The End of the Line (19 page)

“I’d
better be going,” he said with a melancholy expression. “Good night, everyone.
And good luck with your production.”

“Thanks
for everything,” Mary said sweetly, her whole face brimming with warmth.

“You’re
welcome,” he mumbled, then left the community center and walked to his truck.
He opened the door and turned on the ignition, then checked to make everything
was secure in the back. He was pensive and looked almost lifeless. The song,
If You Could Read My Mind
, came on the
radio and seemed to add to his solemn expression. He was just about to get into
the truck when Latesha again opened the door and walked onto the step. Peter
looked at her without speaking. She stared at him without speaking, and the
song played.

“So
this is it?” Latesha said. “The end of the line?”

“The
end of the line,” Peter returned.

“You
want it to be, don’t you?” Latesha challenged, almost in an irrational voice.

“We
both know that’s not true.”

“So
why are you running away then?” She looked hard at him. “
Hmm
? You could stay and operate the lights. That would be a big
help. We could use some help right now, Peter. It’s not that big a commitment.”

“Oh,
that’s right,” he said sharply. “I could come and operate the lights, maybe fix
something if it breaks.”

Latesha
smirked. “It’s not like that and you know it.”

Peter
looked fifty yards up the road and saw the silhouette of Mr. Thomas in the
living room window. All the lights were off except the kitchen light behind
him, but it was obvious he was not trying to hide the fact that he was
watching. He was watching like a hawk and his body was motionless.

“Just
talking to you is causing me grief,” Latesha said, very aware of her father’s
presence, “but I’m still doing it.” She gave him a meaningful look. “I’m
willing to accept trouble if it means we can be friends. I’d like you to
volunteer to operate the lights. There’s nothing untoward about that and I’ll
stand up to him. We can talk, have a cup of tea.” A hopeful look shone on her
face. “Friendship. Like the jellybeans.”

“Would
you ever introduce me to your father?” Peter asked bluntly.

Latesha
did not respond to the question.

“Guess
who’s coming to dinner, Dad?” Peter said sarcastically. “Yes, this will be a
wonderful friendship. I’ll be the ugly little troll you let out of its cage
every once in a while for your amusement, but your father will never be allowed
to see it for fear he’ll be offended.”

“You’re
a smart ass!” Latesha snapped with a scowl.

“Friendship
is not enough, Latesha,” Peter said firmly and with resolve. “For other women,
yes, friendship is all I want, but not from you.” He shook his head. “Not now.”

“I
offered it to you,” she shot back. “I offered to take grief to be your friend
and you turned it down. I want that to be understood between us.”

“Not
now,” he said softly, his voice quivering.

“What
do you want from me?” Latesha exclaimed shrilly.

“If
I had one wish,” he said emotionally, “I would wish that I could kiss you.”

Latesha
stepped back with a frown. “It cannot be that way,” she decreed. “I’m offering
friendship, Peter. What you’re talking about goes way beyond friendship.”

He
looked away. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“No,
you shouldn’t have,” she upbraided. “That was way over the line.”

“I
just want you to be honest with me, Latesha,” he said, his eyes expressing
incredible vulnerability. “I just have to know if there is a chance.”

“What
if there is no chance for that?”

“Then
this is the end of the line,” Peter said. “I can’t be just your friend,
Latesha. Maybe in the beginning, but not now.”

Latesha
looked up the road and saw her father watching their every movement. “All
right, if that’s what you want,” she said. “Goodbye, Peter.”

“Goodbye,
Latesha.”

Latesha
turned and walked back into the center. Peter drove away into the night.

Chapter Nine

The
actors were talking excitedly and one of them called to her. Latesha forced a
smile, gestured unnaturally with her hand, and walked over to them. During the
time she was gone there had apparently been some exciting new developments. One
of the actresses, a secretary in her late twenties, had apparently memorized
all Romeo’s lines.

“So?”
Latesha asked, not getting it.

