{"id":349,"date":"2008-08-27T09:59:05","date_gmt":"2008-08-27T14:59:05","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.daysongreflections.com\/\/?p=349"},"modified":"2008-08-27T09:59:05","modified_gmt":"2008-08-27T14:59:05","slug":"the-making-of-isaac-hunt-by-linda-leigh-hargrove","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.daysongreflections.com\/?p=349","title":{"rendered":"The Making of Isaac Hunt by Linda Leigh Hargrove"},"content":{"rendered":"

<\/a>\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

It is time to play a Wild Card<\/span>!<\/strong> <\/span>Every now and then, a book that I have chosen to read is going to pop up as a FIRST Wild Card Tour<\/a>. Get dealt into the game! (Just click the button!) Wild Card Tours feature an author and his\/her book’s FIRST chapter!<\/p>\n

You never know when I might play a wild card on you!<\/em>
\n<\/span><\/p>\n

Today’s Wild Card author is: <\/strong><\/div>\n
Linda Leigh Hargrove<\/a><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n

and her book:<\/span> <\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

The Making of Isaac Hunt <\/a><\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

Lift Every Voice (June 1, 2007)<\/strong><\/p>\n

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:<\/h3>\n

\"\"<\/a>Linda Leigh Hargrove blends suspense, humor, and faith into compelling stories about race and class in America. Her writings include two novels: The Making of Isaac Hunt (June 2007) and Loving Cee Cee Johnson (September 2008). The former environmental engineer currently resides in North Carolina with her husband and three sons where she occasionally designs a Web site.<\/p>\n

Visit the author’s website<\/a> and her blog<\/a>.<\/p>\n

Product Details:<\/p>\n

List Price: $12.99
\nPaperback: 352 pages
\nPublisher: Lift Every Voice (June 1, 2007)
\nLanguage: English
\nISBN-10: 0802462693
\nISBN-13: 978-0802462695<\/p>\n

AND NOW…THE FIRST CHAPTER:<\/span> <\/strong><\/span>
\n<\/span><\/p>\n

Chapter One<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

Prologue<\/p>\n

On an ordinary afternoon in late October I discovered the truth about me. Like fire, that single truth stirred a hunger and created a hurt, but in the end it opened the door to a wholeness beyond my wildest dreams. All in all, I don\u2019t regret embracing that truth. I only regret the time I wasted in running from the freedom that came with it.<\/p>\n

I was planning to drive to Richmond that Sunday afternoon a few hours ahead of my parents. I told them I wanted to visit old school friends before our Sunday visit to the rest home where granddaddy stayed.<\/p>\n

\u201cI know it\u2019s kind of a last minute thing,\u201d I said, hoping it didn\u2019t sound like another one of my lame stories. \u201cBut I haven\u2019t seen any of them in a couple years.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOh?\u201d was mom\u2019s response. It had been a long \u2018oh\u2019. She had stared at me with those big brown eyes over her half glasses and brought her Eartha Kitt-like voice up a half dozen notches. \u201cSounds interesting, Isaac,\u201d she added like she expected to be invited along. Then she winked and said, \u201cGive Senator Holloman\u2019s daughter our love.\u201d<\/p>\n

Dad gave my hair a once-over, wagged his head, and grunted. \u201cBehave yourself. Your mother and I will meet you outside your granddaddy\u2019s room around two. Don\u2019t go trampling in bothering him before we get there. He needs his rest. You need a haircut. How can you even see to drive?\u201d He screwed up his brown face and went back to rummaging through his briefcase. Making preparations for upcoming meetings at the 4th Circuit Court of Appeals took front seat to his concern over his only son\u2019s dishonesty.<\/p>\n

Later, I had sat in the Alzheimer\u2019s wing outside my grandfather\u2019s room for over an hour waiting for the woman I had lied for. A single white rose in my lap.<\/p>\n

Her name was Rose. She had eyes the color of milk chocolate, skin like the choicest cream, and the pinkest lips. She was real and easy to be with. Every third Sunday for more than three months she\u2019d dodge work at the front desk and meet me on the bench outside granddaddy\u2019s room. We had a special spot in the woods.<\/p>\n

I closed my eyes and leaned my head back against the mud colored cinderblock wall and pressed the rose to my lips. Then I placed the rose on the seat beside me and linked my hands behind my head.<\/p>\n

Someone was walking toward me. The footsteps were muffled and slow. I kept my eyes closed, faking sleep. The footsteps stopped and someone poked me in the chest.<\/p>\n

