stories.” She gave him a suspicious gaze. “Do you remember the terms of our agreement?”

He eyed me swinging. Her words had jolted him back to the purpose of his visit, his mission. “We have her room decorated in pink and white.” To me, he said, “You're going to love your canopy bed and dolls. I found some beautiful dolls on my last trip to India. It makes no sense for a little black girl to be in love with those hideous, pug-faced Cabbage Patch Kids.”

Mavis grabbed Clayton's arm and they walked near the hydrangeas. I eavesdropped, caught fragmented utterances floating in the air. Georgia Mental Hospital. Paranoid Schizophrenia. Mall episode. Long recovery. As they leaned into each other, they stole glances at me and shook their heads in pity. 

Mama was home one day, gone the next. I knew she wasn't dead. Death always ushered in visitors, fried chicken, potato salad, and a slew of relatives who only appeared for funerals or when spoils were divided.

“Toni, go inside and get your suitcase,” said Aunt Mavis. “You're going to Atlanta to stay with Cousin Clayton a few months. You'll be back in time for school in September.”

“What about my classes?”

“Clayton pulled some strings. You'll be in a magnet school until June.”

I peeled my body from the swing and ran to my room. My jelly shoes squeaked and a small breeze lifted my sundress. I zipped my packed suitcase and thought of my older sister, Willa. Last year, Mama sent her to live with our aunts, Norlyza and Carrie Bell. After making me test the food Willa prepared, Mama said she was poisoning our food with arsenic and d-CON pellets. I stepped onto the porch, suitcase in my left hand, Dream Skater doll in my right. I tiptoed into the middle of the adults' conversation.

Clayton looked at Mavis. “So when is Greta coming home?”

“It'll be a while. Raymond and I have to nurse her back to health again. We can't keep her at the house, so she's at the hospital. She's flushing her meds down the toilet.”

“Do you think the episode had something to do with the divorce?”

“Hard to say. You know Greta has blue genes,” said Mavis, winking at Clayton.

“Blue genes, indeed,” he said.

“Mama has lots of blue jeans,” I added. “I want the picture of her in the tank top and Lee jeans. I loved the checkered dress I wore. Daddy was grinning and Mama had that half-smile on her face. I sat between them on the motorcycle in that picture. Remember, Aunt Mavis?”

“How could I forget? That particular cookout is one of the happiest recollections of my brother before he…” Her voice trailed off with the memory.

“What a cute suitcase,” said Clayton, lightening the mood. I followed him as he placed it in the backseat.

Aunt Mavis tightened my ponytail holder and hugged me again as I sat in the car. She closed my door and made Clayton promise to call her when we arrived in Atlanta. Clayton pulled down a pair of Ray-Bans from his sun visor. I caressed Dream Skater's hair.

“You ready, Antoinette?”

“Yes, sir. I'm ready.”

“Don't be nervous. This is temporary until your mother gets better. You're with family, so there's nothing to fear.”

“I'm not scared. I'm excited.”

“That's the spirit.”

He slid a bubble wrap container in my lap.

“What is this?” I opened the container and flipped the cassette tape over twice. It read
UNRELEASED
.

“Our little secret. Russ smuggled this out of the studio. Sent it two weeks ago when he was out in L.A. doing studio work on Marvin's latest album. Personally, I don't think this little ditty will see the light of day now that he's gone, but we get to hear it before the rest of the world.”

With that, he plopped in a cassette and we drove away listening to Marvin Gaye extol the sanctified lady saving her thing for Jesus. We became a dynamic duo that day, Wonder Twins passing for straight and sane, heading to Atlanta munching honey-roasted peanuts and drinking ice-cold Coca-Colas.

“Every morning I wake up clothed and in my right mind, I feel all right.”

—Lillian Stanton, Sparta, Georgia

T
hrees. It always comes in threes. How else can I explain my fiancé, Lamonte, knocking on my backdoor, my cell ringing repeatedly, and a slew of reporters standing on my front lawn at seven in the morning? I'm not cut out for this. Not on a regular day and certainly not the morning of my engagement party.

“Baby, let me in,” says Lamonte.

His voice is so sexy he can talk the habit off a nun. I crack the backdoor open and my heart melts when I see him. During the spring and summer months, Lamonte ditches his suits in favor of starched collared shirts, chinos, and spit-shined oxfords. He holds my gaze, not showing any emotion.

“Lamonte, please tell me what's going on,” I demand. I motion for him to come to the patio as I slide the door open.

“You haven't said anything, have you?”

“Said anything about what? Is there something you haven't told me? Is this about the Midtown project?”

Lamonte takes my left hand. I follow him, all towering six feet four inches of him, and sit on his lap at his favorite table in my house in the breakfast nook. We'd picked this one out together on a trip to St. Simons Island last year.

“Toni, baby,” he says, rubbing my left hand and massaging my right shoulder. “This has nothing to do with me. It's about you. Actually, your family.”

