The Spurned Versus the Incompetent

D.J. and her Grandmother Muriel munched on cheddar biscuits in Chubby’s Diner. Melrose Diner was full because it was Mother's Day, so D.J. brought her to the one adjacent to it. Muriel showed her disdain for the rock music playing and eclectic fashion styles.

“I don’t see how you can stand this music,” she scoffed. “Billie Holiday and Duke Ellington were musicians.” She chewed on her biscuit. Around the diner Philadelphian singing groups such as Blue Magic, the Delfonics, and the Intruders hung on the walls. Above their booth was a picture of Marian Anderson who Muriel bore a resemblance to. “Men and women pressed their  hair and clothes and tucked their shirts in. It was simple. Not this generation.”

“Sade and the Romantics are musicians,” said D.J. mouthing the Romantics’ song Talking In  Your Sleep. “And I do comb my hair, but with more spray. And I can’t tuck my sweater in my leggings.”

D.J. got up and struck a pose. She looked like most women in the diner—coiffed hair, disheveled sweater, and leggings. Muriel wore the opposite—a Kitty Foyle dress and saddle shoes. She was born in the 1920s, so anything post jazz and blues wasn’t music in her eyes. The ‘80s fashions encumbered her school of thinking and D.J.’s grandfather was the same way. Muriel played it off by saying, “Love what you love. You’re my baby and I have to give you a hard time about it.” She grinned like the Cheshire Cat.

The brunette waitress, dressed like D.J., came with their drinks. “Can I get you ladies started on something to eat? Everything is half off and desert is free.”

“What kind of desserts?” said D.J. 

“Pie, ice cream, cookies, and cheesecake.” 

D.J. nodded and said, “I’ll take a Philly cheese steak omelet with a side order of bacon and sausage.” 

“I’ll have the clam chowder,” said Muriel. 

As the waitress scribbled down their orders and took the menus, she looked at D.J. and said,  “Say, you have the same red hair and blue eyes as that one butcher. Something like Lowsky or Nowsky.” 

“No. You’re mis-” 

“Honey, you don’t need to know that kind of information. We ordered a Philly cheese steak omelet and clam chowder. Carry on.” She shooed the waitress away. 

“Mother!” 

The waitress scurried off and muttered, “Evil old hag.” 

Muriel snorted and mouthed, Typical minimum wage humor.

She shook her head and said, “Any who, you’re giving me a hard time about the way I dress,  taste in music, and hair just like you did Sherman, Neeley, and Joyce." She was born to Joyce and her boyfriend Adam who were teens when she was born. Her uncles were held accountable for letting Joyce get pregnant. But her grandparents told her she was their adopted daughter.

“Except you spoil me and Henry the most. Every time we see you it’s Mother's and Father’s  Day,” said Muriel smiling at D.J. Her stocky brown fingers held D.J.'s moon colored ones.

“You both deserve it,” said D.J. Her blue eyes sparkled. 

When the food came, the parking lot outside their booth grew full. Guests had formed beelines outside, but waiters and waitresses had to turn people away because the wait for a table would be too long. The diner could only hold 75 people, and judging by the half eaten plates and chatter, few families showed signs of leaving. 

“I think we should go,” said Muriel. She was almost done with her food. “We can eat this at home. Plus the music and talk is assaulting my ears.” She gritted her teeth hearing Corey Hart’s Sunglasses At Night. 

D.J. flagged down a waitress who gave them to go boxes and complimentary desserts. She and Muriel walked on the checkered patterned floor, past the guests, and got into her Ford Fairmont.  When they left, they didn’t go immediately home. D.J. drove over the bridge where the Schuylkill River was. Her car, an emerald green, was the same color as the trees on either side of  the river. Muriel pressed her hands and face against the window like D.J. had years ago.

“I promise you won’t fall in and get carried into the mouth of the Delaware,” said D.J., smoothing the red hair off her shoulders. Her left arm dangled out the window catching the  breeze. Her grandparents used to tell her that whenever they drove over the bridge. 

“Good because I can’t swim." Her view of the bridge became needle thin. 

Muriel went back in time when D.J. drove past the park. “You were so tiny then. After church  you’d love to sit on the horses.” A sandbox sat where the horses were and women strolled by with baby carriages. “Sometimes I wish I could shrink you to that age again.” 

The white Calvary Methodist Church on Locust Street let D.J. know she was near home. Children played marbles on the sidewalk and older folks sat cross legged on porches. D.J.’s Ford  rolled over the bumpy roads as if she were riding waves. She pulled up alongside the curb in front of her grandparents’ two-story brown home and Muriel took out their pies from the bag. 

“If Henry smells pie in the house he’s gonna find a way to spike his blood sugar,” said Muriel.

“Good idea.” 

