Finding Their Son (20 page)

Eli was about to open the discussion as he and Damien had discussed when he looked at her—really looked at her—and noticed something different. “Charlene Jones,” he exclaimed. “What did you do to your hair?”

She lifted her chin defiantly. “I colored it. All one color. It’s called Truffle. Jack’s sister helped me pick it out. Rachel and I both agreed that if I’m going back to college to get my degree in social work, I need to look more…um…neutral. I’m already going to be old compared to the other students. I don’t want to be weird, too.”

He put one arm around her shoulders and hugged her tight. “Oh, love, different and weird aren’t the same. Don’t you know that, chickadee?”

She stiffened. “What did you call me?”

He took a breath and let it out. “Let me tell you a story. When I was five my mother drove me to South Dakota from Oklahoma and dropped me off at my grandparents’ place for the summer, then drove away. I cried for days. My cousins—including Robert—laughed and called me a baby.”

“You
were
a baby,” she said sympathetically.

“The thing is, even at the age of five, I knew I would never fit in. I had black hair, but blue eyes and pale skin made me different—especially compared to my cousins.”

He leaned his face against her palm when she touched the side of his face. “But my grandfather was a very smart man. Instead of ordering the other kids to be nice to me, he told us about a Lakota brave who went to a gathering of tribes to trade buffalo hides for food that his family
would need to survive the winter. Unfortunately he got suckered into gambling with some men from another tribe. Before long, he was down to his last hide. If he didn’t win, his family would starve.”

Eli looked at Damien, who had heard this story on the way here. He’d grudgingly agreed that Char would understand its significance, even if Damien didn’t.

“The man was a fool, but a little bird—a chickadee—saved him by pretending to be the playing piece. If it was supposed to be white, the bird flipped one way. If it was supposed to be black, it flipped the other.”

“I’ve never heard that story,” Char said.

He shrugged. “I think Grandfather adapted it to fit my needs. Years later, at a powwow, I heard a much more gruesome version. The point is it made the other kids look at me differently. And that gave me a chance to blend in.”

She started to say something but he needed to tell her everything. “Even as an adult I’ve struggled with a sense of identity—white boy from Oklahoma or red man from the Lakota Nation? It took reconnecting with you and meeting Damien to make me realize that I don’t have to be one or the other…because I’m both.”

“I helped you figure that out?”

He nodded. “Yeah. For one thing, you not only embrace being different, you elevate your uniqueness to a new level. There’s nothing black or white about you, Char…” He looked at Damien meaningfully.

“And yet there is,” their son said cryptically.

“Pardon?”

Damien reached into his backpack and produced a small, plainly bound book about the size of one of Char’s
journals. “Your aunt in Montana sent this to me,” he said, passing it to Eli.

“Aunt Marilyn?”

Eli flipped to the table of contents page and pointed to his name, which was right below her grandmother’s. “I interviewed your grandmother in seventh grade as part of an oral history project.”

He handed her the self-published treatise. “I didn’t remember anything she said until I reread it. Then it was almost like sitting in the flower garden with her. It’s like your journal, Char. Written word trumps inaccurate memory any day. It’s all there in black and white.”

Damien cleared his throat. “Correction. Your great-grandparents’ names are there. It took some serious ass research on my part to get the rest of the facts.”

That tingle of awareness she’d felt when she talked to Pam returned. “Are you going to tell me my grandmother’s family was black?”

Damien’s face fell. “You knew. Eli said you didn’t.”

“Pam mentioned it this morning. She said you called her, too. I didn’t know what to believe. I still don’t. Are you sure? Seriously? How is that possible?”

Damien pulled another piece of paper out of his bag and laid it on the coffee table in front of her, this time dropping to his knees on the carpet so he could point out things as he explained what he’d learned.

She put her hand to her mouth in shock. This was the same genealogy chart she’d attempted to fill out when she was Damien’s age. No one in her family would tell her anything. Now she knew why.

“Look at all those names and dates. Damien, you’re a genius.”