“Is Clay in trouble?”

“I think you should take a look for yourself, Toni.”

I take a seat across from him now as he unfolds the
Atlanta Journal-Constitution.
There I am on the front page beneath the caption, “Mother Longs for Reunion with Daughters.” Not only does the caption knock the wind out of me, but the accompanying photo leaves me momentarily speechless. It is a replica of the one I keep tucked in the bottom drawer of my home office desk. My sister, Willa, and I wear matching pink and black turtleneck sweaters. Mama had jumped up from her spot next to Willa and me at Olan Mills Studio that afternoon. She refused to pose with us when the photo was taken; she said the people in the camera lens were making fun of her.

Lamonte moves closer now, knowing I have to take in every word, examine the train wreck the
AJC
has created on what is supposed to be one of the most memorable days of my life. He waits for my full explanation. I can't offer one right now. His phone rings, startling us.

“Take it in the living room,” I whisper.

I continue reading, thankful I closed my shades last night. Even in this dimness, I feel naked. I look at the photo again and my heart aches for my mother.

Lamonte returns to comfort me again.

He sits back and rubs his clean-shaven face. “That was Richard on the phone. He said the paper will issue a formal apology to you by noon today. The picture was supposed to be in silhouette, but went to print with full exposure. Don't panic, baby. Not now. We'll get through this together.”

Richard Phelps, our mutual attorney, pokes fun at people so much we call it his side hustle.

“That's easy for you to say. The
AJC
's readership and my colleagues all think I'm a garden variety fruitcake.” I pause. “Did you say ‘together'? As in, we'll go through with this engagement party and wedding?”

“Toni, I made a commitment to you. This doesn't look good, but I want to give you a chance to respond to what I read this morning.” He holds up the article.

“How am I supposed to respond?”

“Start by telling me the truth. Please.”

“Lamonte, Clay has the answer for everything. But you and I both know he's in no position to answer right now.”

He motions for me to sit in his lap again and I enjoy resting there for a brief moment. I feel like a fraud in his arms. I'm trying to find the right words to justify my lies, but I can't. This wasn't a white lie; this was more like a pastel one, the kind you tell when you know the truth will get in the way of your happiness.

“Toni, this is awkward. I'll cook while we strategize.”

In Lamonte Dunlap fashion, he goes to the kitchen, raids the cabinets, and starts his usual Saturday morning ritual the two of us enjoy when life is simple and we're not talking business and politics. He pulls down the Krusteaz pancake mix, grabs bacon and eggs from the fridge, and finds my bag of oranges so he can squeeze the life out of them the way we like.

“We have to think of something to say to the reporters. I'll call the Blue Willow Inn to let them know we're still on for the engagement party,” he says as he plops eggs into the pancake mix.

“Light on the eggs, Lamonte.” His back is turned to me, but I know his mind is moving at lightning speed. He hunches his shoulders as he stirs the mix. “You're about to face more scrutiny than you have in your life. Are you ready?”

“I don't want to be bothered with this today.”

“I'll step out on the lawn after we eat and address the scavengers.”

“Yes, after we eat,” I say.

Lamonte prepares our plates and pours juice. “Everything will be fine. This will blow over before you know it.”

The elephant in the room grows. My hands tremble and my knees bounce as I think of an explanation. I've lied so long I'm not sure what the truth looks like.

I sigh and ask, “Aren't you curious about the article?”

His face slackens as he sips juice. “If you want to explain, that's your choice. I find it hard to believe the woman I've loved the last five years would keep a secret this huge from me. I'm waiting to hear what the mix-up is.”

Ouch
. I face the man I love. The one I've only allowed a tiny glimpse into my world.

“I meant to tell you before the wedding, Lamonte. The opportunity never presented itself.”

“You were willing to have a wedding without having your mother present?”

I nod.

“What else should I know about you? You told me your mother died.”

I shift in my seat. My cottony mouth offers, “I was young when I moved to Atlanta. My family thought it would be good for me to have a break from my mother's episodes.”

“Episodes?”

“She—”

Lamonte's phone rings again. The voice announces Brooklyn Lucille Dunlap. Lamonte answers on the second ring. He accidentally presses the speaker button—a knack I can't get him to shake—and his mother yells, “Where's the lunatic?”

Lamonte quickly takes the phone off speaker and steps away from me. I can't hear everything she says, but from her booming voice, I string together, “bad choice,” “not wife material,” and “crazy grandchildren.”

Lamonte holds up his hand and says to his mother, “I'm a grown man capable of making my own choices. Goodbye, Mother!”

He joins me at the table again, picks up the
AJC
, and re-reads the article. I see disappointment in his face and reach across the table to caress his hands. He pulls away.

“For twenty-three years, you've lived in this city without driving a few towns over to see your mother who's institutionalized in a mental facility?”