The Coach House (42 page)
Marie stayed silent.
“It’s not normal.”
“There weren’t any clues?”
“No.”
“You said once he didn’t seem as interested in sex as he was when you were first married.”
Karen nodded. “Yeah. That’s true.”
“Did he have any male friends that he spent time with?”
“Had lots of male friends, but don’t most men?” Karen paused. “Well, there was this one guy he knew. I forget his name now. In fact, I never even met him. They used to go out for beers every once in a while. One time I said I would join them, and Ed said the bar they were going to wasn’t suitable for a lady.” She stared out the window. “Good grief. I just thought maybe it was a rough place or something.” She shivered. “That’s sick.”
“You said he was a sensitive and caring man, right?”
Karen smiled faintly. “He was.”
“Then, that’s the memory I would keep of him. Like you said, you have no proof.”
“I suppose you’re right. Is there any more wine?”
“What do you think?”
“Stupid question?”
It took Marie and Karen close twelve hours to drive to St. Charles. They stopped every two to three hours to stretch their legs, eat sandwiches they had packed, and change off driving. After being friends for more than a year, one would think they knew everything there was to know about each other. But they didn’t. They talked about a myriad of subjects—politics, religion, men, families, and more.
Somewhere there’s music
How faint the tune
Somewhere there’s heaven
How high the moon
“Don’t you just love Ella Fitzgerald?” Marie asked her.
“Not that keen on colored music.”
It was a remark Marie had a hard time ignoring…but she did.
When they finally arrived in St. Charles, they stopped at a gas station to pick up a local map, and then found a motel and got a good night’s rest before starting their adventure. The next day Marie drove through town while Karen gave her the directions. Pretty soon they were leaving town and entering farmland.
“Are you sure this is right, Karen? There’s nothing but farms out here. I don’t think a bank vice president would live on a farm, do you?”
“Don’t know. Keep driving. Forest Trail Road should be coming up in about another half mile or so. When you see it, turn right.”
Marie did as told, and when she turned right, the countryside turned from farmland to ranches, each one nestled in its own private cluster of trees. Marie slowed down at the first mailbox. “J Norton” was all it said. Karen made note of the name and address. Marie drove further down the road to the next mailbox. “G. Feinstein” was on the box.
“That’s it.” The sprawling ranch house sat far back on the expansive wooded property. “Let’s see what the next one says. There’s a mailbox across the street, up a little ways.”
“Double J Ranch.” Karen wrote it down. The next mailbox, the one on the other side of Feinstein’s, read “F.G. Mackey.” Next to the Double J Ranch was Diamond Kennels, and the last mailbox read, “Brooks Horses.”
Marie drove until she reached a dead end. “Let’s go, Karen. We’re not going to find out anything. And I’m beginning to feel creepy doing this.”
“Okay,” Karen said, reluctantly. “Your call. But something to think about is that we could find a St. Charles phone book and look for each of the addresses on this road, especially J Norton and Double J Ranch. One of those J’s could be a Jon.”
“Do you know how long that would take?”
“What do you want to do then?”
Marie sighed. “And then what would we have?”
“I don’t know. Maybe we’ll know when we see it.”
“Well, we came too far to not follow through, I suppose.”
It was a small town. The St. Charles Library wasn’t hard to find. Marie and Karen poured over the small print of the local phone book looking for any listing on Forest Trail Road. They were able to eliminate one of the addresses during the first hour. Double J Ranch at 54N Forest Trail Road belonged to Jeanne and Jack Mills. They eliminated a second one shortly after that.
Marie’s stomach did a flip-flop. “Hey, look at this. Brooks Horses belongs to Jonathan Brooks.”
“Do you think that’s him?” Karen asked.
“I don’t know.” Her expression turned somber. “Look, if it wasn’t for one very important factor, I’d be tempted to let this whole thing go, assume he’s my father, accept the fact that he doesn’t want to be in my life and call it a day.” She looked directly into Karen’s eyes. “But I’m afraid it’s not that simple.”
“What are you getting at?”
She glanced around the library to see if anyone was within earshot and then dropped her voice to a whisper. “I have reason to believe my father is a Negro, and…”
“What?!”
“Keep your voice down, will you?!”
“What are you talking about?”
“Just hear me out, Karen,” Marie continued in a low calm voice. “My mother would never tell me anything about my father. Whenever I would ask about him, she would have the same old tired speech; that he was a wonderful man who she loved very much, but that he couldn’t be in our lives.”
“So?”
“So one day when I was working at Field’s, an irate customer stormed out of my office saying she didn’t appreciate having to deal with some half-breed nigger girl.” Marie shuddered. “Her words still ring in my head.”
Karen studied Marie’s face the whole time she was talking. “That’s just nuts, Marie. You’re obviously not a
Negro.
Why would she think that?”
“Because she was from the South.”
“So?”
