He laughed self-consciously. “Just a little past six feet. Not that tall, actually.”
She nodded. “Your daddy was—” She caught herself and stopped midsentence, and he allowed himself not to notice.
He lowered himself onto the chair, and before he could sit back, she said, “You want something to eat, son? I make you a PB and J?” She smiled. “Every time I make them at Sal’s, I think of you. How you used to love them.”
“Sal’s?”
“The diner. Where I work. In town. I work in the kitchen.”
He must’ve driven right past it on his way to see her. How strange. Half an hour ago, he had not known that his birth mom held a job, lived in a modest but decent home, far removed from the squalor and dissolution he had imagined for her. And this small brown face, framed by a schoolgirl’s pigtail on either side, the big brown eyes, alert, trusting, with not a hint of the sloth and meanness he had been bracing himself for. They were his eyes, he realized with a start, a different color but the same shape, and yes, even the same warmth and guilelessness that people always commented upon.
She was staring at him, an uncertain smile hovering on her lips, and he realized she was awaiting an answer. He shook his head. “No, thanks,” he said. “Nothing to eat.” He saw her disappointment, realized that hers was the kind of face unable to hide its emotions, and despite his intentions, he understood that he couldn’t bear to see her hurt. “But I will take something to drink,” he added politely. “Do you have some pop?”
She cocked her head. “Pop?” Her face brightened. “You mean Coke.” She laughed. “You’re a real Yankee now, boy.” She rose, chuckling to herself as she went toward the kitchen. “Pop, he says.”
He heard her opening the fridge and took the chance to look around the room. The couch was worn but had three cheerful-looking embroidered cushions on it. Had she embroidered them? Did she know how to back when they . . . he . . . in the old days? He tried to remember but couldn’t. The room was painted a light green, and one wall was covered with several framed pictures. He rose to his feet and walked over. There were a few pictures of her, looking improbably young, with an older woman he assumed was her mom. His grandmother. His childhood name for her came to him suddenly. Nana. And then he was staring at several baby pictures of himself. The hazel eyes were an immediate giveaway, and Lord, did he have a wild mop of hair. She was holding him in one of those pictures, her slender face staring straight at the camera with not a trace of a smile. But there was something so protective and maternal in her stance, as if she were carrying a child she would risk her life to hold on to. Something stirred in Anton’s chest as he gazed at that picture, and he knew that if he allowed it to, the feeling would swallow him whole. He turned abruptly away from the photograph and briefly studied one of him at probably six years old. It had been shot at a photo studio, and he was wearing suspenders and a cap and grinning as if he didn’t have a care in the world. Anton looked closely at the picture, trying to detect something in that boy’s eyes—fear, wariness, distrust—but found only brightness. This was not the look of an abused or neglected boy.
He heard her footsteps and returned quickly to the rocker but rose to help her when he saw she was carrying a small tray. There was his Coke, and she had made him a PB&J sandwich anyway. He opened his mouth to protest, but she shushed him. “Try it,” she said. “It’s your mama’s sandwich. No one will make it for you like me.”
She said it defiantly, but he heard the dip in her voice, saw the trepidation in her eyes, as if she were awaiting his judgment. He sighed. She was not making this easy. He had prepared himself for so many scenarios, but a mother who missed her son was not one of them. He picked up the sandwich and took a bite. And closed his eyes to the flood of memories that assaulted him.
He spoke with his mouth full. “I came to see you,” he said, while chewing, “to talk—”
“Yes, you did. Praise the Lord. When I sent that letter, I never—”
“—to you about . . .” He swallowed. “Yes, the letter.”
“A miracle, that’s what it is. A million times I pray—”
“Mam.” His voice was loud, harsh, shattering the quiet of the afternoon. But he had her attention. She looked at him with those big eyes, her face tilted upward, a penitent awaiting his judgment. He felt a moment’s unease at how easily she had submitted to him but ignored the feeling and plowed ahead. “I came to see you because, as you know, I’m running for governor. And we can’t—we don’t—we can’t afford any media attention about . . . this . . . about what happened. In the past.” He knew he was stuttering, losing his thread and perhaps his authority over her, and found himself desperately wishing that Brad were here with him.
She opened her mouth, but he held up a hand to stop her. “I’m trying to say.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out her letter, aware that his right hand was shaking, hoping she didn’t notice. He leaned forward as if to share the letter with her. “This part here, where you say I chose . . . I decided to live with my . . . new family.” He willed himself to look up and stare her directly in the eyes. “Why would you say that? I mean, why the lie, when everyone knows you gave me up? I mean, if you think you can intimidate me with this lie.” He stopped abruptly, noticing the stricken look on her sallow face, the tears glittering in her eyes. Oh, shit. This was going to be easier and harder than he’d imagined. He had braced himself for a confrontation with a drug addict. He was unprepared to deal with a woman who looked as if he were ripping her apart with each word he spoke. Maybe Katherine had been right. Maybe, just maybe, he had misread both the letter and her intentions?
“That’s what you think? That I gave you up?” Her voice was sharp, raw as glass. “You think . . .”
He looked at her incredulously. “Well, of course you did. I think that’s beyond dispute.”
Her lip curled. “That’s what you think of me? All this time. That your mama is the kind of woman who would give up her only child? To white folk? What’s the matter with you, boy?”
He felt the balance of power in the room shift away from him and toward her. It was the way she had called him “boy.” Powerful-like. Stern. Like a mother. “Look, I didn’t come here to argue,” he tried. “All I’m saying is, there’s nothing to be gained from renegotiating the past. Or—”
Her voice was flat, her face affectless. “You’re a lawyer, right, son?” She nodded. “You act like one. Like those white lawyers in town.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”