It was a feeling that had festered over the past forty years.
A staunch supporter of President Richard Nixon and the Vietnam War, the Judge was convinced that my father had brainwashed my mother during their first year at Washington University. He believed that my father, a young man he assumed was a member of the Black Panthers, had taken his perfect little white girl and transformed her into a leftist campus radical.
The truth was exactly the opposite. It had been my mother who had lured my father to protest meetings and marches. She was the radical. My dad just wanted to go on a date.
The Judge’s dislike grew even more when my dad was elected to the United States Congress at age twenty-six and took his daughter away to Washington, DC—a place the Judge, like so many others, referred to as “Hollywood for ugly people” and “an incestuous breeding ground for idiots.”
When the Judge’s wife passed away, my mom moved back into her childhood home in Compton Heights to help him navigate. She had become tired of life as a congressman’s spouse in Washington, DC, and it was a good excuse to leave.
I’m glad she did, because I’m not certain where Sammy and I would be if she hadn’t convinced the Judge to allow us to move in when our lives had fallen to pieces. We could’ve moved into the main house, she insisted, but I needed some separation. After being fired from my job and going deeply into debt, I couldn’t handle the further indignity of being a middle-aged widower living down the hallway from my mom.
“Time for dinner, sweetie.” I poked my head into the ornate library. It was such a warm space. Sammy and the Judge sat on a large leather sofa in the corner. They were surrounded by shelves, floor to ceiling, filled with books.
They were reading The Iliad.
I took another step into the library. “Come on, Sammy. You’ve got school tomorrow.”
Sammy looked up at the Judge, pleading with him to convince me to allow her to stay. The Judge, however, did not interfere.
“We’ll read again tomorrow.” He placed a bookmark on the page where they had stopped and then gave Sammy a gentle pat on the back. “I promise.”
Sammy’s face curled up into a pout. “We were just getting to the duel.”
“Duel?” I didn’t remember that part.
“The duel to end the war,” Sammy explained.
The Judge smiled, proud that she understood the sometimes-convoluted story, then elaborated on her behalf. “In the fourth part there was an offer to end the war by duel. Both sides agreed to a truce and to allow the winner of the duel between Paris and Menelaus to dictate the terms.”
“See.” Sammy nodded. “We can’t stop now.”
I shook my head. “Yes, we can, and yes, we are—no matter how riveting Paris and Menelaus might be. Give the Judge a hug and we’ll go.” I pulled Sammy off the couch and to her feet.
She turned and gave the Judge a hug, and then I put my arm around her and guided her out of the library.
Just as we were about to leave, Sammy turned. “See you tomorrow, Judge.”
“Good night, sweetie.” The old man blew Sammy a kiss, and she blew the Judge a kiss right back.
We walked down the hallway, through the dining room, and into the kitchen. My mother was at the stove.
“Thanks for watching Sammy.”
My mother turned. “Never a problem.” She looked at Sammy and smiled, and then she looked back at me. “You can stay if you want.”
I shook my head. “Not tonight; maybe tomorrow.”
“Just let me know.” She paused. “Did Lincoln happen to call you today?”
The question caught me by surprise. “He called,” I said, “wanting to go to lunch.”
My mother nodded, although it seemed like she’d already known the answer to her question. “Get a chance to talk?”
“We didn’t,” I said. Then I changed the subject. “There was a young girl in my office, neighborhood kid, wanting to hire me to find her lost brother.”
Her eyebrows raised. “New case?”
“Gonna compensate me in quarters and dimes.” I smiled wide. “Unusual method of payment, but I can’t turn down any type of client at the moment.”
“No, you can’t.” My mother’s eyes sparkled, playing. “Good for you to help.”
I shrugged. “We’ll see how good it is.” I turned and opened the back door. “See you tomorrow.” Then I shut the door behind us as we walked into the backyard.
It was a perfect August night. The temperature had dropped down to seventy-five, which felt cool compared to the heat and humidity of the day. A few stars managed to shine through the dense city sky, and fireflies bounced around the sweet gum trees.
We walked down the stone path and through the garden.
“Any homework tonight?”
“I did it already,” she said. “Got it done right when I got home.”
I nodded as we walked. “Did you take the bus?”
Sammy started to answer and then paused. “Why?”
“Came to your school today, thought I’d give you a ride.”
“Oh.” Sammy stuffed her hands into her pockets. “Yeah. I took the bus. I didn’t see you waiting.”
“Figured that,” I said as we approached the door, “but I was watching pretty close.”
Sammy didn’t respond.
CHAPTER FOUR
In the morning, Sammy did not want to go to school. She delayed at every opportunity. First, she claimed that she didn’t have any clean clothes, even though there was a basket of clean clothes by her dresser. Second, Sammy claimed that we were out of her favorite cereal, even though there was an unopened box of Frosted Mini-Wheats on the top shelf. Third, Sammy claimed that she couldn’t find her homework, even though it was in a folder next to her backpack. Finally, she claimed that her stomach hurt, and that might have been true.
“Listen, Sammy.” I put a comforting hand on her shoulder. “I’m gonna drive you to school this morning so you don’t have to worry about the girls on the bus.”
Sammy shook her head. “It doesn’t matter whether I’m on the bus or not. They hate me.”
“They don’t hate you,” I said, even though I didn’t know what I was talking about.
“The girls say I’m stuck up. That I think I’m better than everybody else because I’m rich.”
I took Sammy’s hand and led her over to the wooden bench in our entryway. We sat down. I knew that I couldn’t explain our economic situation to an eleven-year-old. Sammy was smart, but she wasn’t going to understand how she could be a part of a famous family and live in the fanciest part of town, but I couldn’t afford an air conditioner for my office.
“You’ve got to ignore those girls.”
“How? You should hear what they say about us, about the Judge and Grandpa and Uncle Lincoln and you.” Sammy started to cry. “Nobody likes me.” She looked away. “Or maybe some do, but they’re afraid to be my friend.”
“I’ll talk to your principal.”
Sammy looked up at me, panicked. “No, Daddy, don’t do that. It’ll make it worse.”