Chapter 27: April to May 1987

We spend the next several weeks in the library, splitting our time between homework and reading child development books. I finish the paperwork with LFI’s human resources, and feeling confident in my flowing peach skirt and Toms, I knock on the open door of the Creative Design Department.

Marjorie waves me in. "Thank God. Do you officially work for us now?"

"Yes, ma'am, as of twenty minutes ago."

"Have you seen Tom yet?"

“Not yet.”

"He'll want to see you,” she says, pulling a cardboard box from under her desk. “On your way out, come back, and I'll have a carton of stuff for you."

"Yes, ma'am."

I walk to the third floor and smile at Angelique, who gestures with her head. "He's alone. You can go in."

I tap on the door.

"Come in!"

"Hey, Tom."

He grins. "Ra'Shelle! I'm so glad to see you. How were finals?"

I sigh loudly. "Exhausting, but I kept my 4.0 GPA, so I guess it was worth it."

"Sixty-six credits with a 4.0. That must feel good." He pushes a button on his phone. "Sam?"

The woman's voice is familiar and clear. "’Sup?"

"Ra'Shelle’s here."

He presses another button and raises his eyebrows. "Wait for it."

Puzzled, I furrow my brow and listen to heels quickly click on the stone hallway.

Sam emerges in a tight blue dress and matching stilettos. Before I can stop her, she wraps me in a hug that nearly lifts me off the floor.

I tentatively pat her back. "What's going on?"

"I'm going to freaking Minneapolis!" She releases me. "We leased the space, and we're interviewing people next week. We'll be there by the end of the summer."

"That was fast. So… I guess you convinced Tom after all."

"I couldn't have done it without you." She places her hands on my shoulders. "Welcome aboard!"

My face reflects the warm, sisterly feelings filling me. "Thanks."

Sam waves as she turns on her heels and strolls out of the office. "Woo! Minneapolis!"

I look at a grinning Tom. "There aren't many women who are taller than me, nor who can nearly pick someone up while wearing stilettos."

He laughs. "She's ecstatic; you could place her and Kari next to one another and struggle to choose the more bubbly woman right now."

"I don't remember if I thanked Kari. Give her my gratitude, will you?"

He steps from behind the desk. "I will, but I'm sure she already knows."

He gestures toward the round table with the untouched chess board. "You have time for a game?"

"Want a rematch?"

He taps the table as he pulls out a chair. "Actually, I want to talk, but I can multitask."

"Marjorie asked me to stop by for a 'carton' on my way out, but I have time to see if you were going easy on me during our last game. You can be white this time."

"You're a strange mix of humble and confident," he says.

"Thank you?"

He nods. "It's refreshing."

"You can thank my husband for that."

He moves a pawn. "And if I asked him?"

I half-smile as I counter the move. "He wouldn't take any credit. He's also humble and confident."

"Excited about the baby?" he asks.

"So excited."

"Kari has packed several boxes,” he says. “She'll finish in a couple of weeks when she's off for the summer."

"As long as we have a crib by August 14, I'm happy."

"Know if it's a boy or a girl?"

"We haven't asked. We don't want to know."

"Have a preference?" he asks.

"That's a complicated question.”

I’m quiet for a moment as we focus on playing. “For better or worse, I worry that we’ll be overprotective, especially of a daughter, and overly critical of any behavior that hints at misogyny from our son. Hopefully by the time we’re actually there, we'll be a little mellower and find a healthy balance."

He contemplates my words before moving again. "That's a thoughtful answer."

"We're big on thinking."

He leans back in his chair. "How many moves until you beat me?"

"Six."

"Let's restart."

We rearrange the board, and he opens again with e4. "How are you feeling about the work?"

"Strangely excited,” I say. “It's the first time I'll actually be paid for a job."

"Previously volunteering?"

I freeze in sudden horror at what I’ve said, possibly revealed. My mother's words echo in my brain.

This is your job, Ra'Shelle. This is how you contribute. You wanna live here, you hafta pull your own weight. There ain’t no room in this house, this world for freeloaders. This is how we afford rent and groceries. You don’t wanna be homeless, Ra'Shelle? You don’t wanna starve? Then stop cryin’ and do your damn job.

"Ra'Shelle?"

I search for something to say, not wanting to lie to the guy who's taken a chance on me, but certainly unable to tell the truth. Why haven’t I ever volunteered?!

My brain is equally busy and blank.

"Ra'Shelle, it's your turn."

