The Coach House (43 page)

“I don’t know. Too something.”

“Why not? You would just be a friend of mine waiting for me in the car. There wouldn’t be anything suspicious about it.”

She thought about that for a moment. “I want to. I really do.”

“Ed used to say, ‘If you’re feeling froggy, go ahead and take a leap.’”

Marie sat in silence while she mulled it over. Being faced with the opportunity to see for the first time the man who might be her father was overwhelming, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to share the moment with anyone, not even Karen. And it might not even be him. She got up, went to the bathroom, and sat down on the toilet seat. She put her head in her hands and took in several deep breaths. Her face was solemn when she emerged.

“Let me sleep on it.”

They ate in silence over breakfast the next morning. When they got into Marie’s car, she pulled out the floppy brimmed hat from her purse and said, “Let’s go before I stop feeling froggy.”

Karen drove. Marie stared out the car window at the world going by, wondering if her own world was going to soon change. A couple of miles from Jonathan’s house, she reached out and touched Karen’s arm. “Pull over.” The car glided to a stop. Marie leapt out of the car and leaned up against the side of it. She looked down the road while she tried to control her breathing. Then she walked around to Karen’s side of the car.

“I’m so nervous.” She paused. “I don’t know if I can go through with it.”

“Let’s say we turn around. How will you feel back in Atchison?”

“I’ll regret it,” Marie admitted without much hesitation. She walked around the car and got back in. “Let’s go.”

Large concrete planters filled with red geraniums and dangling ivy flanked the front door, offsetting the last few fading blooms of purple tulips planted across the front of the rambling ranch-style house, a reminder that spring was long gone.

Karen parked the car in the circular driveway, no more than thirty feet from the front door. She approached the house and rang the bell. Claire answered it. She wore creased tailored jeans that hugged her shapely body. Her crisp yellow shirt was an interesting contrast to her light brown skin. The two women talked for a brief period before Claire retreated into the house, leaving Karen alone on the porch. Marie kept her eyes fixated on the front door, the intense curiosity building. The seconds ticked away in slow motion, giving Marie too much time to think about what could happen next.

Then he emerged. Tall, dark, and handsome—exactly as her mother had described him. He wore jeans, snug fitting, and a pale blue short-sleeved shirt. She could see the Polo emblem all the way from the car. His muscled arms revealed a man who was used to physical work, which wasn’t consistent with his clothing and clean-cut look.

She watched the two of them talk for several minutes, carefully observing his every move. His smile was subtle, warm, and genuine. He laughed, and then Karen laughed. They talked some more. He occasionally put his hand on her arm, as if to say, “I know just what you mean.”

Only his profile was visible from Marie’s vantage point. She wanted to look deep into his eyes and into his soul.
Are you my father? What are you about?
If he was, she longed to get to know him, identify with him, but she knew full well that wasn’t likely. “I wonder what you would say to me right now…if you could, Mr. Jonathan Brooks?” she mumbled under her breath.

They shook hands, and Karen turned toward the car, a full smile on her face. Jonathan stood on the porch watching her walk away. Then his gaze traveled past her, right to Marie, right into her eyes, perhaps a few seconds too long. He gently nodded at her, all the while his eyes fixated deeply into hers.

He knows.

Without expression, Marie nodded back.

She desperately wanted to run up to him, hug him, and feel his strong arms around her, like other daughters and fathers do. If only she could.

He retreated into his home. Wrapped in an emotion she had never felt before, Marie wondered if she would ever see him again.

As Karen drove around the circular driveway, Marie looked at the sprawling house and the acres of land surrounding it. The manicured lawn surrounding the house occupied about an acre, yielding on three sides to expansive shimmering green pastures. Dense woods darting in and out of the property providing a rich backdrop.

An immaculate white picket fence defined several separate pastures. Close to the road in the side pasture, two horses with muscled haunches grazed on the thick green grass that was delicately laced with crimson clover. Marie cracked her window and breathed in the sweet smell.

Several other horses grazed in the distance, perfectly proportioned like well-sculpted athletes. A mare and her spindly-legged colt walked along the fence line, one generation teaching the next. A lone red-tailed hawk gliding effortlessly high overhead caught Marie’s eye, the sky a shade of blue Marie had never seen before.

She waited until they were clear of his property before she spoke. “So what all did the two of you talk about?”

“Nothing much. Told him about our decision to wait until next year to buy the horses. Gee, I’m good,” she said proudly. “Said he turns around horses all year long, so whenever we’re ready, just let him know.”

“Did he ask you for your phone number?”

“No. He left it up to me to contact him.”

“What were the two of you laughing about?”

“Oh, I think I told him something about my husband being a little afraid of horses, something about not wanting to injure his hands, being he’s a doctor and all. He said something like he probably needs to be toughened up some; that it might make him a better doctor. I don’t know. Something along those lines.”

“Did either one of them ever say how old their children were?”

“No. Just that they were grown. Why?”

“I just wanted to put it into perspective to when I was born.”

“So you think it’s him?”

“Oh, I
know
it’s him.”

“Holy Moses. What makes you so sure?”

“He looked at me…right into my eyes, and I felt a connection, this deep emotional connection…in my heart. And I’m telling you, for those few short seconds, we shared something. I don’t know what it was or how to explain it. It just was.”

“You think he knew it was you?”

“I
know
he did.” She paused while she thought about the consequences.

“And you’re okay with that?”

“Mm-hm. Karen?”

