Fay Robinson - Coming Home To You

“So,” he said casually, “you mentioned last night that you knew my brother. How well?”

“Not well. I spent a few hours with him one weekend at Columbia in 1987.”

“Were you lovers?”

Her eyes narrowed. She hadn’t liked the question. “No, we weren’t lovers. What made you think we had a sexual relationship?”

“Because that was the only kind of relationship James had with women.”

“Well, he didn’t with me. Besides, I wasn’t a woman. I was a kid, a teenager with zero experience.”

“How did you meet?”

“A reporter from The New York Post was writing an article covering one of his concerts, and apparently James’s manager convinced her to include some of the fellowship students from the university in the photographs. I was among the five or so they brought in to meet him. James and I talked, swapped family stories, and then we went our separate ways. He was extremely nice to me when he didn’t have to be, and I’ve never forgotten it. Period. End of story. No sex involved.”

“And you said this was at Columbia?”

“I was in graduate school and he was playing a concert in Manhattan that weekend.”

“Graduate school? I thought you said you were still a kid.”

“I was.”

“You must have been a really smart kid.”

She simply shrugged.

“And you never saw James again after that day?”

“Nope.” She turned to him and folded her legs underneath her. “You know, you could have asked me this last night and saved yourself the trouble of bringing me here today.”

“I didn’t bring you here to ask about that.”

“Then why? Last night you were ready to boil me in oil, and then suddenly you’re at my door asking me to go riding. What gives?”

“You tell me.”

“I’m not sure. I told you I knew about Pine Acres, and maybe you were afraid I’d show up here. Or you wanted to find out what I might write about you in the book. Is that it? Those are the only two things that make sense to me. Did you think by bringing me out here I’d present you and the ranch in a more favorable light?”

“You read people pretty well.”

She looked directly at him. “A lot of the time. But you’re harder to read than most.”

“Oh? And why’s that?”

“I haven’t quite figured that out yet. But I will. You’re a contradiction, Hayes. You send out so many conflicting signals I’m not sure what to think of you.”

“Conflicting how?”

“Well, for example, you claim not to care what people think of you, yet everywhere you’ve donated money around town, you have plaques acknowledging the contributions. I’m not criticizing your generosity, but that seems a little self-serving to me, and the plaques…well, tacky. You’ve also had your name put on the front wall of this place as the major contributor. For a man who doesn’t encourage visitors and doesn’t seem to want friends, you’re going out of your way to ensure your name will be remembered in this town. Very contradictory.”

“You really think the plaques are tacky?”

“A little.”

“I suppose they are.”

“Am I right about your reasons for asking me here today?”

He nodded. “When you mentioned Pine Acres, it made me uneasy. I decided you might be less likely to hurt my kids if you came out here and got to know them. And, too, by showing you the ranch I hoped to change your opinion of me. I was suddenly reminded of that old saying, ‘Never argue with a man who buys his ink by the barrel.”’

That made her smile. “I’d never burn you in print for being nasty to me. That’s not my style. But I am glad you invited me here. I can’t remember when I’ve had a more enjoyable afternoon. The ranch is incredible, and so are the kids. I’d like to know more about them, if you don’t mind telling me.”

“Is your interest personal or professional?”

“Both, I guess. I’m interested in the ranch because I think you used some of the money you inherited from James to build it.” She paused, apparently offering him the opportunity to deny or confirm her statement. He did neither. “If it’s true,” she continued, “that does make Pine Acres a part of my story.”

“See, that’s what I was afraid of. You’re jumping to conclusions about things you know nothing about. I don’t want you writing something that might make the ranch look bad.”

She gave him a reassuring smile. “There’s no reason to be concerned. I can’t imagine anyone finding fault with what you’ve done here, including me, and the only reason I asked about the kids is because I’m interested as a person, not as a writer. Will you tell me about them?”

He hesitated.

“I swear I’m only asking because I like them.”

“All right, but you can’t use anything I say about any individual child. I can’t stop you from mentioning the ranch in your book, but I don’t want the kids hurt by the public knowing the intimate details of their lives.”

“You have my word. I won’t include them.”

He took off his cap and played with it as he talked, telling her first about some of the children she’d met but who hadn’t come to the pond with them.

“Now tell me about Tom,” she prodded.

“Tom’s had it hard. His parents and two sisters died a few years ago from carbon-monoxide poisoning caused by a faulty heater. He was spending the night at a friend’s house and came home to find the bodies. He lived in six foster homes before he came to the ranch last spring.”

“Why has he lived in so many places? He’s so polite and sweet. I can’t understand why a family wouldn’t want him.”

“Because he’s a teenager. They’re more trouble, and they cost more money to care for. Some people don’t want to deal with that extra expense.”

“Are they all orphans like him?”

“No, the majority have at least one living parent, but due to neglect, abuse or some other reason, the kids have been removed from the home. Some have emotional problems brought on by what’s happened to them, and finding adoptive families is next to impossible.”

“Those scars on Shondra’s arm. How did she get them?”

“Her mother’s an addict. When she got high she used Shondra as an ashtray.”

“Dear God.”

“Keith and Adam, the twins with all the freckles, their father’s in prison.”

“What for?”

“Blowing their mother’s head off in front of them.”

He winced when he saw what his words did to her. He’d deliberately been crude to shock her and gauge her reaction. But seeing her distressed look, he felt ashamed of himself.

“Are you sure you want to hear this?” he asked quietly.

She was silent for a long time. She looked at the water, the pier, everywhere but at him. Finally she spoke. “Yes, I want to know. I want to understand how these children came to be here.”

He debated whether he should go on. He knew the horror stories, the kids used as punching bags or pawns in dirty divorces, the ones treated worse than animals or as property. But for someone who wasn’t familiar with the realities of child abuse and neglect, hearing what little value some parents place on the lives of their children could be unsettling.

“Please,” she urged.

“Melissa’s mother was only fourteen when she gave her up. LaKeisha’s mother was also a teenager. She already had two other illegitimate children by two different men, so she wasn’t able to take care of her.”

“And the shy boy with the drawings of sports heroes in his room?”

“That’s Kevin. He was abandoned in a bus station. We still don’t know the extent of the trauma he’s been through because he won’t talk about it. He was sexually abused and was probably forced by his father to act as a prostitute.”