The Color of Family (44 page)

A
ntonia wondered if her first real memory of Agnes Cannon would always be her strongest. They were working together in the same house arguing about the best way to make monkey bread. As was so often the case with Agnes and her notions, she had some ridiculous ideas about monkey bread, like using pecans in the recipe, and Antonia tried to make it clear to her that no one who had any measure of self-respect whatsoever would put nuts in their monkey bread. Emeril had just been hired to do some odd jobs around the house and chose that moment to come into the kitchen. When Agnes and Emeril met, Antonia knew without a doubt that something was going to happen between them. What that something was was hardly a mystery, considering Agnes's reputation. But as she watched Agnes study her brother with those green eyes of hers, Antonia felt a twinge of trouble—a twinge that told her that Agnes would somehow steal her brother away. It left her feeling horribly unsettled. The day got worse after that, with the woman of the house choosing Agnes's monkey bread over Antonia's and Antonia just feeling miserable about everything.

Agnes was Agnes Marquette back then, of course, but as far as Antonia was concerned she had always been exactly the same way, regardless of the name. She would never understand what Emeril saw in her, other than the easy availability. But Emeril should have understood that other women would make them
selves available to him. More honorable, worthier women. Women who would provide Emeril with something beyond just base pleasure.

But in a sense maybe it was time to accept the fact that Agnes had given Emeril something that he would not have gotten anywhere else before he died. She gave him a legacy. And even though it had taken her decades to own up to that legacy, it was an awfully impressive one indeed.

It had been more than a week since the revelations at Larson Fletcher's party. Calling them revelations wasn't really appropriate since for Antonia the events in the parlor that day were much more about confirmation than anything else. But regardless of what anyone called them, it seemed that enough time had passed afterward and that the only proper thing to do was to open a line of communication between the mother of Emeril's child and that child's aunt. And so Antonia did what she seemed to be making a habit of doing these days—she took a deep breath and rose above her fundamental instincts. She invited Agnes for a visit because they had to begin their future somewhere.

The doorbell rang, pulling Antonia away from a past inhabited by Agnes Marquette. The Agnes who stood outside was not in any way recognizable as that woman. She seemed to have fallen lower than Antonia ever thought Agnes was capable of falling. It wasn't that Antonia hadn't given any thought to what Agnes had gone through in the last nine days, what with everything she had to explain to her son and the fallout that led to the end of Clayton's marriage. It was just that until she saw her at this moment, Antonia couldn't put a face on the experience. But she was staring at that face now and it was a sunken and almost unimaginably world-weary one.

The very first words from Agnes's mouth while she stood in the doorway were, “You must hate me,” and Antonia realized that Agnes had no way of knowing what to expect when she accepted the invitation. Their phone conversation had been brief and Antonia could imagine how easy it would have been to get any number of impressions from it.

She opened the door and let Agnes in from the cold. The woman stepped tentatively into the room, as though she was prepared for some kind of onslaught.

“I could see how you might think that,” Antonia said as she took Agnes's coat. “But I don't hate you. I feel deeply for you.”

Antonia saw a flash of confusion cross Agnes's face.

“I saw Clayton's eyes when he looked at you. And I saw your heart break in half when you looked at your son and told him what you did.”

“You have no idea,” Agnes said sadly.

Antonia took a moment to gather herself. She hadn't planned on getting this honest with Agnes this quickly, but the moment was presenting itself and Antonia knew better than to ignore the signal.

“Actually, I can. I had never been able to see it or accept it until that moment with you and Clayton, but I had put that same look in my own son's eyes more than once—when he was young and when he was older. I guess in thinking about it, the memories of that look are worse when he was younger, because I know he couldn't understand anything that could help him know why he had so much sadness with him to begin with.”

The admission drained Antonia a little, maybe the more so because she was making it in front of someone who had represented so many negative things in her life for so long. But looking across at Agnes now, she didn't see a rival, but someone with whom she had a surprisingly large amount in common.

“It's hard for a mother to know what to do,” Agnes said, and Antonia simply nodded at the undeniable simple truth of the statement.

They sat after that and talked for a good long time. They shared memories of Emeril. Antonia delighted Agnes with stories about her brother as an awkward boy before he matured into a strapping young man, and Agnes told Antonia stories about his tenderness and how he paid attention to her like she was the only other person in the world. They talked about what Clayton was like growing up and about the hundreds or maybe thousands of times that a gesture or an inflection would remind Agnes of Emeril. They talked about the brief period of time they worked together in the same kitchen and Antonia was polite enough not to mention how much she despised Agnes back then.

