The Telephone Call
J. J. Perrin
(November, 2013)
The moment she heard the voice on the other end of the line she knew that this was going to be ugly. A rough male voice demanded, “Put Mindy on the phone.”
Maggie waited a moment to calm herself and then said, “Who is this?”
“Never mind that. Put Mindy on the phone.” The voice had a tinge of anger.
“She’s not here.”
“Where is she?”
“Who is this?” Maggie repeated.
“Never mind that. Where’s Mindy?”
“She doesn’t live here anymore.”
This time the voice on the other end of the phone was silent, then said, “Who’re you?”
Maggie was tempted to say never mind that, smartass but instead replied, “Her mother.”
“Where she live now?”
“With her husband and children.”
“She married?” the voice said in surprise. “Bershawn never said nothing ‘bout that.”
“Bershawn?” Maggie tried to control her voice, “Last I heard, Bershawn was in prison, doing twenty-five years at Graterford Maximum Security.” He is still there, I hope, she thought but didn’t dare add.
“He still there,” the voice said, as if reading her mind. “Got a long way to go. They added a few more years ‘cause a couple fights he got in.”
“So what does he want with Mindy?”
“It’s about the kid.”
“He has nothing to do with Danielle.”
“He be the father.”
“What the hell do you have to do with all of this?” Maggie asked, no longer able to control herself.
The voice sighed, as if Maggie was too dumb to understand and it hurt him to explain it, “I was his cell mate at Graterford for the past five years. Just got out. He said to call Mindy.”
“Mindy isn’t coming to see him and she sure as hell is not going to bring Danielle to within fifty miles of that prison! That period of her life is over with. Done. Gone. Period. And it isn’t coming back!”
“Chill out, Momma. Chill out. It ain’t about anyone visiting.”
“Then what the hell is this about?”
“Bershwan’s Momma.”
“His Momma? I don’t understand.”
“His Momma want’s to see the baby.”
“She isn’t a baby any more. She’s ten years old. And that woman has had nothing to do with her.”
“She all alone.”
“So what does that have to do with Danielle?” Maggie asked.
“She got no one. Bersahawn is in jail. Forever, probably. And her daughter’s gone. She got no one.”
“So what does that have to do with Danielle?” Maggie repeated.
“She be her grandmother.”
“Danielle already has two grandmothers. Me and Mindy's husband’s mother. Two’s enough. She doesn’t need three grandmothers.”
“He white?”
Maggie hesitated for a long moment, not wanting to go down that alley, but she finally said, “Mindy’s husband? Yes, he is white.”
“And Danielle is black, right? Or light brown? Got any brothers or sisters? They white? She notice that yet? She asking questions?”
“We explained it to her,” Maggie said, a catch in her voice, “And we’ll explain it to her again, when she’s older, or if she asks, when she can understand it better.”
“A black grandma would make it easier.”
Maggie moved the phone from her ear to rest it on her chest, unable to think or to respond, almost unable to breathe. She could see Bershawn’s mother in her empty row house in Philadelphia, with the photos of Bershawn and his sister Terry and the one of Danielle, all sitting together on top of the large dresser in the living room. Maggie had visited her house, once. Had talked with Mrs. Jenna and joked with her. Gabbed about their children. When they were young. In better times. And Maggie could see her own self without her family, without Mindy and her husband and the kids, and knew how hard it would be.
“You still there, Momma?” the voice asked.
Maggie put the phone back to her ear. She kept her voice firm. “The problem is that the grandma would come with her son. No matter how hard we tried, the grandma would talk about Bershawn and how he was Danielle’s father. And then there would be talk of them visiting him at the prison. The grandma would come with baggage. That can’t be helped. And I don’t want that for Danielle.”
“Ain’t that for Mindy to decide? She be the momma. Or maybe Danielle herself? She old enough. You just another one of the Grandmas.”
Maggie took a deep breath and said, “Tell Bershawn that I understand what his Momma wants, but it is too late. He is dead to us…and his mother is, too. He took her with him.”
She hung up the phone without waiting for a response and stared to the blank wall in front of her, finally saying, “I’m sorry. Oh, God, I’m sorry.”
The author assumed an avatar. This used to be called a pen name. But the author now rarely uses a pen, except for book signings and checks. The author learned to type in high school while working on the school paper, then moved on to typing other people’s term papers for extra money in college. Then computers came. Writing by pen was left far behind. So a “pen name” is no longer appropriate but the avatar works. Good likeness, too.