\u201cWake up, Isaac,\u201d came the whisper.<\/p>\n

Another poke to the chest. \u201cIsaac.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cGood afternoon, Mr. Patterson,\u201d I said without opening my eyes.<\/p>\n

He snorted and moved in closer. I felt his warm breath on my cheek. \u201cWe\u2019ve been waiting all day, kid.\u201d<\/p>\n

He had been eating raw onions again. I coughed. \u201cI\u2019m not doing it anymore. That\u2019s what I told you last time, Mr. Patterson.\u201d I looked up into his blue-gray eyes \u201cIt\u2019s over. Remember?\u201d<\/p>\n

He stuck out his bottom lip and gave me a squinty-eyed frown.<\/p>\n

I shook the hair out of my eyes and looked at him hard. \u201cI\u2019m not doing it anymore.\u201d I waved my arms like an umpire calling a man out. \u201cNo more.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat do you mean, you\u2019re not doing it no more. Kid, it was your idea.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWell, it was a bad idea. And I don\u2019t want to do it anymore. Besides, they know.\u201d<\/p>\n

Mr. Patterson sat down beside me and placed his silver cane across his lap. He stroked it with the heel of his hand. His age spots looked like coffee stains on white china. \u201cThey don\u2019t know a thing we don\u2019t let them know.\u201d<\/p>\n

He looked at me sideways and winked. \u201cYou know what I mean, bro.\u201d<\/p>\n

I couldn\u2019t help but laugh. Little white men with canes should only say the word bro if they want to be laughed at. \u201cThey know.\u201d I winked hard and tipped my head toward the surveillance camera down the hall.<\/p>\n

\u201cPlaying checkers,\u201d he whispered, \u201cThat\u2019s all they think we\u2019ve been doing. Nobody has to know it\u2019s anything more.\u201d<\/p>\n

The squeak of a wheel cut Mr. Patterson short. He was looking over my shoulder with wide eyes. The scent of cheap aftershave rose around me.<\/p>\n

\u201cYes, Isaac. It\u2019s just a friendly game of checkers,\u201d said the voice behind me.<\/p>\n

I turned and nodded to the thin clean-shaven man in a wheelchair. \u201cGood afternoon, Mr. Smith. Getting a little exercise?\u201d I forced a smile. Sweat glistened on the loose skin of his neck. There was a bead of sweat on his upper lip that made his face look dirty. His eyes, as pale as mine, sparkled irony.<\/p>\n

He was pulling at his black leather biking gloves. For a few seconds I couldn\u2019t take my eyes off them. That\u2019s when I noticed what he had tucked in the folds of the blanket spread across his legs \u2013 an envelope marked I. Hunt.<\/p>\n

Mr. Smith finished looking me up and down then nodded back at me. \u201cMr. Hunt.\u201d Then he gave Mr. Patterson a smile that did nothing to warm the air and barked, \u201cBye, George Patterson.\u201d<\/p>\n

Mr. Patterson stood and gulped. \u201cAfternoon, Mick,\u201d he said and left.<\/p>\n

Mr. Smith stared at me some more. I stared back some more.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019re quite the young entrepreneur for a shaggy-headed college student, Isaac Ulysses Hunt.\u201d He jerked his head toward my grandfather\u2019s door. \u201cOld Ulysses would be proud.\u201d<\/p>\n

I glared at his white face then clenched my teeth and looked away.<\/p>\n

He wheeled himself closer to me and lowered his voice. \u201cThey don\u2019t know. That note you received came from me.\u201d<\/p>\n

I looked at him. He was a thin pasty old man. His Aqua Velva or whatever it was was starting to burn my eyes. The insulated shirt he wore only concentrated the aroma. His blue eyes were set back under a heavy brow with wild salt and pepper eyebrows. He narrowed those eyes and smiled at me. I looked away.<\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s a very nice rose you have.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat do you want from me?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWant?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYeah. This is where you ask me for that little favor so you can keep my little secret.\u201d<\/p>\n

He sighed. \u201cIf I wanted to black mail you I would have done it a long time ago. Besides it was kind of interesting watching you operate. Getting all these old white folk to trust you with their money. It beat Bingo and reruns of Diagnosis Murder, that\u2019s for sure. What\u2019d you do with the money?\u201d<\/p>\n

I stared at him. That\u2019s for me to know and you to find out. My turn to narrow my eyes and smile.<\/p>\n

