To this day, that’s what Coral knew about it. That was everything she knew. Who her mother was, what the story was, Augusta never learned. Augusta saw Odell Dibb only a few times in all the years after, and always by accident. He didn’t come around and play with the kids anymore. He wasn’t there for Ray Junior’s first day of school. But there was always money; things always worked out in town for the Jacksons. Even after Mr. Dibb died. Ray Junior had gotten that good job, Ada was chosen for a scholarship, things like that.
And though Coral and Augusta had talked it over many times, although her mother had repeated the details she knew as often as Coral needed them repeated, in the end, they hadn’t talked about it with Althea or Ada or Ray Junior. When she first learned the truth, Coral had wanted to tell her sisters right away. And Augusta had said that it was her story—she could tell anyone she wanted. But she had also said that she had kept it quiet, that she had never told the truth to a soul, so that Coral would be free to keep it a secret too. She always had the option to tell someone, but she would never have the option to keep it a secret again.
Coral had said, “Althea and Ada won’t tell. They’ll keep the secret.”
“They love you, and they’ll keep your secret. But life is long. There’s a lot of ways for a secret to come out. If you tell someone, it might not be your secret anymore.”
“But why should I keep it a secret? Are you ashamed?”
“Oh baby girl, I’m not ashamed. I kept it a secret at first because I was afraid of what would happen if I didn’t. Mr. Dibb made that clear. That something bad could happen if anyone knew who you were.”
“Could something bad still happen?” Coral felt a jolt of fear.
“Oh, I don’t think so. This isn’t 1960. I think he was afraid of something that would never happen now. There’s no reason for you to be afraid.”
“Well, what would have happened?”
“I don’t know. Those were strange times. Maybe he was just worried about his son, his wife. Maybe he was worried about your mother. I don’t know. But he wouldn’t have told me that just to protect himself. He had a reason. I just doubt that it makes any difference now.”
This had frightened Coral enough not to say anything to her sisters, and even now, she wasn’t sure what Althea or Ada or Ray Junior might know. She supposed they believed what she had once believed: that she was a half sister, that she had a different father, that he must have been white, or nearly white, that he certainly wasn’t Ray Senior. They all knew that Augusta had a secret, but which one of them would dare ask her to reveal it? Or did Althea know something none of the rest of them did?
How strange that Coral didn’t know.
As strange as the real story.
16
Marshall was in love. June could see it on his face, flushed. Some of that was wine, but not all of it. Not that giddy smile, that funny laugh. It surprised her. She hadn’t noticed anything special about this girl, who worked in reservations and looked like all of Marshall’s girlfriends: doe-eyed, dark, thin.
She had never seen Marshall in love. At least, not since he was a sophomore in high school and lost his heart to a senior girl who had simply wanted a good-looking date, some easy fun. It hadn’t gone well. Marshall was besotted, but she dropped him three weeks before the spring dance to date someone in her class.
Del had been alive then.
He had tried to talk with Marshall, and June had tried, but their son had sat stony-faced and red. Stayed in his room, playing Lynyrd Skynyrd and eating Butterfinger bars. The candy stuck in her mind; at sixteen, Marshall already looked like a man, but was still a boy.
After that, Marshall figured things out. Waited awhile to date, but had a steady girl all through college and ever since. At first, June had sized up each one, observed their relationship, wondered if this one would be part of their little family. She had liked one in particular: her name was Kari, and she’d been around awhile; stayed at the house for a few school breaks. Now, a decade later, June had stopped paying much attention to who was dating Marshall, to what woman he brought to what opening, or to whether or not she was the same one who had come before.
This could annoy Marshall.
“Mom, you’ve met Sheila before.”
“Oh yes, hi, Sheila. You’re a lawyer, right?”
But no, Sheila wasn’t a lawyer. Marshall would tighten his lips, June would give him a smile. Really, Marshall could play all the games he wanted, and June did not mind, but she wasn’t going to play them with him.
Del had never gotten to see this grown-up, confident Marshall.
He had waved good-bye to his son, driving off in a car packed with skis and a sleeping bag and a bike strapped on top, the extra things that Marshall had decided would fit in his dorm room after all. And they had waved until the car turned the corner, standing in the street, knowing they looked foolish. And June had been just about to say something funny, something about how sentimental they had become, when she saw the tears in Del’s eyes; when she saw how very close he was to losing control.
Had he known?
Had he sensed that he would never see Marshall again? That six weeks later, someone from housekeeping would find him slumped at his desk?
What would they have done differently if they had known?
What would she have done differently, had she known?
There were two ways to look at this question: you could size up your life and yourself, and think that you would not change a thing. After all, the tough spots and the mistakes were as much a part of who you were as anything else. June didn’t disagree. But to say that it all led to where one was struck June as a bit smug, a bit of a punt. What about that second option? To spot the change that would have made the difference. To know the choice that set the rest in motion.
She could have stay married to Walter Kohn. Or she could have divorced him but returned to Clinton Hill and led an entirely different life. She could have moved back to Vegas but resisted Del’s intentions, met someone Jewish, walked a more predictable path. Could she have admitted that she loved Eddie earlier, and gone away with him—before Marshall was born? They could have gone to Cuba.
No Marshall?
And what about Eddie’s women?
Or Cuba?
Should she have grabbed her daughter and run out in the night and returned to New Jersey with a second, more surprising child? This is the fantasy that had played in June’s mind, over and over, until she imagined that it occupied an entire territory of her brain: all the images and dreams and stories she had told herself about her daughter—a daughter who learned to laugh and crawl and talk, who took up dancing and read A Tree Grows in Brooklyn and won the seventh-grade spelling bee.
But then always, what about Marshall?
Could she have found a lawyer? Could she have persuaded him to take her case? Could she have fought Del for their son? Eventually she would have won. The world came her way. How many years would it have taken?