And as they talked, Antonia came to accept that there was a lot more about Agnes to like than she ever would have imagined.
She had never believed that Agnes really cared about her brother, but Antonia would have had to have been unforgivably hardhearted not to believe it after hearing Agnes speak about him now. And when she told funny stories about raising her son, Antonia just knew that motherhood had bestowed many of the same gifts upon Agnes that it had upon her. If she was truly going to understand family in a new way—and with Clayton and Thyme in the fold now, there was little choice but to do exactly that—she was going to have to find a way to include Agnes in the definition.

“You know,” Antonia said, “if we had been in a different place than we were and in a different time, maybe you'd be my sister-in-law right now.”

Agnes reached across to touch her on the arm and Antonia was pretty sure that this was the first time they'd ever touched each other. “I would have been, Antonia. You'd better believe I would have been or I would have died trying. I dreamed in every spare minute I could about a different life for me and Emeril. Somewhere far away from New Orleans. Maybe New York where I could have been something else, something better, and Emeril could have been whatever he wanted to be. He was so smart, you know? And we would have raised our boy to be just who and what he is now.”

It was a dream that could have come true, maybe even would have come true, if fate had been kinder all those years ago. “It wasn't until I met Clayton and we both knew that he was Emeril's son that I realized you took a hell of a bold chance to bring my nephew into the world,” she said. “Douglas Cannon could have ruined your life if Clayton hadn't looked the way he looks.”

“I didn't care,” Agnes said, her head down. “I really didn't care or think about it until that child came out of me. I just knew that I had to have a part of Emeril to keep, and if Clayton had come out looking black and Douglas had set me out on my behind for tricking him the way I did, well, then my boy and I would have found our way somehow.” She looked up and Antonia could see that Agnes's eyes had misted over. “I had Clayton and so I still had Emeril.”

It was Antonia's turn to look down now. “I didn't,” she said. “I didn't have either one after Emeril died.”

Agnes wiped at her eyes. “And I'm sorry. I am so deeply sorry that I let things get to a place where I couldn't turn it around.”

There was nothing said for the next couple of minutes, but it didn't feel uncomfortable or strange, just like both of them had a lot of thinking to do.

“You know,” Antonia said at last, “I've been chasing after Clayton and what he represents to my family for most of my adult life. But just now I realized that I might have been chasing after you as well.”

Agnes shook her head skeptically. “I think you might have been just as happy if I disappeared off the face of the Earth.”

Antonia laughed. “Well, I might have thought that on any number of occasions, but somewhere deep inside, I think I might have known something different. After all, you were the only woman my brother ever loved.”

“He did love me.”

“I know that. He told me in lots of ways that I didn't want to hear. But I hear it now. And I believe in some ridiculously roundabout way, it wasn't my will that got us to this place at all. It was Emeril's will to make this patchwork into a family.”

Agnes looked like she was about to add something when the doorbell rang. It was Aaron and Tawna.

“I just wanted to come by to tell you that I'm going to be gone for a few days,” Aaron said, smiling at Tawna.

“Where are you going?”

“To New York. We're going to cram our attitudes into my car and take a long drive. And if we don't kill each other on the way,” Aaron leaned over and kissed his girlfriend on the temple and she playfully pushed him away, “we're going to eat some very expensive food and see a couple of shows.”

“Is anything else dramatic going to happen on this trip?” Antonia asked.

“You never know,” Tawna said with a grin that absolutely split her face in half.

Antonia glanced over at her son. She had never seen him so eager to be with a woman before. This Tawna was going to turn out to be very good for him.

“Oh, hey, Mrs. Cannon,” Aaron said, noticing Agnes sitting in a chair in the living room and waving.

“Agnes,” Antonia said, taking Tawna by the arm, this is my future daughter-in-law, Tawna.”

Antonia looked up to see her son rolling his eyes at the way she made the introduction, but he didn't protest it.

“Well, it's very nice to meet you, Tawna,” Agnes said, walking toward them and shaking Tawna's hand.

“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Cannon,” Tawna said.

“Call me Agnes. And you too, of course, Aaron.”

Aaron nodded, then reached over and kissed Antonia on the cheek. “We gotta go. We'll be back after the weekend.”

He took Tawna's hand and they headed out the door and down the walk to the car. They waved and Antonia and Agnes waved back.

“It's Aunt Agnes,” Antonia said, calling after them.

Aaron glanced at her with a confused expression on his face and then opened the car door for Tawna.

He'd figure it out.

They all would.

Hot discussion topics for Reading Groups

1.
The nature of family is the centerpiece of this novel. Antonia risks the family she has to seek out the nephew she desperately wants to claim. Was it a risk worth taking? Why was this so important to her?

