Thirteen Orphans (10 page)
Brenda leaned forward to see …
Dunt-da-da-dunt-da-da-dunt-dunt-dunt!
In the other room, her dad’s cell phone chirped out a brief rendition of the Lone Ranger’s theme, and Brenda jumped. The tile in her hand was nothing but a bit of bone and bamboo.
“Yes? This is Gaheris Morris.”
Brief pause.
“Mr. Adolphus! You’re up early. Would you like to come by our hotel or is there somewhere you would prefer to meet? Okay. Do you know where …”
Brenda stopped listening as her dad started giving directions, concentrating on fighting down relief that Riprap hadn’t decided they were crazy Southern whites having on an honest black man. He was coming. Maybe they’d get a chance to talk. How quickly things had changed. Yesterday she’d wondered if she’d know how to talk to a black person. Today she couldn’t wait for a chance to talk to this particular one.
Brenda set the red dragon tile back beside its companions in the box, and tried to think how she’d manage to arrange a private chat with Riprap. A few ideas came to mind, but she knew she’d need to refine them when she had a sense of how Riprap was reacting to the situation.
Dad had come to the door of the bedroom.
“Breni, that was Mr. Adolphus. He’s going to be here in half an hour, maybe twenty minutes if traffic isn’t too bad. I thought I’d show him my presentation, then offer to take him to lunch somewhere. Least I can do, even if we don’t make a deal.”
Brenda nodded agreement, then decided to try jogging Dad’s memory one more time.
“Hey, Dad. I was looking at these again. Do you remember which are the flowers and which are the seasons? This set is different from our set at home.”
He moved over to her side. Brenda pointed with her finger at the flower and season tiles, the only tiles in the mah-jong set that could be considered unique, because, although there were two groupings of four tiles each, each flower and season was unique in itself.
Gaheris Morris pointed, “Those would be the flowers, Breni. You can see that there are four distinctly different plants. Therefore, the others would be the seasons. Our set at home does have different pictures, doesn’t it?”
He leaned forward. Brenda held her breath, hoping something was awakening. She concentrated on keeping him looking, begging for one of those ancient tiles to contain something that would break through to his real memories. However, when after a few moments of studious inspection Dad stood up, his words were disappointing.
“That one tile definitely shows a bamboo, but as for the others, I can’t tell. We should compare with our set at home.”
He tousled her hair, and then went briskly back to his computer. She heard him humming what sounded like a college fight song.
Brenda stared down at the tiles. The flowers and seasons were marked with characters in Chinese that she was willing to bet said which was which. Her dad had been speaking Chinese just yesterday, fluently even. Had he forgotten how to do that, too? Or wasn’t he interested enough to make out faded signs inscribed into old bone?
As she stared down at the tiles, once again the figures blurred and her vision became unclear, but this time the reason was nothing more than her eyes flooding with tears.
When Riprap arrived, closer to the twenty-minute mark than the half-hour, Brenda had put the mah-jong set away, washed her face, and combed her hair. The hotel room was comfortable enough that the clothing she’d packed for California would do.
Riprap greeted them both with the exactly right measure of friendliness and formality; then he let Gaheris put him in a chair where they could both look at the computer screen. Brenda sat on the small sofa to one side, trying to read the book she’d brought for the plane, and listening to them talk.
She gathered that Riprap played several sports, but that these days he was mostly a coach for various teams of junior-high and high-school-aged kids. Most of these were not affiliated with schools, but with organizations like church groups or the Y or Boys and Girls Clubs of America.
That was why Riprap worked as a bouncer, so his afternoons and early evenings would be free, and so he would have a flexible schedule on those occasions when one of his teams went on the road. It also became clear that he was passionate about what he did.
“Denver is not New York or L.A., Mr. Morris,” Riprap said. “In fact, there’s a saying around here that you know you’re from Denver if you think Five Points is a slum. Even so, we have our problems with drugs and gangs. Sports can fill some of the same need to belong, to be a part of something. Shirts like these your company sells, even hats or decals, those can substitute for gang signs, give a sense of belonging that has nothing to do with crime.”
Brenda wondered if her dad was disappointed that Riprap didn’t have any big account to draw on, but he didn’t seem to be. Maybe he hoped the Boys and Girls Clubs or the Y would come through. Maybe he was just being nice. Dad supported similar groups back home. No matter how prosperous an area was, there were always those at risk.
“Why don’t we go out to lunch and talk about this more?” Dad said. “Is there anyplace near here you can suggest?”
Riprap suggested a Mexican place. “It’s going to be different from what you get at a Taco Bell, but it’ll be good.”
It was, and over the meal Brenda found herself drawn into the conversation. She had played some sports, mostly soccer and volleyball, in high school. Riprap had a way of listening that made her want to tell a few of her favorite stories. By the time they were finishing their meal, she’d almost forgotten the craziness of the night before.
She remembered, though, when Riprap said, “How long are you going to be in Denver, Mr. Morris?”
“A few days, give or take,” came the reply. “We’re driving to Santa Fe to meet up with an old friend of my family. You might have heard of her. She was a famous actress once. Pearl Bright?”
“Shirley Temple’s rival? Or was she her successor as the big child star? Sure. I’ve heard of Pearl Bright.”
Brenda, marveling that Dad remembered that they were to meet Auntie Pearl, even if he had forgotten why, nearly missed what Riprap said next.
“Listen, it’s going to be pretty dull for Brenda to sit around the hotel room while you work out that proposal you want to give me. Why don’t I take her and show her some tourist sights. Our natural history museum is pretty well known, and there’s a nice open park right next to it.”
Dad looked at Brenda. “What do you think, Breni? I know you had a late night last night, so if you want to catch a nap?”
