Page 10 of Stronger Than Blood
We were just about to head home, and I was moving around the room looking for Granny when I heard a gasp. “Mrs. Ida!” I heard someone yell, and I rushed toward them. The image of my sweet Granny lying crumpled on the floor would forever be seared into my brain.
I rushed over and knelt next to her, holding her hand until the ambulance arrived. I was so upset that I didn’t have the sense to call them myself. Damn, I was thankful this happened when we were in a public place.
I held onto her hand, crying and rocking back and forth, telling her to stay with us… stay withme.
Luckily, the county kept an ambulance in Piston Creek, so after receiving the call, they got to us pretty fast, and we were quickly rushed toward the nearest hospital.
Tears rolled down my cheeks, and I prayed all the way there that it wasn’t the end. She was ninety, but she was still my rock, my foundation. I wasn’t ready for her to be gone yet.
Chapter seven
Rory
Ican’t say the town impressed me much at first glance. Some changes had taken place recently, like the little boutique hotel. It looked more like something you’d see in downtown Franklyn or Nashville, not in some Podunk town.
I quickly canceled my reservations at the Chattanooga place I’d reserved. Thankfully, the small hotel had openings, so I dropped off my luggage. I got directions to the pharmacy and then headed over. It didn’t take long to spot the man who’d brought me all this way. There was no denying him and my grandfather had been related. They looked too much alike. I took a quick peek at the paperwork hanging on the wall. Elias John Kennedy.
I bought some odds and ends, then left and walked around town. Now I had the man’s name, I could do some due diligence. I was far from uber rich and, granted, Rebecca Kennedy, if indeed she was the man’s daughter—I saw no family resemblance, so I was thinking she wasn’t—was a whole lot wealthier than I ever would be.
“But one should know what they are getting into before they step into it.” My grandpa’s advice, but usually in regard to an angry bull or boar hog. My grandparents had been diehard farmers, and considering they had to wade through Jim Crow and all sorts of untold racism to maintain that farm through the generations, I understood the attachment.
I smelled the restaurant before I arrived, and my stomach growled like I hadn’t just had a huge meal before driving. So, accepting my relatively high metabolism, I shrugged and walked in.
There was a makeshift buffet on the far side, and to be honest, I almost left. I’d been to a few buffets when friends talked me into going east with them, and the food… well, it wasn’t good.
But my rumbling stomach and the delicious smells enticed me in. An older lady smiled at me and, after glancing behind me, said, “Just one?”
I nodded. “Yes, ma’am, just me.”
“Well, you come on in. I’m down a server, so I’m on duty. You can call me Mrs. Kennedy,” she said, and after getting my drink order, pointed at the buffet. “We only have the buffet open for lunch, no menu items, so just make yourself at home, young man.”
For a moment, I wondered if she was somehow related to the Kennedys. But she was a white woman, and my Kennedy family were all Black, so I doubted it. I went over to the buffet and filled my plate. I’d had fried chicken for lunch, so I skipped that and grabbed some ham and bean soup. I hadn’t had that in years, and it smelled like heaven.
Of course, I also grabbed some greens and turnips to go on the side. It reminded me I needed to get back to cooking for myself. I’d gotten so bad about ordering out lately that, unless my roommates were cooking, the poor kitchen had gone mostly ignored.
I sat in a far corner so as not to stick out like a lonely, sore thumb and dug in. The moment the bean soup hit my mouth, I knew I’d come somewhere special. I took a bite of the cornbread, expecting it to be hard and dry, and almost bounced up and down in my seat when the moist happiness melted in my mouth.
This place knew how to cook soul food like it was supposed to be cooked. The greens and turnips were spot-on. I ate everything, and ignoring my embarrassment about overeating, I filled my plate this time. Everything was above average and delicious.
When Mrs. Kennedy came back to refill my tea and take my plates away, she smiled. “You enjoyed it, then?” she asked.
I chuckled. “What gave you that idea? The almost-licked-clean plates or my protruding belly?”
She laughed. “Well, you’re a young man. I’ve known enough in my time to know you like to eat. I’ve got a blackberry cobbler out, and it’s the last of the blackberries until fall. I get mine from a local producer, and well, this is your last chance.”
I nodded, but I wasn’t that big a fan of blackberries. My grandmother had always picked them, even getting me to help from time to time, but I didn’t love getting the seeds in my teeth, and the flavor was ho hum.
I got some anyway, mostly for the novelty of having the last of something before the next season started.
The moment I bit into it, I knew I’d made the right choice. The seeds must’ve been removed, and the flavor… Well, let’s just say they knew something about cooking with blackberries my poor grandmother hadn’t.
By the time I’d finished, I was so full I thought I might need to roll over and sleep on the bench. “So, what brings you into town?” Mrs. Kennedy asked as she put the check on my table.
“Oh, well… to be honest, looking for family. I’ve been doing some research.”
“Oh?” she said, and her smile brightened. “I did that whole DNA thing. No surprise, I’m good ol’ peasant stock. Do you know the names of your people? I grew up here. I might be able to help.”
I blushed, then thought, why not? It couldn’t hurt. “Um, well… My name is Rory Jenkins Kennedy. I’m looking for my dad’s family.”
