Till You Hear From Me: A Novel (11 page)

B
Y FOUR O’CLOCK, THE
R
EV STILL HAD NOT ARRIVED AND
I
WAS SO
nervous, I hadn’t been able to eat a bite, even though I was starving. Sunday supper was always a buffet at Miss Iona’s. Everybody served themselves and then found a place to perch wherever they could. Mr. Charles was good at putting a chair near every available surface so nobody had to balance a plate on their knees unless they wanted to. I had told my
can’t talk about it yet
fantasy job lie so many times I was starting to think my nose was actually growing like Pinocchio’s. It would have been bad enough if I had been lying to a bunch of strangers, but I had known some of these people all my life. They were my father’s friends and parishioners and comrades in arms and here I stood, smiling and hugging and lying my ass off.

When Mr. Charles confided to me, as he sliced the perfectly pink honey baked ham in thin slices and arranged them on a big white platter, that the Rev was so proud he was about to bust, I fixed a shit-eating grin on my face and tapped my index finger to my lips to remind him that this was our secret. When Blue Hamilton turned
those unbelievable turquoise eyes on me while his wife offered their congratulations, I was so grateful that their adorable two-year-old (christened Juanita, but known to all as Sweetie Pie) gave me an excuse to look away before he saw the truth.

I’m not sure I was so lucky with Miss Abbie, who gave me a really concerned look as I babbled about having to help Miss Iona and excused myself as fast as I could, since it’s probably impossible to hide anything for long from somebody who makes a living looking through their third eye.

“This is driving me crazy.” I burst into the kitchen like a madwoman, relieved to find Miss Iona alone making a pot of fresh coffee, but she held up a finger for silence. She was counting out the scoops and she didn’t want to lose track and have to start again.

“He’ll be here in a minute, sweetie,” she said when she finished, guessing the wrong reason for my anxiety attack as she closed the coffee canister and flipped the switch to start the machine.

“I know that,” I said. “That’s not what I’m talking about.”

“Well, one thing at a time, sweetie,” she said, filling the silver sugar bowl. “I thought the Rev’s arrival was your big one for today.”

“Everybody thinks I’m going to work at the White House,” I said, knowing I couldn’t blame her, but wishing more and more that I could.

“We were just going on what you said. Honest mistake.”

“What
you
said!”

“I was acting in good faith on bad information,” she said calmly. “But the thing is, there’s no use crying over spilled milk.”

“They keep congratulating me,” I said, sounding as miserable as I felt. “What am I supposed to say?”

She finishing pouring the sugar and looked at me. Her smile was meant to be reassuring. “We went over this, remember? You just say you can’t talk about it until everything is confirmed. No biggie.”

No problem. No worries. No biggie
.

“I can’t just keep lying all night.” I sounded like a whiny six-year-old again. I cleared my throat and tried to get a grip.

“Okay, then I think you should tell them the truth.”

“That I didn’t get the job?”

Miss Iona nodded. “Exactly. Just spit it out.”

“But I haven’t told the Rev yet. I don’t want them to hear it first.”

She smiled at me. “Well, that takes us right back to our original plan.”

I groaned.

“Oh, sweetie, just relax. Say hello to everybody and keep moving before they have a chance to ask you anything except how you’re doin’.”

“I’ll keep moving,” I said. “Right out the door and back to D.C. where I belong.”

I wasn’t kidding and she knew it. These all-is-forgiven moments never go the way you hope they will and I was getting more freaked out by the minute. Every time the doorbell rang, I jumped about a foot in the air. These people probably thought I had St. Vitus’s Dance or something. In the last two hours I’d had plenty of time to consider how things could go wrong. What if he’s still as mad as he was the last time we talked and as inflexible as my mother said he was the last time they did? What if he won’t speak to me at all unless I apologize in front of everybody, which I couldn’t possibly do and maintain a shred of self-respect so I’d have no choice but to defy him in front of everybody and show myself to be a rude and ungrateful child? What if he caught sight of me, turned on his heel, and just walked away? What if he couldn’t even stand to look at me?

I figure that one is a lot less likely. The Rev loves words. Silent gestures are open to interpretation and the Rev likes to be clear, even if it might mean a public airing of our most recent family feud. I pinched the bridge of my nose again, a habit that provides no relief
I can ever identify, and sighed. Even the smell of the peach cobbler that would be dessert as soon as the coffee was ready didn’t soothe me. How could it? Mr. Eddie had already called to say he and the Rev were on their way. Now I’d have the White House lie, the current feud, and the Rev’s reaction to worry about, all at the same time.

“Listen, sweetie,” Miss Iona said, peering at me now with real concern. “Calm down. Right now, I know it seems like a big mess, but in less than an hour, it’s all going to be over.”

I was going to tell her that’s exactly what I was afraid of when the doorbell rang.
Showtime
. Why had I ever agreed to this? I glanced at Miss Iona’s back door, wondering if it was too late to make a run for it. Through the kitchen door, I could hear greetings being exchanged and almost feel the energy level rise to meet the Rev’s
boom
as he claimed the space, his voice rolling down the hallway in waves.

“Brother Larson, I hope you didn’t let these Negroes start without me,” he said. He was greeted by the laughter of people who had started and finished without him in the sure and certain knowledge that there was still plenty for their favorite pastor whenever he arrived.

