Chapter 7

Kit’s cell phone signaled an incoming call. He recognized Nichelle’s number. “Hi,” he said. “How was the funeral?”

Kit -- I HATE funerals. I HATE them. Promise me that, if we’re still in love when I die, there’ll be no funeral. Just cremate my body and scatter my ashes. Scatter them anywhere -- I don’t care. Promise me that.

“Okay, I promise. Otherwise, how was it?”

It was nice, I guess. A fair number of my white cousins removed and whatnot showed up so that was nice. We exchanged email and Facebook info so maybe we can keep track of each other. Mom and I are the furthest flung but at the same time Great-Gram’s closest relatives. It’s going to fall on her to deal with the estate, probate, selling the house and all, and it’ll be difficult doing it from Philadelphia. She’ll need to find an agent here she can trust.

“Good luck to her on that.”

Last night after my flight got in Mom took me to a Chinese restaurant for dinner. They feature Hunan and Sichuan ... you would’ve loved the place, Kit. I ordered a Hunan stir-fry, spiced hot and my lips were burning. It was great.

“You’re right -- I would’ve enjoyed that.”

Mom and I talked last night into the wee hours. It was wonderful, Kit. Mom was treating me like a peer -- like another adult and not as her daughter. We talked about school and classes ... men and love. It was like girl-talk with a best friend or a fond roommate. When I mentioned it to her, Mom said, “You’re an adult, Nichelle -- you’re a woman, now. You’ll always be my daughter, but you’ll never be a child again.” Kit heard her sniffling. Sorry ... We also talked about you.

“What about me?”

Mom can’t wait to meet you. She said we should put something together for Christmas. What do you have planned for Christmas break?

“Last year, I stayed at school. My folks agreed to drive me here in the fall and fetch me in the spring. If I want to come home, I’m on my own. I can’t afford to fly and the bus routes are as bad as the one to Plattsburgh ... maybe worse, and not cheap either.”

Oh, Kit ... I feel sorry for you. Did they keep the dorms open?

“Yeah, but no food service. Even the snack bar was closed. Billy and I rented a micro-fridge last year so I could boil water and heat stuff up in the microwave. I subsisted mainly on ramen noodles, mac and cheese and other cheap food I could cook up. I actually like it here over winter break. It’s quiet and peaceful.”

Maybe this year will be different. Maybe Mom and I can work something out. We’d have to figure out how to get you to your folks, too. We’ll put our heads together.

“I would love to meet your mom. She did something right if the proof is you.”

Thanks, Nichelle replied sweetly. I think she’s a special woman -- but I’m prejudiced. Oh, Kit -- Mom wants to know if you have any family in West Virginia.

“West Virginia?”

Specifically, Jefferson County, West Virginia.

“Gee, none that I know of. Why?”

Remember I told you she traced our line to my third-great grandmother? That she’s deep into genealogy?

“Yeah ... vaguely.”

My third-great-grandmother’s name was Mabel Wainwright. When I told Mom your name, she perked right up. She thinks there’s an oddball chance we’re related.

“Related? Uhhh ... How would that even be possible, Nichelle?”

Mabel was born into slavery, probably right before or at the start of the Civil War. Mom tracked her to being a slave belonging to a planter named Malcolm Wainwright, Senior, who lived in what’s now Jefferson County, West Virginia. It was part of Virginia at the time. Slaves often took the surnames of their masters. There’s a chance that, if you’re related to Malcolm, then you and I could be distant cousins.

“What ... wait ... She belonged to Malcolm and that makes us related?”

No -- there’s more. Mom found Mabel in the eighteen ninety census and her race was listed as Mulatto -- mixed race. Kit -- when a mixed-race child was born into slavery, there’s a strong likelihood that the father was the slave-owner and the mother, one of his slaves. Believe me, it couldn’t be the other way round.

“I’m trying to keep up...”

It’s okay -- I couldn’t keep it straight either until Mom showed me some of her documentation. I’ll bring copies so we can look it over together when I get back. It really is fascinating. I thought it was a silly hobby, but I was wrong.

“Okay ... There must be thousands of Wainwrights in the world. The odds of me being related to Malcolm are slim-to-none.”

Mom wants your permission to research your line. Kit -- she said tracing white people is much easier than African-Americans. And, she said it’s easier to work backward than forward.

“Okay, sure, fine. It’s a fool’s errand, I’m afraid.”

She will need your full name and birthdate. She’d also like the same for your dad, and your mom’s maiden name and dates.

“Can I put that into an email for you?”

