The Truth About Grace Read online

  “Eddie was Gramma’s father,” I explained patiently – for the third time. “That would make him your grandfather.”

  “Is that what we called him? Grandfather?” Rochelle wiped butter off her cheek with the back of her hand.

  “We didn’t call him anything, Ro, don’t be stupid.” Shawn stood, grabbing his ball cap from the table and towering over his sister. “We never met him before.”

  “Hey now,” I said. “Play fair. You haven’t always been the same model of brilliance you are today.”

  He grinned at me then. He is easily annoyed, but just as easily teased into his true nature, which is friendly and easygoing.

  “If we never met him before, how come we went to his funeral yesterday?” Rochelle persisted.

  “Because he died. Duh.” Shawn smacked his sister on the back of the head, grabbed his lunch bag and headed for the door. “I’ll be in the car.”

  “Uh, garbage?” I shouted at his retreating back.

  “Took it out last night!” he hollered just before I heard the car door slam.

  “Come on, Ro, let’s get this show on the road,” I said. “Go brush your teeth and, for crying out loud, do something with your hair or I’m gonna take you over to Aunt Re’Netta’s shop and make her cut it.”

  Rochelle whined something back at me, but I didn’t hear what it was. We have a nice comfortable relationship, these kids and I. Somebody’s always rocking the boat, but someone’s always there to settle it down, too.

  I’d like to think this news will be a catalyst for Grace. She has been through so much, and she has put the family through hell. But this news creates a paradigm shift the likes of which none of us have seen. All I can do is brace myself. I have a feeling there is a huge storm coming.

  3 – Grace

  I’ve got to hand it to Miss Ora – she knows how to make a room comfortable. I was so tired last night, I probably didn’t need the sleeping pill Aunt Tressa gave me. I took it though, and I slept good in this soft old bed. We stayed up awful late, my sisters and I, talking about…well…everything. It’s a lot. A lot to take in. First off, my Aunt Tressa. I could have told you she was my aunt the second I met her, which was only yesterday. She looks like a cross between Patrice and Mama, which is hard to look at, I ain’t lyin’. She’s tall and straight-boned like Patrice, more angles than curves, with skin smooth as caramel icing. But her face is like Mama’s; her eyes are pale gold wishing for green, and only the top half of her lids show when her eyes are open. Mama’s face was always hard-set, but it was so round and soft that it was hard to take her serious. She was a good liar though, I’ll give her that.

  I’m not stupid. I mean, I knew what happened to me. No way an innocent child could dream somethin’ she ain’t never seen. I knew what that white-headed boy did to me, but my mama tol’ me so many times, I think it actually became a dream. A haunting that crept inside my skin and crawled out at night like tiny cockroaches. Especially when I was cranked up. I dug at those ghost bugs until I left scars all over my body. One time, I was so sure there was a spider tryin’ to come out from under my chin that I took a pair of scissors and cut a chunk out of my neck. Ended up in the hospital that time, and my first trip to rehab. Mama was still alive then. I hate she had to see that, but I can’t take all the blame. Would I be here if they’d told me the truth to begin with? I don’t think so.

  I ain’t ever got over that boy hurtin’ me like he did. That laugh…oh, God, that laugh. The bugs laughed just like him.

  And where did I go all these years tryin’ to escape those little phantoms? To the library. I went to books. Sounds crazy, doesn’t it? But that’s what I did. It was the only thing that eased my mind, especially when I was coming down. I would find a big armchair tucked away in a corner and read books by people who looked like me. Much as I loved Jane Eyre in high school, I couldn’t ever imagine myself in her place. I read Walker and Hurston and Hughes, but I also found Toni Cade Bambara and Marita Bonner and Jessie Redmon Fauset and Ernest Gaines.

