“It’s Over”
(ROY ORBISON)

THE PROFESSOR HAD to knock on my door again in the middle of the night. Given that we had this pact that he would only come up if he were truly alarmed by the screaming, I felt extra humiliated as I peeked out. “It’s okay, professor. I’m okay. I am so, so, sorry.”

“Not at all. Think nothing of it, my dear. I am truly heartsick that you have to endure this nightmare ritual.” The professor was in his pajamas and a very fancy dressing gown with an emerald-green satin collar. Come to think of it, the professor was always a “snazzy” dresser. “Do you remember them when you’re awake?”

“No, sir, not really.” I rested my head against the door. “There’s fire and glass and I’m being hurt on purpose. Nothing makes sense.” I didn’t tell him that sometimes I could actually feel the glass shards cutting me. Or that I knew it was my mother who was hurting me.

“Well, it’s only just past twelve. You can still get a good night’s sleep in. Good night.”

The door shut and I was in my big, dark, silent room. Alone. The city, unlike the country, did not serenade me with wind whistling through the birch-tree leaves, with crickets arguing or snowy owls surveying their domain. Here in the big city, it was like I was in a vacuum-sealed container. Where was Betty, who grudgingly, sleepily, would always let me crawl in beside her when I got like this? Malou, Sara, Tess, Dot and Cady were not snoring and snuffling in the rooms across the hall. When I was awake in the night and trying to breathe through my fear, I’d heard their heartbeats. And it calmed me. Being together rendered us all invincible. Yet I couldn’t wait to leave, to get out there, to begin…

Be careful what you wish for. Joe had said that all the time. I never knew what he was talking about then.

I climbed back into bed and turned on the radio real low. It was so hot. The air lay on me like an unwanted blanket. I tossed around, searching in vain for the cool side of the pillow, until I finally went down for the count. I didn’t wake up until Roy Orbison mournfully belted out “It’s Over” at 9:30 AM.

Not a great way to start the day.

My plan was to spend a few hours at the library, hunting down leads. But by the time I hit the downstairs hall, I heard voices in Grady’s parlor. It wasn’t even ten. Grady was rarely up before noon, let alone up and entertaining visitors.

I had to knock and find out what was going on.

“Come on in, kid. We were just talking about you.”

Whoa!

“Good morning, Toni.” It was Big Bob. He’d broken out a new T-shirt again. You could always tell because, even though he liked them tight, you could still see the marks where they had been folded in the package. Far more shocking was Grady.

Even at this hour, Grady looked like she was in the middle of a photo shoot for Good Housekeeping magazine, the “How to keep your man happy” edition. She wore a silk organza shirtdress with yellow roses all over it, cinched in with a wide belt made of the same material. Even more startling was that there wasn’t a refreshment in sight. Big Bob didn’t drink, so there was Grady sipping on a cup of coffee!

“Have a scone, honey. I baked them fresh this morning.”

Grady baked?

In the morning?

“Nobody bakes like my Lady Grady.” Big Bob got up and helped himself to a couple.

I took a scone and sat down, speechless.

“So how goes the search for your people, kid?” He was addressing me but smiling blindly at Grady.

I filled them in on my new tip about Scarlet Sue and how I was going to get Mr. Kenyatta to help me write to her. This led to a discussion about the evils of the Andrew Mercer Reformatory for Women. We didn’t talk about why Scarlet Sue was in there, mind you, just that it was a writhing cesspool not fit for humans.

“How about on your dad’s side?” he asked.

I looked at Big Bob, then to Grady and back again. Surely I could trust these people. They had been nothing but good to me.

“Well…” I finished chewing my scone and cleared my throat. “I think I know for absolutely sure who my father is, probably.”

“Really? That’s great, kid!” Big Bob got up for a third helping.

“Now, Bobby, remember the child was absolutely convinced that Ian Tyson was her daddy.”

That got his attention.

“Yeah, well, that was just crazy,” I said. “I mean, I love Mr. Tyson, but he’s so not my father. That was a ridiculous, childish fantasy and I’m sincerely appalled with myself. Mr. Brooks Goldman is my father.”

Nobody said anything.

“I’m absolutely sure of it.”

Big Bob dropped his scone. “Brooks?”

“Excuse me.” Grady got up. “I need a refreshment.”

“Look, Toni, uh…” Big Bob winced. “I don’t think that…”

“I have this playbill, and he knew all about Willa’s, and he loves music, and I love music, and he has blue eyes, and I have blue eyes, and…”

“When were you born?”

“September 13, 1947, sir.”

Big Bob shook his head and was joined in the head shaking by Grady when she came back with her “orange juice.”

