Tangled Roots (21 page)

“Thought you was the mailman with my check. You ’bout gave me a heart attack,” she said, looking me up and down.

“I’m so sorry, ma’am. I’m looking for Rosalie Porter. Is she home?”

“Rosy’s dead. Died last year. I’m her sister, Pearl Strong,” she said, coming out onto the porch. I noticed she wasn’t wearing anything on her feet but threadbare socks and wondered how she could stand the cold.

“I’m sorry to have bothered you, ma’am.” I turned to go, relieved that I could get out of the depressing neighborhood, but Pearl didn’t seem to want me to leave.

“No need to rush off, young lady. Don’t get many visitors these days. Come on in here,” she said, opening the door wide and stepping aside so I could come in.

It was stiflingly hot inside the house and it smelled, not unpleasantly, of fried food. Pearl ushered me through a dark, dusty living room, filled with plastic-covered furniture from the seventies that looked frozen in time and reminded me of insects trapped in amber, into an even hotter but much brighter kitchen. She gestured for me to sit at the lopsided kitchen table that was being propped up under one leg by a phone book to keep it level. I sat and took off my coat, hoping I wasn’t being rude but too overheated to care.

“You had lunch yet, Miss, ah —”

“Clayton. Kendra Clayton, ma’am, and no, I’m not hungry. But thank you, anyway,” I said, trying hard to ignore the simmering pot on the stove that smelled suspiciously like chili.

“Clayton, huh? Can’t say I know any Claytons.” She started to say more but my stomach let out a loud, incriminating growl. I was embarrassed to death and smiled at Pearl sheepishly.

To her credit she didn’t say a word and silently dished up a large bowl of the chili and set it in front of me along with a sleeve of saltine crackers and a glass of milk. I dug in. The chili was delicious and I was pleased to note that she put spaghetti in hers just like Mama did.

“So, why you lookin’ for Rosy?” she finally asked me after I’d eaten about half my bowl of chili.

I wiped my mouth slowly so I could think before answering her. “I’m a graduate student in psychology at Kingford and I’m doing my dissertation on the stages of grief. I’m especially interested in people who’ve lost loved ones in accidents. I read about Mrs. Porter’s grandson Joseph in the newspaper while doing my research and wondered if she’d be interested in talking to me.”

Pearl’s eyes filled with tears and she shook her head sadly. I felt awful. The woman had welcomed me into her home and fed me to boot, and here I was lying to her and bringing up bad memories.

“I’m sorry. I should go. I didn’t mean to upset you,” I said, getting up from the table.

“You didn’t upset me, young lady. Sit down. I wasn’t cryin’ ’cause I’m sad. I ain’t sad ’bout JP no mo’. I’m mad as hell, though.” Her rigid body language and tightly crossed arms told me she was quite angry.

“Anger is one of the stages of grief. It’s understandable that you’d be angry,” I said, remembering my Psychology 101 class at Ohio State.

“Don’t know nothin’ ’bout that but I do know JP didn’t die of no accident.”

I felt my curiosity kick into overdrive and decided to press my luck a bit further. “Denial is also a stage of grief —”

Pearl threw up her hand angrily, cutting me off. “Didn’t I tell you I don’t know nothin’ ’bout no stages of grief? I do know that my nephew couldn’t swim. Rosy took him down to the Y for lessons when he was five. Couldn’t never get him to even put a toe in that water. She give up after a couple a lessons. He never did learn. Now, I ask you, why in the world would he go swimmin’?”

“I read in the paper that they found his clothes in his car.”

“I don’t care what them police say they found. My nephew couldn’t swim, you hear me?” Pearl stood up and grabbed my empty milk glass and chili bowl. She refilled my glass and set it hard down in front of me. Milk splashed on the table. Then she opened up the fridge again and pulled out a large plastic bowl and got a clean bowl from the cabinet. She dished me up a large helping of banana pudding. It was made my favorite way with thick slices of banana, lots of vanilla wafers, and topped with a mountain of whipped cream. It was ice-cold and almost made me forget what we’d been talking about.

