Page 52 of A Matter of Pedigree
Carole just smiled and nodded, continuing her mute act. “Isss gooot,” said Mom, waving the duster around. “Ookey-dookey, no?”
“Oh, yes. Absolutely. I didn’t mean to complain, but the hall was … well, now it’s just lovely, and I certainly do appreciate your hard work.”
“Nein pwobwem,” said Mom, smiling and shrugging.
“It’s wonderful to have you ladies,” said Millicent. “I know Angelique can be a bit exacting. I think it’s because she’s French.”
Mom smiled and nodded.
“Well,” continued Millicent, twisting her fingers awkwardly, “I do wonder if you might have some extra time today to give my place a quick once-over. I’m expecting some company, a rather special guest for dinner tonight, and it would mean so much to me …”
Mom was on it in a flash. “How mooccch?”
“It’s a small apartment, really just a studio,” said Millicent. “Fifty dollars?”
“Ookey-dookey,” said Mom, holding out her hand.
Millicent scurried back into her apartment and returned a moment later in her coat and hat and carrying her reusable Whole Foods grocery bags on her arm as well as five crisp ten dollar bills in her gloved hand. “Just one thing. Please don’t let Tiggles, that’s my cat, out. He’s a bit of an escape artist.”
“No pwobwem,” said Mom, snatching the cash and pocketing it. As soon as Millicent was out the door, they were stepping into her apartment, entering carefully lest Tiggles make a break for freedom. The cat, however, took one look at them and scooted under the bed.
As Millicent had said, it was little more than a studio. A large front room served as living, dining, and kitchen, all in one. A curtained alcove contained a twin-size bed, and a tiny bathroom was tucked behind the kitchen area.
“Not what I expected,” said Mom, taking in the colorful African dashiki-cloth curtains and vibrant sofa cushions.
Carole was looking at the collection of framed photos that hung on one wall. She recognized many of the faces: Martin Luther King, Rosa Parks, Malcolm X, a young Jesse Jackson, Rev. Al Sharpton. A beautiful young woman with long, flowing hair appeared in some of the photos, too, and Carole realized she must be the young Millicent. “Wow,” she said, “it’s no wonder she got knocked up.”
“Yeah,” said Carole. “I wonder why she never married?”
“Maybe it was like Obama’s mom, you know, a grad school romance that ended when her boyfriend went back to Africa.”
“Or maybe he got killed,” said Mom. “Like those cop killings you hear about.”
“Like poor George Floyd,” said Carole, as grim images from the TV newscasts replayed in her head. She turned to Millicent’s desk and flipped through a little stack of bills and letters that were piled under a small wooden sculpture of a very pregnant woman used as a paperweight. “I guess she’s got a sense of humor,” she observed, holding it up for Mom to see.
“A fertility figure,” said Mom, surprising Carole. “I saw an exhibit over at Providence College when I was taking a class in stagecraft.”
Carole put it right down, as if it were a hot potato, and went back to the mail. A photo of a fortyish Black man fell out of one letter, and she showed it to Mom. “Is this the guy you saw?”
“Yeah, that’s him.”
Carole unfolded the letter and read the neat, squarish handwriting. “He is her son, and get this, he says he hopes to meet her; he’s been searching for her for years.”
“Like one of them stories you see on TV.”
“Even better,” said Carole, chuckling. “You’ll never guess who he is.”
“Who?”
“Nellie Shaw!”
“The football player?” Even Mom recognized that name. Nellie Shaw’s career started at Brown University, but he was picked up by the Buffalo Bills before graduating. He went on to break records and collect Superbowl rings, ending up with the New England Patriots before retiring.The Providence Journalhad followed his career closely, considering him a favorite son of the city, and had recently trumpeted his admission to the Football Hall of Fame.
“Yeah, and I bet he’s coming to dinner tonight,” said Carole. “I wonder what Hosea would think of that?”
“He’d probably be waiting by the door, hoping for an autograph,” said Mom.
“I think you’re probably right; even the most bigoted people make exceptions for superstars,” said Carole, reaching for the Pledge.
