Lemmon's Journey

Chapter Eight

His alarm was repeating a persistent loud note when his eyes came groggily awake. He stretched his arm over the top of the transistor radio, found the OFF button and pressed it. Lemmon grumbled as he pushed back the bed sheet and sat up unsteadily. The first thought that came to his mind was that he was back in his bedroom at Sheffield. He ran his fingers through his eyes and reality settled in that such wasn’t true. He could hear the sound of traffic sharp and clear from his window and see the buildings across, all reminding him of where he was. His hand picked up his glasses from the bedside counter and he yawned as he rose to his feet and shuffled into the bathroom.

It was 9:14 A.M. when he stepped out of the elevator into the lobby, dressed in his suit and coat holding his hat in his hand. He heard laughter coming from inside the lounge and stopped to look, hopping it might be Kiara with her kids. It was a Latino couple sharing a moment together. Lemmon put on his hat and stepped out into the morning sunshine.

He had his notebook open in his hand along with the map. He had memorized the route to the Starbuck shop, which was his impending destination, but figured best to look it up once more. Satisfied, he pocketed his notebook and map and walked in the direction of Central Park.

* * *

It took him an hour and a half to arrive at East 99thStreet by Park Avenue. It was a trendy area: lots of exotic buildings and expensive shops. Everyone he passed seemed to be in a hurry to somewhere, neither paid concern to the sixty year old man who walked past them looking confused like someone who just stepped out of a time machine into the future. Lemmon stopped at every two blocks to consult his map against the street signs, praying he lost track of his destination. A half hour later he came to the intersection he was looking for and his features brightened for the first time of the day when he sighted the Starbucks shop across the street. Lemmon pocketed his map and took a moment to compose him. He could feel his heart skipping beats. After seven years, his life was about to undergo another drastic change. This was a moment worth treasuring before it came to past.

He joined the crowd in crossing the street. As he came nearer, he excitedly checked the Starbuck’s address just to be quite sure it was the right one before pushing the door and stepping inside.

There was a crowd inside, seated and enjoying the time. Lemmon sauntered toward the counter and joined the small queue in front of it. He looked at the two young women behind the counter taking orders. Neither of them resembled his Gloria. Seven years he figured could have changed her looks, but he doubt he won’t recognize her.

The man in front of him took his order then left, and Lemmon stepped forward to the counter. The woman beamed a smile at him and asked what it’d be. Lemmon quickly scanned the above menu list was tongue-tied as to what to have, though quickly settled on something.

“Hmmm, I’ll have a coffee latte, and a sandwich,” he said.

“Latte and a sandwich,” the woman repeated before punching some buttons on a register in front of her. “Would there be anything else?”

“That will do for now.” He took a chance and leaned closer to the counter. “Excuse, I’m looking for a lady that works here. Her name is Gloria. Would you happen to know if she’s around?”

The girl looked at him with a pair of green inquisitive eyes for some seconds, then shook her head. “Don’t know any Gloria working here. What you want with her?”

“I’m her dad. It’s her birthday today. She doesn’t know I’m here, but I thought I’d come here to surprise her.” His lies were fast out of his lips before he could make them stop.

Again, she shook her head. “Sorry. Like I said, I don’t know any girl named Gloria working down here.”

“Okay, What about Shontelle? She’s supposed to be her friend.”

That brought recognition to her eyes. “Yeah, Shontelle is here She’s in the back. You want me to call her for you?”

“Please, if it won’t be too hard. Tell her it’s about her friend, Gloria. She’ll know.”

Lemmon took his coffee and sandwich and found himself a free table. He dropped his hat and blew into his coffee while he waited. He watched the pedestrian traffic move outside the window. Restless New Yorkers ambled onward, some in groups, so many trailing with shopping bags and chattering into cell phones. Lemmon was halfway into his coffee when he looked up and saw a pretty young black woman approach his table.

“Hi,” she smacked her lips. “My friend there told me you wanted to see me? I’m Shontelle.”

She was a broad-chested woman with corn-row hair tied in a bun behind her head. She was munching on a bubblegum. Lemmon observed wary intelligence in her brown pair of eyes, though her stance appeared nonchalant.