“The paper said Joseph told someone he was going for a swim.”

“Some ole heifer who couldn’t half see or hear who was helpin’ out with the cookin’, too. It wasn’t JP told her he was goin’ swimmin’. It was some other boy. But she said Reverend Rollins was the one told her it was JP. But she half senile. I don’t believe he said it at all.”

“So, what do you think happened to your nephew?” I asked after a few bites of the heavenly pudding.

“I think somebody musta held him under that water on purpose. That’s what I think,” Pearl said so quietly and calmly that I stopped eating.

“You think he was murdered? Why? Who would want to kill your nephew?”

“Hard to be tellin’. Maybe he seen somethin’ he shouldn’t a seen. Maybe he was someplace he shouldn’t a been. All I know is my nephew couldn’t swim. And they say they found him as nekked as the day he was born and he had bruises on his head and shoulders. So I’m ’sposed to believe that he decided to take off all his clothes and jump in that water? I ain’t buyin’ that mess for a minute.”

An awkward silence had cropped up as I sat contemplating what Pearl had just told me. Even though Morris Rollins had benefited from his son’s death, I still had a hard time envisioning him drowning anyone. But everything Pearl had just told me made sense. Why would someone who couldn’t swim decide to take off their clothes and go swimming? Unless —

“I know what you thinkin’ and you can just stop right there. JP didn’t commit no suicide, either,” Pearl said, reading my mind and slightly freaking me out.

“I didn’t say he did,” I replied quickly.

“Didn’t need to. Saw it all over yo face, girly girl.”

Pearl got up from the table again and disappeared into the living room. She came back a few minutes later with an ancient, red plastic family album that was cracked and almost falling apart. It had been taped in numerous places with duct tape. She pushed aside the dishes on the table and sat the album in front of me, pulling her chair up next to mine. Her mood brightened considerably as she opened the album.

“Here JP is. Musta been ’bout two in this picture,” she said, gesturing towards a picture of a grinning toddler dressed in a little blue suit with a bow tie.

“He was a cutie,” I said, gazing past Pearl at my half-finished bowl of pudding.

“Yes, he was. Wasn’t never any trouble. Always smilin’.” Pearl flipped a few more pages until she got to another picture of a solemn Joseph, who looked about five, with an older woman who resembled Pearl.

“This was Rosy and JP on the first day of kindergarten. He was so scared. Rosy had a hell of a time gettin’ him to let go a her hand,” she said, chuckling softly.

She showed me numerous other pictures: Joseph singing in the choir; performing in the school play; playing drums in his high school marching bad. I was even shocked to see a picture of him with Morris Rollins. Rollins had his arm around a teenaged Joseph who was smiling and looking quite carefree.

“Is Joseph’s mother dead, too?” I asked, casually reaching for my pudding bowl.

“May as well be, far as I’m concerned.”

I remained silent, hoping she would fill me in. After a minute of waiting and watching her expectantly, she shrugged her shoulders and turned the album to a picture of a slim, caramel-skinned young woman dressed in the green-and-gold choir robe of Holy Cross Church. Her long hair was pulled back from her face with a headband. She posed like a woman who knew the camera loved her.

“Here’s Carla. Always was a wild one. Rosy tried and tried with that girl but she was high-minded. Nothin’ Rosy ever did for her or gave her was enough. Always gimme, gimme, gimme. Wasn’t never satisfied. Now, Carla was a pretty girl, and stacked. But, lord, she was lazy. Never worked a day in her life. Kept herself a man, usually a married one, to buy her whatever she wanted. Didn’t care what they looked like or how old they was just as long as they had money to spend. Managed to get herself knocked up the summer after she graduated from high school. She never did take care a JP. Rosy raised him at first, then I came here to live when my husband died and we raised him together. Then, when he was about two, Carla took off. Said she was gonna go to Chicago to find herself a job and send for JP. Never came back. Rosy thought the girl was dead. Then when JP was twelve we found out she had got to Chicago and found herself a rich husband, a doctor. She never even told him she had a son. Only reason we knew what happened to her was ’cause someone at church saw her shopping in Chicago and came back and told us. We even went to Chicago and tracked her behind down. She didn’t wanna see us. Said she had a new life and a new family. Rosy was heartbroken. We never saw her again.”

