Belonging

By Linda Harper

Latisha Walker, granddaughter of Rose Walker, has returned home after completing three semesters at Yale. Her intent was to complete a law degree paid for by a generous gift from Miss Em, the elderly woman, now deceased, who had chosen Latisha as the last subject to paint in her long lucrative career as an artist. In the same spirit of community

• Language: English
• Publisher: Linda Harper
• Release date: Oct 18, 2024
• ISBN: 9798330492534

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BELONGING

LINDA HARPER

Copyright © 2024 Linda Harper

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Acknowledgment

I'm writing this on my seventy-eighth birthday, so I would be remiss if I didn't first give thanks to God for my good health, my sound mind (some might find that arguable), and the gift of imagination. It seems impossible that, within the space of four months, this story has found its way from my head and heart to Word, especially in light of the fact that my first attempt at publishing a novel took almost twenty years. I also owe thanks to those dear characters from Under the Fig Tree who helped me continue to tell their stories. Truth be told, they almost tell the story themselves. The people of Roslyn, Mississippi, while a figment of my imagination, represent the hordes of kind people who live in every part of the world. I'm grateful to be able to share their goodness.

Thanks to Brian Cutler, Sarah Roger, and the excellent team from AMZ Books who have encouraged and guided me in a world of which I knew nothing. Their timely response and wisdom about this venture paved the way for me to tell my stories.

A big thank you to my Monthly Lunch Friends, Diane Buatte, Brenda Jennings, and Debbie Williams, for the over-the-top book launch party they threw for the release of Fig Tree. Schweitzer Library, a local public library, where I, my children, and my grandchildren spent many happy hours, became even more special as I gathered with friends and family to celebrate the publication of my own book.

I once knew a man who, after publishing his first book, bragged that he only wrote books, he didn't read what other people had written. That's a book I didn't read. I'm indebted to all the great, not-so-great, and somewhere-in-between writers of fiction and non-fiction who've gone before me and taught me how to love the written word.

Thanks to all who have read and responded to Fig Tree and asked for more. Yes, that's you! Reconnecting with old friends has added so much joy to my world, and your kind responses have encouraged me to keep writing.

Two of my dear nieces, Vicky Goudy and Lisa Hill, have read Belonging as I've written and have given excellent feedback and correction. Both live in Mississippi, and it's been fun to meet with them on Zoom for discussions along the way. Their help has been invaluable and has made it possible for me to write this story so quickly.

Nothing has taught me more about love and acceptance than my own family: our children and their partners, grandchildren and partners, and great-grandchildren are my pride and joy. As all families do, we have struggles along the way, but have learned that we face those together with love, resilience, and acceptance. I'm so proud of all of them, twenty-three, soon to be two dozen, strong.

The words I couldn't have done it without you sound trite and hackneyed; nevertheless, in this case they are true. Phillip, the man to whom I'm married, has been and always will be my First Reader. He has read the entire manuscript at least three times, provides emotional and financial support, and loves me when I'm cranky. Some have commented that they don't know any men like Richard, Liz Manley's husband in Fig Tree. I do. I'm married to one. Happy birthday to me!

Dedication

For family —

wherever they may be found

For everything there is a season, a time for every activity under heaven.

A time to be born and a time to die. A time to plant and a time to harvest.

A time to kill and a time to heal. A time to tear down and a time to build up.

A time to cry and a time to laugh. A time to grieve and a time to dance.

A time to scatter stones and a time to gather stones. A time to embrace and a time to turn away.

A time to search and a time to quit searching. A time to keep and a time to throw away.

A time to tear and a time to mend. A time to be quiet and a time to speak.

A time to love and a time to hate. A time for war and a time for peace.