  Maybe I am crazy, but I didn’t start out that way. Miss Ora brought out some picture albums last night, and there we were, smilin’ and laughin’ like nothing happened at all. We all lined up on the couch with Mama in the middle. Miss Ora called it a family portrait. Last one we ever had where we was all together – Marcus, too. It was that first Thanksgiving when we ate right here, when Marcus came home from boot camp, and Mr. Pecan was here, and I was so happy I could almost forget about that white-haired boy. And Christmas, when we made dark-skinned Santa cookies by adding cocoa to the butter cookie dough. That was the year we found bicycles under the tree. I thought the only reason we got so many presents that year was ’cause the white Santa came to Miss Ora’s house, so I begged for Christmas at her house every year after that. Mama got pretty tired of it, and I think Miss Ora did, too.

  Of course, none of that happiness lasted. Not even last night, with all my sisters there. Hard seeing my brother’s smiling face in that first set of photos and a big empty spot where he should have been in every one afterwards. I remember him, though. His was the face I went to in my mind when I needed to know there were good men in this world. I’ve known precious few, and that’s a sad, sorry fact.

  Mind you, I’ve read about some good men, but I haven’t met many. Mr. Pecan was good. And that ol’ judge – even though I was scared to death of him – he was good. He helped me out some over the years, even put me in rehab a couple of times, but I didn’t stay. I never stayed.

  I feel like I need to go back through my whole life now. It’s like I took off one pair of glasses, the ones that filtered the lie, and put on another pair that makes everything look like carnival mirrors. Hard to even get my bearings. Maybe that’s why my stomach’s so twisted this morning. I need to empty everything and start over.

  I’ll give you one good example – Miss Ora. All these years – all these years – I thought she was different. I know it’s crazy, but I kind of looked at her like family. I thought she was the one white lady in this world I could trust no matter what.

  Patrice and I talked about this last night. I was so mad, I could barely speak. I thought everyone knew but me and kept it from me all these years. Patrice swears she didn’t, though. I asked a lot of questions. We ate here after the funeral, though there sure as hell weren’t any church ladies bringin’ food to a convicted murderer’s family. Miss Ora got sandwich trays from Publix and Mrs. Smallwood brought a casserole. Thank God for my sisters, is all I can say. Danita cooks just like Mama did, and Re’Netta’s pretty close. I didn’t eat much, but I was hungrier than I expected. Miss Ora went to bed early and left us to clean up, which I guess is okay, but something about seeing Patrice standing at her sink, washing up afterwards, just went all over me.

  “You ain’t her maid.” I set my empty glass on the counter so hard I thought I might have cracked it.

  Patrice stopped, her hands covered in soap suds and dripping into the sink. She turned just her head and looked at me for a minute. She’s like that. She studies things a lot. Thinks about what she’s gonna say before she says it. Not me. I blurt out whatever’s on my mind. Always have.

  “I know I’m not, Gracie.”

  “And you ain’t Mama, neither.”

  “Okay,” Patrice nodded like she was thinking it over more than actually agreeing. “But these dishes aren’t going to wash themselves and we ate off of them. Miss Ora’s had a rough day. It won’t kill us to help.”

  I don’t know what came over me, but I started crying then. First time I’ve cried in I can’t remember when. It don’t do a thing but tear up your gut and make you look weak.

  “Ain’t I had a rough day, too?” I blubbered like a fool. “She don’t know what rough even is, here in this lily-white house where everybody waits on her hand and foot –”

  “Hush that.” Danita appeared out of nowhere and wrapped her arms around me tight. She hugged me to her chest and whispered “Shhhh…shhhh…shhhh” while I cried all ov
er her gray silk blouse.

  They managed to get me to the living room and all three of my sisters sat with me until I stopped crying enough to say, “I need a drink. She got any liquor in this house?”

  I don’t remember when I last saw that much eye-rolling. Makes me want to roll my own eyes thinking about it.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Miss Ora doesn’t keep alcohol here,” Patrice said. “She used to, but she doesn’t anymore, and you don’t need it anyway.”

  “I see how this is gonna go,” I said, shaking my head.

  “How long you been clean this time?” Re’Netta finally spoke up. She’s always the one to get things out in the open. She’s like me that way.

  “Most of three months now,” I said, defensive as usual.

  “Most of?” Patrice’s head snapped up like I’d slapped her.