“Does she even know her mother and son are dead?”

“Rosy sent her a letter about JP and she never even showed up to the funeral. I didn’t bother lettin’ her know ’bout Rosy.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said sincerely. “So, what about Joseph’s father? Is he still alive?” I asked as casually as I could manage. But Pearl was starting to smell a rat.

“You sure askin’ a whole lotta questions. What JP’s father got to do with them steps of grief you was talkin’ ’bout?”

“Oh, I didn’t mean to be so nosy. I just thought maybe since Joseph’s grandmother has passed away and with everything that you’ve told me about his mother, maybe I could talk to his father for my dissertation.”

Pearl stared at me for a few minutes without speaking. I tried not to squirm in my seat. I could tell she didn’t quite know what to make of me and all my questions. I didn’t want her to kick me out of her house. It would be embarrassing, plus I wasn’t finished with my pudding.

“JP’s daddy was married when he was runnin’ around with Carla. I think she thought he was gonna leave his wife for her. But he never did. He always did right by that boy. Though I ’spect that was mainly cause he wanted to keep Carla from takin’ his behind to court. Made sure JP had everything he needed even after Carla left town. But he was never a father to him. Had a family of his own. He ain’t gonna talk to you. He just buried another loved one ’bout two weeks ago.”

“Did Joseph know who his father was?” I ventured.

“If he knew, it wasn’t ’cause I told him. I guess he coulda found out on his own,” Pearl replied through tight lips. This was apparently still a sore point. I decided to back off.

I looked around Pearl’s less-than-luxurious kitchen with the lopsided table, faded wallpaper, and chipped dishes, and wondered if Rollins had even had the decency to share the insurance money with Pearl and her sister. They’d been Joseph’s parents, not Carla Porter or Morris Rollins. But I knew if I asked her she’d probably make me go cut a switch.

“Well, at least his father cared enough to provide for him. A lot of men in that position wouldn’t have.”

“That very well may be true. But in my book, if you cain’t do the time, don’t do the crime. Man had no bidness runnin’ round with Carla in the first place. And him a religious man. Use to see him all the time in church with his uppity wife and daughter actin’ like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. Abusin’ his power over them young people. That’s why I stopped goin’.” Pearl stopped talking abruptly and shifted in her seat uncomfortably. I got the impression she realized she’d said too much.

“Oh, so Joseph’s father is in the church?” I asked.

“It’s gettin’ to be time for my show, young lady, and I need to wash these dishes first. You welcome to watch
The Golden Girls
with me. It’s just a rerun but that Blanche tickles me. Cain’t wait to see what she gonna do today,” she said, changing the subject, and getting up from the table.

As much as I could tell she didn’t want to talk about Joseph’s father, I could also tell she was lonely and didn’t want me to go. I decided to stay for another half hour. It was the least I could do, seeing how my stomach was full of her hospitality.

“Okay, Mrs. Strong. If you give me a dish towel, I’ll help so we can get done faster.”

Her face lit up like a Christmas tree.

I
t
was going on two o’clock by the time I left Pearl’s house. I had to run to catch the bus. Woody’s girlfriend happened to be on the bus as well, sitting all the way in the back. I was worried she’d start up with me again but she looked at me like she’d never seen me before and stared moodily out the grimy window. I was seriously tempted to go home but instead found myself switching buses downtown and heading to Settler Avenue, where Melvina Carmichael lived. Even with what Pearl had told me about her nephew’s death, I still couldn’t wrap my head around all of the evidence pointing to Joseph Porter having been murdered, especially by his own father.

