Family Reunion (8 page)

She rose as small birds flew near in anticipation of the breadcrumbs she always dropped for them. With laughter like tinkling crystal, she talked to them as she crumbled her lunch beneath the tree and backed away so they could land and peck their fill.

Joyful from his presence, she began to skip off, clutching her books beneath her arm, not minding her open coat and the cool air. Once she covered some distance, Rory ran out of the bush making sure to stay at an distance until he came to another bush to dodge behind.

Making sure to keep her back to him, she smiled as she skipped along while he darted from one hiding place to the next. Deliberately, she stopped for one reason or another, making him stop to stretch his long frame behind a tree. With an overpowering mischievousness taking root, she darted as fast as she could into a dense crop of trees, and then quickly dropped behind a large one so he would not see where she had disappeared to.

Rory peaked out from the tree he'd hidden behind and didn't see her; quickly he emerged looking around for her. She was nowhere in sight.

In a panic he dashed forward thinking she'd taken a turn and gone another
way. He then ran into the thick crop of trees and stopped unsure looking to the left and right, spinning in a complete circle of confusion. He stopped and scratched his head. "Now where'd she go so fast?"

Mailon stood behind the very tree that he stood before, and bursting into a fit of giggles, she gave the game away. She tried to stifle the sound by covering her mouth with both hands, pressing hard to hold in her laughter but it was too late, he heard. Slowly peaking out from behind the tree, there he was, standing with his hands on his hips, an accusing expression on his face. She ducked back giggling again unable to help herself.

"All right, come on out. You knew all along, didn't you?" Rory spoke up as she peaked back around at him.

Her smile lessened, her eyes grew huge as she looked up at him a moment to think about what he had said, once his words were deciphered, she smiled wide and nodded, jumping out as she did, all that was missing was a,
Boo!

Instead she answered, "Oui Monsieur Ro-ry, I, um...see you...of-ten, oui - no - yes." She corrected herself. She must remember to speak only English if she was to become fluent in the language her teacher strove to help her perfect, but for now it was thick with an accent. Rory chuckled, smiling brightly, his white teeth gleaming.

"I must'a been some sight ditchin' an' dodgin' behind tree after tree."

Her eyebrows pinched, trying to keep up with him as he spoke faster than she could understand. Rory saw the look of confusion and sighed.

"Well come on, since you know, I might as well walk you home." He turned to lead the way with her standing there trying to voice the proper response to his words. He turned back. "Well come on already, it's not exactly summertime you know, and button up your coat. You tryin' to catch pneumonia or something?" He said, walking up to her and buttoning her coat for her, "Where's your scarf, don't you have a scarf..." He shook his head, "…and no gloves." He muttered, unwrapping his scarf from his neck, "Here, stand still." He wrapped it securely around her neck. "There, it should still be warm."

She smiled up at him. "Merc - no, um, thank - you, Monsieur Ro-ry."

"Yeah, well, okay... come along now, I don't have all day you know, I've got a job now, a real important one. Wait a minute, give me those, put your hands in your pockets ... you do have pockets don't you?"

With adoring eyes looking up at him, she could do nothing but smile as he took her books and directed her hands to her pockets.

She understood
and tucked them in as they began to walk. Staring up at him she noticed his ears and the tip of his nose were red, she grew concerned and donning a serious expression she asked. "Avoir froid Monsieur Ro-ry?"

"Huh?"

"Um...cold ...you cold, Monsieur Ro-ry?"

"Naw, don't worry 'bout me, I'm alright. So, how is it you speak French like you do?" He asked curiously. "You from, France or somethin'?"

Mailon understood as it was a question often asked of her. "Um, my maman, anz my pere, um fa-thur, come from France, um...it – isz just my fa-thur, anz my-self, um...-(she paused for thought and continued)- my maman...she isz, um... no more."

"Your mother's dead?"

"Oui Monsiuer, maman isz no more, isz-dead yes."

"Oh, well, sorry about that. So it's just you and your father."

"Oui-...yes, my fa-thur, anz my-self."

"Well, you ask me, you better off. Mother's aren't all they're cracked up to be anyway." He mumbled low. For him to say such a thing confused Mailon, her expression as she looked up at him showed her confusion.

This did not escape Rory's notice. "Sorry. Guess I shouldn't have said that, forget it. Anyway, tell me, how long have you been here in the Americas?"

"Um…one year." She answered, again familiar with the question.

"What are you, eight – nine years old?"

Her brows drew together. "Um ... non, I - am - twelve years, anz you Monsieur Ro-ry?"

"You're a little thing aren't you. I'm fifteen, soon to be sixteen and you pronounce my name Rory, not Ro-ry. Just straight out Rory, and you can drop that Monsieur as well."

"Rory?" She asked testing it out.

"Yeah, just like that."

She smiled up at him again, when he looked down at her, she averted her gaze to the ground. They walked on talking to each other as best they could, with Rory doing most of the conversing. He explained to her about his new job, pouring out his fascination with ships. Before long they were at her home; a small, patched up, two-room shack house without white wash or paint. As soon as they were in seeing distance of it, a huge, black, burly giant of a man stepped out on the porch, his skin shined with his deep color. Rory's mouth stopped mid-sentence to gape with wide eyes. The man was bigger than Manny, Rory noticed uncomfortably.

From where
he slowed his steps, he could see the whites of his eyes that expanded a great deal when they settled on him, walking beside his daughter carrying her books. Rory gulped and in the cold air he felt sweat break out on his brow.

Mailon was shocked to see her father home at such a time of day but was happy to see him just the same. Her smile was bright as she waved at him, grabbing Rory's hand to tug him faster up the worn path to meet her black statuesque father. Rory felt his gut cramp once they made it to the porch, still trying to gulp down that lump of fear.