 

2.
Clayton's life turns on the realization that he is half-black. Why is this true when he's been living in the same skin his entire life? Would things have been different for him if the public wasn't also aware of it?

 

3.
Why do you think Agnes denies Clayton's parentage for so long? Does she do this because of race or because of some battle for “ownership” of Emeril and Emeril's legacy?

 

4.
Why does Susan find it so impossible to accept the truth of Clayton's heritage? What is it about the world she grew up in that makes her feel this way?

 

5.
Food plays a significant role in this novel. In what ways is food used here as an expression of family?

 

6.
Ellen plans the baby-naming ceremony because she feels her family lacks tradition. Why is this so important to her? Do you think she's right about her family?

 

7.
Why does Aaron have such a difficult time making a commitment to Maggie when he easily does so with Tawna? Does it have to do with the women, or does it have to do with the changes in Aaron's own life?

 

8.
The relative nature of celebrity plays a function in several relationships here. Do you think Aaron would have had as much trouble dealing with his family connection to Clayton if Clayton wasn't a bigger star than he was?

 

9.
Junior's love for Antonia seems very strong and his commitment to her absolute. Why do you think he feels the need to keep the existence of Thyme a secret?

 

10.
Why do you think Antonia feels the need to “take in strays” like Jackie the prostitute when her own family longs for more of her attention?

My sister, Patricia Jones's soul left her body on May 30, 2002. It has taken two years to finally accept that she is no longer here with me physically, but I continue to be warmed by her memory. She will always be for me, the most courageous and spiritual woman I have ever known. She filled my life with love, laughter, excitement, fun and adventure. Patricia's zest for life could be infectious and one always listened with amazement as she told stories about her various exploits.

Patricia loved helping and doing for others. Once a homeless youth asked her for money and she took him into McDonald's and bought him a meal. She took groceries to a family in need,
even though she had very little money for her own expenses. Pat's spirit had a way of inspiring people, such as the many people of Christ Church in Riverdale, who talked about how she had helped to change their lives. There was also her friend who had found a lump but was afraid to see about it. Pat persuaded her to get a mammogram, making the appointment for her and accompanying her to the appointment.

Pat was nothing less than passionate about various issues. She wrote articles for many magazines, addressing issues of race, interracial relationships, homosexuality, politics and more. In a speech she delivered she says:

Pat was loved by so many. Her passing affected us all, but what is more important is that her life affected us all. Her family and friends pay tribute:

 

To my friend—

Your friend forever,
Debbie Derella Cheren

 

My very best friend, your sister, Bettye, introduced us when you were in elementary school. I remember her having to pick you up from school. Boy, would she be mad. We were teenagers in high school and didn't think looking after a little sister was the highlight of our day.

Even though we were not sisters by birth, you were that little sister to me. I watched you grow from a little girl in pigtails to a beautiful effervescent woman. My memories of you will always be your radiant smile and your quick sense of humor. In fact, you could always shock me with your vivid language (especially if your mother was present). I would laugh and laugh and love you more for being you.

There are many memories I have of you, Pat, and they will always be with me. I will not speak on your illness because it took you away too soon. I am at this moment filled with sorrow and yes, tears as I am trying very hard to put my thoughts in writing.

My memories will always be happy ones. Bettye and I were talking about you several nights ago and we started laughing when we remembered her son Keith and Chenelle's wedding. You were a riot. You and I sat next to each other and no one could understand why I was laughing because you kept a straight face. If only they could hear what you were saying. Let's just say it was a “colorful” conversation.

If someone should see me smiling and chuckling out loud, they
will think, this person is strange. If they ask, I will say I am thinking of my “little sister” who is no longer here with me. She left behind many wonderful memories.

I love you and will always miss you.

Cynthia

 

Her inner and outer beauty, her smile lit up everyone's heart. Her laughter, her warmth, her genuine personae is what I miss most…. Pat you are always in my heart….

Love you, Millie.

 

Patricia! A great sister!!

Love, Dave Miller

 

I'd been to other funerals—uncles, grandparents, young cousins with short trajectories, too weak to escape the gravity of black life—but only the death of my father hit me like the loss of Pat. Some deaths are unexplainable, tragic; others ultimately make sense. Mama Della, my grandmother, was a kind of sacred and perpetual being, always old, always there, a deep dish apple pie-baking life constant. I assumed, and in a way really believed, that after hitting 100 Mama Della would get another century free, but when she passed just shy of 102, I merely felt grateful for having had her around for so long. Pat, however, was a baby. In some ways, my baby. And I was her best girlfriend. And when it was my turn to pay my respects to the family at the church, after having held up fairly well through the service, I collapsed into her sister Velma's arms and cried, clinging to her like a lab-raised Rhesus monkey to a mother-shaped towel.