I clear my throat. "Uh, no. I just meant, you know, that this is real-world work." I move my knight.

He’s looking at the board, not me, and I’m grateful for that. "I haven’t seen sheer panic in someone's eyes in quite a while."

I bite the inside of my lip. "Yeah, sorry about that." I force a smile. "You sure you want people knowing that you're that observant?"

He raises his eyebrows. "You make a good point."

He moves his rook. "Relax, Ra'Shelle. I'm not one to judge or pry."

I take a deep breath. "Thanks. Sorry."

"No worries."

"So, how many people who work here started as interns?"

"Well, most of these people weren't interns first, but about sixty percent of our interns become employees for at least three years. I’ve worked hard to create a place that doesn’t feel like a nine-to-five or stop-gap job. Sam, Marjorie, and Angelique were all early hires, and they're still happy, so I think we're doing all right."

"How many other campuses do you want?"

He smiles. "There's the strategic thinker." He moves his bishop. "Minneapolis, Chicago, Los Angeles, St. Louis, Dallas, Miami, and New York. Preferably in that order."

"You don't want to expand internationally?"

"That was never a dream of mine."

"Why not?"

He moves his hands as if weighing something. "I don't want to intrude on people in Milan nor Paris, I don't want to be that far away from a campus, and I’m really careful about the ecological impact of our products. That's part of the reason I want multiple sites. I want to minimize how much people drive or fly long distances."

"Don't you import fabric?" I ask.

"Yeah, sometimes. A lot of the time, actually, but I hate it. I really don't like importing anything from another continent, and I'm always scared we're going to buy from someone who secretly uses child labor and ruins our brand." He sighs. "Not to mention the devastating guilt that Kari and I would feel."

"Being married to an elementary school teacher softened you?" I ask.

He shakes his head at me. "No, I was always this soft. That's what drew Kari to me."

"Really?"

"You sound surprised."

I move my queen and capture his bishop. "I expected more of a Type A personality."

"I have some of that, too but…"

He pauses and studies my face. Now he’s the one debating revelations, and I’m humbled that he’s considering being honest with me.

I raise my eyebrows but don’t speak.

He inhales deeply and exhales slowly. "There's so much pain and cruelty in the world. I actually struggle to cope with that sometimes, and I don't want to contribute to it. People’s first impression of me is that I'm strong, confident, and persuasive."

"That's what I saw."

He nods. "I am all of those things. I've trained myself to be all of those things, but my core personality is closer to what you see in Kari, except not quite as… hands-on. Except with my family, I'm not as comfortable with touch as Kari is."

"And yet you’re surrounded by huggers."

He chortles. "Indeed." He looks at the board. "How many moves?"

"Five."

He knocks over his king. "Three times in a row is impressive."

"I think it's just because you're distracted. If we ever play a silent game, I'm sure you'll beat me."

"One more? Marjorie should have your carton ready by then."

"Sure." I begin to reset the pieces.

"We should do this often. At least a couple of times a month."

"Are you that desperate for an opponent?" I ask.

"Most people won’t play me anymore," he says.

"I'm sure it's intimidating to play with the boss."

"Why aren't you intimidated?"

"I–I don't know. The whole thing is kind of intimidating. I'll be working at an actual fashion company in the creative department. That's big for me. Maybe I’m at my max for intimidation." I gesture toward the pieces.

"What's your favorite color to wear?" he asks, changing the subject.

"Orange."

"That was a quick response,” he says. “Why orange?"

"I wore a lot of dark and bland colors growing up, even once I realized that I wanted to be an artist. I’m still figuring it out, but becoming more confident allowed me to make bolder choices with my wardrobe."

"What's your favorite type of clothing to draw?"

"Oh, that's easy: formal wear. Evening gowns, wedding dresses, and elaborate tuxedos give me a challenge."

"What's your favorite decade of fashion so far?"

"Mid-sixties to early-seventies for women and probably the 30s and 40s for men. Nearly anyone can pull off the hat-and-trench-coat look."

"Favorite singer?"

I chuckle. "I should say someone recent, right? Whitney Houston, Cyndi Lauper, or Jermaine Stewart? But nope. It remains Ella Fitzgerald."

H"Favorite song?"

"Again, I should say 'Someone to Watch Over Me', right? Gershwin and all that. But it’s actually ‘But Not for Me.’"

He cocks his head. “Not her happiest piece.”

“No.”

“So, what makes it your favorite?”

I bite my lip. “I usually say the melody.”