He was giving her a way out, if she wanted one, and Brenda appreciated that Dad didn’t expect her to entertain someone who clearly he thought of as nothing more than a business contact.
“I’d like to get out, Dad, if you don’t mind.”
“I don’t. You have your cell phone?”
They made arrangements. Back at the hotel, Brenda made an excuse about needing a few things from the room. Feeling like a thief, she grabbed the Rat mah-jong set and bundled it into her backpack. She thought Dad would be okay, but she was worried that the mysterious Chinese man might come back for the set. She remembered, too, how Auntie Pearl had taken Albert Yu’s set.
Maybe the mah-jong sets weren’t important. Their enemy seemed not to think so, but if Auntie Pearl thought Albert’s set had been worth having, Brenda would follow her lead. Brenda stuffed her torn jacket on top of the mah-jong set and hurried down. She found Dad and Riprap leaning on the hood of Riprap’s car, sketching some sort of sports logo.
Five more minutes of that, then Dad was on his way inside, and Brenda was in a car with a man who she’d not known existed two days ago, but who was connected to her by shared memories of the strange events of the night before.
“Your dad seems like a nice guy,” Riprap said once they were on the road.
“He is a nice guy,” Brenda responded a trace defensively.
“Hey, easy.” Riprap glanced over at her. “Am I right that something happened last night that, well, changed him?”
“Yeah.” Brenda ran a hand through her hair, searching for words. “The weird thing is, the only things that have changed are things that I didn’t know existed until two days ago. Superficially, he’s Dad like he’s always been.”
“Would you tell me what’s missing?”
Brenda began. Then she realized that to do so, she’d also need to tell about what had happened to Albert Yu.
“I’ll tell you, promise, but first I’d like to hear your story.”
“You mean about my connection to all of this?”
Brenda nodded. “Until two days ago, I didn’t know anything. From what you said in the diner, you know a lot more.”
“Okay. Fair enough. I was going to tell you today anyhow. My dad was in the army. He was an officer, and we traveled a lot, especially when I was younger.”
“Is yours a big family?”
“I’ve got two sisters, both younger.”
“Hey! I’ve got two younger brothers … Dylan and Thomas. Dylan’s going to be a junior in high school. Thomas will be in seventh grade. It’s sort of a mirror image of your family.”
Riprap didn’t take his eyes off the road, but she saw him smile. “My sisters are both grown. Lily’s a nurse. Tammy does computer data entry. They both are married and have little kids.”
He changed lanes. “Especially after Tammy was born, we didn’t always travel with Dad. Sometimes he had posts in places that weren’t great for families. Then we’d come back here to Denver and stay. My mom’s from here, and her family’s all through the area. My folks had gotten married pretty young, and so I’d already moved out on my own when, five years ago, the word came that Dad wasn’t coming back from his current tour.”
Riprap’s voice slowed and got choked up on that last sentence, and Brenda didn’t know what to say.
“I’m sorry,” she managed at last, feeling completely inadequate. “Really sorry.”
“Thanks.” Riprap drove for a couple of blocks in silence, maybe just concentrating on the increasing traffic, maybe not. Then he went on. “After the funeral was when I learned that the stories my dad had told me and my sisters when we were small, basically, for as long as we’d listen, weren’t fairy tales like we’d thought. They were history. Family history.
“Dad left each of us something personal. I got the mah-jong set. When I took it home and opened it up, remembering how Dad would only let us play with that set on special occasions because it was an antique, I found there was a little envelope inside the case. The envelope contained the key to a safe deposit box, and in that box was … well, it was sort of like a stack of letters, and sort of like a journal. I still remember the first part. I read it over and over, unable to believe it.
“It began, ‘Dear Riprap. Remember the stories I told you, the ones about the brave Dog who came from China, and how his enemies chased him, and how he lost his master and one day hoped to find him again? They’re true. Each and every one of them. They’re part of our family history, a part that has a special place for you.’”
“That had to have been …” Brenda paused. “Amazing. Astonishing. Did you believe it?”
“Not at first,” Riprap admitted. “I thought he’d written a novel or something, and wanted me to get it published for him. I kept reading, waiting for Dad to tell me that the stories were ‘real’ to him the way a good book or movie gets real if you really sink yourself into it. He didn’t though. After repeating a lot of what had been in the Brave Dog stories, he started telling me about the mah-jong set, and how it could be used for a few things, like telling who was to be the next Dog.
“He ended up by saying ‘Riprap, you’re probably wondering why I didn’t tell you this before. I guess the truth is, I didn’t want to alienate you. I’d meant to tell you all along. That’s what those stories were for, so you’d have a foundation. Then when I was about ready, something would come up. I’d be gone, or you’d have a test, or there was some big game and I didn’t want to rattle you. I thought I’d have a long time. I’m not that old.
“‘I have a bad feeling about this upcoming tour, though, and so I’m not taking any chances. Here it is, with my apologies that I didn’t do more to prepare you.’”
Riprap hit the turn signal with unnecessary force and turned his car in to a paved lot on the edge of a park that bordered a pretty large pond, maybe even a small lake. Signs indicated the direction to the natural history museum.
Riprap muttered softly, “My dad didn’t need to apologize. He did just fine.”
“I’m sorry,” Brenda said again. She heard the echo of her words to Dad that night when they’d gone out to dinner with Auntie Pearl, and Dad had told her about his dad.
Her heart ached for Riprap. At least she’d gotten to tell Dad in person that he hadn’t messed up. She fished around for something else to say. “When you were repeating what he wrote, you had him call you ‘Riprap.’ Is that what he called you?”
“My nickname from the first time Dad had to go away and leave the family back in the States,” Riprap said, easing the car into a parking space and switching off the engine. “You know what riprap is?”
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