Promises to Keep - Ann Tatlock [49]
“You mean, the Nightingales aren’t your real parents?” I asked.
She shook her head. “They’re my grandparents.”
“Then who are . . .” I pointed to her chest, where the locket lay hidden.
“My mama’s the one in Detroit who just had the baby, the one Mama and Daddy are visiting.”
I was confused. “You mean your sister?”
“No. I have to tell people she’s my sister, but she’s not. She’s my real mother. She had me when she was eighteen.”
“Why didn’t she keep you?”
“She couldn’t marry my daddy.”
“And he’s . . .” Again, I pointed toward the locket.
She nodded, laying her hand over her chest. “He’s the professor,” she said. “William Remmick.”
My eyes widened, and I knew my mouth hung open foolishly, but I couldn’t help it. “The man on the radio really is your father?”
She nodded again, silently.
“But how do you know that?”
“My mama” – she tapped at her chest – “she told me. She gave me these pictures.”
“But . . . but . . .” I was having trouble gathering my thoughts. “He calls you Beatrice. On the radio he says good-night to Beatrice.”
“That’s right. That’s my real name.”
“It is?”
“He told my mother, if I was a girl, to name me Beatrice after a character in one of Shakespeare’s plays. He said Beatrice was strong and independent and intelligent, and that’s what he wanted me to be. So he calls me Beatrice, but Mama gave me the middle name Mara, and that’s what everyone calls me.”
“But, how come? Why doesn’t she just call you Beatrice too?”
“She thought Mara fit better. It’s from the Bible, from the story of Ruth and Naomi. In the Old Testament, in Hebrew, Mara means bitter.”
“But,” I said, cocking my head, “you’re not bitter.”
“No, it’s mama. She’s the one who’s bitter.”
I thought a moment. “Because she couldn’t marry your daddy?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Because he’s white and she’s black?”
“Uh-huh.”
“But it wasn’t against the law, was it?”
“No. By that time it wasn’t against the law. But his family didn’t want it, and neither did mine. My grandma and grandpa threw a fit. They said they’d never allow their daughter to marry a white man.”
“They did?” I thought of how Tillie said the Nightingales had worked with her on civil rights in Mills River. “What do your grandparents have against white people?” I asked.
“Nothing,” Mara said. “Or not much, anyway. I mean, they let me stay with you when I asked them if I could, didn’t they?”
“Well, sure. But so?”
“But marrying a white person, that’s another thing. They didn’t want their daughter marrying William Remmick. They said it was a sure recipe for disaster. You can’t have whites and Negroes getting married and not expect them to have troubles every day for the rest of their lives. And the kids . . .” Mara looked away and shook her head. “The kids aren’t white, and they aren’t Negro. Neither one. They don’t belong anywhere at all. That’s why my grandparents want me to pass for a full Negro. Anyway, I’d never pass for a full white, would I?”
She looked at me, waiting for an answer. I shook my head slowly. I watched as she laid her hand slowly over the hidden locket again.
“Your mom and daddy,” I said, “did they love each other?”
To my surprise Mara’s eyes glazed over. But her face turned stern; she seemed determined not to cry. “I believe they still do. At least a little bit, anyway.”
“But your mom – she’s married to someone else?”
Mara nodded. “To Raymond Greer. He’s all right, I guess. They have three kids together.”
“And your dad?”
“He’s married too. He has two boys and a girl. But I only know that because he’s mentioned them on the radio show.”
“All those kids – they’re your half brothers and sisters.”
“Yeah.”
“Do you know them?”
“I know Mama’s girls, but I haven’t met the new little boy, Jeremiah. The one just born.”
“You don’t know your dad’s children?”
“I don’t know my dad, Roz. I never met him.” Tears pooled in her eyes again. She brushed them away. “But someday I will. Someday, I’m going to meet him.”
“You think he wants to meet you?”
“I know he does, Roz. I believe he’s waiting for that day too.”
“Well, why doesn’t he come see you now? What’s he waiting