Wrapping an arm over his chest, I buried my face against his side and just held him as tightly as I could.
Chapter 34
At the clubhouse, shut inside Preacher’s office, I absentmindedly traced the dark ink stain on his desk. Much like everything else inside this room, the stain had been there all my life.
It was late yet the clubhouse was full, friends and family were filling nearly every room. I knew I should be out there visiting, but there were other things weighing heavily on my mind.
Leaning back in Preacher’s chair, I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply. It smelled like my father in here—leather, his favorite brand of cigarettes, and hints of the cologne he sometimes wore. And I wondered how long it would be before it no longer did.
The door opened, hinges squeaking. Opening my eyes, I sat up and squinted through the dimly-lit room. A head full of dyed black hair, fashionably streaked with gray and white and curled to perfection, peeked inside. A wrinkled hand tipped with long red nails waved hello.
“Hi, baby girl.” Sylvia’s rough-hewn, nasally voice filled the room. “Can I come in?”
I gestured her forward, and the door opened, revealing a large metal box clutched between her arms. Elbowing the door closed behind her, she hurried across the room and placed the box on the desk in front of me.
Wringing her hands together, she took a step back. “I’ve always wanted to tell you the truth about her, Eva. So many times. Your mother, she was my friend, you know?” Taking a breath, Sylvia shook her head. “She was such a sweet girl and I loved her very much.”
Sylvia nodded at the box. “Your father—he threw so much away. He was hurting. He wanted to forget, I think. But I kept as much as I could get my hands on.”
With my heart in my throat, I stared at the box, already imagining what might be inside.
“I’ll leave you alone.” Sylvia moved toward the door.
I jumped up. “Aunt Sylvie, wait!”
She paused and turned, and I noticed the tears in her eyes.
“I don’t think I’ve ever thanked you,” I said.
Confused, Sylvia shook her head. “For what?”
“For helping him take care of me. For helping him raise me. You and I both know he couldn’t have done it without you.”
Sylvia’s hand went to her throat. “Oh God, Eva, it was my absolute pleasure.” Again she nodded at the box. “You come find me when you’re done, okay?”
As the door closed softly behind her, I looked down at the box before me. With shaking hands, I lifted the heavy lid and peered down at the contents inside—a short stack of notebooks, a few articles of neatly folded clothing, a small brown purse, and a couple of books and trinkets.
I bypassed all of it for the notebooks.
Laying the first one on the desk, I opened to the first page. The drawing had yellowed and faded some, but not so much that I couldn’t make it out. One hand flew to my mouth while the other hovered just above the page, quivering. It was just as Preacher had described—a smiling man with a little girl on his lap.
Carefully I flipped through the pages, finding hand-drawn illustrations of the story my father had told me. I saw Preacher, young and handsome, stretched out on a bed, sound asleep. And Sylvia, heavily pregnant with Trey. I saw Joe and Max, and my grandparents—Ginny with a cigarette in her hand, smiling, and The Judge with his arms crossed over his chest, his squared jaw and proud nose reminding me so much of Preacher.
I pulled another notebook from the pile, finding page after page of what I assumed were my mother’s first impressions of New York City—sketches of the clubhouse, the neighborhood, the Statue of Liberty, and the Empire State Building.
I touched the next drawing tentatively. Beneath a shock of dark hair, wide eyes set above plump cheeks stared back at me. “Frankie,” I whispered, my eyes filling.
There were more sketches of Frankie, of Tiny, of my uncles, and other club members—some of whom I knew, and others I only recognized from photographs I’d seen.
I paused on a drawing of Preacher, standing inside a room I didn’t recognize. Standing beside a window, his gaze was fixed on something the artist couldn’t see. He was shirtless, his arms folded across his chest. His long hair was unbound, hanging loose around his face.
The detail was incredible.
She’d drawn him so carefully. So exquisitely.
She’d drawn him as if she’d loved him.
I flipped to the next page and instead of a drawing, I found a discolored Polaroid photograph tucked into the binding. As I pulled it free, my hand began to shake.