“Nice meeting you, Shontelle. My name is Lemmon Grandee. You probably know my daughter, Gloria.”

Her nonchalant attitude evaporated into surprise. Her mouth came unglued and Lemmon could see the remains of her gum lying between her tongue and lower set of teeth. Her face was like he’d punched her in the throat, though it lasted only a few seconds before she clamped up and glanced back at where she’d appeared from. Lemmon followed her eyes and looked toward that direction too, thinking maybe the girl behind the counter had been wrong after all, thinking Gloria would suddenly appear where she looked. Shontelle turned back to him all serious.

“Please, we can’t talk here. You’re going to take up my time, and I don’t want to upset my boss.”

“No problem, I can wait till whenever you’re done—”

Shontelle didn’t give him time to finish. She reached took out a set of keys from her pants pocket and gave them to him. “I want you to head over to my place where I live, and wait there for me. You got a pen and paper, let me put my address down.”

Lemmon was baffled by her snappy voice but the frantic look in her eyes dissuaded him from voicing any objection. Out came his notebook and pen and she flipped to a fresh page and scribbled address, talking at the same time. Her words flew so fast Lemmon barely caught everything.

“It’s ain’t that far from here. You’ll just walk down the park, about four blocks from here. It’s on 91stStreet. Just look for the number of the building and walk up the stairs to the first floor. Here’s my apartment number, you can’t miss it. You might meet Reggie while you’re there. Just let him know who sent you. I’ll be out in the next two hours or less, if I can make it. Please go now.”

She dropped his pen and pushed his notebook back at him. Lemmon looked at her dumbfounded, wanting to say something but unable to. By then Shontelle had turned away and walked a short distance before stopping to look back at him and made a hand-waving gesture at him to hurry along. Lemmon snapped out of his stupor, taking that as his cue and replied with a head nod, like he had any choice at all. He looked at the address she’d scribbled down on his notebook then unfurled his map to search for the street. The address was a little far off his way—another hour of him walking in New York, for sure. He groaned inwardly, not liking how this journey was starting to look at all, but reckoned as long as in the end it led to him reuniting with his daughter and grandson, he would keep up with it. It was the promise he’d made before making this trip.

He folded away his map and notebook and checked the time on his watch. He finished with his coffee, hopping Shontelle would appear again. She didn’t. Done with his breakfast, he wore back his hat and left the building.

* * *

Shontelle Biggins lived on the third floor of a brownstone building sandwiched between a 7-Eleven shop on the left, and a Baptist church on the right. It took Lemmon little problem finding the street. He noticed a group of both old and young black men standing idle in front of the shop, talking and laughing and gesturing at whatever walked or drove past them on the street. The older blacks huddled with their peers at a corner while the youths kept themselves a few feet apart, like each group was attempting a territorial fight to see who owned the corner. Both their conversation was loud and profane. Lemmon walked past them just like others did, not minding their belligerent stares.

He went up the stairs into the building and stepped into the foyer. He read out her apartment number again on his notebook before going up the stairs. He caught screaming fits coming from behind some of the apartment doors. It sounded like a baby bawling amidst two adults cursing and yelling each other out. Rap music blared from behind another door. Lemmon cringed, wondering how anyone not strong enough would dare live in a scary place as this. He prayed Gloria wasn’t residing here as well.

He arrived at the apartment door with the number gold-painted at the top center. He found the right key that unlocked it and let himself inside.

The apartment was shabby and cozy enough. Windows to his left faced the street. It was half open, allowing air and noises from the street to filter in. There was a fake fireplace in the living room which was actually a heating appliance. Standing on the ledge were three separate photo stands, and a silver-colored apparel. It wasn’t until he drew closer that Lemmon realized it was an urn. His eyes examined the photos. They were of Shontelle hugging a black man that looked to be about her age; neither was of Gloria.

He inspected other areas of the apartment.