“Look, it had never crossed my mind I was anything but white until that customer said that to me. Anyway, I went to the library back then and found a book on southern plantation owners who had their way with young slave girls. There were pictures of their children. Karen, I look
just
like some of those mulatto children. And that woman would have known because she was obviously from the South.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“And then there’s my mother. Don’t you think it’s a little strange that she wouldn’t tell me even one little thing about my father or show me a picture maybe? She acknowledged him, but not one thing about him. I think she may have been hiding something…like the color of his skin.”
Karen sat across from Marie with an open jaw. “I don’t know what to say. My first reaction is that woman didn’t know what she was talking about. Sure, you have an olive complexion and curly hair, but that doesn’t mean you have
Negro
blood in you.” She spat out the word Negro, making Marie uncomfortable. “And even if you did, you…So
that’s
why it’s so important for you to know who your father is. You need to know who
you
are!”
“You got it,” she said, biting her lip and swiping the tear that had escaped and run down her cheek.
“But you can pass for white, so why—” Marie’s look caused her to stop midsentence.
“I’m sorry. Let’s get out of here.”
They stopped at a diner for dinner, went back to their motel room, and talked well into the night. “What are you going to do now?” Karen asked.
“I want to see what Jonathan Brooks looks like. I need to know if he’s white or colored. What do you think?”
“I’m thinking there’s an easy way to find out. Go to his house and knock on the door.” Karen had a habit of blurting things out before thinking them through.
“I can’t do
that.”
“Why not? He doesn’t know who you are.”
“I can’t be sure of that.”
“Well, he doesn’t know
me.
” She paused. “Look, this guy sells horses. I’ll make an appointment to see one of his horses.”
“Are you sure you want to do that, Karen?”
“Look, you’re my best friend.” Karen paused for a few seconds, blinking back a tear. “And besides, it’ll be fun. I used to live for this kind of thing. It feels good again!”
“You scare me, Karen.” Marie retrieved Jonathan’s address and phone number from her purse. “Here you go. I’ll stay in the room while you do it.”
The next day, Marie paced the hotel room floor a hundred times waiting for Karen to return from her excursion. When Karen did return, her face was somber. Marie sat on the edge of the bed, her clammy hands tightly clasped. Karen sat in the only chair in the room.
“Okay, here’s what happened. I called to make an appointment to see his horses, and he said to come right over if I wanted. I drove into his driveway and parked the car near the front door, but before I could ring the doorbell, I heard a man’s voice from the side of the house say, ‘Is that you Miss Reynolds?’ I used my mother’s maiden name on the phone, Miriam Reynolds. So I went around to the side of the house where he was standing.”
Marie drew a deep breath and waited a few seconds before asking the obvious question. Something in Karen’s gaze told her she already knew the answer, but she asked anyway. “So what did he look like?”
Karen looked her friend straight in the eye and spoke slowly. “Jonathan Brooks is a Negro.”
They sat in silence while Marie digested the words. She stared out the window, feeling nothing for the longest time, trying to wrap her mind completely around it, her body slowing down as if in suspended animation. She thought she had been prepared for this, but perhaps no one really could be. Karen watched her face and waited for a response.
“Go on. What happened next?”
“Okay, but this still doesn’t prove he’s your father. All this proves is that he’s Gregory Feinstein’s neighbor.”
“Tell me what happened next.”
“Okay, but before I continue, I have to tell you this man was the nicest, most likeable, and well-spoken man I’ve ever met. Not at all what I expected.”
Marie started to ask her just what did she expect, but afraid she might not like Karen’s answer, decided against it.
“Anyway, after we talked a while, his wife Claire came out, and she was just as nice. We all talked for a few minutes before he showed me the horses. Oh, and she mentioned their three grown children at one point.
Very
nice people.”
“How dark was his skin?”
“Not that dark, but there was no mistake he was colored. And what a ranch they have! It goes way back off the road and down to the dead end where we turned around yesterday. He told me it’s 380 acres, and right now he has fifty horses on it. Thoroughbreds, Tennessee Walkers, and Percherons, whatever they are. And get this. While we were standing in the yard talking, three deer came out of the woods and started grazing…right there in one of his pastures.”
Marie only half listened.
This can’t be true. Could I really be colored?
“How did you leave it with him?”
“Lied through my teeth. Told him my husband and I had a small farm in Geneva that was big enough for two horses. Told him we loved to ride, and there were good trails by our house.”
“How did you explain your husband not being with you?”
“Told him he had an emergency at the hospital…do you believe it? I’m married to a doctor…and he couldn’t make it, but I would talk it over with him and see if he wanted to come for a look at a later time.”
It was still sinking in. “You are too much.” Karen’s grin told Marie she was proud of what she had accomplished.
“Jonathan said tomorrow would be okay if my husband was available.” She paused before going on. “So I was thinking that I might drive back there tomorrow and tell him I discussed it with my husband, and we decided to wait until next year when we have a bigger stable built.”
She’s awfully good with the lies.
“You could tell him that over the phone. Why go back out there?”
“So you can sit in the car and see him for yourself.”
It was too much to absorb. Marie felt heaviness in her chest that she hoped wasn’t the onset of a heart attack. “I don’t know, Karen. It’s too…”
“Too what?”
