A Wish and a Prayer (8 page)

Tears sprang to her eyes. “Oh, my.” Emotion rose with such strength, she covered her mouth as if to hold it inside. After she and Leo began drifting apart, she had spent the last twenty years of her marriage going through the motions. He made sure she had everything money and status could buy, but her heart had ached for love like the Kalahari ached for rain. And along came Malachi July—her wellspring, her source of all things fun and good—and her heart was in bloom again, just like the roses. She dabbed at the tears in the corners of her eyes. Mal made her look at herself in ways no one else had, and prompted her to take time out of turning the world to stop and smell the roses. Leaning over, she let the fragrance fill her nose and soul. When she first came to live in Henry Adams, everyone around had advised her to avoid Mal at all costs because he was made out of snake oil. She took in another long draw of the aromatic roses and smiled. Whoever thought snake oil could smell so sweet?

He was behind the counter, bopping to the music of “The Cisco Kid” by War, when she walked into the Dog, and he greeted her with a smile. “Hey, baby doll.”

“Thank you for the beautiful flowers.”

“You're welcome. After that ugliness last night, figured you might need some beauty.”

“You are so wonderful.”

“That I am. How about I treat you to lunch?”

“I'd love that.”

He came out from behind the counter, offered her his arm, and escorted her into the dining room.

Chapter 9

J
ack checked out the mutinous faces of Megan and Samantha as they sat in their seats, and felt not an iota of sympathy. He'd assigned them both a five-page research paper on the state of African Americans, politically, economically and socially, going into the twentieth century, so they'd get a sense of why “Lift Every Voice and Sing” was so important. They had a week to turn it in.

“But how come we're the only ones who have to do this?” Megan whined accusingly. BFF Samantha appeared equally put out, but let her friend do the complaining.

“Because you're the only ones being disrespectful when we sing the Negro National Anthem.”

“No, we aren't.”

“So that wasn't you rolling your eyes this morning?”

Megan huffed and blew out an exasperated breath. “My father's not going to like this.”

“Have him call me, and we can talk about it.”

She rolled her eyes and gathered up her back pack. “Come on, Samantha.”

Neither said good-bye as they made their exit, but Jack wasn't bothered by it. The research paper was still due next week. He doubted Megan would complain to her dad about the assignment. She and Samantha came from comfortable middle-class homes and had parents who cared about their education—otherwise they wouldn't be forking over the money to have their daughters attend Jefferson Academy. Jack had supported the ideas of opening up the school's enrollment to students who didn't live in town, but Megan and Samantha were making him question the rightness of his stance. In truth, Megan was the problem. She was academically lazy—only turned in half of her homework assignments, and what she did turn in was partially completed and rife with spelling and grammatical errors.

Samantha, on the other hand, was a very good student. Her work was always completed and in on time. Intellectually, she could hold her own with the likes of Leah and Preston, but she wouldn't stretch herself in class, probably so she wouldn't show Megan up. He wanted Samantha to spend more time with the Henry Adams crew so she'd realize it was okay to be smart, but she'd only been at Jefferson a few months. It was probably too soon for her to think about expanding her horizons.

Speaking of expanded horizons, he was still trying to get over Rocky's invitation. What had made her descend from her goddess perch and decide to rub elbows with a lowly mortal like himself? He hadn't a clue, but he liked the idea of hanging out with her on Saturday, or any day for that matter. He wondered what kind of bike she was picking up. A dirt bike, maybe. She was definitely the type.

“Dad!”

He started at being called. It was Eli, standing less than a foot away from his desk. “What, Eli?”

“You daydreaming? Had to call you twice.”

Jack pulled his thoughts back to the present. “Uh, no. Just thinking about something. Are you going home?” Eli and Crystal often stayed after school to work on the big L.A. art contest they'd entered.

“Crys has to work at the Dog until six thirty, so I thought I'd go in with her and see if Rocky needs me to do anything.”

This from a boy who'd complained so much the first day in the diner's kitchen that Rocky paid him less than the other kids because of his Oscar the Grouch attitude. Now, he was volunteering his services, and that could only mean one thing: young love. He didn't say that to Eli, though. “Okay. I'll be over there for dinner in a bit. I've some work to take care of here first.”

“Okay.” And he was gone.

Jack liked the transformation Eli had undergone since the move to Kansas. For a while after Eva's death, Jack had loved his son but hadn't liked him a whole lot. Smiling at how great life was going, he turned his attention to the next day's lesson plans.

