The Governor's Sons (24 page)

“I haven’t changed my mind,” Ash said.

“But—what about—when you get married?
 
You won’t want your wife to know—will you?”
 

Ash didn’t say anything.

“I don’t mean to put you on the spot—”

“Look, no matter what—I’ll always make time for him—and I’ll always provide, okay?
 
I wouldn’t be a man if I didn’t provide for my own child.”

“As long as he knows you love him—that’s the important thing,” Betty Jean said.

Ash stood up, then grabbed Harland from the floor.
 
Lifting him high again, Ash said, “He’s a Kroth—and I want him to know that.”
 
The baby squealed excitedly as Ash lowered him to his chest and cuddled him.
 
“And because he’s a Kroth, he’s gonna do great things.”

Suddenly, the door to the apartment slammed shut.
 
Left unlocked after Ash’s arrival, Thomas must’ve opened it just a short while ago, not making a sound.
 
No one had noticed him, until now.

“You’re home early,” Betty Jean said calmly, despite the scowl on her husband’s face.

Thomas’s eyes were locked on Betty Jean’s, and he didn’t move from the doorway.
 
“Don’t say ‘I told you so,’ but I started feeling sick—like I did this morning.”
 
His gaze moved to Ash.
 
“And seeing him only makes matters worse.”

Thomas stalked toward his wife.
 
After removing his jacket, he tossed it on the sofa next to her.
 
“He’s not a Kroth.”
 
Thomas glared at Ash while loosening his tie.
 
“He’s a Hall.”

“But
I’m
his father—he’s
my
son!”

Thomas shook his head laughing.
 
“And who’re you gonna tell that to, cracker?
 
Huh?
 
Yeah,” he snorted, “you’re his father, he’s your son.
 
But
you’re
not here—I am!
 
I’m
his father now, and he only needs one—and I’m not ashamed of him.
 
I’m
proud
to call him my son!”

Thomas pulled off his tie and threw it to the sofa.
 
“You know what?
 
I’m getting sick and tired of you coming ‘round here with your hush money and expensive toys!
 
That doesn’t make you a father!”

“It’s not hush money!” Ash said.
 
It’s—”

“Shut up and listen to me, cracker!
 
The only way you’ll
ever
earn the right to call him your son—is if you acknowledge him—publicly.
 
If you can do that—
then
he’ll be your son!”

Ash felt his face blanch.

“Look at you,” Thomas smiled in triumph, “turning white as a sheet.
 
There’s not a snowball’s chance in hell that you’ll ever say he’s yours to the world!
 
If you weren’t ashamed of the boy, I’d be glad to share him with you.
 
But since you are, don’t ever come back here to my home and hide behind my wife’s skirt so you can see him!”

Ash began to protest. “Kitty wouldn’t—”

“Betty Jean’s his mama now!
 
Catherine’s dead—and you took everything she had!
 
She wasn’t Kitty—she was Catherine—but you took away her name!
 
You knocked her up and took away her respectability! And she died birthing your bastard!
 
So you as good as killed her!
 
You took her life! And now I’m taking something from you!”
 
Thomas grabbed for Harland.
 
“Give him to me!”

Ash refused, stepping away, holding tightly to his child.

Harland began to cry.
 
Betty Jean rushed between them and took the baby.
 
“Y’all are scaring him!” She sat on the sofa rocking him back and forth, trying to quiet him.

“That baby’s innocent!” Thomas said, pointing to Harland.
 
“He can’t help the circumstances of his birth, but we can!
 
We’re raising him as our son and we don’t need any help from you!
 
Not your money, not your toys—nothing!
 
I’ll be earning a good living in Atlanta and my family’s got oil wells in Oklahoma.
 
We don’t need
any
thing from
any
white man!
 
And if you try to see Harland again without public acknowledgement—I’ll expose you myself!”

Ash could hardly speak, but in a tight voice managed to ask, “Why are you doing this?”

“Because you don’t
deserve
to be his father!
 
I’m the provider here, not you!
 
And because of what you did to Catherine.”

“I loved her.” Ash felt close to tears but forced himself not to cry.

“Oh, yeah, you loved her.” Thomas smirked.
 
“I saw the letter she wrote
all
about you proposing to her.
 
Too bad you didn’t get around to
poppin’
the question ‘til damn near time the baby
popped
out!
 
You musta wanted to look like some great white hero making up all those plans to marry her and live in England.”

“Now,
you
listen!” Ash said. “We loved each other and in our hearts we were married!
 
It’s not my fault we couldn’t be legally married here!”

“I betcha,” Thomas eyed Ash coldly, “ that the only reason you did ask her to marry you—when you finally
did
—
was because of what you knew.”

Ash looked at him strangely. “Just what are you getting at?”

“That doctor brother of yours delivers babies, and—”

“Oh, Thomas!”
 
Betty Jean sprang from the sofa.
 
“Not again!
Please
don’t bring up that ridiculous theory of yours!” Harland whimpered as she clutched him tightly.

“And,” Thomas continued, “maybe you brought him along the day she delivered to make sure she’d die—or botch things up so she couldn’t be saved, to get her out of the way.”

Rage surged through Ash like electricity through a live wire.
 
He struck Thomas with a sharp upper cut to his jaw, feeling Thomas’s teeth graze his knuckles.
 
Ash began to throw another punch, but Thomas landed a swift jab to his nose.
 
Despite the hot flow of blood down his upper lip, Ash swung again, aiming to blacken Thomas’s eye.

