An instant later, Lula passes by, giving me a sharp nod as she heads for Honoree’s room, too.
My legs are stiff, and my headache is fire, but I don’t move from the reception desk. I am in the same spot as when they left when Lula returns.
“How is she? Is it a stroke?” There is a hitch in my voice. “Is she dead?”
Lula shakes her head. “She needs to rest. Why don’t you take another day off?”
“Thank God, it wasn’t a stroke. Maggie had a stroke once, while I stood by dumb as dirt, watching it happen. I was eight or nine, but I should have known something was up.”
“You were right to worry, but for now, she’s doing well.”
I rub my palm across my brow. “I’ll check in with you tomorrow.” I start to move by Lula, but she’s in my way, not defiantly, just enough of a roadblock that I can’t run. My distress is palpable.
“I received a text from my aunt Deidre. She searched her cloud. The man who visited Miss Honoree a year ago also came to visit her in 2002.”
“You’re shitting me.”
Lula pulls her cell phone out of her pant pocket, swipes, and reads. “He also has the same last name as you.”
Amazing how bullshit happens in threes. I take two days off, Honoree is too tired to talk today and tomorrow, and the microphone drops. “Let me guess. His name is Marvin Alexander Hayes.”
Lula’s surprised expression confirms my not-so-wild guess. “You’re right. You know him.”
“Of course I do,” I say with an uneasy chuckle. “He’s my father.”
CHAPTER 25
HONOREE
Early November 1925
(The first few days)
The sky was bright blue, and the sun golden yellow, and the temperature warmer than any single November day Honoree could recall. Although it was only the first day of the month and the weather in Chicago changed on a dime.
After waking up at noon, she grabbed a late breakfast, a boiled egg and a cup of java, and asked Bessie if she wanted to join her for a walk through the neighborhood. Bessie agreed, but their stroll took them farther than Honoree had planned. They ended up in the heart of the Loop near her favorite department stores.
Carson Pirie Scott, Marshall Field’s, and Mandel Brothers—the fashion, the fabrics, and the wealth—Honoree loved everything in those stores but never made a purchase. Dancing at Miss Hattie’s, a girl didn’t make uptown-department-store money. Honoree window-shopped. She studied the latest dress patterns and examined the reams of silk, linen, cotton, wool, and rayon in brilliant greens, yellows, reds, and vibrant blues.
Rich white folks lived on the Gold Coast, which was somewhat close to the Loop, but farther north. Honoree slipped into that neighborhood occasionally to rummage through garbage bins and unguarded crates of excess clothing. When her luck was riding high, she’d find some beautiful fabrics, lace, twine, needles and thread, and discarded fancy dresses. It wasn’t thievery, exactly, but her forays were far less expensive than shopping at department stores like Marshall Field’s.
By early evening, she and Bessie were back in the neighborhood at Mr. Turner’s Grocery Store, and Honoree was apologizing for missing Sunday service.
“I’ll try to make it next week.” She smiled.
Mr. Turner always asked.
“Sure you will,” he said, squinting over his spectacles with the look of a man who expected the same excuse from her the next Sunday.
“I’ll take two bottles of Coca-Cola and two Baby Ruth candy bars.” A minute later, she was standing next to Bessie, who was waiting, head back, eyes shut, facing the sun.
“This is like one of those days in Jacksonville.” Bessie opened her eyes and took the bottle of Coca-Cola from Honoree’s hand.
“When were you ever in Jacksonville?”
“I was born on a farm outside Jacksonville. My pops grew corn and raised pigs and chickens. My mother planted beans, tomatoes, and strawberries, and my brother and I shucked corn and string beans.” She took a swig of her soda. “I skinned two rabbits before I was six.”
“For some reason, I thought you worked the Chitlin’ Circuit.”
