hugging. I hadnât said much as Iâd stood in his home and heâd given no indication he wanted me to say more. I bounced home, anxious to dial those ten numbers.
That first day, after the first dialing, that number was a dead end. The phone hiccupped a busy signal from the time I put my quarter into the phone booth to late at night, when Momma said it wasnât safe for me to go outside anymore.
I visited Uncle Benny several times after that. Each visit he stood guard over his foyer until heâd written ten new numbers. Each time, I either got a lady on the other end, singing, âThis number has been disconnected,â or her twin chiming, âThis number is not in service.â
There were those times the phone just rang and rang and rang or the busy signalâs broken chirp kept pace with my tears. Those were good days because there was the possibility someone would pick up the phone after I let it ring for the one-hundredth time, and there was the chance the busy signal would be silenced once they put the phone back on the receiver. As long as Uncle Benny lived on Peach Street, as long as there were ten numbers he could write, there was hope I could find the man that filled my imagination with the life we were supposed to be living.
One day Uncle Bennyâs ten numbers silenced the incessant ringing in my mind. The voice of a girl, nasal, twisted in a southern drawl, breathed, âHello.â I almost dropped the phone, almost ran from the booth when the ringing was replaced by a live person on the other end. I met my cousin, Tiffany, daughter of my uncle, Frank, Jr., who introduced me to my grandfather, Frank, Sr., whose laugh reached through the phone and poked a dimple into my cheek. He introduced me to my grandma, Ms. Mary, and she whispered, âLaurie? Carlâs girl?â so quietly I thought she didnât mean for me to hear.
We became a family, in the span of minutes, me on one side of the phone, them on the other. I didnât even ask where Carl was. If I got where they were, I was sure Iâd find him.
They lived in Ivor, right outside of Suffolk, the same house my daddy was born in. Momma had been there many times, but she had never taken me there. Iâd never thought to ask where my daddy had lived when she met him. The obvious can easily be overlooked when oneâs search becomes blinding.
Momma agreed to take me to see my family soon after that conversation. Address and phone number in hand, I was on my way to meet my daddy. That summer morning, Momma loaded all five of us into Uncle Bruceâs car. It didnât matter that I and my middle brother, Dathan, were my fatherâs only biological children. We all wore his last name, so by law and according to Momma, he was everybodyâs daddy. We all sat in the back seat, amidst fidgetingand chattering about all of the fun weâd have in Suffolk with the other half of our family. Dathan wondered about cousins weâd never met and Mary asked if weâd see goats or pigs since we were going to the country. I prayed quietly my father would be there. I wanted to look into the eyes of the man I had imagined for so long.
On the hour ride to Suffolk, I rewound mini-soap operas I had orchestrated around my fatherâs existence. Would he, as Iâd often imagined, be a drug dealer with lots of money, houses, and cars, and Iâd have to arrest him, and turn him from a life of crime once I became an undercover detective? Would he be on his deathbed, drenched in sweat, begging for medicine, and I would walk in, wearing doctorâs scrubs, with a serum I manufactured myself just to save his life? Or, would I meet him through the love of my life, after I learned my new beauâs stepfather was actually my real father, and then we would all live happily ever after? I was anxious to learn which scenario fit. Wedged in between Mary and the door, I peered out of the window, watching as road, trees,
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