The Bad Seed Page 7

  I continued to dart in and out of traffic, even as the traffic snarled. I sped up, slowed down, and changed lanes all in an effort to get away. I needed to put some distance between me and Robert’s unholy family reunion.

  Then it dawned on me.

  Why was I running away? I needed to be back at the house, trying to figure out what the hell she wanted with my husband—her father. No sooner than the thought formed in my head, I had already U-turned in the street and turned the car in the other direction—away from traffic—and was headed back toward the house.

  Once inside, I slammed my keys down on the credenza, and marched into the solarium. She was seated on the couch, casually sipping a martini.

  “Where is my husband?” I asked curtly.

  “Blues, hey. He had to take a call upstairs.” I turned to exit the room. “Blues, wait. I’m glad you came back. Let’s talk. I’d really like us to be friends.”

  “Friends? Lady, I don’t even know you.”

  “Come and sit with me. Let’s talk. Can I make you a drink?”

  With reticence, I stepped deeper into the room. This would give me an opportunity to size her up and figure out her game. She moved over to the bar and started mixing a cocktail. She didn’t even wait for me to tell her my drink of choice. The familiarity with which she glided across the room unnerved me; it was as if she had already claimed the house as hers. Her feline smile told me that she was up to no good and she knew that I realized that she had ulterior motives.

  I took a seat on the couch and she brought the drink over to me.

  “What is this?”

  “It’s an Ashleigh special. Try it. I’m sure you’ll like it.” Once again, she smiled coyly.

  I took a sip and she was right—the drink was refreshing and had a strong gin kick that I felt in the back of my throat. She moved across from me and lowered herself delicately down into the chair, as a proper lady would. She moved with grace and poise, as if she had had years of training in a finishing school, instead of a crack den.

  “Daddy showed me your wedding pictures. You both looked so good. I’m sorry that I missed it.”

  “Where were you? On a crack binge?”

  She gently set her drink down and looked at me straight on.

  “Blues, let’s not fight. I’d really like it if we got along together. I’d hate to be one of those clichéd families where the child is at odds with the stepparent. I don’t want to feel like I’m in a bad Lifetime movie.”

  Stepparent. The sound of that made me want to throw my drink into her made-up face.

  “Don’t get it twisted. I’m not your parent.”

  “I know. You could be my little brother,” she said sardonically. I heard the contempt for me in her voice.

  “Let’s cut to the chase. What are you doing here?”

  “I told you. I missed my daddy. After I got myself clean, I wanted to see him, but I was afraid. It took me all this time to get the nerve to come home. I’m finally ready to be the daughter he always wanted.”

  “Eh-huh.”

  “There is no reason for us not to get along. We could be great friends.”

  “Listen here, Ashy—”

  “It’s Ashleigh.”

  “Whatever. Don’t think you can come in here and start running things. You have been a constant source of tension for my husband and I’m not about to let you stress him out. So, I suggest you pick up your little pocketbook and crawl back to whatever crackhouse you undoubtedly clawed your way out of.”

  “Look at me, Blues. Do I look like I’m on crack?”

  “That only means you clean up well. If you put lipstick on a pig, well, it’s still a pig.”

  “Blues, what the hell did you just say?” Robert stood in the doorway, his brow scrunched with confusion.

  Ashleigh stood up.

  “It’s okay, Daddy. I understand Blues’s frustration. He’s worried about you. He’s worried that I’m going to hurt you. He’s simply being a good husband.”

  “To be perfectly honest, Robert, I don’t understand why she’s here.”

  “She’s here because she’s my daughter.”

  “She’s also a drug addict. I’m not sure I feel safe with her in this house.”

  “I’m sorry you feel that way, Blues. You have nothing to worry about from me. Daddy offered to let me stay here for awhile.”

  “He did what? Robert, may I speak with you for a second?” I didn’t wait for him to respond. Instead, I turned quickly and made an exit out of the room. I walked several feet down the hallway, out of earshot. Robert was right behind me.

  “Baby—” he began.

  “You’re letting her stay here? Can we have a conversation about it first?”

  “What do you want me to do? She’s my daughter.”

  “And I’m your husband. Are you forgetting all the shit she put you through? The money she stole from this house?”

  “She’s been clean for years now.”

  “How do you know that? Just because she said it?”

  “I know because I know my daughter.”

  I tried to calm myself. I didn’t want to push him too hard, out of fear he’d push back. I needed to win him over, not push him closer to her. “Robert, you haven’t seen or heard from Ashleigh in years. You don’t know her.”

  He stepped closer to me and hugged me around the waist. He exhaled.

  “Baby, I really need you to support me with this. This may be my final chance to have a relationship with my only child. Can you support me and my decision?”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “No, because this doesn’t make sense. I get that you want to have a relationship with your daughter, but why does she have to stay here? Can’t she rent a room or something?”

  “I won’t have my daughter staying with some stranger.”

  “I’m sure she’s stayed in much worse places.”

  “Blues, I really need you to get on board with this. Can you trust that I know what I’m doing?” His it’s-my-or-the-highway-tone returned.