He didn’t argue the point, but he did add, “Your grandmother’s family—the McGruders—pulled out of the area in the Dirty Thirties. She was the only colored person—her words—left behind. She stayed because of your grandfather. I guess she loved him.”

She closed her eyes a moment. “But from what Mom and my aunts have said, he was a real bastard. How sad!”

Eli squeezed her hand. “He might not have been very pleasant at the end of his life, but there may have been extenuating circumstances. Your grandmother told me he suffered frostbite during a blizzard when he helped rescue the children at the Checkerboard School—a rural school where six white students and six black students were enrolled. He lost several toes, which meant he was excluded from military service when World War II started.”

“And the Great Depression didn’t help,” Damien said.

Eli nodded. “The only reason they kept their house was because your grandmother took in laundry and boarders.”

“Grandma supported the family?” She pulled a face. “That would have been hard on a man of that time’s ego.”

“You can see why he would have tried to keep her ethnicity a secret. To save face.”

“That’s sad. Really sad. My poor grandma never got to be who she was because of her husband’s bruised ego.”

He shook his head. “I think she really loved him, flaws and all.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Look at your family tree. She passed away less than a month after he died.”

Damien’s cell phone suddenly made a loud
ding-dong
sound. He jumped to his feet, proclaiming his need to eat before he keeled over.

Eli held her hand as they walked back to the dining room. They didn’t speak, which gave her time to marvel at the strange connection they shared. His grandfather’s story that shaped Eli’s life. The old black woman’s pet name for her. Her grandmother’s heritage that provided a missing piece in Char’s story. Their son, who was an amalgamation of all those convoluted pieces.

Once they were seated—like a real family—around her table, she lifted her wineglass. “Thank you both for making this the most memorable Thanksgiving of my life.”

Eli touched his glass to Char’s and waited until Damien’s made a faint clinking sound, too. “To the completed circle.”

Damien kept the moment from turning utterly maudlin. “Yeah, yeah. I’m starving. Somebody cut the meat.”

Eli did the honors with practiced skill and finesse. The smell of roasted meat made her mouth water, but seeing her two favorite men in the world sharing a meal was even more delicious.

Char sampled the wine before filling her plate. “Good wine,” she said, passing the green bean casserole her son’s way.

“Libby recommended it. I called her to see which kind you like,” Eli said.

He made that thoughtful gesture sound like nothing, but she was so touched she could barely swallow her second sip.

“Did Dad tell you I met Cooper at the hospital?” Damien asked, handing her the roasted yams. “He’s funny. His two friends were pretty cool, too. William said I might be able to fly their jet someday if I get my license. Right, Dad?”

Dad.
She tried not to be envious, but it was hard to control her reaction. Damien must have sensed something because he said, “It’s sorta confusing having two mothers. Like, do I call my California mom Mom One and you Mom Two? Or do I keep it simple and call you Char?”

She relaxed. “The latter, thank you.” She took a bite of meat swirled in a dab of spicy cranberries. Her taste buds erupted as she chewed. “Oh, my…good meat.”

Damien chewed a bite three times as big as hers then swallowed loudly. “Eli, on the other hand, is Dad because I only have one of those. Plus, he gets this grumpy look on his face when I call him Eli.” Under his breath, he added, “Probably because E.J.’s being such a jerk.”

Char was sorry to hear that. She had a lot of questions but decided they could wait. She didn’t want to ruin this pleasant interlude by bringing up harsh reality.

To her surprise, Eli said, “For the record, my divorce will be final in March. Our house is on the market. The girls have forgiven me and are dying to show off Damien to their friends.”

Damien whinnied as if he were a prize stud.

“Bobbi and Robert are back together. After her near-death experience, Robert’s wife, Sue, came to her senses and decided she was better off without him.”

“Wow,” Char exclaimed. “Things have been popping since you got back.”

He took a gulp of wine for courage then pushed his plate aside. “That’s true. And after careful consideration we’ve decided that Damien would be happier in a college prep high school with a more urban flavor—relatively speaking—so we’re checking out what Rapid has to offer on Monday. I have résumés with a couple of small PDs and
the Highway Patrol. Once I tie up the last of those pesky loose ends, I plan to ask you to marry me.”

