Will’s Daughter
Nothing else needs to be said
I am seven years old and excited because it is the start of a new school year. I like reading, I love arithmetic, and I am good at both. But more exciting than reading and counting, are my new eight pack of Crayola Classic crayons, jar of school paste, writing tablets and pencils. My school supplies have the intoxicating smell of newness, unlike the second-hand jumper I am wearing.
We all sit quietly as the teacher conducts the yearly ritual of collecting our registration forms. Students in crisp new back-to-school clothes and shiny new shoes gleefully receive a gold star as they proudly hand-in their completed registration papers.
It is my turn. As the teacher checks my forms, she abruptly stops. Her demeanor shifts from pleasant to taut. Looking down at me, she says, “Everyone has a father, certainly you have one too.”
My mother left the section labeled ‘father’ completely blank.
Over the giggles of my classmates, the teacher bombards me with a barrage of questions about my father’s identity, place of residence, occupation and on and on. Head down. No gold star. I return to my desk. I am Humpty Dumpty, shattered; not even my new box of Crayola Classic crayons and jar of school paste can put me back together again.
My father left me
Left before I realized
I had a father
I am 18 years old. The school year for seniors is finally over. Home alone, I am looking over my valedictorian speech for graduation, listening to Bloodstone’s Natural High on the stereo for the umpteenth time and reminiscing about prom night all at the same time, when suddenly a blaring car horn, interrupts my teenage musings.
As I walk to the front window, I smile because I can hear one of my mother’s many adages, “only streetwalkers respond to honking car horns.” I don’t believe her words of wisdom apply to this situation, so I continue to the window. Not recognizing the car or its occupants, I return to what I am doing, only to be disrupted again. On my third trip to the window, I stare not at the car but at the persistent person behind the wheel. And when I study the driver’s face, I see an older version of my younger brother.
A week prior, on what appeared to be a whim, my mother handed me a tattered piece of paper and suggested I invite my father to my graduation. Perhaps, she needed for him to know she raised a daughter who is graduating at the top of her class and is college bound. A daughter that is his daughter too. Though skeptical, I addressed and mailed the invitation. And here he is.
The hoopla of graduation is over and Will, my father, has departed. As I’ve been taught, I send a note, thanking him and his wife, Pepper, for attending my graduation and for their generous gift. A few days later, Will calls and through his laughter explains Pepper is the barmaid. On the other hand, Mable, who unfortunately opened and read my thank you note, is his wife. I fail to see the humor in the “Pepper- Mable” debacle. I do not remember my father’s departure, but I imagine it resembled his return. Does he not know fathers are supposed to model healthy relationships for their daughters?
Before starting my freshman year at the university, I accept Will’s invitation to visit him in Baltimore. My first morning there, smells from the kitchen waft up the stairs and nudge me awake. Finally giving up on sleep, I go downstairs to find Will frying fish, potatoes and something he calls scrapple. He is also scrambling eggs, boiling grits, making biscuits and a cheese sauce for drowning the potatoes and eggs. Frosted flakes would have sufficed, but it seems Will believes more is better.
He wants us to have breakfast together, before he is off to work. I join him readying myself for the big talk. The one where he apologizes and explains why he left before I realized I had a father. The talk that explains why the father section on my school forms was always blank. But other than casual conversation, we awkwardly eat in silence. Maybe the big talk will come later.
My entire visit is a whirlwind of food, familiar new faces and road trips up and down the east coast from Baltimore to Philadelphia to Accomack, Virginia. Road trips in a shiny black Cadillac, gun and bottle in the arm rest. Fathers are supposed to keep their daughters safe, so that explains the gun I think to myself. Perhaps the bottle is for fortification.
Music more so than conversation accompanies the drum beat of the rolling tires. The stereo cassette player fills the car with the high wails, low thumps and spiritual riffs of blues, funk and soul, a melodic balm that eases life’s journey and soothes its rawness. I wonder if Will also feels the magic of the music.
