Journals of the Secret Keeper by Jennifer L Ray Page A

grandma, Aunt
Martha. She reads the Bible day and night and she
hasn't been out much in years. Her conversation is
often filled with scripture," Olivia said quietly.
Jackson Funeral Home had been in
Clarksdale for years. It was the only funeral home
for black people and the room had six more people
laid out. The carpet was red and the walls were
paneled. The room smelled of formaldehyde.
"Who gave instructions to lay her out,"
Martha snapped.
"I did," Andrik said.
Everyone looked at him in surprise. Willetta
couldn't remember when he had time to make such
arrangements.
She wasn't surprised at his
efficiency. She had learned a few things about
Andrik Thompson over the past few days.
"Well, young man, when and where are the
burial services," Martha asked.
"I will let you decide," Andrik said
amicably. "Mama Jean had no particular affiliation
and I thought the conference room here would be
fine on Saturday morning at eleven o'clock," he
finished.
Aunt Octavia and Martha conferred with one
another in loud whispers and agreed the
arrangements were acceptable. Olivia stood to the
side and said nothing.
#
With the funeral arrangements made and
lunch behind them, the elderly women were ready
to settle down and put their feet up. Andrik,
Willetta, and Olivia brought in the luggage and set
up a room for Olivia and Mrs. Octavia. They also
made the menu for the evening and menus for the
rest of the week. It was Tuesday and there were
four more days before the funeral.
Andrik asked Willetta to accompany him to
the store and left Olivia in charge of Mrs. Octavia
and Ms. Martha. Olivia agreed without much show
of emotion. She was truly a bland individual with a
very insipid personality.
The minute they were on the country road
with red dust rising behind the car, Andrik began
speaking. His voice was gritty with emotion.
"Mama Jean was my grandmother. She
never said a word," he said. His hands held the
steering wheel in a death grip. "She never said she
had a son. She never told me who my father was.
Why, Willetta? Can you please tell me why?"
"Stop the car, Andrik. Stop at Mama Jean's
and let's talk," she said softly.
"I don't want to talk anymore. Not unless
you have some answers. I don't want to
understand." He said the word "understand" so
keenly that Willetta jumped. "I just want the truth."
He hit the steering wheel forcefully.
Willetta had never seen a grown man cry
and certainly not one as huge as Andrik. His
shoulders shook and he bit hard on his lower lip as
he tried to restrain the tears.
They seeped out of
the corner of his eyes.
"I was hated as a child. That man, your
father, hated me. I didn't know why and I still don't
know why, but they knew. Those old women at that
house could have made a difference in my life and
yours too. Mama Jean patched me up, but she
didn't tell me what I needed to know. I needed to
know I had a father who could have loved me and
that I had a grandmother, not a nanny, who loved
me too. It was just a waste. This whole thing is a
waste," he cried.
"What are they covering up?"
Willetta flinched away from the fierceness
in Andrik's tone and stare. He was angry and had
every right to be. The secrets Mama Jean kept had
caused him pain, but Willetta had no idea if the
truth would have been more or less painful. She
knew she was doomed to find out.
He grabbed her hand and squeezed it. "I
have to tell you what it was like being an only child
in the house with a man who hated me and my
mother and living with a mother who was
indifferent and sickly. All I had was Mama Jean. I
would have given my feet, arms and legs just to
know she was my flesh and blood and that she
loved me because she was supposed to and not
because she had a heart, because the people that
were supposed to love me didn't and that messed
with my head as a child," he whispered.
The scales fell away at that moment and
Willetta understood. She reached for him and he
leaned into her arms. They held on to each other as
the lost