He leans back, abandoning the game to focus on me. “What’s the real reason?”

I shake my leg. "I, uh… I have this memory,” I clear my throat, “from when I was barely old enough to have memories. A man is sitting on my bed at night, and he’s stroking my forehead. I think he thought I was asleep, and he’s singing ‘But Not for Me’ so quietly that it feels like a lullaby.

“I guess,” I sigh as I move my knight, “I guess I hope that that man is my father. A sad song turns into a good memory… That’s how I want to think of all of life; sad moments that actually represent happiness.”

I clear my throat again, trying to sidestep the potential embarrassment. “Other than Colin, I’ve never told anyone that.”

Tom leans forward, and before returning to the game, he looks into my eyes. “Well, thanks for telling me.”

I smile slightly. “Other questions?”

"Favorite visual artist?"

"Edvard Munch."

"Favorite painting?"

I click my tongue. "It's 'Sick Mood at Sunset, Despair'. I love the colors and the perspective. It makes me want to see more of the painting. Like, it makes me sad that I’m not allowed to see the rest of the scene."

"I've had people say Munch but never 'Sick Mood at Sunset, Despair'."

"I’m not surprised." I move my queen. "Can I ask you some questions too?"

"Sure."

"How old were you when you met Kari?"

"Twenty-one."

"How old were you when you married?"

"I had just turned twenty-four."

"How old were you when you had your oldest child? I'm sorry, I can't remember his name."

"I was twenty-five when we had Darren." He smiles. "Yes, I was a wreck, if that's where you're going."

I lower my eyes, but smile. "It is."

"Kari handled it well, but I was a disaster. I had just started LFI, and I was afraid that, even with Kari's salary, we wouldn't be able to support a family. I'm lucky that the company succeeded."

"Financially, we'll be okay for now. We both have money left over from our scholarships and with the internship, we'll be easily set, but as soon as we graduate, we'll have to find jobs. There's no taking a summer off or a vacation."

"You'll have a job here, if you want it."

"Maybe wait to see my work before you offer me a career." I smile. "Besides, you're going to win this game."

"When?"

I lean back. "You know when."

"Four moves."

"Yes."

"Show me."

I lean forward and move all of the pieces as I anticipate we would move them. "Checkmate."

He extends his hand. "Fourth time's a charm."

I shake his hand before standing and stretching. "Good game. I'll see if Marjorie has my first assignments ready."

"Ra'Shelle, I'm really glad that you're joining us."

"Thanks, Tom. Me too."

***

We check the mail the following Friday, as usual. Walking back from the Student Union, I rub my fingertips over a standard white envelope.

“Another letter?” Colin asks, leisurely walking beside me.

“Apparently.”

“Return address?” he asks.

“None. And it’s typed. Who uses a typewriter for addressing envelopes?

“Are you sure you don’t just want to throw it in the trash?”

I scoff. “Oh, I’m definitely too curious for that.”

Colin unlocks the door. “I’m making salad for dinner. Any requests?”

“Whatever is in there is fine,” I mumble, still turning the envelope in my hand. I click my tongue. “All right. Let’s just do it.”

I tear the envelope at the seam, revealing two items, the first of which is a carefully folded newspaper clipping.

I unfold it to find a picture of a young man with a large Afro and kind eyes. He’s wearing a deep V-neck shirt, and I can imagine bell bottom pants completing the ensemble.

Richard Dawson passed away Sunday. Known for his gentle humor and generosity, Rich was beloved by his family and neighbors, and his untimely death is a tragedy for all who knew him. He is survived by his parents, Jacob and Leanne, his wife, Simone, and his three daughters, Eva, Naomi, and Ra'Shelle. Services will be held at Temple Beth Israel on Thursday at 2:00 PM.

I read the obituary six times before handing it to Colin.

“When was this?”

I point to the date at the top of the page.

“February 23, 1976… Do you think your mother knew this?”

I shrug.

“Ra'Shelle, I–I don’t know what to say. Who would–Who would send this to you?”

I open my mouth, then close it and shake my head. I hold his hand and guide him into the living room where I hold up the second document from the envelope: a yellow piece of paper the size of a business card that simply reads “You deserve answers.”

Colin falls back onto the couch. “What do we do with this, Ra'Shelle? Go to the police? Just leave it be? Do you want to track down any of these people?” He rubs the top of his head. “I’m sorry. Are you okay? How are you feeling?”

I sit beside him and interlock his fingers with mine. “Colin, I have no idea.”