The one thing that made no sense to me was that Rollins had provided for Joseph financially. Pearl’s point about him not wanting Carla to pursue him legally was a valid one. But to me it showed that he must have cared for his son on some level. Maybe I was just being sentimental, but why would he then turn around and kill him? The insurance money could be a motive only if Rollins really needed money back when Joseph died. Rollins had told me that his wife’s wealthy family had been very generous to him while she was alive. Jeanne Rollins had died a few years before Joseph. So I assumed Rollins would still have had access to his late wife’s money at the time of Joseph’s death. I hoped my trip to see Melvina Carmichael would shed some light.

Settler Avenue wasn’t just the polar opposite of Farley Street geographically, but economically, as well. It wasn’t nearly as ritzy a neighborhood as you would find in Pine Ridge or Briar Creek but it was an affluent older neighborhood, the average age of its residents being upwards of fifty. I got off the bus in front of a Kroger supermarket a block away. Remembering my last encounter with the uptight Melvina, and anticipating her inevitable attitude, I went inside and bought a bouquet of pink and white carnations. I also swung by the book aisle and bought a copy of
I Will Follow Him
. I’ve always heard that authors have big egos. I figured showing up with an apology and a request for an autograph would be a surefire way of getting through the door.

Melvina’s house was the smallest on the block. It was a shotgun-style house painted dark brick-red with black trim on the windows and front door. A butt-ugly chain-link fence encircled the yard, separating it from the neighbors on either side and most likely making her a very unpopular person. A white minivan was parked in the driveway in front of a small detached garage painted the same red as the house. I started to let myself inside the gate when I saw why the romance writer had a fence around her yard. An elderly, overweight Rottweiler quickly waddled over to the fence and started snarling and barking. Though the dog had gray in its muzzle and was wheezing asthmatically between barks, it still had plenty of teeth and looked like it wouldn’t hesitate to use them on me if I stepped inside the yard. Luckily the frantic barking brought Melvina out onto her porch to see what was going on. She squinted at me from her porch then pulled a pair of glasses from her pocket and put them on. To say she wasn’t pleased to see me was a supreme understatement. She visibly tensed up.

“May I help you?” she asked, charging across the yard towards me. She was wearing a jumper the color of lime Kool-Aid that gave her complexion an unhealthy greenish tint, kinda like the Wicked Witch of the West, and a black turtleneck sweater. And she sure didn’t look like she wanted to help me, either. She looked like she wanted to choke me. Apparently, I still hadn’t been forgiven for having been invited for a chat in Rollins’s office. I stepped back from the fence, and out of choking distance, before replying.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Carmichael. I’m Kendra Clayton. Remember me? I hope I haven’t caught you at a bad time. I just wanted to apologize to you for the other night at the church. I got the impression that I offended you with my question about getting published.”

Melvina came closer to the fence, not taking her eyes off my hands, like she was afraid I might pull out an Uzi and fill her full of holes. Her dog had started to wag its tail when she’d come out onto the porch but continued to bark frantically at me.

“Shut up, Pookie!” she yelled, glaring at the dog. Pookie? I was expecting Killer or maybe Fang. Pookie, perhaps sensing the irritation in his owner’s voice, shut up immediately. She patted his head to show she wasn’t mad at him and he rolled over on his back for a belly rub. “He’s harmless. He’s just not used to me getting visitors,” she said, bending down to rub Pookie’s big belly. “Are those for me?” she asked, straightening up and coming over to the gate.

“Yes,” I said, holding them out to her like an offering. “Oh, and I forgot to get you to sign my book.” I was smiling at her in a way that I hoped conveyed my admiration for her creative talent but, judging by the way her eyes were narrowed suspiciously, I suspected my smile was bordering on psychotic, reaffirming my assertion that I’m a lousy ass kisser.

