Chapter Forty-Five

Walt had called and told Franklin that Marge was on her way over. It was a warning bell, and Franklin appreciated it. That woman had always had a mind of her own, and it took a good man to know when to say uncle. He imagined Walt was a good man, regardless. 

Walt had said she wanted to talk about Travis, and Franklin didn’t question him on why she didn’t just pick up the phone. He knew if Marge was coming over, it was because something was spastic inside her soul. She was the type of woman who lived out what was going on inside, abruptly cutting people off or working herself into a tizzy. “People like that have no freedom,” he could hear his mama say about the ones worked up over the Elaine massacre all these years later. Some things you just had to give over to God.

Franklin knew Marge knew God. Walt had done as good a job as any showing her the ropes. But Marge was the type to struggle against them, preferring drowning over letting herself be pulled up. She had been a head case over Travis, and even though Franklin was deeply upset over his grandson’s situation and even more upset at his nephew who he was certain was behind it, he kept his thoughts tucked in neatly so as not to alarm others around him.

Marge had no such qualms.

“Well, there’s a hussy involved now, so there’s that,” Marge said as a way of greeting him when he opened the door. He already had the coffee going and two porcelain teacups from when Anette had briefly desired to beautify their lives. He ushered Marge in, and she took her usual spot that lent her a wider view of his yard through the sliding glass window. She looked through it like there was something there to see.

“Who is this . . . hussy?” Franklin asked delicately, taking care and precision to accurately pour into the small vessels. Marge grabbed hers too quickly and with the force of her words, so a few drops sloshed over the rim and onto Franklin’s white tablecloth. He did his best to pretend not to notice.

“Some lady named McGovern who says she was friends with Whitney and Jamal, and so she thinks she’s here to save all our lives. Thinks she can get Travis out too.”

“Denise,” Franklin said. He stared out the sliding glass door, too, now but saw things differently. There was Jamal, young, still a boy and a girl, a white girl named Denise who walked with him home sometimes after school. And Anette would sit right there in the fold out chair, long legs stretched out in the sun and smile at them while they played. A hurt budded in Franklin’s heart, remembering something that at the time felt like it would have lasted forever. But instead, it was now shuffled in the “once was,” and he had worked particularly hard to dig for it.

“How is she?”

“How is she? She’s a sweaty mess of nerves and hair spray, that’s how she is.” Marge lost her footing for a moment. She did that sometimes, especially as she had gotten older. It happened for just a few seconds, but it was like Franklin could see into her past, too, and watch the child she used to be. Her face looked scared, and she kept sloshing her coffee to prove it.

“Oh, for pity’s sakes...” she mumbled and went to get the dish rag herself. Franklin hid a tiny smile.

“You reading?” Franklin asked. He didn’t have to say what because Marge already knew. It was a conversation they had whenever they saw each other during the holidays. At first, Franklin was inclined to say no to Marge’s invites, not that he didn’t want to spend time with his grandson, but he didn’t want to spend time with the rich white people. It was a weird thought since he had known Marge before the rich thing had happened, but the white thing was always there, reminding him of their differences. Reminding him that she couldn’t possibly ever know the pain that came with his blackness. But as he got to know her, he realized, he’d never fully know the extent of hers either and that had been catalyst enough to try to understand what he knew he never truly would.

“No,” Marge said like a child caught without her homework. But then she bristled, situating herself so that she took up the full length of her spine. “At a time like this? Really, Franklin? Our grandson is about to go away for who knows how long, and you’re asking me if I’m over here memorizing Scripture?”

“Seems like a good time to me.” He had, in fact, been doing that very thing. His panic attacks had been subsiding, which was odd. But he thought maybe it had to do with sitting in each verse and not telling it what to do. As he read, he realized he was reading differently too. Whereas before, he’d study the heroes of the Bible with each passage, each story, he now studied God’s hand in it all. His quietness, His loudness, His inability to be moved. How no matter what humans were capable of doing to thwart His plans, those plans moved smoothly ahead like a knife through butter.

“There’s never a good time. There’s barely any time at all.” Marge looked like a woman defeated. Franklin knew it must be hard raising her son while losing her daughter. She had mentioned before without meaning to, how she barely talked to Whitney anymore. And Franklin wasn’t sure which could be worse, having a son who had been murdered or a daughter who had pulled the trigger.

“Maybe time is different than we think. Maybe it’s slow and steady, and maybe we’re the ones who are running out.”

Marge snorted and sloshed another wave of coffee onto the tablecloth, but this time, she didn’t get up.

“I’m sorry, Franklin.”

“It’s fine. It’ll dab out too.”

“No, not about this,” Marge said, her large, thick finger pointing at the stain. “About Jamal.” Franklin tried to place a time she had said it before and imagined she had. But her face had never looked like it did now, like the weight of everything her daughter had done was chained to her wrists and ankles.

“You didn’t do a thing.”

“I didn’t do enough.” She smoothed the coffee stain with the same finger, and then she did something Franklin barely knew how to handle. Marge began to cry.

“Oh, Marge,” he said, a little uncomfortable. Franklin swallowed and asked God what to do. Love her.

“We both know,” Marge said through each gasp, “that Travis didn’t do it. So why is God punishing us?” Franklin had thought long and hard on that one. He knew God’s character. He knew the God of the Old Testament was the same God of the New, and everything He did for Israel, bringing them justice in the face of their enemies. He knew maybe this wasn’t a punishment as much as it was a consequence of how they’d gotten everything wrong. Maybe he should have faced Anette head on all those years ago and done a better job of putting an end to her infidelity. Maybe he should have spent more time with his son and got to know his girlfriend. Maybe Marge should have done the same. But Franklin tucked his “maybes” in the back closet of his brain because he also knew his God wasn’t a God of maybes. He was strong and definitive and knew what He wanted His people to do even in the midst of the chaos.

Love her.

Franklin did something that felt like his body was doing it for him. He scooted his chair back and stood up. He walked slowly to the other side of the small round table where Marge sat. She was so deeply inside of her pain that she didn’t notice him bending down. But she felt his arms around her, and instead of doing the typical Marge thing of swatting him away, she did a very untypical thing. Marge surrendered and let herself be loved.