The decadent aroma of peach pie filled the car as D.J. and Muriel reclined in their seats. The two women looked like silly girlfriends making faces and stealing pieces of the other’s desert than a grandmother and granddaughter. 

“The fork doesn’t belong on your nose, Mother,” said D.J. 

“And I shouldn’t be able to see your bra strap,” said Muriel. “It’s called underwear, which  means it’s supposed to be under what you wear.”

“Fifteen minutes ago the dresses and ruffled panties I wore as a toddler were cute.” 

“Yes, when you were three and didn’t know better than to keep your dress up. The only person who should see that is your husband.” 

D.J. started to follow behind her grandmother, but veered off track to throw the cartons away on the side garbage can. She skipped through the grass, then hopped up the stairs joining Muriel inside. She kicked off her shoes near the coat rack and threw her keys on the table by the  staircase. Hanging on the wall was a photo of D.J. and her grandparents. A cold feeling swept over her as it always did in that spot. It didn’t matter what the temperature was, or season, that particular place and image carried a chilly energy. 

After putting her food away, she walked down the dark corridor and into the family room. It smelled like cotton and lemon furniture polish. Muriel had the TV on an old black and white movie called Girl Shy. D.J. hated black and white movies and wanted to watch the Looney Tunes instead. But when her grandmother patted the cushion next to her she obliged. 

About an hour into the movie, Muriel had her head cocked back with her dentures vibrating as she snored. D.J. yawned and listened to her belly growl. As she walked past the TV rack, a sepia photo of her as an 8-year-old stared back. Her face held a hypnotic gaze and she thought, Why  did they have those ginger days at school? she shrugged. 

In the kitchen she heated up her leftovers and drew stars on the calendar attached to the fridge. Soon she heard a sharp rapping on the door. When she answered it, it was Joyce. Her brown face, a younger version of her mother, held a grave look. 

“Who is it, D.J.?” asked Muriel. 

“It’s Joyce, Mother,” she responded. 

“Don’t call her that, Dorothy Jean,” Joyce snarled. “I need to speak with you.” 

The sky above grew gray and threatened to rain. They sat on the patio bench. D.J.’s pale foot scraped the ground and the other swung off the edge. “What is it?” she barked. 

Her mouth trembled and right eye twitched. “She isn’t your Mother.” 

D.J. laughed and said, “Stop pulling my leg, I only have two. Just because I’m adopted doesn’t mean I’m not family.” 

“You’re not adopted,” said Joyce, wiping a tear from her face. She placed both hands on D.J.'s shoulders and gulped. “I’m your Mother. Muriel and Henry are your grandparents.” 

“You’re jealous and spreading lies. Jealous that I’m closer with them than you are.” She folded her arms. 

Joyce slumped her back and heaved. She felt like the wind had been knocked out of her.

“I’m  not lying to you. They swore everyone to secrecy and my actions became the family’s shame. They’ve never forgiven me for it.” 

D.J. knew Joyce’s story made sense, but she couldn’t bring herself to admit they were wrong.  “Well, why did they lie about it?” 

“Because I was an unmarried 16-year-old. The adoption story was a ruse to cover up your illegitimacy. It’s why your uncles are never around. Your grandparents still feel they weren’t effective forms of birth control.” 

Apart of D.J. used to think it was because she was the baby and they shared nothing in common. Then, she wasn’t sure why they never came around. But her mother just confirmed it was because she was an unmarried teen mother and her uncles didn’t protect her as they should have. Her grandparents talked nothing about their sons, received no letters or calls from them, and had no photos of them in sight. She hadn't known why those peculiarities existed but they did. 

“I named you after my favorite movie star, Dorothy Jean Dandridge. The only thing about you they let me keep,” said Joyce, crying. “I’m your Mother and you should be spending this day with me.” Her hands slid down to D.J.’s forearms and she ached to be hugged, but she writhed away crushing ants under her feet. D.J. wanted to get lost in her Mother’s sobs and comfort her, but she also wanted answers.

She sprinted in the house and skid across the hardwood floor. A shout to her grandmother   brewed in her belly, but she didn’t know what to call her. 

“You grew under my heart, D.J.,” Joyce hurled, using the doorway as a crutch. “I had to tell you.” 

Muriel, hearing the commotion, rushed into the dining room. “What in the Devil is going on?” 

“Who are you? Mother? Grandmother?” asked D.J. “Who am I?” 

“Excuse you, young lady. You don’t speak to me that way!” 

“Is this Mother or grandmother speaking? The woman at the diner was right.” 

D.J.’s Grandfather Henry came from outside. He walked up the steps and heard fussing inside. Henry, who resembled James Earl Jones, carried a toolbox and a dirty towel over his shoulder and saw Joyce crying. 