  “It ain’t easy, Sister.” She’s the only one I call Sister. The twins I call by their names. “Most of…meaning most of. At least I’m not lying about it, like everyone’s been doing to me most of my life.”

  “We didn’t know, Gracie,” Patrice said in a way that made me believe her. “None of us knew. If I had known, I would have done things a whole lot differently.”

  “She knew,” I jerked my head sideways and up, toward the stairs in the hall.

  Patrice nodded again, just as Aunt Tressa came in from the front porch. I’d forgotten she was still there.

  “Sorry about that,” she said and held up her cell phone. “I had to check on some things back home.”

  “Did you know?” I asked.

  “Know what?” Her eyes narrowed at me like she wasn’t all that happy I was asking.

  “About us. About my mama. About me.”

  “It’s a long story, and not one to be covered in one night.” She sat down ramrod straight in the recliner and leaned forward. I took that as a beginning.

  4 – Patrice

  I dropped the kids off at school and stopped by my office to pick up some documents I’d need to take with me to court this afternoon. I was meeting Aunt Tressa at Miss Ora’s house at 10:00 a.m. and I still had a good hour to kill, so I drove aimlessly for a bit and found myself out by the prison. I pulled off the road and sat for a minute, just staring at the white concrete walls surrounded by a good mile of fences and razor wire. How did our family become so tangled in events that made this place part of our lives?

  Last night, Aunt Tressa sat stiff and uncomfortable on an old wing chair in Ora Beckworth’s living room as we waited for her to speak. She had no obligation to tell us her story, but it is one we didn’t even know existed before yesterday. As it turns out, it’s our story, too. Tressa Mims Hightower, daughter of Eldred and Eileen Mims, is my mother’s half-sister, though as far as I can tell, Mama never knew about Tressa. Tressa, however, knew about Mama. This is what she told us last night. After Eddie’s funeral. After Miss Ora dropped a few bombs on us all.

  “I first learned about your mother when Eddie showed up at my house in early December of 1976. My children were just toddlers. Those would be your cousins. Trevor’s 28 now and John Jackson – we’ve always called him JJ – is 26. They were asleep upstairs when Eddie – my father – banged on my front door begging to come in. I knew he’d been in Mayville for a good while. He said it used to be his hometown.”

  “Where’d you say you were from?” Grace interrupted. She never could sit still and just listen.

  “We live in Auburn now. My husband teaches computer science at the university. That’s not too far from Tuskegee, which is where my father was in the military and where he met my mother, and where we lived when the boys were still young.”

  “Mr. Pecan was in the Army?”

  “Mr. who?” Aunt Tressa asked.

  “Sorry… I don’t know what to call him now. He was my grandfather, right?” Grace is having the most trouble absorbing the information we just learned. I feel for her, really, I do, but sometimes it’s hard to be patient with her.

  “You can call him anything you like,” she said. “I call him Eddie because Dad just doesn’t sound right.”

  Grace shrugged. “I like Mr. Pecan fine. So was he, then? In the Army?”

  Aunt Tressa spoke to Grace like a child, which isn’t surprising. Gracie is quite childlike despite her age. “No, honey, he was a mechanic with the Tuskegee Airmen. You ever heard of them?”

  Her eyes grew even larger. “Those the ones they did those tests on?”

  “The very ones. I don’t think my dad had any medical issues with them. He never talked about it anyway. But that’s where he got started drinking and as long as I knew him, he was a drinker. And a fighter. Hard to imagine the sweet, soft-spoken man he was, morphing into this loud, obnoxious character. Funny thing was, I had sent him a bus ticket to come home for the holidays, so I knew he was in town. The day he arrived, we had dinner at my house, and he sat on the floor with the boys for two hours building a train track. It was lovely, and I remember wishing it had always been that way. And then he shows up three nights later, drunk as I’ve ever seen him and hell-bent on telling me something important, he said.”

  Grace had this completely skeptical look going on. She doesn’t have to say a word. She just wears what she’s thinking on her face.

  “You don’t believe me?” Aunt Tressa asked Grace.

  “I just don’t remember ever seeing him drunk,” Grace said.