Tears and a Tyrannosaur. For a moment, I felt guilty. My mind flashed to my seven-or eight-year-old nephew Austin watching
Jurassic Park
for the first time. The T-Rex, a delightfully engineered animatronic terror, made quick work of the lawyer in two chomps and Austin was rolling on the floor. Samuel L. Jackson was reduced to a severed arm and Austin was seized by an almost obscene gid
diness. But when the two kids were being menaced by a pair of overachieving velociraptors he steadfastly refused to watch, their faces a mirror of his fear. In that moment, held in Velma's arms, I wondered if I was being Austin. But the moment passed. I wasn't. I was desperate because a woman, a friend I loved, was no longer.

Boston University, 1982. Pat sat across the room in Soviet Political Dynamics, a slender and stunning curve of deep chocolate intelligence and grace with a southern flavor to her voice when occasionally it was raised to articulate some high-level cold war shadiness. To many folk, brown and otherwise, the brilliance of her smile, the “good” hair—big and home grown—the poorly masked high IQ, the Tanglewood-coached fingers coupled with her reticence, pointed to a chocolate-dipped white girl variety of conceit, but to my eyes she was all shyness and vulnerability. I adored her, but shy myself, I never spoke to her.

Manhattan. Eight years later, Madison and 42nd, and there she was, as stunning as ever and walking directly toward me. I tried to imagine the course of our paths since our divergence, perhaps as a stabilizing device, to keep my now rapidly vibrating molecules from losing their cohesion—imagine running into her after all these years only to go poof in a gentle fog of cowardice. No. I would not cave in. I resolved to speak to her, and further, I
willed
that she would be delighted to see me, give me her number and invite me to a picnic somewhere in New Jersey. And so it was.

I said
girlfriend
earlier. I said it because at her New York memorial, her female friends indicated that they were delighted to meet me after hearing about me for so long. They were the ones to tell me that she referred to me as her best girlfriend. But I'm not a girl. Not at all. Nor was it my intention to ever be so dubbed.

I never made it to the picnic, but I did invite her over to my place for brunch, which I prepared myself. She was a delightful guest and we talked for hours. And again. Hanging, talking, laughing. One afternoon, in her St. James Place studio, she sat on a bentwood rocker, crossed her legs, took a sip of something cool, set it down, opened an original manuscript and began to read. Observations about life on the left coast, Los Angeles to be specific. Funny. Sharp. Artful. Perceptive. Her voice sweet and confident, her cadence enchanting, her deep brown legs long and generously exposed. It was all I could do to keep from throwing
myself to my knees and pressing my lips to her thighs. When she finished reading she rose, sat next to me on the couch, without speaking put her foot on my knee, and without speaking I took it into my hand and kneaded, stretched, caressed—heel, ball, arch, toes and between, and then the other, all my budding desire finding expression in the gesture.

Valentine's Day. I've re-known Pat for more than a few months. Spoken to her almost daily. Never really stopped thinking about her. And felt some reciprocity—I'm sure of it. A trip to Balducci's. Three large chocolate-covered strawberries in a ribbon-bound box and a bike ride in the pouring rain. She opens the door with a smile and invites me in.

“I can't come in.”

She stands in the doorway. I remain on the stoop. “I need to talk to you.” I hand her the box. She smiles again. “I want you to have them because I'd love more than anything for you to be my Valentine, and I don't even like Valentine's Day.” I can feel her breath catch. “But I also have to tell you…” The smile ebbs. “…that I have a girlfriend.”

I think she might have cried. I think I did. She didn't speak to me for a while. When she did, I caught more than a little hell. But while a measure of romantic trust was irreparably eroded, our rapport was intact and we became close. Very close. And so we'd remain. One of my proudest moments was being one of her bridesmaids, or as written in the program, her bride's dude. There's so much more I could tell, good and bad, fun, silly and sad, but I think I'll end it here. As she put it one day as we headed to a book signing at the Studio Museum in Harlem, she's the writer, I'm just the pretty thing on her arm to keep her drink refreshed.

(Is this okay, Pat? You are, will always be my darling Sha Sha, and you know what I'm thinking, right? Yeah, you know.)

Daryl N. Long
May 25, 2004

 

Memories

Even at three years old, Pat demonstrated a remarkable maturity. I took her to see the movie
Mary Poppins.
She was a perfect little girl, focusing on the movie like a child beyond her years.