“We raised you better!" belted Henry, slamming his toolbox on the table. “You know better than to raise your voice at your Mother.” 

“Word is you’re my grandfather,” D.J. hissed. “And this family is looking unfamiliar right now.” 

Muriel and Henry shot killer looks at Joyce.  She was choking on tears and held herself. She shook her head and stammered, "I couldn’t lie to her anymore. It was tearing me apart.” 

Henry closed the blinds and the four of them pulled out their chairs. The sound of chairs  digging into the floor was worse than the pregnant silence afterward. No one said anything. 

“Are you guys my parents or grandparents?” questioned D.J., who was stern faced and tight-lipped. Henry and Muriel looked at one another and nodded in unison. Her grandparents didn’t want to answer the question, because they felt she wasn’t owed an explanation. But if they didn’t Joyce would. 

Henry started at the beginning. Muriel had to take on a job cleaning houses when money was tight. Sherman and Cornelius were responsible for Joyce, who was smitten by a 15-year-old   Polish boy, the main family Muriel cleaned for. When Joyce got pregnant, they moved cities to avoid scandal. After having D.J., the family was to never speak of their stigma and play by the script created. 

“If Sherman or Neeley had impregnated a girl at 15, they would’ve been held accountable for it. And while we had a warfare here, no one penalized him. A white boy sleeps with my black mother and it’s normal. My black mother sleeps with a white boy and I’m the negligence,” said D.J. She pinched the ends of her hair, rubbing them between her fingers. She pursed her lips and added, "Who’s the Pole?”

“Adam Czarnowski,” said Joyce. “You look just like him. Hard to miss.” 

D.J. remembered the waitress from earlier and how angry her grandmother was. D.J. had denied the accusation because she thought she was adopted. For years others told D.J. about her   paternity, but she was taught to deny it. For years, she looked her father in the face and he didn’t call her daughter. He was introduced as Joyce’s friend. What was his purpose of hopping cities, seeing her briefly, and stopping all together? 

"At five I was told I was adopted. Everyone from neighbors to teachers and grocers saw it. Saw I was Czarnowski’s redheaded child. Even today I told someone they were mistaken because I was taught to be blind to the truth. Guess the joke’s on me.” 

D.J. shoved her seat back and rounded the table for the living room. Her body buzzed passing up the staircase. Her Mother was hurting and so was she. It hit her that the coldness was her Mother’s. When she had lived at home, seeing D.J.’s face as she left would’ve served as a  reminder of her loss, of what she couldn’t have. But what did her father feel? 

“He wanted to be in your life, but your grandparents didn’t want him around,” said Joyce with her chin up. “When I had you on weekends he got to see you, but insecurity and pressure set in.”

"Yeah, piece of shit," muttered Muriel. 

“Goddamned right!” Henry pounded his fist. “If he thought he was going to snatch you away and undue what we worked hard to maintain, he had another thing coming. Joyce and Adam weren’t fit to parent a baby, and by the time he grew a set, you knew me as your father.” 

D.J. saw that her grandparents raising her was an act of care, because her parents were immature and unstable. But analyzing everything, she felt like a pawn juxtaposed in the gauntlet of the spurned versus the incompetent. 

“I get why you guys were pissed off. But, if my mother hadn’t gotten pregnant, this wouldn’t even be an issue. And it’s been 21 years and they’re still paying for it. They even turned their lives around and you guys scared them into submission. Except for now,” said D.J. “And yet, I’m loved because I didn’t ask to be here, but everyone is hated because I exist.” 

A maternal pride swept over Joyce and she smiled. D.J. had spoken the unspoken and stressed that people aren’t their pasts. Joyce couldn’t resist wetting her face with snotty kisses. She caved in and sank her face into her Mother’s neck. D.J. lifted her head, and through blurred vision, she heard her grandmother say, “Come here, pumpkin." 

Henry’s mouth sagged. He didn’t like seeing D.J. upset, especially at her Mother’s expense. It wasn’t her fault this situation occurred, but her reaction reinforced why something’s should be kept quiet. He replied, “This is why secrets should remain secrets. You needn’t worry your pretty little head about him. You’re still our girl no matter what.” His heavy eyelids rose like garage doors giving her a comforting stare. Even after all that chaos, Joyce still wasn't given any respect. D.J. couldn’t stay there any  longer. She broke from her Mother’s hold, grabbed her keys, and stumbled putting on her shoes. 

"Happy Mother's Day, grandmother. And happy Mother's Day to you, too, Mother." 

"D.J., where are you going?" said Muriel. "You're in no condition to drive." 

"I have to get away from here," said D.J. Her answer didn't suffice. All three raced to the door and halted when her hand jerked it open.

"But where are you going?!" they groaned. 

"To see that piece of shit."