“Why?”
I shrugged again. “They think I want something from them.”
“Do you?”
“No.”
The woman walking the cat came back from wherever they’d been. She—the woman—was duck toed and wore white sneakers with the kind of hose that only cover the ankles. The cat on the leash was mostly white with black markings. Three feet were white and one black. Like all cats, she reminded me of Alice, which put me dangerously close to depression.
To fight the depression, I looked back at Gilia’s face. There was a small freckle or birthmark in that little dimple between the inside of her right eye and the bridge of her nose. I had an almost irresistible urge to touch it. Often I get irresistible urges to commit inappropriate acts, and if I don’t mount resistance, the urge can lead to a terrible social blunder.
“You said five guys,” Gilia said.
“The fifth was a black halfback named Jake. I haven’t spoken to him yet.”
Gilia stopped leaning against the door and sat up. “Why did you leave the black one for last?”
“I don’t know.” Why had I left the black one for last? Ever since I was thirteen and learned I had five possible fathers, I’d had the feeling he was the one. I suppose it came from some romantic notion that I was special—that the world-famous author with the tortured soul would always be an outsider. Different. Unique. I like to feel unique.
“When are you going to see him?” Gilia asked.
“This afternoon, I guess. Might as well hit them all now as later.”
She touched my arm, below the elbow. It was the most surprising thing that had happened all day. “Can I come with you?”
“Why would you want to do that?”
Her tongue showed on her teeth again. She sat staring at me until I thought she’d forgotten the question, then she said, “I want to see the process.”
“The process?”
“I want to see you when you tell it.”
That brought up so many questions I couldn’t ask any of them. There was nothing to do but drive the car.
The drawback of living in the same place throughout your twenties and early thirties is you can’t have a new emotional adventure without being distracted by reminders of past emotional adventures. For example: I once tongue-jobbed an IRS representative on that very wooden merry-go-round where the kids had been playing.
I’d gone into the IRS office to explain why a novelist’s entire life should be tax deductible because a novelist’s life is the raw material by which he creates his product, and isn’t that the definition of a tax-deductible expense? Made sense to me. But this semi-skinny GS-7 with diamond post earrings went bureaucrat on me. She sniffled, shuffled papers, and said in a smarty pants tone that even though Bucky and Samantha hit a movie on their trip to the Matterhorn, I still couldn’t deduct all the movies I’d paid for last year.
“I’ll just bet you have a sexual fantasy you’ve never told anyone,” I said.
Which is how I ended up on a whirling merry-go-round with my nose between the thighs of an IRS agent. Part of her fantasy was the merry-go-round had to be spinning real fast, so I was pushing like a maniac with my feet on the ground and my face in an awkward position. Her labia were neon purple and the left lip was lots bigger than the right, kind of like a banked turn on a bobsled chute. She tasted like peanut butter. To this day, I get that taste in my mouth whenever I pay income tax.
I drove us across Lee to Freeman Mill Road, past Battery Warehouse, Bill Bailey Tires, Madame Xenia the personal psychic, two Oriental massage parlors with discreet parking in the rear, and Chick’s Private Investigations on the second floor above an AME Zion Church. Gilia didn’t say anything until we came even with Gillespie Golf Course, which is where Greensboro’s black people play.
Most of the black golfers out that day carried their own clubs, although I did see two men smoking cigars in a Gettysburg. The men had on the same ugly-colored pants as the golfers up at Starmount Forest. I have a theory that when stereotypical styles jump from one racial, sexual, or generational group to another, it’s the ugly stuff that jumps first.
“Rape is the most terrible crime there is,” Gilia said.
I nodded. “Sometimes I can imagine conditions where murder or stealing might be fair, but I can’t come up with a justifiable rape.”
She crossed her arms under her breasts. “This destroys the father-daughter relationship.”
“I’m sorry.”
To fill space, I explained how Western civilization sprang from the ancient Roman Empire and the origin of the Roman Empire is dated from the rape of the Sabine women. Therefore our Western civilization was founded on slime and is doomed to rot.
Gilia said, “I can’t forgive him.”
The block Jake Williams lived on was made up of small off-white houses with mostly green-shingled roofs and unpainted porches. Many of the yards contained flat-tired cars that appeared more as growths from the dirt than modes of movement. A couple of houses had window unit air conditioners. Jake’s house was neater than the rest—kept-up lawn and uncracked framing. A glider sat on one end of the porch.
The woman who answered my knock looked from me to Gilia and back. She didn’t seem hostile or anything, but if we were salesmen, she definitely didn’t want any.
I told her my name and said, “We’re looking for Jake Williams.”
Her eyes snapped. “What for?”
I glanced over at Gilia who had gone noncommittal. “I’d just like to see him for a minute,” I said, “if he’s home.”
“What are you two up to?” Gus has what you’d call a black accent. When she talks, her voice is husky the way you think of when you think of Billie Holiday. This woman didn’t have any of that in her voice. She sounded like a schoolteacher.
“I was hoping to speak to Mr. Williams a moment on personal business.”
The woman studied my face, I suppose searching for clues that a swindle was being played. I tried to look innocent.
Finally, she blinked once and spoke. “Mr. Williams passed away.”
My stomach felt sick. I looked over at Gilia again. A lock of blond hair had fallen across her cheek; otherwise she hadn’t moved.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. “When…”
Her hand clenched on the doorknob. “Thirty years ago last January sixteenth.”
“I’m sorry.” All that time growing up I might have been an orphan, or half orphan, and I didn’t even know it. The woman offered no details, and it didn’t seem appropriate to ask.
“I guess we’ll be leaving now,” I said.
“Wait a minute, you can’t do that.” Her hand came off the doorknob. “Why did you want to see my Jake?”
I turned toward Gilia. “It’s not important. We won’t disturb you further.”
“Disturb me? You come waltzing up to my door asking to see my husband who’s been dead thirty years, and you don’t want to disturb me?”
“I’m sorry,” I said for the fourth time in as many minutes.
“You are not leaving here until you tell me what this is about.”
I looked back at her. “You don’t want to know, it would cause you pain.”