“You
be Juliet,” Mary said.

“And
Belinda can play Romeo,” Tyrone added with emphasis, as if a great problem had
been definitively resolved.

Latesha
raised her eyebrows. “You want a woman to play my lover?”

“Why
not?” Tyrone said, looking slightly offended. “In Shakespeare’s day men played
all the parts. No one thought anything of it.”

“Tyrone,”
Latesha said in a firm voice, “I’m not letting a woman kiss me in the play. I
don’t care if you put a mustache on her.”

Belinda
and the others laughed.

“Fake
it,” Mary suggested.

“Say
something in a deep voice,” Latesha said.

“Hi,
my name is Romeo,” Belinda articulated in a ridiculous imitation of a man’s
voice. It was so awful that even she made a face. “You’re right. Time for Plan
B.”

Tyrone
said with emphasis, “We’re already on Plan F.”

Latesha
started to lighten up. “Maybe you could catch a cold and get laryngitis before
the show, Belinda.”

Her
friends burst into laughter. They assured each other that somehow, by some
great intervention of fate, the play would not be a total and unmitigated
disaster. So enthusiastic were their assurances that they all started to
express it, though it was obvious none of them believed it. Latesha understood
the hopelessness of the situation, yet she was spared much of the anxiety over
the play, but only because of the even greater tumult in her personal life.

“Is
he gone?” came a cold voice in the dark as soon as she entered her house.

Latesha
tried to go to her room without speaking.

“Is
he gone?” her father called out.

“Yes,
he’s gone,” Latesha said, stopping but not looking at him.

“For
good?” came the raspy, harsh reply.

“He’s
gone for good, Dad.” She turned to him. “I hope you’re happy.”

“He’s
not welcome here,” her father said as she walked down the hall and into her
bedroom. Mr. Thomas shouted, “He’ll never be welcome here!”

Latesha
uncharacteristically slammed her bedroom door. It was louder than she intended
and the bang positively shocked her.

The
next morning Latesha got up quietly, followed the same routine, but left
without waking her father. When Latesha came home she refused to look at him or
speak to him. She did her chores, made the evening meal, but her lips were
sealed. Mr. Thomas, equally as stubborn, refused to look at her or speak a
single word.

Latesha
did the supper dishes and then went to the community center. Three hours later Latesha
came home, locked the door and went to bed. Mr. Thomas was left sitting alone
in front of the television. Finally, at his usual bedtime of ten, he wheeled
down the hall and went to bed. The next day was a repeat of the last. Latesha
seemed to be getting in a routine and was quite happy not to exchange a word
with him. Even if she really needed his input, to ask if there had been any
mail, for instance, she still would not speak to him. Mr. Thomas was getting
visibly agitated by this, but he refused to be the one who capitulated.

By
Friday morning, or day three of the Cold War, Mr. Thomas was angry. “Latesha,
can I talk to you?” he asked as she was getting ready to leave for school. “I
hate the silent treatment.”

She
looked at him, or rather looked through him, as if he was invisible, then left
the house without uttering so much as a single syllable. At quarter past ten that
evening Latesha walked into the house and hung up her coat. She absentmindedly
picked up a washcloth and ran it over a plate in the sink. Mr. Thomas was
watching television and drinking a Coke.

“Where
were you?” he asked.

“Out,”
she said flatly.

“Out
where?”

“I
was working on the play,” she said in a listless voice, her tone telling him
that she did not want to talk anymore.

“You’re
pissed off at me, aren’t you?”

Latesha
looked at him. “You could say that.” She nodded. “You could definitely say
that.”

“It’s
for the best,” Mr. Thomas assured her. “I’m older and wiser in the ways of the
world. You’ll thank me someday.”

“Save
it, Dad,” Latesha replied cynically. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“About
what? The white boy?”

Latesha’s
eyes flashed. “He’s no boy,” she said. “He’s a man.”

