Daughter of Light (Kindred 2)

“Forget it,” I said. “Just get better.”

I left quickly.

Naturally, what Jim had just told me made me even more concerned. So much of what Daddy had done when he was gone and whom he knew, not only in America but in other countries, was left mysterious. No matter how close to him I had felt, there was always a line I couldn’t cross, a question I shouldn’t ask. Why wasn’t it possible that Thaddeus knew him, reported to him, and even carried out his orders? Daddy knew that I couldn’t be hurt in such a minor car accident, but he also knew that Jim Lamb could be. Anyone I knew could be. Was this a way of telling me so?

What if I had just introduced the possibility of Julia being hurt by agreeing to our date together?

I felt like someone who was afraid to turn left or right, to step forward or backward. But as I sat there worrying, I suddenly felt a surge of defiance and anger swell under my breasts. I was, after all, one of Daddy’s daughters of darkness. Looking at myself in the mirror, I saw the fire and strength in my eyes, like two tiny tunnels through which I could see banners of confidence and pride flown by my ancestors throughout the ages. I would not sit in my room trembling like some terrified child. I would not run off with my tail between my legs, limping and whining through the darkness, chased by hounds of the night gnashing their teeth. Anything worthwhile, Mrs. Fennel had once told me, was worth fighting to keep or to get. Well, I thought, living in Quincy could very well be worthwhile to me.

I went to sleep that night defiant and eager for the following morning to get up and go to work. I rose much earlier than I had the day before. Mrs. McGruder was just rising herself and was surprised to see me enter the kitchen.

“I don’t need much for breakfast today, just a little toast and jam,” I told her.

She hurried to put up the coffee. “That’s not much of a breakfast for a workin’ girl,” she told me. “My father used to say a good breakfast puts wind in your sails.”

“I’ll be fine,” I said, and drank some orange juice, more to satisfy her than myself. I still had my problems eating food that didn’t contain Mrs. Fennel’s miraculous herbs, which she had grown in her own garden.

Mrs. Winston was surprised to find me finishing up my toast and coffee when she stepped into the dining room. “Couldn’t you sleep?” she asked.

“I had a very good night’s sleep, thank you. I want to walk to work before someone volunteers to pick me up,” I added pointedly.

She nodded. “Well, we’ll look after Mr. Lamb.”

“I’m sure you will,” I said. “He’s lucky to have you two. Doesn’t he have any family near?”

“In Boston, his mother, a widow. He’s an only child, but anyone could see that.”

“Why?”

She paused to smile at me. “People who have siblings are more competitive. It’s been that way since Cain and Abel.”

But as far as she knew, I realized, I was an only child. Why didn’t she think the same of me? Or did she?

She looked at me as though she could hear my thoughts. “That’s what puzzles me about you, dear,” she said. “You have strong independence.” She shrugged. “Maybe that came from the competition you had for your father’s affections.”

If you only knew, I thought.

But if you did, you’d not only chase me out of your home. You’d chase me out of your memory.

12

The rest of the week was so uneventful and ordinary that every passing day was indistinguishable from the one before or the one after. The big news at the Winston House was that Jim’s doctor gave him the green light to return to work on Monday. I didn’t visit him in his room anymore, and I tried to spend as much time talking to Mr. Brady, Mrs. Winston, and Mrs. McGruder as I did talking to him, but it was obvious to the others that he wasn’t discouraged. I avoided saying anything harsh to him, since he was still on the mend.

Meanwhile, I barely saw or spoke to Liam Dolan. He was there every day, but he was at his work with a vigor and intensity that seemed to lift a weight of worry off his father’s shoulders. When I did see him, he flashed his charming smile, gave me a “How are you doing?” or sometimes just nodded in passing through. From the paperwork I filed, I could see that he was really taking on his responsibilities.

Mr. Dolan’s only comment to me about him had all sorts of double meanings for me. “When it comes to my son, we’ve seen night, and now we se

e some day.”

I just smiled.

I looked forward to the walk to and from the company. Some of the people on Mrs. Winston’s street who were getting used to seeing me waved; some stopped whatever they were doing to say hello or ask how I was doing, as if they had known me for years. I began to feel a coziness about it all, as if I could wrap the community around myself snugly and feel myself settling into the welcoming smiles. We had never lived long enough anywhere or close enough to any people to feel a sense of neighborhood. Daddy had always said it was better to be inconspicuous except with those of our own kind. We were an island unto ourselves, no matter where we were.

Both Mrs. Winston and Mrs. McGruder seemed to blossom under the glow I was feeling. The windows were opened wider, curtains drawn back. At dinner, they talked about changing drapes, maybe a rug here and there to bring in more color, and even possibly modernizing some of the kitchen. They were constantly asking my opinion. There was much in the house that Mrs. Winston would never replace, of course. For her, historical artifacts were as sacred as religious icons and relics.

She had an armoire filled with old clay pipes from the seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries and could explain all of the details about them and other things such as buckles, coins, cutlery and spoons, locks, and wig curlers. There was a colonial rocking chair in the living room that was out-of-bounds for anyone. No one could sit in it. Whether he was kidding me or not, Mr. Brady told me he had stepped into the living room and seen the chair rocking to a standstill many times.

“Would you know it if you sat on a ghost’s lap? Ask about any one of these old things,” Mr. Brady warned me, “and prepare yourself for a lecture not only about the item but who used it and why whatever it is is better than the modern-day replacement.”