God has made everything beautiful for its own time. He has planted eternity in the human heart…

~ Ecclesiastes 3:1-8,11

Table of Contents

ANGEL

HIGH TEA REUNION

HOME FOR THE HOLIDAYS

GRAN'S SURPRPISE

SECRET'S OUT

NEXT MOVES

BACK TO NEW HAVEN

GRANT TIME

HEADED BACK HOME

ROSE OPENS UP

LAMONT RESISTS

ANGEL FOUND

TUNICA

PAUL ENCOURAGES LIZ

A PLAN HATCHED

CHICAGO STEAKHOUSE

MELTDOWN

HOLDING THE SECRET

WORKING GIRLS

GRAN'S STORY

PERMISSION TO SHARE

PAUL'S HOUSE - AGAIN

GRANT MEETS FAMILY

GRAN AND GRANT

MEMPHIS AND THE ROOM

FOURTH OF JULY

COMMITMENT

TELLING LAMONT

FAMILY IS WHERE YOUFIND THEM

YOU ARE MY SUNSHINE

CINDY'S COUNSEL

THANKSGIVING

CHAPTER ONE

ANGEL

A

ngel Forrester woke up on the morning of her twenty-first birthday and made a resolution even though New Year's Day was well behind her. She even said it out loud to the empty room. (Waking in an empty room was a rare occurrence for Angel these days!) Standing at an open window, barefoot, wearing a threadbare knee-length nightgown that she could wrap around herself twice—a hand-me-down from Rose, the old woman—Angel spoke these words: I'm tired of waiting. I'm taking charge. I've waited my whole entire life for something good to come my way. It's not going to happen if I don't make it happen.

Maybe her decision was made out of exhaustion from getting three, tops four, hours of sleep each night. Maybe it was made out of frustration from sharing a room with a demanding infant and an old lady who snored. Loudly! Maybe it was from the monotonous routine of day-to-day living in a small house in the country with three aging adults and a baby who was content to eat, sleep, and poop. Nevertheless, Angel had had it!

She pulled on her jean shorts, wrapped her one nursing bra around her beginning-to-sag boobs, pulled a t-shirt over her head, and, still barefoot, opened the bedroom door. The serenity that greeted her in the large gathering room caused her to pause briefly, reconsidering her resolution. She glanced at the baby, sleeping soundly in her little Moses basket. Her darkening skin and the little circles of hair that were beginning to form on her tiny head were proof that her father was black. Angel breathed in deeply and sighed. The baby would never look like her; the genes that had given her brownish blonde hair, blue eyes, and fair skin had been trumped by the genes of the father. The dark-skinned woman in a nearby rocking chair glanced up at Angel but continued shelling English peas fresh from the garden.

Mornin', she said as her hands continued to swiftly zip open the pods. Coffee and biscuits in the kitchen. Plenty eggs if you want to make yourself some. Honey on the shelf.

The old (to Angel) woman's hallmark: economy of words.

Angel wavered. The baby slept. Rose shelled peas.

I can't do this no more, Rose. She spoke in a whisper.

Speak up, girl, Rose said. Can't hear you. But don't wake the baby.

I'm leavin', Angel replied.

Rose continued to open pods and empty peas into a bowl, the same noncommittal expression on her face. Go have yourself somethin' to eat. This sound like a conversation about to happen, and serious conversations want a settled belly. Go eat.

Angel stood for a moment in the open doorway, then slowly made her way across the large room to the kitchen. She had been with Rose long enough to recognize her commands and to understand that there were consequences for a command that was not followed.

Rose finished shelling her peas, set the bowl of perfectly formed green spheres on the table beside her, and walked over to check on the sleeping baby. Satisfied that she was sleeping soundly, Rose turned and collected the empty pods and bowl of peas which she intended to cook later that morning for lunch. Dinner her people called it, the main meal of the day. On the days Rose didn't work, she always prepared a big dinner for herself and her parents. Angel joined them sometimes if Rose insisted, but just as often foraged for whatever might be available in the kitchen after the family finished eating. She resisted, in as many ways as possible, falling into the established routine of her hosts.

Angel sat at the kitchen table with a biscuit dribbled with honey on a napkin. She'd poured the last of the coffee into a mug and was sipping from a glass of water. Both women continued in silence until Rose had rinsed the peas, placed them in a pan, and covered them with water. She then went to join Angel at the table.

What is it you can't do no more, Angel? she asked after several seconds of silence.

More silence ensued as Angel chewed her biscuit, and Rose waited for a response. Waiting did not come easily for Rose, but she'd learned in the past few months that silence following a question to Angel was a necessity. She waited. Impatiently, but not obviously so. She had learned to hide her impatience by concentrating on her fingernails or a spot on the wall or staring out the window at whatever scene presented itself. This had not been easy for any of them.