“No, honey.” Grady took a decent gulp. “Brooks was still married to Ethan’s mom back then.”

“Yes, but I have read that married men sometimes, on occasion—”

“Not Brooks,” they both said at once.

Big Bob clasped his hands. “You never saw a man crazier about a woman in your life. If he could have breathed for her, he would have.”

“Ain’t it the truth.” Grady nodded. “She could bore the bark off a tree, may she rest in peace, but Brooks worshipped her.”

Big Bob cleared his throat. “You see, that whole year leading up to the time you were born, Brooks never left Elaine’s side. Ethan’s mom, well, it was a long death, a bad passing. We all looked in for months, sent food. The ladies”—he smiled at Grady—“all took turns with Ethan, who was just a toddler. Day and night, night and day, every day. No, Toni, Brooks would burn in hell before he looked at another lady—no offense.”

“But…”

I was about to marshal my arguments, except it was instantly clear that I didn’t have any. I didn’t even have any proof that they knew each other. My so-called facts went up in smoke. What was the matter with me? I’d gone off half-cocked on yet another fantasy. They were both looking at me with real pity.

So, I didn’t have a father—again. Wait, did this mean I wasn’t Jewish? I had to lug all those books back to the library. I was almost finished Exodus by Leon Uris, and I was pretty sure that I was a Zionist.

I liked being Jewish.

Wait, wait. This meant that I didn’t have a half brother either.

Ethan.

Well, to be honest, I wasn’t sure how I felt about that part.

I stumbled over to the library in a daze. Truth be told, I was getting pretty sick of the roller coaster I had put myself on. Wasn’t I the one who’d always said that I didn’t want to find my parents? Did not care, thank you very much. I knew that I had a crazy, violent mom, and my dad was likely just as crazy, for all that I wanted him to be a fabulous musician.

But the thing was, now that I’d started, I couldn’t stop. It’s like when you lose a tooth and your tongue keeps going to that hole no matter how many times you tell yourself to stop. So there I was, in front of Mr. Kenyatta’s broad, beaming smile, explaining how I needed an address for the Andrew Mercer Reformatory so that I could write to one of the inmates.

Mr. Kenyatta did not offer any opinions on the horrors of that institution, and when I told him how the others had described it, he just nodded calmly and said, “I’ve seen worse, Miss Toni.”

We left it at that.

He brightened right up when he asked about the professor, who had, on occasion, frequented the library. “I believe he mentioned that he lives in the same residence as you do yourself, Miss Toni.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Kenyatta. The professor has been very kind to me. He gives me books every week, and I write him little essays about various poems or short stories. He says he’s just using me as a guinea pig for his course alterations, but I think he knows he’s keeping me from getting too lonely. It’s just me and my radio most of the time.”

“Yes, he is a fine, fine man.” Mr. Kenyatta was scanning his file cards, but he was still smiling.

“Should I tell him you said hi?”

“If you so wish, Miss Toni. Here’s the address. Is there another item I can assist you with today?”

He wasn’t a big talker, but he had a voice like a cello, which made me unreasonably homesick for the classical music that Mrs. Hazelton always played in her cottage. It was unreasonable because, let’s face it, the only time I was ever in there was when I was in trouble. Still, the music was nice.

“Yes, sir, maybe. Have you ever heard of a restaurant called the Noronic?” I leaned on the counter. “A real fancy place. I have the menu. They served things like Dover Sole Almandine and Oysters Rockefeller. Grady says that’s all upper-crust type food.”

“That is indeed elegant fare, Miss Toni,” Mr. Kenyatta agreed. “But I do not recall a dining establishment in this city that is named the Noronic.”

“Well, maybe not now. It could be from a long time ago, like the late forties or early fifties.”

“Ah! I’m afraid I did not reach these shores until 1958. I will endeavor to locate it or its history for you nonetheless.”

“You’re the best, Mr. Kenyatta!” We checked out my books and then I thanked him again. I raced back home. I didn’t want to be late for my shift, but this was important.

The professor had a glass in his hand as he opened the door. “Ah, books, and not the ones I loaned you. Did you come to see if I was pleased? I am. It warms me to know that you are devouring the great works. I must insist that you consider attending university.”

“See, you talk like him too!”

“My dear?”

“I’ve got to dash, but Mr. Kenyatta—you know, the librarian, who is the nicest man in the world and has a voice like a cello, and maybe he’s a little lonely—anyway, he says hi. Seems to me you two would have a lot to talk about. Gotta run.”

Okay, so maybe I didn’t understand a lot of the things around me. But I understood happy when I saw it.