I meet Will’s many brothers, their wives and their many children. Like one of the countless dishes and bottles, I am passed from one relative to the next. “This is Will’s daughter, they say. “We family,” they say. “This is Will’s daughter,” they say, as if nothing else needs to be said.
Taking my cues from Will, I do not bombard him with a barrage of questions, like my teacher so many years ago. I’m only 18, but life has already taught me that getting straight answers about a twisted life is “more than a notion,” as the old folks say. No apologies, no explanations, no big talk. Even worse, Will does not ask me about my life, growing up as a fatherless impoverished black girl. Perhaps he does not want to hear, what he already knows. I leave Baltimore, the way I came. Not knowing why…
My father left me
Left before I realized
I had a father
I am 22 years old. My father is here for my college graduation. This time Mable, his wife, comes with him. It seems Will has a perpetual smile on his face and he claps louder and longer than anyone else, as I walk across the stage to receive my diploma. After all, fathers are supposed to be proud of their daughters’ accomplishments.
I am 27 years old. Will is here for my wedding. He is accompanied by a nice lady named Helen. Mable is history and so is Pepper the bar maid…I think. He does not offer me advice on how to have a long happy marriage. Instead, he offers a limousine from his brother’s funeral home and cases of liquor for the reception. I accept. He walks me down the aisle because that is what fathers are supposed to do.
I am 30. Will is here for the birth of his new grandson. He spends much of his time in my kitchen cooking everything a postpartum woman trying to lose weight does not need. I don’t like cabbage I say. Will says that’s because you’ve never had it cooked properly and proceeds with an impromptu cooking lesson. He is right. I now love cabbage. Fathers are supposed to teach the proper way to do things.
I am 42 years old. It is my family’s first Thanksgiving in Illinois. I am homesick and my son constantly reminds me he hates Freeport and wants to go back to Louisville. Will is here, along with my new step mom, Diane, who is younger than me, and my half-brother, Devon, who is younger than my son. Will has driven over 800 miles from Baltimore to Freeport, and now he is in my kitchen making Maryland crab cakes from the blue crabs he’s transported across country. As we eat and watch the best movie ever, Godfather II, in typical Will fashion he casually shares that he used to “run numbers for the Italian boys”. Damn, I chuckle to myself, I could have been a mafia princess. Will is here trying to ease the pain of a difficult transition because that is what fathers are supposed to do.
I am 49 years old. I am in Denver for my brother’s funeral. The circumstances of his death are unclear and keep changing, mimicking my sister in-law’s erratic behavior. His body is cremated before we arrive in Denver. There is talk of a car accident and a fire. My mother keeps asking to see her baby and keeps telling me to find out what happened to her son. Through the dizzying blur of unimaginable grief and agony, I see Will. Will is here. He is here to bury Edward Thomas, a son named after one of his many brothers, because unfortunately that is what this father has to do.
I am 60 years old. I am in Freeport and have grown to appreciate small town living. Will is not here, he calls me from Johns Hopkins Hospital. He has been admitted. When I ask him what is wrong, his reply is simply “everything.”
I do not tell him he is wrong. I do not tell him that even though he left before I realized I had a father he came back and I appreciate that. I do not tell him that while I will never be lucky enough to be in the exclusive “daddy’s girl” club, for over forty years he has quietly etched out a place in my life and in my heart. For that I am grateful. I do not tell him that even though he erased the expression daddy from my life, he replaced the single word with two, Will’s daughter. I cherish that.
No everything is not wrong. Along the way, we managed to get some things right. These feelings I do not share with Will, but some things are felt without ever being spoken.
I am in Baltimore to bury Will, my father. This time his departure leaves me with four decades of precious memories. And for that I am thankful. Standing in the family funeral parlor, I am greeted and passed around by people who say, “This is Will’s daughter. We family.” Yes, I am Will’s daughter. Nothing else needs to be said.