  I paused for effect. “I guess. I’m just tired of you making decisions that affect us without talking to me, but if you want her here, who am I to object? I’m only your husband and it’s your house.”

  “It’s our house.”

  “It doesn’t feel that way. You invited someone who is practically a total stranger into our house without so much as a text message to me.”

  Robert cupped my face with his hands. “You’re right. I handled it badly. I apologize.”

  I was shocked and didn’t know how to react. This was probably the first time Robert had ever apologized to me for anything. I liked the way the words sounded on his tongue, but I knew better than to get used to them.

  “Fine, Robert. I’m going on the record to say I believe that if she moves into this house, it will end badly for all of us. Just remember I said it.”

  “It’ll be fine. Pessimism is not your style. Now, can you make an attempt to get to know her? After all, she is your stepdaughter.” He giggled.

  Fuck you.

  “Mr. Douglas, you have a call.” We turned to our left and saw Margaret, our housekeeper, down the hall holding the phone in her hand. “Shall I take a message or would you like to take it?

  “I’ll take it.” He released his embrace and I watched him walk down the hallway and disappear around the corner.

  When I turned around, Ashleigh was standing there, smiling.

  “It’s been a long day. I’m going upstairs to take a nap. I’m a bit tired.”

  “You do that. Just remember, we can always put you out.”

  “And my daddy can always divorce you.” She winked.

  Bitch.

  CHAPTER 9

  Later that night, Robert and Ashleigh went out to dinner. Robert begged me to go with them, but I faked a headache so I could stay at home. I had had enough of her already and I needed time to think. How did her arrival affect my murder plot? With her skulking about the house, I wou
ld have to be particularly careful to not slip up and make a mistake. This unexpected variable put pause in my plot, but I would not be denied.

  I casually moved around the house, looking at things, itemizing possessions in my head. Robert wasn’t about to cheat me out of anything and I certainly wasn’t going to lose a fortune to a drug addict. I was not going to lose anything—not one painting, candlestick, or flowerpot. She may have been his daughter, but I was his husband.

  As I wandered through my house, I moved over to the fireplace in the den, and looked at the picture taken of me when I won the high school state championship in track. This was the only tangible thing that connected me to my past. I stared at the photograph; the smile on my face was electric. I remember being so happy that day. I put everything I had and everything I was into that race. I ran with a sense of urgency and of purpose that, even to this day, I have not been able to duplicate in any aspect of my life.

  In the photo, I was dressed in my green track uniform with a bouquet of colorful flowers clutched closely to my chest. Underneath the picture the caption read:

  Blues Carmichael, State Champion

  100 Meter Dash

  Even now, I smiled when I looked at that picture. It was one of the happiest moments of my life and I was thrilled that Jabari had celebrated with me that night because he also ran track; but, more than anything, I remembered wanting to get home as soon as possible so that I could share my good news with my parents, who hadn’t bothered to attend the event. I had hoped that winning the track meet would engender some affection from my father, a proud look, a pat on the shoulder—I didn’t dare hope for a hug—but he was too drunk to notice when I came home. My dear stepmother, on the other hand, dismissed my victory as a stroke of luck and minimized the hard work and effort I had put forth to be the best. She chuckled and said I looked like a “black blur” running around the track when the highlights aired on the local television station. One kind word would have sufficed; instead, I found only ridicule.

  As I stared at the photograph, I said my name out loud, “Blues Carmichael,” and it sounded oddly hollow, almost as if it didn’t have any weight; the hollow sound mirrored my empty soul.

  “Blues Carmichael,” I said again. I thought about the lie that I had told so many times over the years to explain my unusual name. I told people that my mother had been a famous New Orleans blues singer and when she had gotten pregnant by one of her band members, she sang up until she made it into the delivery room. The real story, the one my father told anyone who would listen, is that while in her womb, I gave my mother the blues for the entire nine months. Still, in spite of all that happened and all I went through growing up, a part of me still clung to the silly notion that one day he would love me as his son. One day, before I died, I hoped to get one kind word from him.

  Then, I’d make both of them suffer.

  I couldn’t wait to inherit Robert’s money so that I could go home and show them how rich I had become; I’m sure my father would be too drunk to even notice my presence, but, when he sobered, he’d ask me to buy him something to drink. I wanted my dear stepmom to know that her unkind words about the blackness of my beautiful skin didn’t break me. I survived. I wanted her to see that, in spite of her hateful heart and her efforts to tear me down, I continued to stand. I wanted my father to see that his pretty son used his pretty looks to overcome his distance and his drunkenness and his anger. And, when they begged for money—as I knew they would—I’d walk away. When I said goodbye that time, it would be forever.

  I sat at the dining room table in complete silence with my stepmother and father and I watched him mechanically lift his fork to his mouth. This was one of those rare occasions that we sat down as a family—one of those rare occasions when he was sober enough to sit upright at the dinner table. Her smoked salmon and asparagus tips didn’t have their usual flavor, but he didn’t complain, which was unusual for him in regard to her cooking. In fact, he didn’t speak at all. I think they were focused on me and just getting through this awkward moment.

