His suite of offices sits above the main student center. So different from my days at Tuskegee. The center downstairs houses fast-food restaurants and a coffee shop. The semester has ended, so there’s not the usual sea of students. This small Baptist college in Birmingham became coeducational in the early 1970s, and now its student body is nearly 70 percent women. I have read all about it online. I find myself wishing the students were here so that we could have some distraction and Ty’s focus on me would not be so absolute.
His assistant brings in two cups of coffee. I’m wearing a tunic over my jeans, an attempt to appear effortlessly casual. Now I fear it makes my body look shapeless. At least my hair is done nice. Last night I braided my locks and now they are falling in soft waves around my shoulders. Ty is wearing slacks and an open-collar shirt. Gray chest hair peeks over the buttons. He crosses one leg over the other, toward me. I set my cup on his desk and pick up a picture frame.
“Good-looking children. How old are they now?”
“Ty Jr. is thirty. Dwanna is thirty-six.”
“What do they do?” Mama has told me all about his children. She still talks to Mrs. Ralsey on the phone, but I want to hear the story from Ty. Being in that office, looking at his children—the young man who looks just like his namesake and the young woman who reminds me of Ty’s mother—brings it all back. I put the frame down before he can notice my trembling hand.
“Ty’s a physical therapist. He went to Morehouse and married a special ed teacher who graduated Spelman. Dwanna is a lawyer. Alabama State. Married another lawyer. I have twin granddaughters who look a lot like my mama.”
“Oh, that’s nice, Ty.”
“When you get to Montgomery, you should stop by and visit my folks. They would enjoy seeing you.”
“They still got all their plants?”
“You know it.”
Sometimes I think of what those plants meant to the Ralseys—the life-affirming vitality of them. The connectedness of all living things in a segregated country. To the Ralseys, we were all God’s creations—man, plant, animal. They cared for those plants in the same way they cared for their clients. I have also tried to have a gentle hand with my patients. That’s just the way we were on Centennial Hill.
I look around for pictures of the ex-wife. I try not to be obvious about what I’m doing, but Ty knew me from a time when I could hide very little. Even so, I’m surprised he can still read me.
“Ty Jr. tells me that having pictures of his mother does not do my dating life any good.”
“I-I don’t know what to say.” Dating life? I wonder if he’s seeing someone.
“I’m sure you know plenty of divorced people. What do you usually say?”
“How long has it been?”
“Ten years. She remarried and lives with her husband, not too far from me. We all go to the same church.” He chuckles to himself.
“Hmm,” I say. “Is Birmingham that small?”
“No, but she’s still family. We even celebrate Christmas together sometimes, all of us.”
Just like Ty, I think. If things remain this good with his ex, he is probably still the same man I knew him to be. I recall mistaking that good-naturedness for silliness.
“But enough about me.” He takes my hand. “It’s good to see you, Civil. I couldn’t believe it when you emailed me. Mama told me all about you and your daughter, Anne.”
“Yes, she just graduated from college. She’s trying to figure out what to do next.”
“And you?”
“Nothing much more to tell.”
“Performing life-saving surgeries. Publishing in all the medical journals. I’m sure you’ve done more than become a mother.”
I let go of his hand.
“I’m sorry. Did I say the wrong thing?”
“It’s alright.” I look at my lap.
“I meant to say, I’m sure you’ve got more stories.”
But I don’t offer any more stories because it is disingenuous. I’m not really here to catch up on forty years of distance. Actually, I don’t even know exactly why I’m here, only that it isn’t to make small talk. Maybe Alicia was right. Maybe this is just one big apology tour.
He gently draws me out again, asking questions about my job. He asks about Memphis and how Mama fared once Daddy passed away.
“You didn’t come to the funeral,” I say.
“I couldn’t,” he says. “My wife and I were having problems at the time. It was a rough patch.”
“I looked for you there. Your parents came.”
Then he says, “Civil, I would be lying if I said I have been thinking about you for the last forty years. I loved my wife. I made an honest go at building a family. For a variety of reasons, it didn’t work out. But I have to say seeing you here today is bringing back memories.”
I cannot believe how quickly the conversation has turned. We are in his office, for goodness’ sake. The lights are bright. There is no mood music, no wine to dull the senses and loosen the tongue. He takes my hand again, and his touch shoots a tingle through my arm. I’m healthy. Other than a little elevated blood pressure, I have very little in the way of aches and pains, thank the good Lord. But I accepted a long time ago that I lead a life of the mind. My body and its urges are secondary. It’s easy to forget your own flesh when you are concentrated on other people’s bodies.
“When you left, I kept thinking you would call,” he continued. “I thought you would return home and we’d run into each other and finally talk. But you never even came home for breaks. I asked your daddy. He and your mama drove to Nashville whenever they wanted to see you. And when you did come home, I didn’t hear about it until after you’d already left.”
“You make it sound like I was in a witness protection program, Ty. It wasn’t that serious.”
“What wasn’t serious? Us?”
“I just . . . I just . . . couldn’t.” Part of me wants to let go of his hand again, but I don’t. He holds my fingers firmly, and I know I will be unable to squirm out of this conversation.
“Did you even think about me?” His voice is quiet.
“Yes.”
“Then why not call?”
“It’s been decades, Ty. You’re interrogating me like it was yesterday. Why ask me all these questions now?” As I say these words, I quietly admit to myself that it is not possible to mend the hurt at this point in our lives.
“The past doesn’t work that way. You can’t just make it disappear. You can’t pretend certain things didn’t happen.”
“Don’t you think I know that?”
He looks right at me. “Did you ever tell anyone, Civil?”
“Tell anyone what?”
“Come on, woman. Do you think about our baby?”
How could I ever forget the day I climbed up on that woman’s bed and she hurt me with those tools? The memory has haunted me at times.
“You were so closed down about it, Civil. I worried when I heard you never married.”
I wonder how many women have the opportunity to complete this kind of circle, to talk to the father of a mistaken pregnancy some forty years later. “No, I never told anyone. Did you?” I whisper.