  “Maybe not.” Tressa adjusted her skirt and sat back a bit in the chair. “But I do. Vernon – that’s my husband – brought him inside and made a pot of coffee. We made him stay quiet until he drank a cup and calmed down. Then he told me about y’all. It was hard to understand at first. I was trying to calculate dates more than I was listening to what he had to say. Finally, when I realized Blanche was born before he came to Alabama, I could breathe again.”

  “Where was your mama all this time?” This question was from Danita. She’s the compassionate one of my twin sisters. It didn’t surprise me that she wanted to know about the rest of the family, too.

  “She was around some, but she didn’t have much interest in seeing him once they split up. She was the assistant to the president at Tuskegee. The institute became a university in the mid-eighties, which was a big deal to her, so she worked right up until the day she died. She was at her office, stood up to greet a faculty member and dropped dead of a heart attack right there.”

  “So, what all did Mr. Pecan tell you that night?”

  “Grace!” I admonished my sister. I shot her a look she’s probably used to, then turned to my aunt. “I’m sorry for your loss, Aunt Tressa.”

  “It’s fine, honey.” She gave a little shake of her head to reassure me. “She just wants to know.”

  I relaxed then, but Grace still looked wounded, so my aunt went straight back to the story.

  “He told me he had another family in Florida. Without even trying, he’d found the daughter he left when she was a baby. He had granddaughters, too, which really seemed to tickle him. He talked about you a lot, Grace. That day and every other time we talked. He told me what happened to you and how much it hurt to watch Blanche suffer. He felt guilty about her, I know that much. But this was just the first time he told me, and things were a bit fuzzy then.”

  “How’d he know we were his family?” I asked.

  “He said the first thing he noticed was that we looked a lot alike.”

  “You do!” Grace chimed in. “You look just like her in the face, but Mama’s face was rounder. Softer.”

  Aunt Tressa looked a little bemused at that, like she wasn’t sure if it was a compliment or not, but she went on. “And if I remember correctly, he said something about knowing for sure when Mrs. Beckworth gave him a piece of Blanche’s birthday cake one day, which makes sense. I imagine he’d remember his firstborn child’s birthday. Of course, all of this happened before that boy was killed…” She stopped abruptly. I think she realized this was shaky ground for us.

  I nodded. “
This was before Thanksgiving then. Eddie had Thanksgiving with us.”

  “It was. I had planned on him staying through the holiday, but I had left his return ticket open just in case. After that night, I was ready to send him packing and I did. That kind of haunts me now. What if I had just kept him with us?” Her voice was full of emotion, and she got quiet for a moment, but I did not see tears.

  I reached out to her then and placed my hand on her arm. “Let’s don’t do that to ourselves, okay? We all have regrets. We did what we did. Let’s just let it be.”

  Aunt Tressa nodded and gave her body a brief shake that went all the way to her fingertips, but she got quiet then, and I got up to make a pot of coffee. It was obvious we would be talking long into the night. When I returned with five cups on a tray, I realized Grace was still grilling Aunt Tressa about Eddie.

  “Did my mama know who he was?” she asked.

  “I have no idea.” She took the cup I offered with a grateful smile. Re’Netta relieved me of the tray and finished distributing the coffee as Tressa continued. “He said he asked Blanche about her family, but she answered only a few questions and then changed the subject.”

  “What questions did he ask?” Grace was determined, I’ll give her that.

  “Gosh, Gracie, it has been a long, long time since I even thought about this. Maybe if I’d known the significance of the details, I might have paid more attention. At the time, I was just trying to get this drunk man out of my house without risking someone else’s life in the process. He probably wanted to tell me more, but I wasn’t in the listening mood.”

  Something clicked in my brain and I blurted out. “I wondered why you didn’t seem surprised when Miss Ora introduced you to us as our aunt.”

  She nodded. “I was a little surprised, but only that she knew. And that she announced it so casually.”

  “Were you going to tell us?” Grace frowned at Aunt Tressa. Her eyebrows were drawn into a tight knot between her enormous eyes.