“Oh,
I can see that,” Mr. Thomas shot back, his temperature rising. “He’s a white
man.”

“How
perceptive,” she snapped sarcastically. “You should be a detective, Dad.”

He
glared at her. “Don’t speak to me that way.”

“What
way?” she challenged, staring at him. “The way you speak to me?”

“Hush,
girl.”

“No,”
Latesha exclaimed, standing up straight and looking like a gunfighter ready to
draw. “I’m not going to hush. And you know why I’m not going to hush? Because
I’m just like you, Dad. I’m just as stubborn, just as pigheaded as you are. And
you want to know something else? There’s one other thing I share with you. I’m
a racist, just like you. You brought me up with that talk and I’ve learned my
attitude from you. I’m not proud of it like you are, but it’s ingrained in me.”

“You’ll
never be completely free of it,” her father pledged, “because I’ll never be
free of it. And the reason I’ll never be free is because you cannot erase
history. Blood can never be washed away.”

“I
don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

“We
are going to talk about it,” Mr. Thomas told her.

“No!”
she shouted, throwing the washcloth into the sink and storming off to her room.

Mr.
Thomas recoiled, shocked to see his daughter in such a heightened state.

The
next morning Mr. Thomas was up and about before Latesha rose. She was surprised
to see him in the kitchen and he looked shocked when she suddenly spoke to him
in a normal voice.

“Can
you hang some doors in the center?” Latesha asked matter-of-factly.

“What?”
he responded, totally confused.

“Peter
said that if we hold the play we have to have four doors.”

Mr.
Thomas cringed at the mention of Peter’s name. “Since when?”

“He
works in the trades, Dad, and he used to do inspections.” She looked glumly at
him. “We need two more doors.”

Mr.
Thomas shook his head with absolute resolve. “Definitely not,” he said. “You’ll
have to find someone else.”

“You’re
the only carpenter in the village.”

“Find
someone else, Latesha.”

“There
is no one else and we have no money to pay anybody.”

“No.”

“At
least come down to the center and tell the others what to do.”

“No,
no, no.”

“Whatever,”
Latesha suddenly quipped, leaving the house in a rush.

She
walked through the back yard and down to the river. It was a beautiful day and
a heavy silence hung over the landscape. The forest was a verdant green spotted
with hardwoods, their changing leaves resplendent with spectacular colors. A
mist shrouded the lush growth and fish jumped in the wide part of the river. It
was peaceful here, far from the conflicts and problems of life, and Latesha
wanted to forget everything, to wipe the slate clean, and to become, like the
tree or a rock or a passing sparrow, just one little part of the whole. But,
though she fought it, she thought of how nice it would be to have Peter sitting
beside her, sharing the moment with him. That could never happen now, and
because of that she felt dead and empty.

When
Latesha returned to the house, one glance told her father not to dare open his
mouth. He knew that look, and though he would have spoken if he really wanted
to, there was nothing of such great importance that he was willing to risk
unleashing a tempest. The Cold War was back on.

Latesha
did her chores Friday and Saturday, interspersing them with schoolwork,
memorizing lines and rehearsing the play. Though Peter had trained Mary on the
lights, she had since delegated that responsibility to the old Juliet,
Beatrice. Unfortunately, Beatrice’s skill on the lights matched her skill at
acting, and she never failed to miss a cue or to turn on the wrong set. For the
sake of the play, it would have been far better to have Peter operate the
lights, but Latesha could not possibly ask him.

On
Sunday morning Latesha went to church at ten in the morning. The building was
full, as usual, and a group of women in blue dresses were in the front, off to
the left. To the right was a group of men in suits. During the sermon people
raised their hands and shouted praise, and at one point Mary sang an old Gospel
song. People would weep when Mary sang, and her voice would resonate in
Beechwood through the open windows of the church.

Feeling
spiritually uplifted, Latesha walked home in her Sunday best. It was another
beautiful day and since practice was not until after supper, she decided to go
for a walk. She went into her house, passed her father without saying a word, and
then walked into her room.