“Yes.”

“Could you do a big favor for me?”

“Of course. What is it?”

“Can we take a side trip before going home?”

“Sure. Where do you want to go?”

“I want to go by the apartment building where my mother and I lived.”

The next day, Marie navigated Karen to her old apartment building.

“You had good memories from in there, right?”

“Uh huh,” Marie said, lost in her own private space without really hearing what Karen asked.
I grew up in there not even knowing who I really was. How can that happen?

It was a long drive home. “Do you want to stop for a bite to eat?” Karen asked when they neared Atchison.

“No, I’m not very hungry. I think I’ll call it a day. Thank you for doing this for me.” She leaned over and hugged Karen. “I couldn’t have done it alone. I’ll talk to you later.”

Karen called her when she got home. “Are you okay, hon? I’m a little worried about you.”

“I’m fine. I just need time to digest everything.”

Marie curled up on her sofa with a cup of tea. She thought about Jonathan and wondered what life would have been like with him in it. She thought about the disappointing reality of him wanting to remain unknown. Of course he couldn’t be a part of her family. He had another family of his own. And even if he didn’t, what would he do with a daughter who passed for white? Now she understood the “why” of it, but that still didn’t make it fair.

How do I go from being white one day and part colored the next? Or do I treat this as my own private truth and continue to be white…that is, pretend to be white. Racial ambiguity. How does one deal with that?

As she lay in bed that evening, Marie thought about her mother and the internal struggles she must have endured raising her.
Anonymity aside, why couldn’t she have told me? She should have told me. Every child deserves to know who her father is.

Karen’s words echoed in her head like a stuck record. But you can pass for white, she had said.
Is that a good thing? Apparently Karen thought so. Life is easier being white? Is that it? What did it mean to look white, but yet not be totally white?
The questions tormented her. The answers evaded her.

* * *

“I want that box!” Marie said to Karen a few days later.

“What box?”

Marie told Karen about the Bonwit Teller box of her mother’s personal belongings.

“Marie, you’ve got that look on your face. What are you thinking?”

“I don’t know. But I want that box. It belongs to me. It’s the only remnant of a family I have left.”

“Couldn’t you just call Richard and ask him for it?”

“I don’t really want to do that, but it may be the only way. Unless…I could ask someone who knows me and him, someone I could trust, to ask him for it.”

“Like who?”

She thought about it for a moment. “Like Beatrix.”

The next day she called Rosa’s, in the middle of the afternoon when she thought business would be slow.

“Rosa’s!”

“Beatrix, please don’t say anything. This is Marie Marchetti, Richard’s wife. Don’t let on that I’m on the phone. Okay?”

Beatrix paused. “Okay.”

“I don’t know how much you know, but I had to leave Richard because of who he was mixed up with. I was scared for my life. Does that make sense to you?”

“Yes, we’re open until ten this evening.”

Marie smiled. “I left behind a hat box, a purple and white Bonwit Teller hat box filled with my mother’s belongings. It’s all I have of hers. Just a box of memories. I
really
want to get it back. Can you help me?”

“Yes, I think we can accommodate that many.”

“Do you think you could get it from Richard and send it to me?”

“I’m pretty sure we could do that. Can I call you back a little later?” Rosa’s voice turned into a whisper. “Is there anything else you left behind that you want, dear?”

“I left
everything
behind, and I would love to have it
all
back, but it’s the hat box that’s most important.”

Marie gave Beatrix her phone number and prayed she hadn’t made a mistake. Beatrix called her three days later. “I got the hat box for you.”

Marie sighed. “I can’t thank you enough for helping me with this. My mother’s things mean everything to me.”

“We had a long talk, Richard and I did. He’s a smart boy, maybe too smart for his own good.” She paused. “You know, Marie, he hasn’t been the same since you left. He’s still very much in love with you. I don’t know if you know that or not.”

“I don’t know what to say. I was so scared of who he was dealing with and what he was into.”

“I understand. Believe me, I understand.” The two women talked a few minutes more. Marie was quite sure it would be the last time she would ever talk to Beatrix.

Eight days later, Marie picked up the box from the Kansas City post office where she had instructed Beatrix to send it. When she got it home, she held it to her chest for an emotional minute before removing the lid. She dug inside for the photo album that contained the picture of her mother and the five men. The dark skinned man in the picture was Jonathan Brooks, her father. She put the album back in the box, closed her eyes, and softly cried.

After composing herself, she dug into the box. A brown leather strap halfway down caught her eye. She pulled out the purse she had originally stashed money in prior to leaving. Inside were the bills she had stashed in there before she left, her jewelry, and the crystal picture frame Catherine had given them for a wedding present, their wedding picture still in the frame. Her Tiffany jewelry and her mother’s jewelry had been put in a satin drawstring bag with a ribbon tied around it. On the ribbon was written, “So in Love with You Am I,” one of the lyrics from their song.

In a separate felt-lined box were her wedding rings, the rings she had sold, another indication Richard knew her every move. She stared at them for an agonizing moment wondering what the real reason was that he went to the trouble and expense of buying them back and wanting her to have them.

She put them on, and, for a second, just a split second, she longed for a taste of her old life and envisioned being back with him. But the vision quickly dissolved when she discovered a photograph in the bottom of the purse. It was of her and Karen boarding the trolley car in San Francisco. Her heart fell in her chest like a brick.
I’ll never get completely away from him.

Marie shared the experience with Karen, but not the photograph of the two of them.