Twenty minutes later, he was just about finished when a knock on the opened door made him glance up. It was Trent. “Hey. What's up?”

“Can you sing?”

“Yeah, I guess so—why?” he asked, wondering where this might be leading.

“Trying to put together a male singing group for the Idol competition. You sing bass, tenor, what?”

“Tenor.”

Trent seemed to mull over the response. “Ever sing in public?”

“Does three years in a boys' choir and having my own band in high school count?”

A smile spread across his face. “Oh, yeah.”

“What are we singing?”

“Not sure. Just doing recruiting right now. How's your dancing?”

“Okay.”

Trent looked skeptical.

“Better than okay.”

He didn't appear convinced.

“I'm not Michael Jackson.”

“Neither am I.”

“Who else is in the group?”

“So far, you, me, and Gary. We may not need anyone else, providing we don't wind up sounding like cats caught in a fence when we start rehearsing. How about we get together in the next couple of days and figure it out?”

“Sounds good.”

Trent left with a wave.

A pleased Jack went back to his work. Life in Henry Adams kept getting better and better.

U
sually Preston hung out with Amari or Leah after school, but today he went straight home instead. Neither of the Paynes were there when he arrived, which suited him fine because he wanted to be alone. Lying on his bed he clicked on the TV, found the Science Channel, and muted the sound.

He was still recovering from his crazy grandmother's visit. Although he knew Ms. Bernadine and the colonel had taken care of everything, he still wondered how their meeting had turned out, and if he was going to have to see Lenore Crenshaw again. He hoped not. Once was enough to almost make him thankful he'd been given up for adoption—almost. She obviously couldn't stand his father, and although Preston had never known the man, he was angry and offended on his behalf. The only positive about her coming was getting the answer to one-half of one of the questions that had plagued him since he was old enough to figure out he was being raised in foster care—the whereabouts of his parents. Preston still didn't know their names, but he did know now that his dad was no longer living. That hurt. Holding on to the hope that he would somehow meet him had kept him going when life became unbearable—like the night he set the house on fire so the state would be forced to move him away from the foster mom who refused to buy him an inhaler. Afterward, sitting in the CPS office with the social worker, he'd thought about his dad, and fantasized on how wonderful it would be to be rescued by him. Now? He shrugged. One more disappointment in the messed-up life of Preston Mays. He wiped away the dampness in his eyes. Crying wouldn't help. It never had.

There was a soft knock on his door. He gave his eyes another quick swipe. “Come in.”

It was the colonel. If he saw the tears in his eyes, he didn't mention it.

“How're you doing?”

“I'm okay.”

“I'm sorry you had to endure that.”

“Me, too. Is she gone?”

“Yes, and hopefully for good.”

That made him feel better.

“And we'll be getting a restraining order so she doesn't bother you again.”

“Thanks.” He could see the colonel trying to assess how he was really feeling, but Preston wasn't in the mood to open up, at least not then. “I appreciate what you did at school today.”

“Anytime. Mrs. Payne's coming home in about an hour, so how about I start dinner?”

“Will it be something we can eat?”

Humor sparkled in his eyes. “Jokes, huh?”

Preston asked quietly, “You want some help?”

The colonel nodded. “Sure. I'd like that.”

“I'll be down in a minute.”

“Take your time. I have to change clothes.” He was still in uniform. “No kid should have to hear what Crenshaw said to you, so if you want to talk, I'm here.”

Preston nodded a reply.

The concern on Payne's face remained, but he exited.

Preston had offered to help because he didn't want to be alone with the thoughts and hurt circling in his head any longer. If foster care had taught him anything, it was the futility of wallowing. Being with the colonel would give his brain something else to do, and if the truth be told, he also wanted to make sure that whatever he cooked was edible. Letting the pain resonate for the final time, he swung his feet off the bed and went downstairs.

To his surprise, he and the colonel had a good time. Preston mashed potatoes, and the colonel fried chicken. They talked about the Memorial Day parade and laughed at Crystal's rebuttal to the Witches of Franklin during lunch. After that, he washed the salad greens while the colonel sliced tomatoes. Once everything was ready, they filled their plates and sat down. After the colonel said grace, it was time to eat.

“So,” the colonel said, “other than Crystal taking on the witches, how was school?”

“Pretty good. Mr. Bing was a special guest and told us about working on the AlCan highway during World War II.” Preston bit into a chicken leg and was stunned. “This is really good,” he said, surprised.

“Thanks.” The colonel chuckled.

“You really can cook, just like Mrs. Payne said.”