Mailon was so happy that her father was there to meet them she failed to notice the harsh glare he directed at her friend.

"Fa-thur, this - isz Rory." She looked at Rory and smiled; proud to have pronounced his name correctly, briefly wondering why he was suddenly so pale. Looking back at her father, she informed him, "He isz, um, mon ami, um friend. Yes he isz, um um... Un Preux Chevalier! - (A brave Knight)-, il delivrance me de mauvais garcons pere." ('He rescued me from bad boys father') She told him, slipping into French from force of habit when home with him. At that moment, he could not hear her for seeing the youth holding his daughter's hand. Quite threateningly, and in French with his eyes on Rory he asked.

"What bad boys? Who is he? Let go of his hand!!" He said none too gently, surprising Mailon. Her father had never shown any anger towards her, nor had he ever raised his voice and sounded so mean. She gently released Rory's hand. Her father had always been loving and gentle, easy with laughter, but not now.

"Are you not feeling well father?" She asked, knowing
that
had to be the problem. Her father, who referred to her as his Ma petite, who loved and protected her as if she were the most vital part of his life would never act the way he was acting under normal circumstances.

It was the first time she had seen that side of him. Mailon was Gydale's only child by his deceased Chinese wife, whom he had met in France where she had worked as a chamber maid. He had fallen in love with her over a period of time, while she had been in love with him from the first moment she saw him. He had been the first Negro she had ever seen and could not resist touching him, catering to him, seeking him out.

Meg-tau had been her name and no matter what he did or where he went, she was there. At the time he had been the bodyguard of a French ambassador, whom while visiting China purchased Meg-tau from her family. Her stepfather had sold her because she was not his and the family was in need of money.

She was the first child among eleven, the
result of her mother's first marriage, her father was deceased.

Her fearlessness and curiosity of Gydale eventually won him over, to see such loving eyes following his every move, touching his rich mahogany skin in wonder – soon brought humor to his otherwise stoic expressions. He asked his employer for her and paid most of his saved wages for her. Because they resided in France, he taught her the language, and only spoke it, so that she would learn. His daughter learned French and Chinese, but very little English. Five years previously while still living in France, Meg-tau died from pneumonia and Gydale, who was also a carpenter saved to gain passage to America.

With all of his earnings gone, he regretted his decision to return to the land where he had once been a slave. He too had been purchased by the same Frenchman who had freed him in more ways than one. Yet, something about the beauty of the land in America called him back there.

"I ask you, who is this boy you have brought here?" Mailon’s father demanded, still in French.

"Father I do not understand. He is good and kind and has seen to my safety. There is no need for your anger." Mailon was hurt and embarrassed by his rudeness. "Please father, do not shame me. Were I to tell you what he has done for me, you will feel ashamed for this treatment to him. Please father, at least shake his hand and thank him for seeing me home ... please?!"

Gydale brought his eyes from Rory to look down at his pride and joy. He would do anything for his Mailon's happiness, though he felt disappointed in what he was able to offer her so far, in bringing her to this country where a man as himself was looked upon as less than a man. He hated the way they must live, the struggles he had in working for the small pay that was only a fraction of what he had earned as a bodyguard.

Everyday, his regrets grew, especially to be reduced to living in their shack compared to how they had lived in France. He looked up at it; she did the best she could in cleaning and cooking for him, his twelve year old beauty, his princess, living like this because of his decision. She was forced to toil and work like a woman already and he hated it. She was just a little girl; she should live as one, and now this boy, who ever he was, holding his baby's hand. He didn't care if he were black or white; he wanted no boys anywhere near his precious Mailon. For the moment, he would spare her this unpleasantness until he could talk with her concerning them.

"Father." She called up to him again. He looked away from
her to the young pup before him. There was something about that dark red auburn hair and tan good looks that shook him up. What did this white boy possibly want with his Mailon anyway, he was no doubt arrogant, certainly haughty.

"How old are you boy?" He asked finally in English. Rory swallowed, it was funny how a once puffed-up bold youth could be humbled almost instantly by the sight of such a man.

"Fifteen sir, just fifteen, just made it sir." He admitted, for once not upping his age.

Gydale looked at the boy wanting to tell him to get away from his daughter and never be caught near her again. No matter what he wanted to say, he kept control, feeling his daughter's pleading eyes on him. For her, he would put up with this young rogue for a moment and no more, but only for her sake.

"Father it is cold, Rory has come from far to see after me, let us invite him in for tea so that he may warm himself before he must leave, please father, invite him in?" She pleaded in French.

Gydale exhaled, "That right boy, your name Rory?" Rory nodded first then spoke up. "Yes sir, Rory, that's my name."

"Well come in the house. Granted, my home's not much…but it's warm. My daughter will serve you tea…enjoy it, because it's the last she'll be serving you."
'And then you can get the hell away from here.'
He thought to himself but Rory read the message in his eyes loud and clear. Executing his best behavior, he followed a nervous Mailon inside, with her father right behind him. Goose pimples raced over his skin, he could feel the man's eyes boring down into his neck. Inside, their home was very warm, which he immediately noticed being so cold himself. The decorations and furnishings were simple and clean. The kitchen and living room were together as one room.

The table where he sat was well made but unfinished, with four matching chairs around it. A very unique wood frame couch and chair with patchwork pillows and cushions added to the overall coziness of their home. End tables and the coffee table were made from a large tree trunk slice with the bark still surrounding the outer edges; its surface was carved with an image that reminded him of Mailon. He smiled looking up from it to her. She smiled back proud of her father's craft, in her eyes, no one did what he did better. He would find work, of that she was confident. Rory went on to survey the rest of the small homes décor, carved wooden ornaments and little knick-knacks here and there, all done by him. In the corner, there was an open shelf hutch that Mailon removed cups from to pour him tea.