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Authors: Grace Octavia
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sheet of paper the word “Phae.” Before it made any sense and registered in her head in a way that would make it possible to recall when she later realized that he’d stopped paying her mortgage, Charleston was gone from the table and Tamia was looking over her shoulder.
As she listened to more about the CD and even more about Nathaniel’s pending fame, time seemed to be standing still and moving fast as hell at the same time. Forever, that’s how long it felt that Charleston had been away from the table. And Tamia was fighting hard with herself not to care when Ava came up with a thought of her own.
“Where’s Charleston?” Ava asked. “He’s been gone for a long time.”
Tamia took the last sip of the third glass of wine she’d ordered to escape tasting the leathery scotch and was about to get up to see what was taking Charleston so long when he suddenly reappeared and slid back into his seat. As poised as a politician, he put his hand on Tamia’s knee and kissed her on the cheek.
“Sorry that took so long. It was the office,” he said in a way that left absolutely no space for Tamia to ever quiz him about what she’d seen on the phone.
“Why am I in Harlem, Troy Helene?” Lucy asked.
Troy stared at her grandmother from across the mahogany table in the center of her sitting room. She didn’t know why Lucy had ended up in Harlem, in her sitting room, in the Queen Anne armchair she’d purchased as a wedding gift. Ms. Pearl, Lucy’s blind, deaf, and toothless bichon frise, whose once puffy white coat was now a thin, dull silver, was being stroked on Lucy’s lap as she looked on with equal disgust at Troy. A two-time Westminster Best in Show, Lucy’d had the dog for as long as Troy had been alive and the two went everywhere together. Now there was a family joke that the next destination might be the pearly gates. Lucy had already purchased a plot beside hers for the dog; on the other side was Lucy’s dead, rich, white husband.
Troy wanted to break the stare but had no clue as to how to answer the question. Lucy never came to Harlem—rarely crossed any of the bridges to leave Manhattan, for that matter—so even a visit to her granddaughter’s home had to come with great reason.
“Brunch, Troy Helene. We were to have brunch at the Friars’ Club,” Lucy said sharply. As she stroked the dog, the dim light in the sitting room picked up all of the cuts in the seven-carat canary diamond she wore on her ring finger. Big and beautiful, the ring made Lucy’s hand look smaller than it already was, which was why she loved it so. Lucy was a frail woman, whose white skin was as fair as fresh farm milk. Up close, the blue veins on her wrists and hands could be seen. And while anyone sitting in that living room would swear she was white, Lucy’s mother and grandmother were each a shade darker than she—each, like Lucy, had married and had children with white men. The last in this line of tradition was Lucy’s only daughter, Mary Elizabeth—Troy’s mother—whose conception marked the end of Lucy’s passing. But years ago, it came out that the white man Troy knew as her grandfather all of her life was no kin to her. Mary Elizabeth’s father was a jazz musician. This revelation sent all three of the Smith women to therapy.
“Oh, brunch,” Troy remembered, falling back on the couch. She saw Kyle standing in the hallway beside the chair where Lucy was sitting. He jokingly shook his hand at Troy and she sat back up. She was supposed to meet Lucy for brunch after her meeting with the Virtuous Women—well, it was really lunch, but Lucy hated that word, said it made her sound too middle American. “I totally forgot. My meeting ran over and then I…” Troy remembered that Kyle was standing in the hallway and thought it was best not to finish the rundown of where she’d been.
“Water, son. Can you please get my Pearl some water?” Lucy said so softly it was clear she knew Kyle was standing
As she listened to more about the CD and even more about Nathaniel’s pending fame, time seemed to be standing still and moving fast as hell at the same time. Forever, that’s how long it felt that Charleston had been away from the table. And Tamia was fighting hard with herself not to care when Ava came up with a thought of her own.
“Where’s Charleston?” Ava asked. “He’s been gone for a long time.”
Tamia took the last sip of the third glass of wine she’d ordered to escape tasting the leathery scotch and was about to get up to see what was taking Charleston so long when he suddenly reappeared and slid back into his seat. As poised as a politician, he put his hand on Tamia’s knee and kissed her on the cheek.
“Sorry that took so long. It was the office,” he said in a way that left absolutely no space for Tamia to ever quiz him about what she’d seen on the phone.
“Why am I in Harlem, Troy Helene?” Lucy asked.
Troy stared at her grandmother from across the mahogany table in the center of her sitting room. She didn’t know why Lucy had ended up in Harlem, in her sitting room, in the Queen Anne armchair she’d purchased as a wedding gift. Ms. Pearl, Lucy’s blind, deaf, and toothless bichon frise, whose once puffy white coat was now a thin, dull silver, was being stroked on Lucy’s lap as she looked on with equal disgust at Troy. A two-time Westminster Best in Show, Lucy’d had the dog for as long as Troy had been alive and the two went everywhere together. Now there was a family joke that the next destination might be the pearly gates. Lucy had already purchased a plot beside hers for the dog; on the other side was Lucy’s dead, rich, white husband.
Troy wanted to break the stare but had no clue as to how to answer the question. Lucy never came to Harlem—rarely crossed any of the bridges to leave Manhattan, for that matter—so even a visit to her granddaughter’s home had to come with great reason.
“Brunch, Troy Helene. We were to have brunch at the Friars’ Club,” Lucy said sharply. As she stroked the dog, the dim light in the sitting room picked up all of the cuts in the seven-carat canary diamond she wore on her ring finger. Big and beautiful, the ring made Lucy’s hand look smaller than it already was, which was why she loved it so. Lucy was a frail woman, whose white skin was as fair as fresh farm milk. Up close, the blue veins on her wrists and hands could be seen. And while anyone sitting in that living room would swear she was white, Lucy’s mother and grandmother were each a shade darker than she—each, like Lucy, had married and had children with white men. The last in this line of tradition was Lucy’s only daughter, Mary Elizabeth—Troy’s mother—whose conception marked the end of Lucy’s passing. But years ago, it came out that the white man Troy knew as her grandfather all of her life was no kin to her. Mary Elizabeth’s father was a jazz musician. This revelation sent all three of the Smith women to therapy.
“Oh, brunch,” Troy remembered, falling back on the couch. She saw Kyle standing in the hallway beside the chair where Lucy was sitting. He jokingly shook his hand at Troy and she sat back up. She was supposed to meet Lucy for brunch after her meeting with the Virtuous Women—well, it was really lunch, but Lucy hated that word, said it made her sound too middle American. “I totally forgot. My meeting ran over and then I…” Troy remembered that Kyle was standing in the hallway and thought it was best not to finish the rundown of where she’d been.
“Water, son. Can you please get my Pearl some water?” Lucy said so softly it was clear she knew Kyle was standing
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