That would be great, Kit. What do you know about your family?

“Not much. We don’t talk about it ... due to how my grandfather died.” Kit drew in a breath. “My grandfather was drafted into the VietNam war, early... 1965 or so. He spent a tour, re-enlisted ... He was badly injured in 1969 and discharged on medical grounds. The guy had PTSD pretty bad, though that’s not what they called it then -- he couldn’t hold down a job ... had trouble with alcohol. He seemed to settle down in later life, but one day something set him off. He shot and killed my grandmother and then himself. I was about three...”

Oh, my God, I’m so sorry. Kit -- that would be about the same age I was when my grandparents were killed. He was on your father’s side?

“Yeah ... My dad’s dad.”

What about your mom’s folks?

“They’re not close by, so we rarely see them. My mom isn’t on the best terms with them, and I barely knew my dad’s folks. We’re kinda all by ourselves.”

There are parallels between how we both grew up, Kit ... similar incidents.

“Yeah, I guess there are. Interesting.”

I’ll tell mom and she’ll start researching. I don’t know how much progress she can make with Great-Gram’s estate distracting her.

“Whatever ... I’m in no hurry.”

Kit -- have you told your folks about me, about us, yet?

He drew in a breath and sighed. “No. It’s on my to-do list.”

Kit ... Please tell them. Please do it soon.

“Okay, I’ll do it soon.”

Before I get back?

“All right, before you get back.”

Thanks, Kit. It’s been hanging over me. Knowing you’ve told them will let me breathe easier.

“I’ll get it done. Promise.”

I miss you.

“I miss you, too.”

Mom arranged a bit of a reception for all the relatives who came and we need to get to that. I’ll call again when I can.

“Okay. I love you, Nichelle.”

Oh, I know you do. I love you, too. Good bye, Kit.

“G’night.” He cancelled the call and paced back and forth in his room.

Kit fully understood the subtext of Nichelle’s words. He hated confrontation. He HATED it -- as much as Nichelle hated funerals -- and, that is why he procrastinated in telling his folks. But Nichelle went to her Great-Gram’s funeral -- out of love, for her and for her mom. The bottom line -- if he truly loved Nichelle as he professed -- he would tell his folks.

Kit continued to pace in his room, He knew Billy was down in the rec room playing Foosball. He checked the time on his phone -- seven twenty-five. They’ll be done with dinner, he thought.

He brought up his contacts list and pressed the entry marked, home. The call connected and he heard it ringing. Please, not Dad, he thought, Please not Dad...

Hello?

“Annie,” he said, “it’s your brother.”

Hi, Kit, his sister replied.

“Mom or Dad around?”

Hold on... Soon he heard another voice.

Kit?

“Hi, Mom.” He breathed a sigh of relief.

Kit -- is something wrong? You don’t usually call.

“No, no ... Nothing’s wrong. It’s just kinda quiet here and I was wondering how things were back at home...”

It has to be something else, Kit. You never call just to chat.

“Well ... I wanted to tell you ... I have a new girlfriend.”

What happened to that nice girl Lisa Schmidt?

“We broke up. Actually, she sent me a Dear John email over the summer.”

Oh, Kit -- I’m so sorry to hear that. I thought Lisa was a nice girl.

“Lisa’s a bimbo, Mom. She’s dumber than a box of hair. That’s why breaking up with her was no big deal to me.”

What’s this new girl like?

“Well ... She’s pretty and intelligent ... we like the same things, the same music, the same food ... She’s a biology major at Tech. I met her when she was assigned to be my lab partner in Bio Lab.”

What’s her name?

“Nichelle ... Nichelle Cooper.”

Michelle Cooper?

“No, Mom. It’s Nichelle...” Kit enunciated the name. “ ... with an N, not an M.”

Nichelle ... Kit -- that sounds to me like a colored girl’s name.

“Mom -- the accepted word today is black. Colored sounds so ... nineteen-fifties.”

All right then, a black girl’s name ... like that actress.

“Nichelle is black. She was named after Nichelle Nichols.” What followed was a long stretch of deafening silence. “You know, who played Uhura on Star Trek.”

I know who Nichelle Nichols is, his mother replied, frostily. Kit -- how deeply are you involved with this black girl?

“It’s serious,” he replied. “Mom -- I think she might be the one.”

What do you know of her?

“I know she’s intelligent and quick. She’s such a breath of fresh air from Lisa. When we talk, I don’t have to use the vocabulary I’d use with a ten-year-old -- we can converse as adults. She’s pretty and she’s fun to be with.”