I ain't cut out to be a mama, the girl finally choked out.

Again, Rose used silence to curb the natural responses that came to her mind: Something you should have thought about a while back. Or No reason to say that, anybody with eyes can see you ain't mama material. Rose always had an abundance of unspoken sarcastic responses ready when she and Angel were in conversation. Offering up her sarcasm had been just the tool needed with Liz Manley when Rose had become involved in her life after the interruption of a baby, but Rose had acquired enough wisdom over the past few years to recognize that what worked for one didn't necessarily work for another.

So, your solution to the problem is to just up and leave? What about your baby? Who's gonna be her mama?

You already do everything for her 'cept feed her, Rose, and at night you even do that when I don't wake up.

And it was true. The girl barely lifted a finger to care for the baby. Between Rose and her mother, Willa Walker, all of the baby's needs, with the exception of necessary breast-feeding by Angel, were cared for. She accompanied Rose on regular visits to the WIC office to receive their services, but reluctantly, and only out of necessity.

And besides all that, you know you don't want me here. I'm in the way. I don't fit in with you people. Y'all's neighbors talk about 'that little white girl' living in your house. Hell! They won't even come here no more.

A dam seemed to have burst in the young girl and she appeared determined to have her say. Rose used her newly-found weapon of silence to coax the girl into opening up completely.

It worked.

I didn't have no plan to have a baby, she said as she crumpled the remains of the biscuit between her sticky fingers. It just happened.

Again, Rose acknowledged but didn't speak the retorts that formed in her mind: Babies don't just happen, that's a cause-and-effect thing. What was your plan, girl? To trap my LaMont?

And I didn't want to come here either. LaMont made me. He said a baby needed a family to care for it, and since my family don't have nothing to do with me, I needed to be with his. I shouldn't have listened to him. I should have let her be adopted out. But LaMont wouldn't let me. This is all his fault! I should have stayed in Louisiana where I belong.

With this final outburst Angel pushed the unfinished biscuit away from her, covered her face with her sticky fingers, and laid her head on the table. Her heaving shoulders and muffled sobs finally got to Rose, who stood, pushed her chair in and walked over to the girl. After a couple of failed attempts, she managed to lay a hand on the girl's shoulder and say, somewhat kindly, "We'll work this out, Angel, but only with LaMont's okay. He's coming in three or four days when he has some time off. We'll work this out with him.

One thing that will happen, though, and I'll just tell you now. If you leave, you won't pop in and out of here. Latisha will know who her family is, and if it ain't you all the time, it will be you none of the time.

With that, Rose walked out the back door and went to see if her mama and daddy, Retha and Willa, needed her help outside in the garden. Tending the garden was think-time for Rose, and as she hoed the row of newly-sprouted corn plants, she came up with a plan. She would present LaMont and Angel with a written agreement. If Angel left, Lamont would be her only legal guardian and she, Rose, would be her caretaker. With LaMont working on off-shore rigs in the Gulf of Mexico he couldn't provide a stable home for a baby girl. Angel, if she left, would agree that she would not return and would have no contact with Rose, Latisha, or the rest of the family.

That night, before Rose went to bed, she had a written contract to offer the child's parents. Exhausted, she laid the pad and pen on the table beside her chair and went to bed.

Rose sat on the front porch of her parents' home, a home to which she had returned when LaMont was a child, and she'd had nowhere to turn except home. Willa and Retha had welcomed her with open arms and she'd lived there ever since. Though small, it had been a good home, a safe, comfortable place for a boy to grow through childhood, adolescence, teen years, and on to adulthood. She was proud of her son Lamont, and while he had chosen to live a different way than the rest of the family, she knew he had the tools to be a trustworthy, hardworking man.

From her front-row seat on the porch she watched as Lamont pulled into the drive, parked his car near the liriope-lined walkway, stretched his long body, and grinned at her. Hey there, Ma, he greeted. "Seeing you set around with nothing to occupy your hands is a rare sight. What brought on this bout of laziness?

Ahhh, now I see. LaMont grinned even more broadly as he noticed the little Moses basket at Rose's feet. Watching the babe sleep. He continued up the steps and over to the big rocking chair next to Rose. Settling himself there he leaned over to watch the sleeping baby with his mother. Neither seemed willing to go ahead with conversation. Watching a peacefully sleeping baby is a conversation in itself.