“Oh,
no!” her father suddenly shouted.

Latesha
ran out of her room thinking her father was having a heart attack or a stroke.
To her surprise, however, he was looking out the window at a truck parked on
the road. Instantly Latesha realized it was Peter’s truck, and she could see him
getting out. Her father had gone completely stiff, as if he might explode any
second, and his eyes were bulging out of his head. He turned to Latesha with a
face of stone.

“Tell
him not to come into my house,” he ordered. “I mean it!”

Latesha
had never seen him more serious. She ran to the front door and opened it. Peter
was already standing there, about to knock. She looked at him with a shocked
and frantic expression, almost as if she was a wild animal. Peter raised his
eyebrows in alarm and then spontaneously passed her a colorful bouquet of
beautiful flowers. She took them without thinking.

“What
are you doing here?” she asked sharply.

“I
brought something by. It’s a business proposal.”

“Get
out of my house!” a voice suddenly shouted from inside, though the man from
whom it originated was nowhere to be seen.

Latesha
cringed and looked embarrassed. Peter smirked and peeked around Latesha and
into her house. Oprah suddenly ran across the floor with a terrified look and
hid under the table. Peter shrugged and handed Latesha a large white envelope,
then turned and walked away. Latesha stepped over the threshold and took a few
steps toward him.

“Peter,”
she whispered.

He
turned around and looked at her.

“Thank
you for the flowers,” she said with a pretty smile.

Instantly
Peter brightened and smiled back at her.

“Get
off my property!” Mr. Thomas shouted, this time in a thunderous voice.

Peter
and Latesha gave each other a final look and then he started walking out the
driveway. Mr. Thomas wheeled into the sitting room and stopped his chair beside
an open window. He knew Peter would be able to hear him.

“Stay
away, white boy!” he called out in the nastiest, angriest voice imaginable.
“Leave her alone! You listen!”

Peter
could hear every word but made no expression and just kept walking toward his
truck.

“You’re
here to steal her,” Mr. Thomas said viciously. “Business proposal my ass! What
are you trying to do, buy my daughter? Those days are done, boy. Stay away from
her!”

Peter
got into his truck without showing any expression and drove away. Latesha
walked into the kitchen with a startled look, as if she had been struck a
mighty blow and could not regain her senses. In her right hand she held the
bouquet of flowers.

A
few moments later her father wheeled into the kitchen with an extremely intense
expression. Without warning he suddenly grabbed the flowers out of her hand,
lifted the top of the garbage pail, and threw them in. Latesha’s eyes flared.
She literally pushed him, opened the pail, and took out the flowers. Her father
had thrown out some leftover spaghetti sauce earlier and one of the large white
carnations was smeared with it.

“You
leave my flowers alone!” Latesha exclaimed, her eyes wild. “He gave them to
me!”

“He’s
trying to buy you,” Mr. Thomas shot back, “like a slave whore.”

Latesha
breathed shallowly and her whole body tensed. “Oh, my God,” she stammered. “If Mom
heard you say that you’d be in big trouble, mister. How dare you!”

He
would not relent. They stared at each other for a few seconds and then Latesha
rushed into her room. She stayed there all day, literally coming out only long
enough to brush her teeth late that evening. When she walked back to her room,
her father was reading in bed. The door was uncharacteristically open and Mr.
Thomas turned to look at her. He had a sad and pitiable expression on his face.

“I’m
no whore, Dad,” Latesha said, her head held high like a princess, tears in her
eyes. She did not look at him, but she added, “Don’t you ever say that again.”

He
knitted his brows and said nothing, though tears formed in his eyes.

The
next morning Latesha left without speaking to her father. When she got home,
she saw the envelope Peter had been left was opened. It was obvious her father
had read the submission. Without asking him, she took it out and read it
herself.

“What
do you think?” Latesha asked, holding up the check for one thousand dollars.