Free Babylon Sisters by Pearl Cleage Page A

fit the time period when I might have been conceived. I’ve made a list of the possible candidates—your
lovers—
    She underlined that, too, just to make sure I was paying attention.
    And I’ve sent them all a letter outlining my situation and requesting that they have a DNA test and forward the results to me, with a copy to you.
    She’s got to be kidding! She has to be!
    I know you’re probably mad at me now, but I had to do what was best for me and not let you talk me out of it. Please don’t try to contact me. I’ve moved off campus with two girlfriends and I’ve changed my cell number. I just don’t think I can talk to you again until you can tell me the truth about my father. It’s just too painful. Please don’t hate me, Mom. This is my life we’re talking about. Not yours. If you need to reach me in an emergency, Louis will be able to find me, but only in an
emergency
.
    A final red streak under that for emphasis and then the usual sign-off.
    Love you, Mom.
    Phoebe

12
    There are only two kinds of offices that house black newspapers. One is at the top of a long, rickety set of wooden stairs that would drive the fire marshal crazy if he ever inspected anything in these neighborhoods, which he doesn’t. The second is the ground-floor storefront in some bustling black commercial strip with the name of the paper printed in big white letters across the plate-glass window in the front. The
Sentinel
took the second option and occupied a row of four connected storefronts on Martin Luther King Jr. Drive.
    At the
Sentinel,
just like at every other black newspaper office I’ve ever visited, the first person you encounter when you come through the front door is a middle-aged-to-ancient black woman who answers the phone, routes calls, greets visitors, and keeps up with who’s in and who’s out and when they’ll be back. In the midst of these duties, she also clips newspapers—her own home publication and as many others as the editor deems appropriate. Her desk is always piled high with well-stuffed folders that need to be filed under headings like,
Black Mayors, 1974–1976,
or
Police Brutality
or
Denzel Washington.
They are also the ones who rewrite the church news column so it’s ready for the world, open the mail, and remind the editor to go home and get some sleep every once in a while.
    It was a full-time job back in the days when the
Sentinel
had six full-time reporters, four in town and two traveling the South to bring back coverage that placed Atlanta in the wider context of
region.
The
Sentinel
was the only black newspaper in town to send a reporter to the Pettus Bridge. They even had a reporter jailed in Albany and held without bail until Louis Sr. drove down with a lawyer from the Gate City Bar Association and brought him home. In those days, it wasn’t unusual for the crusading editor to sleep on the big, well-worn leather sofa in his office. After his mother died, Louis Jr. was accustomed to waking up alone at home and calling his father at the
Sentinel
to say he was making breakfast and did Louis Sr. want him to cook enough eggs for two, as if this were the normal exchange between father and son.
    But the
Sentinel
’s glory days were behind it now, and the full-time staff had dwindled to Louis and Miss Iona Williams, who was still holding down the position of honor just inside the front door. Miss Iona, as everyone called her, had been the voice on the
Sentinel
’s answering machine for as long as anyone could remember, urging callers to leave a message and “don’t forget to do something for freedom today.” She had also been Louis Sr.’s longtime companion after he was widowed young, but had never married him out of loyalty to his wife, who was one of her best friends from girlhood.
    At sixty-plus, Miss Iona was still a beauty. Her skin was smooth under the flawless makeup she was never seen without, and her salt-and-pepper hair was cut in a short pixie that had been her trademark style as