“Which one he

“Which one he?” Constantine asked, studying the puzzle box through her black-rimmed glasses.
“That’s Jefferson.”
“Oh it sure is. What about him?”
“That’s—” I leaned over. “I think that’s . . . Roosevelt.”
“Only one I recognize is Lincoln. He look like my daddy.”
I stopped, puzzle piece in hand. I was fourteen and had never made less than an A. I was smart, but I was as na?ve as they come. Constantine put the box top down and looked over the pieces again.
“Because your daddy was so . . . tall?” I asked.
She chuckled. “Cause my daddy was white. I got the tall from my mama.”
I put the piece down. “Your . . . father was white and your mother was . . . colored?”
“Yup,” she said and smiled, snapping two pieces together. “Well, look a there. Got me a match.”
I had so many questions—Who was he? Where was he? I knew he wasn’t married to Constantine’s mother, because that was against the law. I picked a cigarette from my stash I’d brought to the table. I was fourteen but, feeling very grown up, I lit it. As I did, the overhead light dimmed to a dull, dirty brown, buzzing softly.
“Oh, my daddy looooved me. Always said I was his favorite.” She leaned back in her chair. “He used to come over to the house ever Saturday afternoon, and one time, he give me a set a ten hair ribbons, ten different colors. Brought em over from Paris, made out a Japanese silk. I sat in his lap from the minute he got there until he had to leave and Mama’d play Bessie Smith on the Victrola he brung her and he and me’d sing:
It’s mighty strange, without a doubt
Nobody knows you when you’re down and out
I listened wide-eyed, stupid. Glowing by her voice in the dim light. If chocolate was a sound, it would’ve been Constantine’s voice singing. If singing was a color, it would’ve been the color of that chocolate.
“One time I was boo-hooing over hard feelings, I reckon I had a list a things to be upset about, being poor, cold baths, rotten tooth, I don’t know. But he held me by the head, hugged me to him for the longest time. When I looked up, he was crying too and he . . . did that thing I do to you so you know I mean it. Press his thumb up in my hand and he say . . . he sorry.”
We sat there, staring at the puzzle pieces. Mother wouldn’t want me to know this, that Constantine’s father was white, that he’d apologized to her for the way things were. It was something I wasn’t supposed to know. I felt like Constantine had given me a gift.
I finished my cigarette, stubbed it out in the silver guest ashtray. The light brightened again. Constantine smiled at me and I smiled back.
“How come you never told me this before?” I said, looking into her light brown eyes.
“I can’t tell you ever single thing, Skeeter.”
“But why?” She knew everything about me, everything about my family. Why would I ever keep secrets from her?
She stared at me and I saw a deep, bleak sadness there, inside of her. After a while, she said, “Some things I just got to keep for myself.”
WHEN IT Was MY Turn to go off to college, Mother cried her eyes out when Daddy and I pulled away in the truck. But I felt free. I was off the farm, out from under the criticism. I wanted to ask Mother, Aren’t you glad? Aren’t you relieved that you don’t have to worry-wart over me every day anymore? But Mother looked miserable.