The kitchen was small. A gas stove took half the entire space. The sink contained a pile of dirty dishes. A potted flower rested on the heater underneath the small window that featured the building’s alley. Lemmon checked the cabinets and saw a lot of boxed meals, plastic boxes, and cereals; nothing a kid like his grandson might be fond of eating. He opened the lower drawers and found plates, spoons, forks and knives and other utensils. Nothing looked out of place.

Lemmon returned to the living room and thought of what to do. There really wasn’t anything besides wait for Shontelle to return from work. He fell on the couch and opened his jacket and listened to the noise of traffic drifting in through the window. The silence reminded him of being back in his homestead prison in Sheffield. He reached for a bundle of magazines lying under the center table. All of them past issues of Ebony, Oprah, and People’s magazine. He flipped through a few of them before giving up and dumping them back under the table. Nothing to do but wait. He drummed his hands on his thigh, his mind whirling with questions about what was going on. The longer he sat there, the more overwhelmed he was about waiting.

Lemmon didn’t realize he’d fallen asleep until he felt something pulling at his sleeve. Someone was cursing at him. His eyes widened with alarm at the black man in a leather jacket shaking his arm.

“Get the f**k up, old man!” the man grabbed Lemmon’s collar and pulled him to his feet, spitting fury at his face. “The f**k are you, old man? The f**k are you doing here?”

“Hold on,” Lemmon, startled, tried fending him off, speaking as fast as he could. “Look here . . . it was Shontelle . . . she gave me the key—”

“What? The f**k you call my girl’s name for?”

The man threw him roughly to the floor. Lemmon cracked his ankle against the table’s leg before hitting the floor. His glasses fell off his face. The man grabbed his coat’s collar and was cursing as he dragged him to his feet.

“I’m gonna ask you again, sucker. Who the fool that sent your ass? Was it Hymie, huh?”

At that moment the front door came open and Shontelle yelled at her boyfriend to stop.

“Reggie, for God’s f*****g sake, cut it out! You want to get us kicked out of this here building for nothing?”

She spurn him around and slapped his cheek. Lemmon fell to the floor and scrambled for his glasses.

“The hell you talkin’ ‘bout, Shon? Who’s this old white cat and what’s he doin’ in here? He look like Hymie sent his ass after me.”

“Hymie ain’t sent nobody after you, you dumb fool!” she snapped. “This here is Gloria’s daddy.”

That got his attention. “Aww s**t, for real! He’s Gloria’s old man? Damn. Well . . . why in the hell didn’t you tell me he was coming over?”

“That’s ‘cos I didn’t know that either. He showed up at Starbucks this morning and I gave him my keys and told him to come wait here for me.”

“Damn . . . but you still should have called me first,” he griped petulantly. “I oughtta know who you got coming in here, ‘cos you never know. I just about socked him one.”

“You know I can’t be making no phone calls, not while I’m at work. Besides, I’ve got enough demerits on my record, the manager’s just looking for a way to kick my ass outta there. And then where you think I’ll be?”

Lemmon found his glasses, happy none of the lens had broken. He watched them curse at each other as he returned to his feet, and got a good look at the man who’d surprised him.

He recognized him as the same man in the photograph on the wall hugging Shontelle. A scowling feature with broad shoulders. He couldn’t have been more than thirty.

Lemmon came forward but stopped when he felt a sharp pain where he’d bumped his ankle. Reggie came to his aid, but Lemmon pushed him away. Reggie stepped back holding his hands in the air.

“I was just trying to help, old man,” he said harshly.

“I’m not your old man,” replied Lemmon. “You hurt my back pushing me the way you did.”

“He didn’t mean that, Mr. Grandee,” said Shotelle, hitting her boyfriend’s arm. “Reggie is sorry for hurting you. Aren’t you, Reggie?”

Reggie gave her a baleful look but she countered it with hers and indicated at him to apologize. “Yeah, man. I’m sorry about that whole thing I did. I thought you was someone else that’s been pecking on my neck for a while now. I’m sorry.”

“That’s a lot better.” Lemmon massaged his ankle as he returned to the couch. The pain was starting to reduce a minute later.

Shontelle sat on the table facing him. Reggie went and planted himself against the window, scowling and murmuring to himself as he gazed down at the street.

