My Old Man Was Barnaby Jones

"I know Copas real well," he muttered to himself, a sad smile playing at the corners of his lips.

Memories of Kentucky flooded back, memories of his mother working nights at a Copa, her determination and fear mingling in every glance she cast his way.

Back then, his mother had been a cigar server, always careful to wear gloves and a mask to cover her skin.

She didn't want anyone to see the color of her hands or face, to know the truth that might jeopardize her job.

Tommy remembered how she would hide him in a box under a table in the change room for stewards. The box was cramped and dark, but it was safe. He would curl up inside, listening to the muffled sounds of laughter, music, and clinking glasses.

Sometimes, curiosity got the better of him, and he would quietly lift the lid just enough to peek through the keyhole.

He would watch the flurry of activity: waiters gliding between tables, guests in their finery sipping drinks and smoking cigars, the band playing smooth, jazzy tunes that seemed to make the room sway. It was a world of glamor and elegance, so different from his own.

Now, standing in this Copa, he felt that same mix of awe and trepidation. The room was dimly lit, with soft, ambient lighting casting a golden hue over everything.

He scanned the space, his eyes adjusting to the low light, and soon spotted Mr. Charlene sitting at a corner table, a briefcase by his side.

Taking a deep breath, Tommy walked over, each step measured and deliberate.

As he approached, he felt the weight of the memories of his mother, a small reminder of the resilience he needed to carry.

Mr. Charlene looked up, his face illuminated by the soft glow of a nearby lamp. He offered a kind but serious smile, gesturing for Tommy to sit.

Tommy slid into the chair opposite him, feeling the plush velvet against his damp clothes.

"Tommy," Mr. Charlene greeted him, extending a hand. His grip was firm, reassuring. "Let's straighten this out."

Tommy nodded, his mind briefly drifting back to those nights in Kentucky, hiding in a box, watching through the keyhole. His mother had always told him that the world was a complicated place, but that he needed to be strong and find his own way through it.

"So, your father, Barnaby Jones," Mr. Charlene began, his voice measured and professional, "as stated in the paper, had an apartment currently on rental, a big construction office building, and a—"

Mr. Charlene paused, his eyes flickering with something unspoken. He leaned back slightly, his demeanor shifting from businesslike to something colder, more calculating.

Tommy felt a chill run down his spine, sensing the change in the air.

"You know what, kid?" Mr. Charlene continued, his tone now laced with disdain. "Bullocks! You don't expect to inherit properties from a white man, being a Negro, do you?"

The words hit Tommy like a punch to the gut. For a moment, he was speechless, the weight of the insult hanging in the air between them.

The warmth of the Copa seemed to recede, replaced by the cold sting of reality. His father's properties, his rightful inheritance, were being called into question simply because of the color of his skin.

Tommy took a deep breath, his fingers instinctively reaching into his pocket to touch the dried maple leaf. It was a small comfort for a split second. He straightened in his chair, meeting Mr. Charlene's gaze with a newfound resolve.

"My old man was Barnaby Jones," Tommy said firmly, his voice steady despite the turmoil inside him. "He wanted me to have those properties. Don't matter what you think 'bout my skin color. The law's the law, and I got every right to claim what's mine."

Mr. Charlene's expression hardened, but Tommy didn't waver.

He remembered his mother's words, her determination to protect him, her belief in his future despite all the odds stacked against him. He thought of his father, a man who had left him a legacy, and of the promise he had made to himself to honor that legacy.

"I ain't gonna be dismissed that easy," Tommy continued, leaning forward slightly. "So let's straighten this out, like you said. 'Cause I'm gonna fight for what's rightfully mine."

"What do you think you are, kid? Where do you come from, just popping up claiming to be Barnaby's son out of nowhere?!" Mr. Charlene's voice was sharp, dismissive.

Tommy's heart pounded in his chest as Mr. Charlene's words lashed at him. The man's sneering tone and cold eyes made Tommy's skin crawl. He clutched the edge of the table, his knuckles white with tension.

Tommy's jaw tightened. "What do you mean, Mr. Charlene? My mama Margaretta sent me to you!"

Mr. Charlene laughed harshly, leaning back in his chair. "Well, go back to your goddamn mother and tell her you didn't see Mr. Charlene!"

Tommy blinked, stunned. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Yeah! Barnaby was a good ol' friend, and I know his kin when I see 'em. And you ain't one of 'em. He's white, you're black."

The words cut deep, but Tommy forced himself to stay calm. "I ain't takin' them kinda words 'bout my mama and me from you, Mr. Charlene."

Mr. Charlene's laughter was a harsh bark. "Haha, do you know who you're talking to, huh? You know what? Since you came all the way from Kentucky to Tennessee, I'll cut you some slack."

Tommy remained silent, his mind racing.

"Here you go," Mr. Charlene said, pulling a wad of cash from his pocket and tossing it on the table. "This here's bogus money for you. This should do."

He then took out a folded map, a letter with his signature, and a key.

"Here's a map, a letter with my signature, and the key to a small apartment. Take that letter to ol' Shan'titon High School, stay there for a while, and get some good grades. Afterward, let's talk about rights."

Tommy stared at the items on the table, his emotions swirling in a tumultuous storm. He didn't trust Mr. Charlene, but he also couldn't afford to walk away empty-handed.

His mother had sent him here with the hope that he could claim his inheritance, secure a future. The money and apartment might be temporary solutions, but they were a lifeline he couldn't ignore.

Slowly, he reached out and picked up the cash, the map, the letter, and the key. His fingers trembled slightly, but his resolve hardened. He wouldn't let Mr. Charlene's prejudice defeat him.

"Thank you," Tommy said, his voice steady and calm. "I'll handle what needs doin'."

Mr. Charlene's smirk didn't falter. "Good. Now get on outta here."

Tommy stood, pocketing the items, and turned to leave.

As he walked out of the Copa, the rain had lessened to a light drizzle, the cool drops mingling with the warmth of the neon lights. He glanced up at the sky, feeling the weight of the world on his shoulders but also a spark of determination igniting within him.

He wouldn't let Mr. Charlene or anyone else dictate his worth. He would prove them wrong, show them his strength and resolve.

And one day, he would claim what was rightfully his, not just for himself, but for his mother and his father's memory.