His smile faded. \u201cDoesn\u2019t matter, I guess. Push me.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m waiting for someone.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cRose? She\u2019s not coming.\u201d<\/p>\n

I frowned.<\/p>\n

He glanced down the hall past me. \u201cI\u2019ll tell you outside. Just push me, Isaac. Too many eyes here.\u201d<\/p>\n

I laid the rose across the back of his headrest and I pushed.<\/p>\n

Mr. Smith directed me toward a back entrance and down a wide leaf-littered path to a clearing with stone benches overlooking a small pond. Dry leaves rattled in the breeze. A few squirrels frolicked on a log nearby. I knew the spot well. It felt empty without Rose.<\/p>\n

Mr. Smith shifted in his chair and reached under his blanket. He pulled out a half empty bottle of whiskey.<\/p>\n

\u201cHere, hold this.\u201d<\/p>\n

I took the bottle and sat on the bench beside his chair.<\/p>\n

He reached under his blanket again and pulled out two crinkled paper cups. He handed me one and took the bottle back. His clammy white fingers brushed mine. I flinched.<\/p>\n

\u201cHold your cup closer.\u201d<\/p>\n

And you\u2019re against me gambling? I almost said. I rolled my eyes and placed the empty cup on the bench beside me.<\/p>\n

\u201cI take it you don\u2019t care to drink with me then.\u201d<\/p>\n

Mr. Smith shrugged and screwed the cap back on the bottle before tucking it under his blanket again.<\/p>\n

\u201cI need to get back. My parents should be here soon.\u201d Upsetting my parents was only a distant thought, I still had Rose on the brain.<\/p>\n

\u201cShe\u2019s not coming back, Isaac. Rose, I mean.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019re repeating yourself. How do you know that anyway?\u201d<\/p>\n

He slumped and looked out over the pond. \u201cYesterday, Rose and I sat here and we talked about you.\u201d<\/p>\n

I frowned at him.<\/p>\n

\u201cRose was my daughter.\u201d<\/p>\n

I couldn\u2019t help but gape.<\/p>\n

He shrugged and with a smirk said, \u201cShe got her mother\u2019s looks.\u201d<\/p>\n

Mr. Smith shifted in his chair and gulped the rest of the whiskey in his cup. He poured himself another and continued. \u201cShe\u2019s a bright girl most of the time but put her in the same room with a handsome face and a single white rose and she turns into a na\u00efve flighty little thing. I asked her what she knew about you. Your work. Your family. She said she thought you were in finance and came to visit your mother every month.\u201d He looked at me.<\/p>\n

I winced. \u201cWe haven\u2019t exactly talked about …\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cShe said she thought your mother was the widow Inez Hunt, a white woman that lives across the hall from me.\u201d<\/p>\n

I winced again.<\/p>\n

\u201cThen she went on and on about you. Your clothes. Your car. Your looks. \u2018He has the most exquisite coloring, daddy.\u2019 That\u2019s what she said.\u201d<\/p>\n

Exquisite? She was one for strange words.<\/p>\n

He shook his head. \u201cThat\u2019s when I knew I had to tell her my little secret. Though I knew as soon as I opened my mouth that she\u2019d do the same thing her mother did ten years ago. Leave me.\u201d<\/p>\n

He hung his head and stayed quiet for several minutes. He coughed and ran the back of his hand across his top lip. I stood up. Rose was a wash and I didn\u2019t want to hear the rest of what this old white man had to suggest about me. \u201cMr. Smith, I \u2026\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou know what passing means, Isaac? Passing for white, I mean.\u201d<\/p>\n

A stiff breeze blew between us. I pulled the collar of my pea coat in tighter and leaned over him. \u201cI\u2019m not trying to pass, Mr. Smith.\u201d<\/p>\n

He tucked his cup and bottle away and stuffed his hands under the blanket. \u201cMy daddy was about like your folks. Real fair. My mother she could have passed. But she didn\u2019t. She was a proud woman. Proud to be black. When I was seventeen, they were both killed in a car accident. Daddy\u2019s brother took me in. I graduated high school. Enlisted Army. Did nine months in Korea. That\u2019s where I was wounded.\u201d He pointed at his legs. \u201cAnd that\u2019s where I discovered the benefits of passing. I came back. Conveniently forgot my uncle\u2019s address. Fell in love with a white woman. Married her on her daddy\u2019s front porch overlooking the Chesapeake. Had our lovely Rose. Made a nice living passing for white.<\/p>\n

