Barbara Delinsky - The Family Tree

‘Was the mother adopted?’

‘No, but her father is an unknown quantity. In the one picture we have, he looks very blond.’

‘Looks don’t count, Hugh. Miscegenation has created generations of people with mixed blood. Some say that only ten percent of all African Americans today are genetically pure. If the other ninety percent have genetic material that is even partly white, and that material is further diluted with each level of procreation, not only would their features be white, but suddenly producing a child with African traits would be improbable.’

‘I don’t need to know what’s probable, only what’s possible,’ he said. ‘Is it possible for racial traits to lie dormant for several generations before reappearing? Can a light-skinned, blond-haired woman produce a child with non-Caucasian features?’

Genevieve sounded doubtful. ‘She can, but the odds are slim, especially if those several generations before were filled with blond-haired ancestors.’

Hugh tried again. ‘If, say, the baby’s grandfather was one-quarter black but passing for white, and the baby’s mother had no African-American features at all, could the baby inherit dark skin and tight curly hair?’

‘It would be rare.’

‘What are the odds?’

‘I can’t tell you, any more than we know the odds of a redhead appearing after several generations without.’

‘Okay. Then at what point would it become impossible?’

‘“Impossible” is not a word I like to use. Genetic flukes happen. Suffice it to say that the further back you have to look, the less probable your scenario becomes. Does the mom know of no black relatives?’

‘None.’

‘Then I’d suspect hanky-panky,’ Genevieve concluded bluntly. ‘Someone had an affair, and clearly it wasn’t the dad. Have your client do a DNA test to prove paternity. That would be the first and easiest line of attack. By the way, how’s your wife? Isn’t she due soon?’

*

Dana listened to Hugh’s half of the conversation with her eyes closed. She opened them the instant he ended the call. He looked so grim that her stomach began knotting. ‘Is it not possible?’

‘It is if your father has a healthy dose of African-American blood. The smaller that dose is, the more remote the chances.’

‘But it is possible,’ Dana repeated. ‘It has to be. I refuse to believe that if my father was first-or second-generation racially mixed, my mother wouldn’t have known. According to Gram Ellie, she truly didn’t know. Unless she was hiding it from everyone.’

Hugh stretched his neck, first to one side, then the other. ‘What Genevieve suggested,’ he said, ‘and this is a quote, is hanky-panky.’

‘Like the wife had an affair? Well, of course she suggested that. She’s used to working with you when you’re representing a client, and your clients aren’t saints. She would never have suggested it if she’d known you were talking about us. Why didn’t you tell her?’

‘Because it’s none of her business,’ he said. ‘And because I wanted an objective opinion.’

‘If you’d told her it was us, she might have been able to give an informed opinion.’

He made a sputtering sound. ‘They just don’t know the odds.’ Turning back to the window, he muttered, ‘I half wish you’d had an affair. At least, then, there’d be an explanation.’

‘So do I,’ Dana lashed back. ‘I’d like an explanation for why my mother died when I was five, or why my father never wanted to know about me, or why Gram Ellie’s Earl, who was the kindest, most loving person on earth, didn’t live to see me get married, but some of us don’t get explanations. Most of us aren’t privileged like you, Hugh.’

‘It’s just that this is all so bizarre. It’d be nice to have something concrete.’

‘Well, we don’t.’

He shot her a glance. ‘We will. If you talk to anyone who might have information on your father, even the slightest idea of where he was from, I’ll get Lakey on it. Will you ask? This is important, Dana. It isn’t idle curiosity. Promise me you will?’

Dana felt a stab of resentment. ‘I’m not blind. I see how important this is to you.’

‘It should be just as important to you,’ he shot back. ‘We wouldn’t be in this situation if you’d tracked your father down when you were young.’

‘And if I had found him and learned he was even the slightest bit black, would you have married me? Is there a racial limit to your love?’

‘No. There is not. I love this child.’

‘Love is a word, Hugh. But do you feel it? I need to know, both for Lizzie and for me.’

‘I can’t believe you’re asking me this.’

‘I can’t believe it either,’ Dana said. She could see him closing up before her eyes. Suddenly, he was a Clarke to the core.

‘You’re tired,’ he said coolly and headed for the door. ‘So am I.’

She might have called him back, might have apologized, might have begged . Her sense of loss was larger than ever.

Desperate to blunt it, she took her knitting from the bedside table and sank her fingers into the wool – a blend of alpaca and silk, actually. It was a deep teal color with a thread of turquoise, just enough to lend movement without muting the cables, popcorns, and vines she would incorporate into the piece.

She began working stitches from one needle to the next, doing row after row, cables and all, with the kind of steadiness that had kept her afloat for longer than she could recall. She couldn’t have said what size needle she was using, whether it was time for a popcorn, or if she was achieving the desired drape. She simply inserted the needle into a stitch, wrapped yarn around it, and pulled it through, again and again and again.

She needed to sleep, but she needed this more. Knitting restored her balance. She wished she was home, but not in the house overlooking the ocean. She wanted to take her baby to the one overlooking the orchard. It was at the end of a tree-lined lane, a stone path away from the yarn shop. Cradling Lizzie, she would sit with her feet up on the wicker lounger on Ellie Jo’s back porch, drinking fresh-squeezed limeade, eating warm-from-the-oven brownies, patting Veronica, Ellie Jo’s cat. Then she would take the baby down that short stone path – and, oh, the need was intense. Dana was desperate to sit at the long wood table with its bowl of apples in the middle. She longed to hear the whirr of the ceiling fan, the rhythmic tap-tap of needles, the soft conversation of friends.

If she had any history at all – any place where she was loved unconditionally – that was it.

6

The arrival of new yarn at The Stitchery was always an event. New colors from Manos, textures from Filatura di Crosa, blends from Debbie Bliss and Berroco – once a box was open, word spread through the knitting community with astonishing speed, bringing the mildly curious, the seriously interested, the addicted. In the days following shipments, particularly as a new season approached, Ellie Jo knew to expect an increase in visitors. She also knew who would like what, who would buy what, and who would admire a new arrival but buy an older favorite.

Ellie Jo was as eager for new yarn as any of her customers. Rarely did she put skeins in a bin without holding one out. Her excuse, a perfectly legitimate one, was the need to swatch a sample to tack to the bin, so that customers could see how the yarn would look knit up. What that did, of course, was to let Ellie Jo sample the yarn, herself. If she liked the feel of it as she knit and the way it came out, she ordered skeins for herself.

Today, as she returned from visiting Dana and the baby, she wanted to stop at her house first. But the UPS truck was parking in front of The Stitchery, and, with the store still ten minutes shy of opening, someone had to let the man in.