LaMont was the first to speak. Where's Angel? he asked, glancing over at his mother.

Her stillness alerted LaMont to the idea that maybe all was not well. Is she inside? he asked, standing to go find her.

Sit down, Son, Rose said softly. We need to talk.

What's going on, Ma? I know Angel can be a bit much. You didn't send her away, did you?

She sent her own self away, LaMont. She left yesterday. It's what she chose for herself.

Rose held the folded note she'd prepared several days ago in her hands. She held it up so that LaMont could see.

Before I give you this, I need to tell you how it all came about. And with that Rose told LaMont what had happened three days prior, including what she'd said to Angel about leaving, about her conditions. She left out the part about her raging fear when she discovered the signed note on the table yesterday morning and no sign of Angel. She didn't tell LaMont that she'd made no attempt to find out where Angel had gone or how she'd gotten there.

She handed him the note signed by Angel stating her intention to disappear forever and give up her baby girl in the process. Rose couldn't watch her son as he read the note prepared by her and signed by Angel.

They sat for some time on the broad front porch, the baby sleeping between them in the cool early summer evening. Rose could hear the soft murmur of her parents as they prepared supper for all of them. She'd given them an abbreviated version of what was happening and asked for time with LaMont before the family gathered at the table for a simple evening meal.

Rose finally turned to LaMont and spoke, Did you love her, Son?

She watched as his face contorted with the effort of holding back tears. "It's okay to cry, Son. The Bible tells us that there's a time to cry, and this would be one of those times. I'm goin' to leave you with your cryin', but I'm gonna leave your little baby girl with you, too. She be a whole lot easier to love than some be, and watching her sweet, innocent face while you grieve over what might have been will help. If you let it.

Bring your little girl and come on in to supper when you're ready. Mama and Daddy are anxious to see you. We be a different kind of family, but family still.

CHAPTER TWO

HIGH TEA REUNION

A

different kind of family, indeed! Rose had no idea what the word family would come to mean to her in the future. While she was ensconced in the life of the Manley family, she had—up until Latisha's appearance—considered herself a paid employee who was much appreciated and given special family privileges. What had begun as a temporary job to help Liz adjust to motherhood, a connection made by Liz's now-deceased mother—a fact unknown to Liz—became a permanent, valued, long term position with the Manley family. All members of the Walker family became well-known and well-loved by the Manley family, and vice versa. The circle grew larger when Liz's sister, Luann, and her family moved back to Roslyn with their girls, and soon afterwards Liz took in Miss Millie, later known as Miss Em, an older resident of the town who was in the last stages of her life.

During those days, the Manley home became a hub of activity. Latisha, while she had friends at school and daycare, usually chose solitary activities. She loved to read and dream, and could often be found curled up in a corner with paper and pencil or a book. She was well liked but she'd never had close friends. The appearance of Madison, known to all as Maddie, and Maria, Luann's young daughters, changed that forever. Maddie and Latisha had just turned eight years old when they met, and they were instantly best friends. Completely opposite in nature, they brought out the best in each other. Through the years, their friendship never wavered. Now nineteen and separated by the miles between Ole Miss and Yale, they still kept tabs on each other. Thanks to cell phones when they were separated, school holidays, and summers off, they kept up with what was happening in the other's life and reminisced about the old days.

I wish I hadn't already bought an airline ticket home, lamented Tish. (She had adopted the shortened version of her name in her high school years.) I'd like to drive home so I'd have my car.

There's plenty of cars for you to drive while you're here for Christmas vacation, Maddie countered. I have a car. Your dad would loan you a car. And those two options are just off the top of my head. Besides, there's no way your Gran would let you drive across the country. And the weather! You could run into a snowstorm and be stranded.

Then I'd just hole up in a cheap motel and have my own blue Christmas.

Blue Christmas! Maddie yelped. Christmas isn't about being blue; it's a time to celebrate.

Silence on the other end alerted Maddie to a subtle change in her friend.

Well, she said, putting an end to the ridiculous conversation. "You're not driving. Mom and Aunt Liz are picking you up at the airport. You're on their calendar, and you know what that means. Set in stone."

