Daddy's Duck

Jamillah James meandered up and down the rows of the bookstore. She walked as if in a ritualized trance, seeking a sign from her father. But he had been dead for three weeks now and memorialized three days ago. She had played the role of the dutiful first born and managed the business of burying the dead and tying up a life that spanned seventy-seven years.

Now, there was only one task left – to clear out his office at the university – the place his body was found. The place where he last inhaled and exhaled life. The finality of the space loomed large and made her seemingly impregnable strength crack and waver. So, she meandered the aisles as she had done on so many afternoons with her father over the span of her thirty-three years.

An hour passed. And then another. Jamillah checked her phone and saw the dozen or so missed calls and texts – mainly from her mother. She sighed and adjusted the books selected and muttered:

“Can’t stay here forever.”

As she waited in line, she thought of the many times she stood with her father, Jackson James, in this bookstore and similar ones throughout the country. The space of a bookstore was, for Jackson, sacred sanctuary. It was a tradition passed on to both of his children but embraced more by his daughter than his son. Jackson had a way of initiating life altering conversations whispered in public spaces. Jamillah recalled that it was in this store that her seventeen-year-old self learned of her parents’ imminent divorce. These talks spilled over to parked cars with the details revealed while en route to the next destination. Jamillah learned early on that although Jackson was a devoted father, his commitment to everyone else was short lived. A harsh reality that her mother, Genevieve, never truly recovered from.

Jamillah’s attention phased back into the bookstore by the sound of two young sisters squabbling over a toy purchase; she smiled and unconsciously grieved the sister she never had. She averted her stare and her eyes landed on the display of the little black books. Moleskine. These books threaded her life. Her dad gifted them frequently to friends and family – always with the suggestion that major life moments deserved a written compilation throughout the process and, later, as a record to reflect upon.

Jamillah nodded her head and shrugged. If the death of one’s father didn’t deserve a few lines in a little black book, then what did? She grabbed a notebook and added it to the book bundle in her arms.

As she exited the store her eyes landed on yet another favorite of Jackson James’ – the free local magazine. During the last phone call between the two of them, Jackson had mentioned his pride in the revitalization of the West Side of their hometown by young, black entrepreneurs. He raved about the ‘mom and pop’ business displaying a wave of authentic talent. He had said he would send her a copy of the latest edition. However, Jackson was dead by the end of that week.

More than the memory of her dad, Jamillah’s steps toward the door slowed as her eyes met the eyes of the woman on the cover. She was striking. Deep, dark, chocolate, smooth skin was punctuated with grey eyes. Upon first glance, Jamillah’s brain paused to adjust to the clash between the expectation held for dark skin and the reality she saw before her. The grey eyes’ only competition was the multicolored pattern head wrap that hid her hair. It all collided and blended in a magnetic way. Jamillah grabbed the magazine and tossed it into her shoulder bag.

As she drove the twelve miles to the hometown university, Jamillah once again went over the checklist of items completed since her father’s death. It was an unspoken pact between the two of them and an understanding learned by the revolving women in Jackson’s life that Jamillah was the gatekeeper to Jackson’s material kingdom. Jamillah knew that her dad trusted her. She knew it was an honor bestowed and she cherished it. The contents of his cell phone and social media private chats gave her more details than a daughter would know of her father. Jackson was clearly a lover of words and women. In Jamillah’s eyes, he used them both to his benefit. Once the initial shock of reading the words and actions of a man – who happened to be her father – she accepted it all as insight into her father’s dynamic life. And now, with his permanent absence. She longed to know all that he was through the items left behind.

The reading of Jackson’s will and trust had been read after the cremation, but before the memorial service. Jackson had two ex-wives and a current widow, all of which had high opinions about the rank and status of their existences in Jackson’s life, and now his death. Jackson was well known for his passion in his pursuit of women and often had chronically overlapped the beginnings with the endings of grand love affairs. He was, however, logical and responsible in being a solid material provider for the women he decided to marry. His career pursuits mirrored the logic over the passion so that all phases of his life partnerships were respected during the final disposition of his material legacy. To Genevieve, the West Indian wife of his youth - and mother of his two children - he left a military pension. His second wife was Marina, a Haitian woman who had a passion for dancing and community activism. Jackson had drifted into love with Marina, her hips that carried a song of his soul, and the country of Haiti. All of this to the demise of his first marriage. To Marina, Jackson left complete control of the community center they had built in Haiti, and his personal retirement accounts from his social service career were gifted to the community center that bore his last name. Lastly, there was his widow, April Harris-James. Aware that pensions and 401k accounts were not a necessity to the daughter of a local beloved politician and real-estate titan, Jackson bequeathed all current property, cars, and ancillary bank accounts to his final bride.

