Did You Hear About Kitty Karr?

“Now I know she suspected it. She used to tell me you were ‘in the wind.’ Your mother wouldn’t talk about you at all. She didn’t trust my family, and she was right not to.” Claire put her hand on Kitty’s shoulder.

Substitute the details, and America was full of such centuries-old secrets, about so-called “illegitimate” heirs to a fortune. Swept under the rug and exposed only by an overserved, bitter relative or by deathbed whispers, as in the case of Nora Lakes. Knowing Emma and others at Blair House, Kitty knew how common her narrative was, how many of these skeletons were entombed.

Kitty invited her inside to show her the photos from Emma’s security box.

“I told you I used to stay with my grandparents during the summer, and I remember playing with another little girl. I used to ask your mother about that little girl, if she had a little girl, but she never would answer me.”

Kitty didn’t remember ever visiting the Lakes manor, let alone meeting Claire.

“Who else could it have been?”

“I wasn’t allowed at your grandparents’ house, Claire.”

Claire let this sink in. “And yet your mother was still so good to them. She died before my—our—grandmother. No one knew she was sick, and she was taking care of my grandparents.” Claire looked like she might cry. “Oh, I loved your mother.”

“But not enough to go to her funeral,” Kitty scolded.

Claire shook her head. “No one was talking to me at the time. I didn’t know she was sick until after she died.”

“I didn’t either.”

“When’s the last time you spoke to her?”

“The day I left Winston. June twenty-second, nineteen fifty-five.”

Claire’s mouth fell open. “So I’m how you learned.”

“She wanted it that way. She didn’t want me to know she was sick.”

“I suppose it’s only right that your sister be the one to tell you,” Claire said.

Unsure if she wanted an answer, Kitty stammered over her next question. “Does our father know?”

“About everything?”

“Any part.”

“I honestly don’t know. I haven’t spoken to him in more than ten years.”

Now Kitty whispered. “Did he … hurt you?”

“Never, but he showed me no affection at all. I went off to college and learned more about his reputation than I could handle, and we haven’t spoken since. Not directly, anyway.”

“Is he still in Virginia?”

“Charlottesville. He and my mother have a home there.”

“I don’t want them to know you found me.”

“It wouldn’t matter,” Claire said. “They’d never admit they know about you. So release the film. Dare them to reveal themselves. They haven’t got the courage.”

It seemed that their grandmother, Nora Lakes, had had the courage. She sounded nothing like the woman Kitty knew through her mother’s eyes. “She used to give me a birthday cake every year. Three tiers, iced by hand, just like the one in the Life photograph.”

Claire looked away. “She never baked for us.”

“It was guilt.”

“That too.”

“What was she like?”

“Very proper. Well read and bred. She grew up in New York. She used to put me to sleep with stories about her life.”

Kitty imagined sharing a bed with Claire, listening to their grandmother’s voice.

“You were close to her.”

“Very. She was a storyteller, like you, and kept a diary every single day of her life. I have the volumes of her diaries in my attic. You’re welcome to read them. She had a fascinating life.”

“Was her family well-off too?”

“No. She grew up poor, and then poorer after her parents died.”

“How?”

“They were murdered. Her father was a bootlegger. She and her sister were waitressing when she met our grandfather. He called her the ‘city mouse’ he took in.”

“How sweet.”

Claire nodded at Kitty’s sarcasm. “My grandmother started with nothing—yet she died wielding the power at the head of a distinguished American family. What she lacked in pedigree she made up for in beauty and intelligence.” Claire smiled. “You certainly take after her.”

“Do I?”

“You have her eyes,” Claire said.

“Whose?”

“Grandmother Nora.”

Kitty shook her head. “I have my mother’s eyes.”

“Grandmother Nora had gray eyes just like yours.”

“My eyes aren’t gray. They’re grayish-blue.”

“That’s pretty specific.”

“I told you, I have my mother’s eyes. I grew up looking at them.”

“I thought your mother had dark eyes.”

“No.”

Claire didn’t seem convinced, which made Kitty angry. “Her eyes weren’t something about her you’d miss! You say you loved her, but you can’t remember how unique her eyes were. Did you ever even look her in the face? Really look at her?”

Claire embraced her. “I was a child then too. I’m sorry for everything that’s happened to you, but it’s over now.”

Kitty’s splintered selves converged, and the flood of emotion she was trying to prevent crashed into her center. “I miss my momma.”

Claire held her up against the heavy current that made her crumble to the floor.

For many reasons, they would never call each other sister, nor would they ever speak again—even after the birth of Claire’s second child, a daughter she named Alison.

Claire called a few times, but after Kitty’s hanging up in her ear, she stopped. At every one of her child’s milestones, Kitty got a letter from Claire, saying how nice it would be for Alison to grow up knowing her aunt. Kitty never answered.



* * *



Nathan, suddenly interested in civil rights when it came to publicizing Down South, made sure the studio secured radio interviews, editorials, and speaking engagements at the top liberal colleges and some Ivy League universities. Kitty noticed his agitation while discussing the press tour over dinner at their favorite seafood restaurant in Malibu. “Is everything all right?”

He took a sip of his water. “I don’t know how you’d feel about this, but I think we need a balanced view of the film. From Whites and Blacks.”

“What did you have in mind, darling?” Kitty loved how Nathan’s worldview had expanded during the filming of Down South. In preparation for his directorial debut, he spent many hours in the library reading books about the Civil War, slavery, and politics. When he came home one night with Frederick Douglass’s autobiography, Kitty fell more in love with him.

“You—we—should visit some Negro colleges.” He gave her a pleading look.

Kitty dipped a mussel in butter. “As long as we skip the Carolinas.”

Nathan scoffed. “Right.”

Down South was boycotted by Whites in the Carolinas, where Lakes tobacco was still produced. Blair House saw to it that Blacks responded with a boycott of Lakes cigarettes, which Kitty had purposely smoked in the film. It was a peculiar satisfaction, shared with the others of Blair House, though Kitty’s feelings were far more sinister.

While it had been a good idea in theory, her visits to some of the prominent Negro colleges—Spelman, Morehouse, Hampton, Howard—caused protests and hot and cold reads from both White and Negro media on their appropriateness. Nathan said the controversy only made their film—and Telescope—that much more popular. He came home a month later with proof: Kitty had been nominated for an Oscar.



* * *



Kitty and Nathan arrived on the red carpet ten minutes before the theater doors closed. They had originally planned for press, but Kitty had been shaky since the morning. Nathan patted her knee as the limo made a final right turn. “Do you want some champagne? You have like two minutes.”

Kitty shook her head.

“Nervous is good. That way, whether you win or lose, you’re just grateful to be here.”

“You’re right.” But Kitty wasn’t nervous; she was sad. Happy to be there, but sad nonetheless. She kissed him quickly before the driver opened her door.

Photographers rushed them, but Nathan made a path through to the only reporter to whom he had promised an interview.

“Kitty, such a performance—your nomination was well deserved.” A mic and camera went to her face.

“That feels amazing to hear; thank you. We worked hard to make the story come to life.”

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