“I do okay. Your potatoes aren't bad either.”

“Thanks.” It was a good shared moment.

“So now, tell me about Bing's talk.”

In between bites of the colonel's slamming chicken, Preston told the story of Bing's Alaskan deployment. When he'd finished, the colonel appeared impressed.

“I didn't know all that. The conditions must have been terrible. Torches beneath the equipment—wow.”

“Yeah. He said only one man froze to death, though.”

“I'm surprised there weren't more.”

“Me, too.”

“Wish I'd been there to hear him.”

“What was it like during Desert Storm?”

“Hot. Where Bing and his buddies froze, we roasted. The gear made it even hotter, and we also had to deal with sandstorms, sand fleas, and spiders. Some days I would have loved being stationed someplace glacial.”

They heard the front door open and the tap of Mrs. Payne's high heels on the wood floors. “Evening, gentlemen. Smells good in here.”

“Just me getting over myself,” the colonel replied.

She walked over and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Good to hear.”

“And Preston, how are you? I'm so sorry she said those terrible things about your father.”

“The colonel got her off me, though. It was awesome. He showed up like the marines.”

“Did he, now?”

“Yep. You should've seen her step back. Me and Amari wanted to cheer.”

“You were a hero today, Barrett.”

“Just doing my job as dad.”

For the first time in his life Preston experienced having a dad who had his back. It felt good. He saluted the colonel with his glass of milk. The colonel raised his glass and saluted him in return. Preston thought the colonel's eyes looked a little misty but figured that was his imagination, so he politely helped himself to another piece of the off-the-hook chicken.

Afterward, while the three of them cleaned up, he asked, “Do you know if Mays is my real name?”

He saw them both pause. Mrs. Payne met his eyes. Seeing what appeared to be guilt reflected there, he asked suspiciously, “What do you know that you haven't told me?”

He glanced between them and watched her look over to the colonel as if seeking guidance or maybe support—he wasn't sure which.

He waited. They appeared torn, and because they had yet to answer, frustration rose. “How much do you two know about me?” he asked again, trying not to shout.

The colonel took the lead. “Your name is Mays, and according to what we were told, your father's name was Lawrence. He was from Philadelphia and lost his life in a car accident a few months before you were born. You're named for his grandfather.”

Tears stung his eyes. “And my mom?”

Mrs. Payne replied quietly, “Her name is Margaret.”

“So she's alive?”

“Yes,” the colonel confirmed, “but she doesn't want to be contacted.”

That hurt, really hurt. Now he understood how Amari must've felt last fall when he was told the same thing about his birth mother.

Mrs. Payne said, “But, Preston, apparently she hasn't spoken to her mother for fourteen years for making her give you up. I think she must have loved you very much.”

He saw her tears and swiped at his own. “May I be excused?” he asked around the thick emotion clogged in his throat.

“Of course,” the colonel said.

Preston hurried from the kitchen. Up in his room, he closed the door, sat on the bed, and cried uncontrollably. His mom was alive, and according to Mrs. Payne, she hadn't wanted to give him up. That mattered, but that she didn't want to be contacted added to his already broken heart.

A
time zone away, on the outskirts of Boston, Lenore Crenshaw entered the formal dining room of her stately old mansion, feeling alternately angry and blue about her trip to Kansas. The moment she returned to Boston, she had gotten on the phone to the former clerks and colleagues of her late husband, Marvin, explained her dilemma, and been informed that the Brown woman was correct. Not even she, a member of the DAR and wife of one of the nation's first Black jurists, could rescind the adoption request she'd signed nearly fifteen years ago, nor was there anything to be done about the threatened restraining order, either.

So what was she supposed to do? she'd asked in a last-ditch phone call to one of Marvin's frat brothers, a member of the Supreme Court, but he didn't have an answer.

Neither did anyone else, it seemed. If she couldn't use her biological grandson as a means to soften her daughter's stance, Lenore faced the prospect of spending her remaining years estranged from her own flesh and blood.

No one had faulted her and Marvin for making the decision they had made concerning Margaret's out-of-wedlock child. It hadn't mattered that Margaret and the boy were planning to marry; that wouldn't've been allowed either. What mattered, once the father of the child was dead, was extricating Margaret from the embarrassing situation so the Crenshaw family could get back their well-heeled, scandal-free lives. Lenore couldn't have imagined showing off a baby with such questionable parentage as her grandchild—the gossip would've been intolerable—but for some reason Margaret refused to view the matter in that light.