This dream bothers me. It should be a pleasant memory, but it hurts my heart.
Perhaps we are the same, my dad and I, seeking answers to life’s tragedies in old documents, old women, old dreams, and ghosts because we can’t let go.
We wallow in grief and thrive on our broken hearts. But I want to change. I need to change. And the first mile on the road is to do whatever it takes to finish the thesis.
I think Maggie is more than the owner of a box filled with memories.
I will talk to her. Demand she tell me the truth, but first, I want to hear Honoree’s story about Baton Rouge and Bessie Palmer and why she told my father “our women” were cursed.
Sitting on the edge of the tin desk in jeans and a loose-fitting plaid shirt (her other favorite outfit), Azizi nods and smiles. I believe she agrees.
* * *
Later that same day, I enter Honoree’s room. We’ve got a lot to discuss, but for the first time since we met, none of it has to do with Oscar Micheaux, Louis Armstrong, or Chicago in 1925.
She is holding her Bible but places it on her stomach when she sees me. “What are we talking about today?”
Leaving the chair in the corner, I sit. “I talked to my father, and he told me he’d visited you twice. Once after my mother died, and then again, after my sister died. Do you remember?”
“Had lots of visitors over the years.”
According to Lula, she has had only two visitors in more than a decade. But I don’t call her on her exaggeration. Not when the fault could be a shaky memory or a wish for what might’ve been.
“What is your father’s name?”
“Marvin Hayes.”
“I remember him.” She glances up at the ceiling. “I told your daddy the women in your family were cursed.”
“Why would you say something like that? It stuck with my dad. It hurt him. It hurts me; after losing my mother and my sister, I’m still hurting. What you said was cruel and unforgiving. What did my dad do for you to say something so horrible to him?”
“Not your father. I don’t care about him. I know what’s what when it comes to curses, and I don’t have to explain nothin’ to you about why I said it.” She is adamant, hostile. I don’t know who she is right now.
“Come on, Honoree. This is important. Did it have something to do with Baton Rouge? Or Bessie Palmer?”
Her expression changes. The years sink into every wrinkle in her face and throat, and a sadness I can’t imagine hollows her eyes. “I don’t want to talk about Bessie Palmer. And Maggie never owned a house in Baton Rouge.” Honoree wraps a withered hand around the railing. “Maggie should’ve never left Baton Rouge with that man. She should’ve kept her behind where she was.”
“What is upsetting to you?” I am on my feet. “Why does a house in Baton Rouge and who or who doesn’t own it bother you?”
There’s a growl in the back of her throat. “You’re like her—never telling the truth.”
“Like who, Honoree? Tell me what’s going on. I won’t judge you. I just want answers.”
“Your precious Maggie lied; don’t you understand? Everything about her is a lie.” There are tears in her eyes, but I don’t believe she’s crying. “Everybody lies, boy. You don’t know Maggie the way I do. She can’t help but lie. It’s in her blood.” Her laugh is too loud. Too sharp.
“Maggie cares about you. Why else has she taken care of you all these years?”
“Didn’t she tell you? Didn’t she tell you who I am?”
“You are her next-door neighbor. Her friend.”
“A decent daughter would’ve told her child, told my great-grandchildren, I existed. Told you, my great-grandson, I was alive.”
“Who are you talking about? Who told you that?”
“Maggie is my daughter. My only child. My flesh and blood, and she abandoned me. Left me in Baton Rouge alone for no goddamned good reason at all.”
I jerk forward. “Damn it, Honoree, that’s not true. Maggie never knew her mother.”