“You could have just left the book with Reverend Rollins since the two of you are friends. He would have made sure I signed it for you. You didn’t have to track me down at my home and disturb my writing.” She took the flowers from my hand and stared at me.

“That was the last thing I intended to do, Mrs. Carmichael. It’s just that I’m serious about my writing and you told me I needed to pay my dues and learn about the publishing industry. What better way to learn than from a published author? And since you’re the only published author I know,” I said, pausing dramatically, “here I am!”

“Yes, you certainly are,” she said, not bothering to hide her sarcasm.

If I had a hard time imagining Morris Rollins in the throes of passion with Bonita Kidd, I had an even harder time imagining him doin’ the do with this sour-faced, humorless woman standing before me. Bedding this woman must have been an act of charity on Rollins’s part. But I knew a way to butter her up and put a smile on her face.

“You know, Reverend Rollins did nothing but sing your praises when I chatted with him after the taping. He told me what a lovely woman you are and how he really admired your determination to become a published author. He’s actually the one who suggested I come speak to you.”

Melvina’s eyes softened and a reluctant smile spread across her face, transforming her and making her almost pretty, but not quite. Her eyes remained hard.

“Well, all right. I can spare a few minutes. But that’s all. I’m on a tight schedule. My next book is due to my editor in a week and I’m not finished.” She opened the gate and stood aside to let me come through. Pookie waddled over to me and sniffed my hand. I scratched him behind the ears and he followed Melvina and me into the house.

“You have a beautiful home, Ms. Carmichael,” I said honestly, after stepping into the airy open foyer. I had figured Melvina Carmichael’s house would be as dowdy and uptight as she seemed to be. Instead, I was pleasantly surprised to see an open floor plan that reminded me of pictures I’d seen of New York City lofts.

“A couple of years ago, one of my books was optioned by a production company that was going to turn it into a movie. The movie never got made but they paid me a lot of money and I used it to redecorate the house.”

I followed her through the living room, where her laptop sat on the coffee table, over to the kitchen area and watched as she got a vase from under the sink and filled it with water. She put the flowers inside and set the vase in the middle of the large, heavy, age-scarred wooden kitchen table.

“Have a seat and I’ll make us some coffee.” While she rummaged in the cabinet for cups, I took my coat off and sat down at the kitchen table. I looked around the room and something on the front of the stainless steel refrigerator caught my eyes. I got up and walked over to get a closer look. It was a picture of a tall teenaged girl in a Springmont High girls’ basketball uniform. She had a basketball in her hands and was posed like she was about to make a basket.

“She took after her daddy. Loved playing basketball. He played for Springmont High, too,” Melvina said in a flat, neutral tone.

I turned and watched as she poured coffee beans into a grinder. “So, was this your daughter?” I asked, coming back to sit at the table.

“Yes, that’s my Gina. That picture was taken her freshman year. She was the star of the team. If she hadn’t messed up her knee she could have been playing for one of those professional women’s basketball teams. She was that good.”

“I heard that she died. I’m sorry,” I said sincerely.

“Sometimes life can be so cruel,” she said softly. “Do you take cream and sugar in your coffee?”

“Just sugar, I’m allergic to dairy products,” I said, unable to meet her eyes. Just because I was trying to push her buttons to get info out of her didn’t mean I felt good about it.

“It’s not life-threatening, is it?” she asked, looking genuinely concerned.

“Oh, no. I just break out in hives. Nothing serious. But my sister is deathly allergic to shellfish,” I said, hoping to spark some kind of conversation about her daughter’s death.

But Melvina turned her back to me as she fixed our coffee and I couldn’t tell how my comment affected her. She didn’t say a word for a few minutes and I wondered if I’d gone too far. Finally, she placed a steaming mug of coffee in front of me along with the sugar bowl and sat down on the other side of the table.

“So, what is it you’d like to know?” she asked. It took me a second to remember that I was supposed to be getting info on the publishing industry.

“First off, why did my question upset you so much? Did I breach some kind of unwritten writer’s etiquette?”