Tish ended the call and leaned against the pillows on her bed, staring at her closed dorm room door and flipping the lid to her phone rhythmically. To her, going home for Christmas meant approaching a sharp ninety-degree turn. Decision time. A decision she wanted someone to make for her. The increasing awareness that she was traveling a dead-end road faced her full-on during Thanksgiving vacation. Spending the days with Grant and his family at their beach home in Hyannis Port had unearthed a discomfort that she'd never felt before, even in her beginning days at school when she'd felt like a fish out of water. With Grant's family, she'd felt like she was a new replacement part crammed awkwardly in an up-to-now smoothly running machine, causing the machine to creak and groan and not function properly. She was a misfit who found herself tongue-tied in the face of question after question. Those unanswered questions had nagged at her ever since.

Tish had met Grant Adams when he approached her in her second semester at Yale after their American Lit class. He'd seen her fumbles as she attended a Catholic church for the very first time on Easter Sunday. They'd barely had time to get acquainted before the school term ended, but agreed to connect at the beginning of the Fall semester. He was pre-law, a senior who flashed a drop-dead smile. Grant was serious about his studies. His goal was to have a political career, and a law degree from Yale was the way to make that happen. It didn't hurt that he was a fifth generation Yale student and that both his parents were, to some degree, still involved there. Grant was a shoo-in for a political career; he had all the right stuff. Old money. Tish had never heard the expression in Roslyn and, in spite of her intelligence and widely-read education, she wasn't sure what it meant.

Dating old money, huh Tish? one of her friends laughed after she had run into Grant and Tish in their favorite coffee shop.

Tish had quickly learned when she arrived at school that her best response to a comment she didn't quite understand was her Mona Lisa smile and no words. But this was different. It felt like an accusation, a taunt. Her grandmother's quick, sarcastic wit rose to the surface.

"I'm not 'dating' anyone or anything, Gwen, and when I date, I don't date money; I date men. If you're talking about the time Grant and I spend together, we're friends. We love to talk with each other, because we're both serious about our studies."

Gwen recognized the barb. "I'm sorry, Tish. I didn't mean anything by that. I don't want you to get hurt; there are different rules with old money people about who they let into their families."

Tish learned that first-hand when Grant invited her, and she accepted, to his home for the Thanksgiving break.

It felt good to look out the window of the airplane as it approached landing at the Memphis airport. Familiarity. Tish had made this trip several times in the past couple of years and every time, no matter the season or the reason she was leaving home or coming home, she felt a quickening of her pulse. She leaned forward as far as her seatbelt would allow so that she could look out over the city that she knew better from the air than from the ground: the Mississippi River, threading its way southward; the skyline along its banks (she'd heard of Beale Street but knew nothing about it); the abandoned Pyramid, once host to basketball games, music concerts, and other crowd-drawing events. Tish loved viewing them from the air, but had never actually stood in or near any of these awe-inspiring places. She felt a little like she imagined the gleaming, empty Pyramid felt. She'd heard rumors that it was to be occupied again, that some wealthy fisherman had leased it and was making big plans for it.

A strange thought entered her head: I'm like that building. Empty. Lonely. She remembered the feelings she'd had with Grant's family. I was like an unembodied spirit, hovering overhead. Not seen. Not heard. Not understood. She had the sudden, unexplained urge to visit the places in the city below that she had only, up to now, seen from the air. She hoped that whoever this rich fisherman was, he had plans for the Pyramid that would make it possible for her to visit there. She decided right then and there: If it was possible, she would go there some day.

The faces of two of her favorite people, Aunt Liz and Aunt Lu, greeted her when she stepped outside the secure area. Their beaming smiles said welcome, and their open arms, ready to embrace her in a snug group hug, told her she was home. Tears slid down her cheeks as she let herself be uncomfortably squeezed by these women.

Typically, Aunt Lu interrupted the happy reunion by directing the action. Back up, girl. I want to look at you. I wanna see how you've changed since you left in September.

Lu, how much change do you expect to see in just over three months? Liz asked her sister. Really!

These simple words brought a twinge of anxiety to Tish, and she hoped that the quickening of her heartbeat and sharp intake of breath weren't noticed. Yes, she had changed, and while the change wasn't visible, it was definite. It was only a matter of time that what was happening on the inside would become