“I’m sorry we couldn’t talk back at my work place, Mr. Grandee. Things ain’t rosy for me there. My manager is such a pain-in-the-ass, looking for any excuse to get me fired. I couldn’t chance him seeing me take a break when I ought to be in the back. You just got into New York?”

“I got in yesterday. Was quite a long ride.”

“I can imagine. I’m confused, how did you find me?”

Lemmon took out the letters from his coat pocket and dropped them on the table. Her eyes lit up again like back at the Starbucks when she saw the batch of letters.

“My wife died a month ago,” he explained. “I was cleaning out the house when I found the letters Gloria had written to her. The Starbucks address was the same as on the envelopes.”

Shontelle appeared tongue-tied. She picked up one of the envelopes and pulled the letter out and read it. A hurt look lit her face as she read her friend’s words. Lemmon watched her gasp and cover her mouth with her hand. Reggie left the window and came and sat on the table beside Shontelle. She passed the letter to him and he too had the same stunned expression as she. Lemmon didn’t know what it meant and was starting to feel his impatience rubbing on him. She’d told him to come here and wait, and he’d done exactly that. Now what?

“I came here for Gloria. She wrote about you in the letters, said you’re a friend of hers. Am I wrong to assume that?”

Shontelle looked uncomfortable at him. Her voice sounded distant when she spoke. “Gloria was a friend of ours. Yes, we knew her.”

Reggie finished with the letter and returned it to her. He wasn’t looking like the aggressive figure he’d being minutes ago.

Lemmon caught Shontelle’s words and thought he hadn’t heard her correctly. “You said she wasa friend, that’s what you just said. What does that mean?”

Shontelle and her boyfriend exchanged another curious look. Lemmon thought he saw fear in her eyes.

“The letters were meant for her mom,” she said to him distractedly, like she was talking to herself. “We never thought you’d find them. I never thought anyone would come looking for her since. All these months.”

“What do you mean?” Lemmon sat forward in the couch with desperation in his eyes. “Where is Gloria? Tell me where my daughter is.”

“Gloria’s dead, Mr. Grandee,” Shontelle said to him. “She’s being dead since December last year.”

Her words hung over the room like a dark cloud. Lemmon thought he heard a gunshot go off in his chest. It knocked the air out of him, like a burst balloon. Shontelle and her boyfriend looked at him. Their stare gave emphasis to her words.

Gloria’s dead.

“No,” Lemmon murmured. He shook his head. “No . . . no, that’s not true. That can’t be true.”

December last year. My God!

“That can’t be true,” Lemmon repeated. He rose from the couch. His hat fell from his lap. The words sounded heavy coming off his lips. “My daughter dead?”

Shontelle nodded.

“That can’t be true!” Lemmon shouted. “My Gloria can’t be dead.”

Shontelle turned to her boyfriend and nodded her head. Reggie left the table and went to the fireplace. He returned with the urn and gave it to Lemmon. Lemmon’s hands felt like lead as he accepted the urn from him and immediately regretted taking it. He felt the weight in his hand and turned it around. There was an inscription on the other side in bold letters.

GLORIA GRANDEE

1983 — 2012

“Gloria . . . ”

Lemmon saw his world extinguish, destroyed in a bright ball of light before his eyes. Instant snapshots of his daughter flashed kaleidoscopically before his eyes. There she was the night Abby gave birth to her. The snapshot faded away, replaced by another of Gloria celebrating her one year old birthday . . . her learning how to walk . . . her in her pre-school clothes. Another of both of them sitting out watching the sunset, sharing a joke. The album ended with a final snapshot of her leaving home for the last time. Lemmon recalled that moment vividly than the others: her bags stood out in the porch waiting, a taxi outside honking its horn. There she stood by the open door with Randall cradled on her arm, saying goodbye to both of them. The album closed shut, leaving him desolately holding her remains in an urn.

Shontelle came and sat next to him.

“I’m so sorry for your lose,” she said. “I’m really sorry.”

Lemmon let the tears pour freely from his eyes. He’d lost a wife already. Now he’d lost a daughter.