Damien, eyes wide with mock horror, groaned. “Eli. Dad. No. That was the suckiest proposal ever, man. What were you thinking?”

Eli shook his head stubbornly. “What did you expect? Me down on one knee? That’s not our way.”

“
Our way?
You mean Lakota? But it’s not like you brought her a string of ponies, man.”

Char fought to keep from laughing. They seemed so serious. She reached out and squeezed Damien’s arm, touched that he was fighting for her honor. “It’s okay. He brought venison. And my favorite wine. Besides, where would I put a string of ponies? Do you have any idea how much work they’d be? I’m going back to college. I don’t have time for ponies.”

Eli jumped to his feet. He knew he was going to lose the moment if he didn’t do something to regain control. He needed a grand gesture. And Damien was right, the ambience of dirty dishes was definitely lacking. But where…?

You know where, chickadee. What are you waiting for?

The voice. He no longer feared he was losing his mind. He was grateful for the help.

“You win, Damien. Get the doors. I’ll bring your mother.” He winked at his son as he walked to where Char was sitting, then he bent down and scooped her into his arms.

“Field trip,” Damien chortled, bouncing up with far less cool than he usually purported.

They were all in high spirits, joking and laughing, by the time they reached the teepee. Damien quickly fired up the patio heaters William had left. Within seconds, the chill
had receded. The natural light that penetrated the heavy canvas embraced them like a comfortable cloak.

Char’s heart was thudding in her chest as if she’d run the entire way, instead of being carried. She wasn’t afraid, but she knew something momentous was happening and she didn’t want to miss a single image to record in her journal.

Eli stopped purposefully, at the exact center of the teepee. Blue sky and brilliant white clouds winked at them through the open cross timbers. He lowered her feet to the floor but kept her close, so when she breathed in she could feel his chest against hers.

“I love you, Charlene Jones,” he said, his gaze never leaving hers. “I love the odd, impetuous girl you were when we first met and the strong, self-reliant woman you’ve become. I would be honored and grateful if you’d love me back, from now until our children’s children whisper our story as if it were a myth. Will you marry me as soon as humanly and legally possible? Please?”

“The ring, Dad,” Damien prompted.

Eli patted his pocket and a second later pulled out a small velvet box. When he flicked it open, she couldn’t contain her gasp. She recognized the artist, Miriam Flies-With-Hawk’s, unique style. Finely pounded strands of yellow gold were woven together to create a delicate bird’s nest for two beautifully cut stones of onyx and white topaz.

“You’re the jewelry specialist,” he told her. “You can pick out our wedding bands, but when I saw this, I knew it was you.”

She slipped on the ring, which fit perfectly, then touched his cheek with her open hand. “I loved this face in secret from the first moment I saw you. Tall and proud—even a
bit cocky,” she added, glancing at Damien. “I wish I’d been brave enough to tell you that.”

She brushed a tear from the corner of her eye. She’d probably always regret the years they missed out on—both together and with their son—but nothing could be gained by looking back at what was lost. They had a whole future ahead of them.

“I love you, Eli Robideaux. Always have. Always will. And, yes, of course I’ll marry you. The sooner, the better. We don’t want to be a bad influence on our son.”

They kissed. What felt like a second or two to Char must have seemed an eternity for their audience, who politely coughed. Char pressed her cheek against Eli’s shoulder and looked at the boy standing a foot or so away. Waiting.

“Come here, chickadee,” she said, motioning for him to join them. “You’re a part of this family, too.”

He did.

The circle was complete at last.

And caught up as they were in their newfound sense of hope and possibility, none noticed their observer. Sitting on the rim of the teepee above them, a small black and white bird watched the humans for several seconds then cocked its shiny head to one side, as if acknowledging its work here was done, and flew away.

ISBN: 978-1-4268-3861-0

FINDING THEIR SON

Copyright © 2009 by Debra K. Salonen.

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