  During the first part of this meal, no one spoke. At all. When I tried, my father shot me a curt look that slammed the door shut on conversation. The distance that separated me from them was not measured in inches, but in miles. I wondered what it would take to bridge that distance or if the distance could ever be bridged. In spite of my pretense and feigned independence, the alienation of affection from my parents wounded me each and every day; each cold stare tore at me; every empty hug filled me with a bit of rage; each silent second sliced away a little part of my flesh, leaving nothing but hardened bones.

  They despised me. It wasn’t just my darkened skin or my pretty features that filled them with hate. It was because they knew. They had always known about me and it turned their stomachs.

  I subtly gazed at my father’s strong face and wondered what thoughts circled his head. When he wasn’t drunk on gin, he looked like a respectable father, like the ones I saw in the park teaching their sons to throw a football or the ones who sat their sons down and gave them advice on becoming a man.

  I didn’t know the reason for this family dinner, but I waited for some conversation, but nothing came from my father. Not a word or a syllable. I didn’t ask for anything a normal child didn’t crave from their parents. I wanted to be loved by them. I wanted to be protected and made to feel like I mattered. They had never defended me or made me feel protected. Certainly not now and not the time when I was seven and little Brock Jackson tormented me with the slur “tar baby” in school and made me cry. Instead of making me love my skin, I heard her tell my father, “Well, he is black as tar—that ain’t a secret.” I died a little that day and realized I would get no protection from them.

  We continued eating in silence.

  I could deal with almost anything, except being ignored. Silence cut like a knife.

  I sighed loudly, hoping to start a dialogue, but neither one even blinked. When I could stand it no more, I slammed my fork and knife onto the plate, causing a loud clanking sound.

  “Is this how we are going to be for the rest of our lives? Sitting around, not talking to each other? You two acting like I don’t exist?”

  “We know you exist, Blues. You’re sitting right in front of us.” She casually cut a piece of fish and picked it up with her fork. My father took his massive hand and wrapped it around his wineglass and brought it to his lips. In a few moments, he’d be falling out of his chair drunk, or peeing on himself later in bed.

  “For once, could we have a decent conversation? Could you act as if you cared about what’s going on in my life?” I asked.

  “We know what’s going on in your life. Just eat your supper and don’t bother your father.”

  “Bother him? Are you for real?”

  She dropped her fork and looked at him. “What does that mean?”

  “It means nothing I do ever bothers him. Does he even speak anymore?” I said as I glared at him.

  “He speaks to me.”

  “What about me?” I said, looking directly at him.

  “I speak to you. You just never listen.” His voice sounded foreign. He then let out a deep exhale. “What do you want to talk about, son?” He spoke with impatience and frustration, as if we’d had this same conversation before and he was too busy to be bothered with it again. This lucid moment was the first time he’d looked directly at me in months.

  “I want you to talk to me like I’m a human, like you care about what’s going on in my life.”

  “I know what’s going on with you, Blues, even when you think I don’t.”

  “Then why won’t you say something?”

  “What the hell do you want me to say? You want me to show interest in your life? Alright then. Why don’t you tell me about the nice young lady you’re dating?” My father put his fork down, leaned back in his chair, folded his arms, and waited for a response. I eyed him and then my mother as if the question was in jest.

  I looked around inc
redulously. “Are you serious? You want to go there?”

  “You can’t answer it, can you? Why can’t you answer it, son?”

  “Because I don’t have a girlfriend. You know that.”

  “And why don’t you have one? You’re a handsome, smart young man. Where are all the girls?” My father’s face tightened and he looked like he would burst.

  “Are you fucking kidding me with this?”

  “Blues, watch your language!” she cried out. I guess my language offended her genteel nature but the drunken, profanity-laced tirades my father usually unleashed were never admonished by her.

  “When are you going to get past this?”

  “I will never condone your behavior.”

  “My behavior? What behavior? What have you seen me do?”

  “Don’t quibble with me, boy. You know exactly what kind of behavior I am talking about.”

  “You have no idea what my behavior is. You walk around all day like you don’t see me, like you don’t hear me. I speak to you and you walk on by.”

  “What is it about you that you want me to see? Do you want me to see who you’ve been laying up with when you don’t come home at night? Do you want me to see who you’re talking to when you’re giggling on the phone like a schoolgirl?”

  “What the fuck is wrong with you?” I blurted out when his words had cut too deeply. “Why do you hate me so much? I am you. Look at me! I look just like you!” My voice sounded desperate as I made eye contact and waited for a response. I tried, with all my might, to hold myself together, but tears formed in my eyes and my lips quivered. I didn’t want him to see me cry. “Why can’t you love me? Am I really so bad?”

  “Look at you now, crying like a woman. Man up! You’re an embarrassment and I don’t know what I did to deserve a son like you.” His words stung.

  “What you did? What the hell did I do to deserve a father like you? Isn’t there a bottle of gin you should be sucking on right now?” He looked shocked. I stung him back. “What you see is what you get. This is who I am. You’ve taken me to therapy and to preachers; you’ve tried to beat it out of me, you’ve tried to starve it out of me, but I am who I am!” Rage, not hurt, now peppered my tone. “I am who God wanted me to be. Why can’t you understand that?”