The Missing Meat

And as Gloria grows in body, so does she grow in curiosity and inquisitiveness. At nine she is full of wonder why her mother’s accounts of the past don’t jibe. Through the years the coven of women meets every Friday night. They wouldn’t miss a week for the world. She sees that her mother, for all her study of metaphysics and grandiose notions about spiritual progress, has a conscience that is far from crystal. And Sarah, while her practices help put her at peace with Corn Dog, still lacks the light of truth when the focus comes close to home. She goes through hell every time Glory gets after her to fill in the hole in the family history.

“Mummy, say again, how did my real Daddy die?”

“Well, I—uh—I wasn’t there so I don’t—uh—know all the details, but as I—uh—told you, he was killed in a tragic boating accident.”

What’s the difference, the split pea thinks, between a boat and a cable car?

The good listener notes the gloom and hesitations, the scurrying and stammering, the beating around the bush. There is some big secret that concerns her real father. And she stickles Sarah for the facts.

“I don’t remember much before you married Daddy-o, but I do remember living very high up in a tall building,” she prompts. She does not really remember, but has seen a postcard among some old photographs.

“Only nineteen stories, dear. That was the Golden Gate Hotel in the City by the Bay.”

“Was my father dead or alive when we lived there.”

“I think I just told you, didn’t I? Daddy died before you were born.”

Clearly uncomfortable, Sarah takes a deep breath and sighs to herself, how many times do I have to go over this? “Now, Gloria Beatrice, you must excuse Mummy. It’s her nap time.”

But Gloria won’t ignore it. She wants her mother to tell the truth. Sarah’s evasive answers succeed only in arousing Gloria’s interest, not dispelling it. Sarah’s descriptions of her own father vary. As for Gloria’s father, she always speaks highly of him, but the details are inconsistent. Sometimes he lived with her out west, and sometimes in the east. Sometimes Gloria’s father got along with her grandfather, best of boating buddies, other times they were at odds.

Part of the pea would love to come clean and be done with it, but she never forgets how the truth shocked her father. Sarah recalls that after the revelation of her love for Corn Dog and her pregnancy, the Reverend Bookkeeper blacklisted her and never spoke to her again. She fears the same will happen and break the tenuous bonds she has with Gloria. She would not blame Gloria if she disowned her, but she shudders to think what life would be like with both links to her family, past and future generations, broken. After all, Gloria and she are on the blacklist together. What isolation it would mean to be blacklisted from the blacklist!

Complaining of a headache, Sarah goes upstairs, and into her bedroom, leaving the Bee no choice but to bug Laudette for answers. When she promised Sarah to keep her secret about Corn Dog, Glory was just a babbling babe. The baby- sitter never considered that someday it might mean she would be grilled by a young woman with a large vocabulary, a ruthless need to know, and an arsenal of surprise tactics. Still the big sitter refuses to discuss this subject. When Gloria brings up the hotel, Laudette just wiggles her eyes in ways that are supposed to tip Gloria off that her mother is a little peculiar. Follow-up questions get Gloria nowhere; Laudette stays mum.

Meanwhile Sarah lies in bed saying “cheese”, but no sooner does she settle down and find a bit of relief than there is a knock on the door: it is Gloria, the relentless young inquisitor. “Just one more question, Mummy. Where is Bay City? In the Bay State or the Beehive?”

The spotted peach, because she can never remember which story is which, must come up with more lies to make the contradictions seem consistent. She says, “N-N-Neither. I met your father when I was in Beehive College which is in the Bay State. Bay City is out west, where we went after he died.”

“Was he rich?”

“Er, he was very handsome, and, yes, his family had money.” And then, not wanting to give Gloria the wrong impression, she says, “He wasn’t that interested in being powerful and rich. He wanted to be an artist, you see. That’s why I loved him. But he didn’t get along much with his own family. His father disapproved of him because he would rather stay at home and paint and plant flowers in the garden than be a proper Duke, powerful in the ways of the world, with insider-trading connections in the stock market, a great polo player, a cad with the ladies, that sort of thing. I was my father’s little princess and he wanted nothing but the best for me. When he found out I was dating a Duke he was afraid that I would be taken advantage of because the Dukes were almighty, up there with God and the Cabbages in Beantown society. I told him that Cornie was not that way, that we were happy just to be in love. But Grandpa pushed me into pushing your father into marrying me. It wasn’t until after we were married that Grandpa saw your father for who he really was, and liked him less because he was not the scoundrel he expected him to be.”

“But I’ve heard you say Grandpa was good man, too.”

“Oh, yes, basically he was. But people are funny, not all one way or the other. My father could be understanding about some things and very difficult about others.”

“And then what happened?”

“I’ve told you, haven’t I? One day, about a month before you were born, Grandpa invited your father to go sailing. October is the best month for it. Your father had no interest in boats and would have rather been clipping his clematis, but he agreed to go to improve the strain in the family. They went out together for a little Sunday afternoon at sea. There was a sudden squall and both were lost and never found again.”

What a tangled web of lies! Sarah sheds a tear, but Gloria doesn’t miss a single bluff. She’s heard so many different variations she is sure Mummy is just faking her way through again. “Maybe Grandpa killed my father?” she hints.

“No, I don’t think so.”

“And we were always rich?”

“Well, not you and I. Just after I lost Grandpa and your father, I lost my money in the market crash.”

“What about when we lived in the big hotel? If you lost it all in the crash just before I was born and we weren’t rich anymore, how did we live there?”

“Did I say ‘all’? Well, I meant ‘almost all’. There was still a little left over. We could still get by like nice people. And then I worked. That’s when I changed my name from Duke back to Black. My maiden name was my professional name. At the time, it didn’t seem right that yours and my last names were different. I meant no disrespect to your father, but it was easier if you became a Black too.”

Gloria does not think that different name will change the truth. “What did you do?” she asks.

“I was a model for artists.”

“Artists like my Daddy?” Gloria can see that her mama’s good looking. “Were the artists rich?”

“Not all,” Sarah lies. “It’s as hard for most artists to keep a regular job as it is for them to sell work.”

The Bee goes in for another sting. “Mummy, was my real Daddy really your husband before I was born? Did he live with you and visit you in your bed the way Daddy-o sometimes does?”

Damn it, Sarah thinks, your father was an artist, a traveller killed in a travel accident, what more truth do you want? Will you leave me alone? Her eyes glaze over, but she cannot escape. “It was a long time ago, Baby. It made me so very blue when your daddy died that I don’t really remember too much about the old days.”