Tears on a Sunday Afternoon - Michael Presley [25]
My grandmother took some deep breaths and wiped the tears away from her eyes. “Forgive me, Son.”
“Mom, stop it. There isn’t anything to forgive you for.”
I pulled my chair closer to her and held her hand, as time slowly ticked away. Besides my son, my grandmother was the only family I had left. She had given me so much and whatever I had done for her was never enough. I had planned a trip to upstate Albany the following day with hopes of finding some kind of resolution. I had always wanted to find my father, but not for a tear-jerking Oprah reunion. I wanted to find him and punish him for bringing me into the world the way that he did. He had destroyed in order to create, then walked away from his creation. I wasn’t the product of a sailor or a priest; I was the product of a rapist. It was a label that I carried in my heart throughout my life; unbeknownst to the people around me. Julie was the only person who knew my true origin.
“No, Emerald, Julie isn’t coming with us today,” I said as we pulled out of the driveway.
It was a hard lesson, but Emerald had come to realize that his mother and I would not be attending too many events together. Except for special occasions, like birthdays or gathering at his grandparents’ house, he would either be with me and Julie or only me. I hated the occasions when Lauren and Annette took my son but, as with many things in my life, at present I couldn’t do a damn thing about it. There were no fucking two mommies in Emerald’s life. There was a mommy, a daddy and a thing. A woman acting and dressing like a man, but not a man; even if she hit like one.
“Daddy, do you know how they make animated films?” Emerald was the first one out of the car. He waited as I secured the vehicle opposite a pizza restaurant on Court Street.
I clasped his hand in mine. “I assume that they’re made with computers, Emerald.”
“Daddy, you’re silly. It’s a lot more involved than that.” He giggled in delight of his knowledge as we walked across Court Street.
“Well, tell me what’s involved in making animated movies.”
“Okay.” A big smile spread over his face. As we rode up to the movie theater, Emerald explained the animation process to me to the amazement of the people in the elevator. At the end of the ride, a white, middle-aged woman, with a boy about eight years old, stopped us as we were getting off.
“I hate to be rude, but how old is your son?” she asked.
“He’s four,” I said.
She was astounded. “No kidding? My son can barely read the menu in a restaurant and your son gave us a lesson in animation.”
There wasn’t anything else I could say. Emerald was advanced for his age. He tugged on my arm for us to go, looking at the watch on his hand.
“Enjoy the movie,” I said as I left with Emerald in tow.
Emerald opened the front door and ran upstairs to his bedroom. He already knew the regimen of changing his clothes and brushing his teeth. He also knew never to go into his mother’s room unless she told him to come in. It was a rule implemented by Annette, who seemed to run the house. Annette had also put a lock on the master bedroom door, which she utilized constantly. My son’s bathroom was adjoining his bedroom. Therefore, there was no need for him to enter the master bathroom. The door to my room was always open so he could come in and out as he pleased. I did very little but sleep in there so there was no need to put a lock on my door. The bathroom for the guestroom that I used was small. It held a shower with no tub, a commode and a washbasin with a mirror. There were two maids who came in twice a week to clean the house.
As my son was running up the steps, he was met by his mother, who kissed him good night and promised to come and read him a bedtime story. She