When the baby began crying harder, Betty Jean put him in his playpen near the kitchen, then yelled for the fighting to stop.
 
But the men ignored her.

Ash threw another fast punch, but Thomas deflected it, only to have Ash punch him in the stomach.
 
As Thomas readied himself to sock Ash in the face, Betty Jean forced her way between them.

“Stop it!
 
Stop it!”
 
She struggled to push them apart, and only managed to separate them after they realized she wouldn’t get out of the way.

The baby still cried, and Betty Jean, with one hand on each man’s chest, said, “Both of you are gonna be lawyers and here you are acting like common street hoodlums!”
 
She inhaled, putting her hands on hips, then turned her full attention to her husband.
 
“Thomas, I don’t blame Ash for hitting you!
 
How dare you bring up that insane story of yours and throw it in his face! Ash
loved
Catherine, and she loved him!
 
I don’t know why you just can’t believe that!”

“And I don’t know why you’re always sticking up for this damn white boy!
 
Did you sleep with him too?”

Betty Jean’s mouth fell open. Appalled, she stood speechless.

Looking befuddled by his own words, Thomas’s eyes widened.
 
“Baby—look—baby—I’m sorry,” he said, groveling to his wife.
 
“I didn’t mean that—you know I didn’t mean it.
 
I don’t know what got into me.”
 
He shot Ash a nasty look.
 
“Blame that cracker for making me say it!
 
Baby--forgive me, okay?
 
Forget I said it!”
 

With her head raised slightly, Betty Jean remained stiff and silent.
 

Thomas glowered at Ash for that, then letting out a deep breath, he said, “So, this white boy loved your sister.
 
If he really loves his son,” Thomas glanced at Harland, still wailing in his playpen, “he’ll be proud to acknowledge him, won’t he?”
 
He closed his eyes and put a hand on his forehead.
 
“My head’s spinning.”

“Well,” Betty Jean crossed her arms, “maybe you’d better go lie down for that headache.
 
And you’ll need some ice for your jaw.
 
But you can get it yourself,” she said coldly.

“I don’t need no damn ice!
 
Just get that damn cracker outta my house.”
 
Thomas almost stumbled as he made his way to the bedroom near the rear of the apartment and shut the door.

Ash couldn’t say anything.
 
His hands were tied.
 
Loosing them would only cause political suicide.
 
For someone who wanted to assume the incredibly large responsibility of governing a state, he now felt incompetent for not being able to raise, provide for, or even acknowledge his own son.

Betty Jean lifted Harland and held him snugly until his crying stopped and he’d calmed down.
 
After placing him back in his playpen, she walked to Ash. “Ash—I’m—I’m sorry.
 
I can’t tell you how sorry I am for all the things he said.
 
But—but--I’ll talk to him—I’ll see what I can do.”

Ash had tried to hold back the tears, but now feeling helpless, they fell freely.
 
He lowered his head, wiping his eyes and bloody nose with a handkerchief.

“Ash, I’ll get you some ice.”
 
She started for the kitchen.

“I’m okay, Betty Jean.” He stopped her.
 
“I don’t need ice.”

“But can you breathe okay?
 
Is your nose moving at all?”

“I can breathe fine.
 
My nose is swelling but it’s not broken.”
 
Ash was quiet for a few moments.
 
“It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” he almost whispered.
 
“Harland’s the only thing left of her that I have.
 
And now--I can’t even have him…” Was this the price for loving Kitty?
 
He asked himself.
 

Ash looked deeply into Betty Jean’s eyes through the murky panes of her lenses.
 
“I’m nothing,” he said softly, “nothing but a worthless S.O.B.”

“Ash, that’s not true.”

Ash disagreed.
 
He felt like a sorry excuse for a man and a father, by putting his political ambition above his son.
 
But he didn’t have a choice, and none of this was fair.
 
Forced to abandon Harland, Ash felt powerless and victimized. If he wanted to improve things for Negroes, he’d need to pursue a life in politics.

He tried to convince himself that he wasn’t giving up too easily on a relationship with his boy.
 
But to help Harland’s future, Ash would have to leave him now, in the present.
 
Otherwise, he’d risk exposure by Thomas.
 
That would end his political career before it even began.
 
Thomas wasn’t bluffing.

Although Betty Jean said she’d try, any attempt to change Thomas’s mind would be futile.
 
He hated Ash and he hated whites.
 
To Thomas, Ash thought, hurting one white man from a powerful political family would be equivalent to hurting about fifty average white people.

“Promise me,” Ash said quietly, “that--you’ll write to me about Harland—and send pictures—lots of pictures.”

“Oh, Ash,” Betty Jean began to cry, “I will.
 
I’ll make sure you know everything about him—I promise.”

“Thank you.”
 
Ash hesitated, then again said softly, “It just wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

“Ash—just how was it supposed to be, really?
 
You leave everything behind—your family, your friends—and run off to Europe with Catherine.
 
Would you have been happy?”

“Kit—Catherine—would’ve have been happy.
 
And I would have had her with me, along with my boy—and later—more kids. We would’ve made friends there—but just having her would’ve been enough for me.”
 
Seconds passed, but neither of them spoke, then Ash said, “I better go.”
 
He hugged Betty Jean.
 
“Thank you—for being his mother.”

“I’m thankful I can be.”

“I am too.”
 
Ash slowly strode to the playpen, then lifted Harland into his arms.
 
He held him closely and kissed his cheek.
 
“Bye, little guy.
 
Always know your daddy loves you,” he whispered.