To his children, he left a substantial life insurance policy, joint ownership of publishing royalties and all intellectual property. To Jayden, a classic collection of comic books – a shared hobby between the father and son that held together a tenuous relationship. To Jamillah, his extensive book and art collection amassed over decades of global travel. Jayden had arrived the day before the memorial services and departed the next morning, having shipped the comic book collection back to the military base upon which he lived and thrived. Jamillah had packed up her father’s home library the week after Jackson’s death. The office library was the last item on her checklist.

Jamillah stood in the doorway of Jackson’s office and was washed in a wave of overwhelm. Overwhelmed by the amount of time needed to pack up this space. ‘Why did I think this would only take a few hours?’ Overwhelmed by the reality that she stood in her father’s space. A space that he would no longer occupy. The finality of it all made her bones feel as if they were going to dissolve. Like she would turn into a liquid puddle at the threshold of his space.

She made her way to his desk, sat in his chair, and put her forehead on the desk. Jamillah exhaled air and tears and the tiredness in her bones. She cried and sank deeper into the leather chair and desk that still had the faint smell of her father, Jackson James. She cried and breathed and sobbed until the afternoon sun faded into the golden hour signaling sunset.

Eventually she sat up. Feeling a bit lighter at the release, she started to twirl in the swivel chair. The chair came to a stop, and Jamillah faced the massive collage of images. She turned on one of the desk lamps on the table below – a long, rectangular, shallow table that held a large, ornately carved, wooden box. The box was flanked by two lamps shaped like golden ducks. This shape mimicked the golden duck paperweight atop the box. Curious, Jamillah opened the box. Inside, a red envelope with two words in Jackson’s handwriting: For Duck. Jamillah’s brows furrowed. Upon further inspection there were actually four envelopes, all with the same two words. Jamillah opened the first envelope and found herself staring at cash, $20,000 in total. Beneath the red envelopes, three, little, black notebooks. Jamillah sighed loudly and her heartbeat accelerated. Perhaps all of her father’s business was not complete after all.

“Who is Duck?” She asked of the empty room.

Knowing that the little black books likely held the answer, she opened the first page in the first book and began to read:

Dear Duck,

I am sitting here wasting time wishing I had more time. More of you. More of us. If I play “When Will You Call” just one more time, I swear my people will need to take my ass to an asylum. But, as you said all of those years ago: “It was a perfect love affair, let us not ruin it with reality.”

Today, seeing that our island love oasis manifested into a beautiful flower ironically made me see the logic of your long-held wisdom. I love you, Duck. In and out of Time. You are my true home and permanent resident of my heart.

Jackson

Jamillah closed the book. “Who the hell is Duck?” She turned around in his swivel chair thinking through all of the women she had heard about – wives and love affairs. Clearly, Duck was a nickname. Unconsciously, her eyes darted over all of the small duck imagery interspersed with larger pieces of the goddess Isis, Orishas, and various other historical sacred symbols. Imagery coalesced with thought and Jamillah recognized the scope of the collection. The carved box with the golden duck atop. It was an altar. Hidden in plain sight. An altar for his love.

Jamillah dropped the little black book. It fell to the ground and dislodged the photograph tucked inside. She looked down to find herself staring at a face she had seen hours ago. A close up shot of deep, chocolate skin and striking, grey eyes. In this picture her hair was not wrapped, her locs framed her face. She had the same striking bare faced smile. The back of the picture had one word: Duck.

“Daddy’s Duck. Well I’ll be damned!”

Jamillah held the photograph in one hand and picked up the red envelopes with the other. Packing up her father’s office was no longer the final priority. It took less than 30 minutes for Jamillah to retrieve Duck’s name, Daphne Daniels, and restaurant location from the magazine article. She sent a quick message to Jackson’s secretary taking her up on the offer to pack up the office and ship the items to Jamillah’s home. Jamillah returned the little black books and cash envelopes to the box, adding the golden duck paperweight. Of course, she could sit here and read the books, but why do that when what she really wanted was to talk to Duck…Daphne Daniels. She figured the money would open any doors of initial resistance. She had no desire to keep the money. She didn’t need it. What she wanted was more information on the parts of her father’s life he had not shared with her. She wanted to meet the woman for whom her dad had built a shrine in his most sacred space. The woman with the striking eyes who broke her father’s heart.

As Jamillah pulled out of the university parking lot, the ornate box sat in her passenger seat. She had a 9:00 am flight home in the morning. But tonight, she had one final task.