bastard. You can always leave your personal history behind. But you can’t run away from your race, once you been branded.”
Young Tim Granger had no idea how to feel. His parents had always taught him that all God’s children were equal, that race was of no significance, but the rest of the world had sent him a very different message. Until a moment ago he was a white boy. Now he was an octoroon. He didn’t feel shame, exactly, but he felt a deep unease, his sense of self suddenly untethered, in flux.
As if reading his mind, Tim’s dad said, “Hear me well, son: I’ve passed all my life, and you look even fairer than I do. No one will ever suspect you got Negro blood in your veins. When you’re a man, you make the decision to tell or not to tell, but you’re not old enough to make that decision right yet, so keep it under your hat for the time being. Life is gonna be harder on you if you tell. But maybe you should. I can’t say what’s best.”
“Yes, sir,” said young Tim Granger. He stood to leave the room.
“One more thing I need you to know.”
“Yes, sir?”
His dad sat looking at the photo a long time before speaking. Then he said, “I don’t hide it because I am ashamed. I am ashamed because I hide it.”
Trinity never did tell, although he felt no shame about it, once he got used to the idea. If asked, he would not deny it, but it just never came up. The world thought he was white, and he was…seven-eighths anyway. He considered telling his twin sister, Iris, who shared his blood and who also looked white, but decided it might be a burden for her, so he kept it to himself.
He never thought of his father without recalling that conversation. And he always thought his father’s shame had been misplaced. Shame for hiding his race or shame for the race itself, either way, it was meaningless to Trinity.
What mattered was the poverty. That was shameful.
She came to him in his sleep, in a peaceful dream. Came to him like an ebony Yoruba goddess, in the shade of the big magnolia, where he lay on a bed of oystershell gravel.
“Does it hurt?” she said.
“Not at all.”
“It will.”
He wanted to believe her. Wanted to square up his account, pay the full price of his sins, and be washed clean.
But he was afraid to die.
“Everybody dies, Tim,” she said.
“It goes both ways,” she said, and he realized that her mouth had not moved.
Her smile was full of pity. “Yes, but so are you. I’m God, you’re God, Danny’s God, and the man who audits your taxes for the IRS is God. Everyone is God. I hope you will earn that knowledge before you’re done.”
“You need to take this seriously. Something bad is going to happen tomorrow. Look at me, Tim.”
So he sat up and looked…and liked what he saw. A black woman—at least as black as he was white—her features spinning tales of North Africa. High forehead, almond eyes, prominent cheekbones, full lips, sharp chin. Skin dark and smooth. Emerald-green eyes. Thin frame, delicate shoulders, voluptuous swelling at the breasts and hips. She wore a fire-red head wrap and a light summer dress of the same color. Around her neck a large silver crucifix and about a hundred beaded necklaces. Around her wrists, seven bracelets, cowrie shells strung on leather.
“I have much to teach you,” she said, “but your life is on the line. Stay alive tomorrow, and come to me.”
“You will. Remember—there’s only one God, everything else is metaphor.”
“Both are true.” She knelt beside him, took his face in her hands, kissed him softly on the lips. “Good luck.”
And she was gone.
Julia had promised Herb she’d play well with others and promised herself she’d hold her tongue. But it had been a very long day, and she was working
So she said them.
And Kathryn Reynolds listened. A network news veteran in her late fifties, Reynolds was one
If Reynolds was insulted by Julia’s rant, she didn’t wince. She just moved her Peabody Awards—all three of them—from the edge of her desk to the center. Followed by the Emmy. Then she smiled, as one does at a slow child.
“Newspapers can afford to be selective.” Gold hoops danced below her earlobes as she shook her head. “Scratch that—they can’t, unless they want the blogosphere to go on eating their lunch.” She slid her awards back to the side of the desk. “Here, we’ve accepted the existence of the Internet, the twenty-four-hour news cycle.” Her red fingernails swept across the glass wall separating her office from the CNN newsroom bullpen…and the anchor desk, green-screens, lights, cameras, boom mics, and monitors everywhere you looked. “Gotta feed the beast. Would that it were different, but...” She shrugged.
“I get that,” said Julia, “but at some point, we end up shifting focus to the freak show on the fringes of the story. And everybody loves a freak show. Then we start reporting the freak shows, even when there’s no
“I agree with you, the world would be better served if we ignored the freak shows, but we simply no longer live in that world.” The news producer closed the blinds across the glass wall, shutting out the newsroom, pulled a bottle of Southern Comfort out of the credenza, poured a couple ounces into her coffee. “Days like today, the coffee around here could stand improvement.”
Julia held her mug forward. “Much obliged.” The women smiled at each other, for real this time. They sipped the sweet, boozy coffee.
“Because of women like me,” said Kathryn Reynolds, “women like you are where you are. Not saying you haven’t had to deal with your share of assholes. But you should’ve
It was all said with good humor, and measured respect. A wave of self-awareness washed over Julia, and she saw herself from the other side of the desk and felt embarrassed all over again.
“I read your series on Katrina. You’re a good reporter, and you’ve been blessed with serious writing chops. But you need to think about the road ahead. You could make the jump to television.” She sipped her coffee. “Some networks, you compromise every principle of your calling...”