I looked at Miss Iona, unsure of what I was supposed to do next. That six-year-old was in charge again and I was rooted to a spot between the stove and the refrigerator, waiting for instructions. Miss Iona didn’t hesitate. She pushed open the door and called to him.

“Stop fussing, Rev, and come and get this plate I got in the oven for you,” she said. “Eddie, you the guest of honor, so I’ll bring you out yours.”

That elicited more laughter.

“Look like you slippin’, Rev,” I heard Mr. Charles say. “You better learn how to grow somethin’. Otherwise, Ed got all your thunder.”

“I’m growin’ the future,” the Rev shot back, his voice getting closer. “And don’t you forget it.”

I took a deep breath. I would have prayed, but at that moment the only prayer I could remember was the
Now I lay me down to sleep
one, which wasn’t really appropriate. I didn’t have time anyway. Miss Iona held the door open and my father stepped into her kitchen like the force of nature that he was. He had on a dark blue suit and a white shirt that still looked fresh even at the end of a very long day. Against the dark brown of his skin, his collar almost glowed. I couldn’t see his shoes, but I knew they were shined to a high gloss, just like I knew Mr. Barlow had cut his hair yesterday morning like he did every Saturday. Even in the midst of all those good cooking smells, the Rev’s Old Spice held its own and all that mattered was that he was still my daddy, and I was still his little princess, no matter what my mother said, and no way we were ever supposed to let a crowd of fast-talking Chicago Negroes come between us, even if they are undeniably fabulous. Politics is one thing, but even in Obamamerica, blood runs thicker than water.

“Now what’s all this about me having to eat in the …” He started to tease her, but his eyes fell on me and he froze, speechless, which was probably a first. Then he did the one thing that hadn’t occurred to me during the last two worry-filled hours:
He wept
.

TWELVE

F
IGURING HER WORK WAS DONE, AT LEAST FOR THE MOMENT
, M
ISS
Iona eased out of the kitchen, rejoining her guests with promises that cobbler and coffee were on the way and leaving me to walk into the Rev’s open arms with a few tears of my own. We just stood there for a minute or two, grinning and crying and generally making a spectacle of ourselves. I laid my cheek against the vest of his Sunday suit and he squeezed me tight enough to make up for the ridiculous five months we’d been apart.

“Welcome home, daughter,” the Rev was saying over and over. “Welcome home! Welcome home!”

Finally, he gave me one more hug and stepped back to give me the once-over that began when he first counted my fingers and toes and continues unabated whenever we lay eyes on each other whether it’s been forty days or forty minutes. Without taking his eyes off me, the Rev took out a big snow-white handkerchief and blew his nose with a majestic honk.

“I’ve been missing you,” I said, grinning like a maniac as he
folded up the handkerchief and put it in his back pocket for the next wash.

“Five months it takes for you to miss me?” He looked at me and shook his head in mock exasperation. “You are as stubborn as your mother.”

“Coming from you, that can only be a compliment,” I said.

He laughed, but not the great public
boom
. This was just a father/daughter laugh, filled with memory and melody and all those things he never lets me see as much as I want to see them.

“He thinks admitting to being human makes him look weak,” my mother said once, pacing around the house after they had argued. “He insists on equating leadership with infallibility, which is an extremely patriarchal notion.”

Down the hall, we could hear laughter, the hum of conversation, the clatter of plates being stacked and cleared away for the next course.

“How have you been, daughter?” My father’s voice was gentle.

“I’ve been good,” I said, glad I had worn my pearls so I looked settled and solvent.

“Well, you look good.”

“Thanks.”

“You let your hair grow out.”

“A little.”

He nodded approvingly. “I’m glad you came.”

“Me, too.”

Still doing his visual inventory, he folded his arms across his chest, and for some reason, I did, too.

He smiled. “So can I take this visit as a formal apology?”

He just couldn’t resist
.

“You can take it as a truce,” I said slowly. “A temporary ceasefire.”

“Are we at war, daughter?” A small frown.

“No, Daddy.” I shook my head. “We’re family.”

“Fair enough,” he said, smiling again. Like me, content for the moment to let sleeping dogs lie. “How long can you stay?”

So great was my relief at how well our reconciliation was going that my White House lie had completely slipped my mind. I could see that the Rev caught my hesitation. Lying wasn’t part of our deal, never had been, and I was almost certain any attempt to introduce it now would be foolhardy. I looked for neutral ground.

“I’m not sure,” I said. “I’m going to be starting a new job soon, but the details haven’t been worked out yet.”

That was true. I hadn’t found the job yet, but it would definitely be new. I wasn’t lying so far.

“The details?”

I nodded, hoping he wouldn’t press me. I knew I had to tell him the truth, but not standing in the middle of Miss Iona’s kitchen. If I had to disappoint my dad, and dash my own dreams, at least I wanted to do it with a little dignity.

“You know, the exact date I’ll be starting and all that,” I said, trying to buy some time with a bright smile.
And all what?

The Rev smiled back. “I have to confess to you, daughter, that Iona shared your good news with me although you pledged her to secrecy. Discretion is not one of Iona’s many fine qualities.”

He got that right.
Think fast!
“I … I wanted to tell you myself, but we weren’t …”

“And you will tell me, daughter, of course you will, but I know now is not the time.”