The Weight of Blood (15)

It must have been amazing, being on a Hollywood set with such famous superstars. Maddy often dreamed of being part of a movie crew someday, working in the design department, sewing elaborate costumes, or maybe in the kitchen, cooking gourmet meals. Everyone would know her name. She’d cut her hair in a bob, wear cat-eye sunglasses, skinny jeans, and drive off the studio lot with the top down each day.

But one look at Papa, and she remembered that would never be possible.

Twenty minutes into the movie, Papa was snoring in his recliner. Maddy tiptoed to the VCR and fast-forwarded the tape. When Papa had first recorded the film, he must not have been paying attention, because the movie that came on right after it was one he would have never wanted Maddy to watch . . . Imitation of Life.

Maddy had discovered it on one of the countless nights he’d fallen asleep. It starred Lana Turner as Lora, a single mother rising to stardom. But that’s not what interested Maddy. Lana’s housekeeper was a Black woman . . . with a fair-skinned daughter named Sarah Jane.

No matter how many times she’d seen the movie, Maddy watched with bated breath as Sarah Jane passed for a white girl, even dating a white boy who eventually finds out and beats her bloody. Sarah Jane resented who she was, resented the mother who loved her fiercely, and ran away to live a normal life as a white girl. Maddy could do that. Run far from Springville, create a new identity, pass as white. No one would ever know her darkest secret.

But Maddy didn’t want Sarah Jane’s life. She wanted Sarah Jane’s mother. She wanted someone to love her with every cell in their body.

May 3, 2014

“Come on! You can do it,” Wendy cheered from the end of the bench, holding a pair of sneakered feet. “Another ten, let’s go.”

Kenny sat up, winded. “Damn, girl. I thought you were done cheering.”

Wendy insisted they put in another twenty minutes in the weight room before heading home. She counted out every pull-up, sit-up, and suicide drill for him. She always pushed him, always supported him. And he loved her for it, even if it might kill him. Once done, he roped her into his sweaty arms.

“I’m starving. Let’s get some pizza.”

The cowbell rang as they entered Sal’s Pizzeria, with its homey Italian decor and green-checked tablecloth.

“Hey, superstar! What’s up?” Sal said from behind the counter, sweat above his graying brows.

“Hey, Sal!” Kenny said. “Got my order ready?”

“Yes, sir, one large pepperoni coming up soon!” he said, popping the raw dough into the oven.

Damn, we ordered that thirty minutes ago, Kenny thought. It should’ve been done by now.

Reading his mind, Wendy leaned into him and whispered, “You know he’d use any excuse to talk to you.”

Kenny’s lips pursed. Ever since colleges came knocking during his sophomore year, and he became a top recruit, he had begrudgingly accepted that everyone would know his name. A Black, dual-threat quarterback with potential to go pro living in their small town? They worshipped at his feet, leaving pizza at his saintly altar. The stares, the whispers . . . they made him itch. But Wendy seemed to revel in it, talking to everyone on his behalf.

“Wendy, what are you going to do when this guy gets all big time on ya?” Sal asked, dusting flour off his hands.

“I don’t know.” She laughed sheepishly. “Probably cry. But I won’t be too far away.”

Kenny held his breath for three seconds and released it before Wendy could notice. Brown University was far. Rhode Island wasn’t up the road or even the next state over. She might as well be going to school in Japan. He’d agreed to try long distance since she acted like the 1,200 miles between them was no big deal. But his plate would be full by the time the season started. How much room would that leave for her? How could he keep his head in the game and not hurt her in the process?

Sal boxed up the pizza and taped the top before sliding it across the counter. Kenny took out his wallet, but Sal waved him away.

“Nope, it’s on the house.”

“Naw, Sal. I can’t.”

Sal nodded his head, smiling. “Just don’t forget about your buddy this fall. I already have my tickets.”

Kenny held back a grimace. “Yeah, thanks.”

“Thanks, Sal!” Wendy cheered, grabbing two bottles of Coke from the fridge.

Kenny parked his truck in front of the house, balancing the pizza, while Wendy shouldered their book bags. The Scotts lived in a modest four-bedroom modular home on the West Side, only a few blocks from Wendy, but they almost always hung out at his place. At some point, he stopped asking why, refusing to listen to the tiny voice inside him telling him her parents had a problem with him being Black.

They walked in to find his little sister at the antique dining room table under a glittering chandelier.

“What’s up, punk,” he said.

Kali looked up from her algebra homework, spotted Wendy, and rolled her eyes before returning to x + y.

“Hey,” she said dryly.

“Hi, Kali!” Wendy cheered, skipping up the steps. “We got pizza, and I got you a soda.”

“Oh. Goodie,” Kali deadpanned.

Kenny scowled. Wendy loved Coke, her absolute favorite drink. But she only smiled at him.

“I’m just gonna, uh, grab some water from the fridge. Be right back,” she said, disappearing to the back of the house.