Not from Vonetta.
From my aunt Delphine, my father’s sister, seventy-six, who I had not heard from in three years.
“Josiah.
Honey.
Vonetta called me crying.”
“I’m sure.”
“She says you’ve hired a lawyer against her.
She says you’ve been to see Clayton and got him agitated.”
“Aunt Del.
She told me he was d*ad.”
Silence on that line went nine seconds.
“She told me he was in a facility,” my aunt said slowly.
“She never said d*ad.
She said — she said you weren’t to be told because you were inside and it would only torment you.”
“I got out three weeks ago, Delphine.
She stood in the doorway and told me he was in the ground.”
“Oh, Lord.”
“Did you ever go see him?”
And my aunt — who is seventy-six and who I love — said the sentence that this family runs on.
“She said he didn’t do well with visitors.”
“Did you check?”
“…No.”
“Delphine.
He’s in room 108 at Halloway.
Visiting hours are ten to seven.
There’s a sign-in book at the front desk.
Fourteen months.”
She was crying.
“Can’t you just let the house go, Josiah?
You’ve been through so much.
Take your daddy and let her keep the house and walk away clean.”