“It just gets so tiresome, you know?” she began after sipping her coffee. “Of all the questions I get asked, that’s the one that everybody wants to know. I get e-mail after e-mail. No one ever asks me how to be a better writer or about certain writing techniques. No, everybody wants to know how to get published, like there’s some secret to it. Then when I try and steer people in the right direction, I find out they didn’t really want my advice. What they really wanted was — how do you young people put it?” she said, squinting in concentration. “Oh, I know, a hookup. They just want me to hook them up with my literary agent or editor. And out of all the times I make the effort to answer them honestly, I hardly ever get a simple thank you. People these days want everything handed to them on a silver platter. Well, I’m sorry, but a little hard work never hurt anybody. Anything worth having is worth working for, right?” she asked, pausing for my answer.

“Of course it is. And I completely understand where you’re coming from. But I wasn’t looking for a hookup, not at all. It’s just that writing is one thing, but trying for publication is something I know nothing about. I wouldn’t even know the first thing about how to go about it. I imagine most people feel the same way, don’t you think?”

“Some of them, maybe. But, from my experience, most of the people who contact me aren’t doing so because they want me to explain how to go about getting published. The road to publication has many different paths. All I can do is share my personal experience. Then there are those who want me to read their manuscripts,” she said, rolling her eyes heavenward. “I actually used to critique manuscripts before I got so busy with my own writing. Let me tell you, people didn’t really want an honest opinion. They expected me to tell them that they were the next Toni Morrison or James Baldwin and when they didn’t hear that then suddenly I didn’t know what I was talking about, or I was just jealous.” She shook her head in disgust at the memory.

“I bet your daughter must have been very proud of you,” I said to change the subject. Something told me that Melvina could talk a blue streak about anything connected to her writing and I was hoping taking the backdoor approach would make her open up about Gina.

“Not really,” she replied after a thoughtful moment. “Gina was an athlete and always on the go. She could have cared less about sitting still and reading anything. She was happiest when she was out doing stuff. I don’t think she ever read a single one of my books.”

“Didn’t that bother you?”

“No. Not really. I don’t write for anyone but myself. I don’t really need anyone’s approval. I never took it personally. Books just weren’t her thing.”

“Well, I bet your husband’s proud then, huh?”

“Actually, I’ve never been married,” she said, tensing up again and looking like she wanted to toss her coffee in my face.

“I’m sorry. I just seem to be offending you no matter what I ask,” I said with a nervous, high-pitched laugh.

“Oh, don’t worry. Most people make that mistake. Carmichael was my mother’s maiden name and my middle name. I decided to use it as my pen name.”

“I didn’t realize that,” I replied. An awkward silence cropped up and I wasn’t sure how to break it. But Melvina did.

“Aren’t you going to ask me?” she said, leaning back in the chair expectantly.

“Ask you what?” I said, confused.

“About how a woman who gave birth to a child out of wedlock has the nerve to write Christian romance novels. That’s the next most-asked question I get.”

“Honestly, it never crossed my mind and, if it did, it’s really none of my business,” I concluded. I was amazed I could keep a straight face telling that big ole lie. She must have seen the glitter of anticipation in my eyes because she let out a loud, humorless laugh.

“No, it isn’t yours or anybody else’s business, but that doesn’t keep people from asking me about it anyway.” A self-righteous look had settled on her face, and I realized that I truly did not like this woman. The sooner I could get what I came for and leave, the better.

“And what do you tell them?”

“I tell them the truth, of course. I’m only human. And, just like many others before me and after me, I once suffered a crisis of the spirit. I fell for a man I had no business falling for and I became pregnant with his child. I don’t believe in abortion. So, I had my child and raised her on my own and was blessed with sixteen wonderful years of having her in my life before she was called home to God. I’m not ashamed of the mistakes I’ve made in my life. I’ve tried to learn from them and I hope I’ve set a good example for others in the same situation.”