\u201cMy sweet Leslie thought the sun and moon rose and set at my command till the day my uncle shows up and I have to tell her my little secret. She took Rose and left. All these years I thought she\u2019d told Rose. Yesterday, when I realized Rose didn\u2019t know \u2026<\/p>\n

He shook his head and ran a shaky hand through his thinning hair. \u201cYou know what your granddaddy told me one day? He said \u2018A lie is a lie is a lie. No matter how pretty you tell it or how long you live it, it\u2019s still a lie and in the end when it\u2019s brought to light, it breeds misery.\u2019 Right out of the blue. That\u2019s what he said. I was sitting in his room playing old Al Green and he kinda woke up and came to his senses just for a few seconds.\u201d<\/p>\n

He glanced at me and stopped short. I was trying hard not to roll my eyes. I\u2019d heard that lie line many times from my grandfather. It was as tired as Mr. Smith\u2019s blanket.<\/p>\n

\u201c\u2018I\u2019m not black, daddy.\u2019 That\u2019s what my Rose said before she left me.\u201d<\/p>\n

He stretched out a hand, palm down, and looked at it. His hand started to tremble and he caught his breath. Tears dropped into his lap. I looked away then turned to go.<\/p>\n

\u201cIsaac. Wait.\u201d<\/p>\n

He handed me the envelope, \u201cFrom Rose.\u201d<\/p>\n

I took it and stood there for a few seconds. Looking at that wilted rose and the shrinking old man. I remember thinking as I shifted on my cold feet that this talk had really been more for him than for me. It was obvious he didn\u2019t care any more for me than the man in the moon but he needed to say these things to unload some guilt. He was old and guilt ridden. I knew the truth about who I was. I wasn\u2019t living a lie, I told myself.<\/p>\n

Man, I couldn\u2019t have been more wrong.<\/p>\n

# # #<\/p>\n

\u201cWhere\u2019s Betty\u2019s boy?\u201d came the scream a second time. It was my grandfather\u2019s voice a few thousand decibels louder than anything I had heard coming out of him in a coon\u2019s age, as he would say. And it was certainly louder than anyone at Glenbrook Rehabilitation Center would appreciate.<\/p>\n

I chuckled and said something about his medication needing adjusting as I entered granddaddy\u2019s room. My parents weren\u2019t amused. Dad was hovering over his father\u2019s bed. Mom was standing near the door wringing her hands.<\/p>\n

When I walked in she pushed me back and pointed to the bench outside the room and said, \u201cSit.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI want to see Betty\u2019s boy.\u201d came another yell. \u201cCan\u2019t a dying man have a last request?\u201d<\/p>\n

Last request?<\/p>\n

I pushed past my mother. \u201cNo, Mama. I want to talk with granddad.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIsaac \u2026\u201d my father started, then muttered, \u201cChloe, honey, stop him.\u201d<\/p>\n

Granddaddy\u2019s eyes widened. He smiled and stretched his yellowing brown arms toward me. \u201cThere\u2019s Betty\u2019s boy. Come give me a hug, Isaac.\u201d<\/p>\n

I studied the old man from where I stood. His light brown eyes didn\u2019t look like they had three months ago \u2013 wild and glassy like those of an animal in pain. During that visit, he\u2019d talked endlessly to an invisible person named Mimi. The woman, I found out later, had been his secretary for a few months during his many years at the Department of Justice in D.C. Their affair had lasted for several years.<\/p>\n

\u201cGuilt will do that to a man in his last days,\u201d Ricky Hunt, my father the wise judge had pronounced on the ride back to Raleigh.<\/p>\n

Granddaddy had on one of those 9\/11 tee shirts with a large bald eagle and flag enfolding the Twin Towers, and the words \u2018In God We Trust\u2019 across the top. I stared at it for a few seconds, not sure what to make of the words. God and Granddaddy? I chalked it up to another slip in reality for him.<\/p>\n

I glanced behind me to where my parents stood \u2013 their eyes stretched wide. Dad shifted toward me a bit but stopped short when his foot hit the corner of a bulging duffle bag propped against the wall.<\/p>\n

My mind went briefly to Mr. Smith out there crying in the woods. Racked with guilt and regrets. Weighed down with the burden of lying all his life.<\/p>\n

What kind of burdens were weighing on my grandfather I wondered?<\/p>\n

I stepped closer to the bed. His blue bathrobe, the one I had given him when I was twelve, was stretched over his thighs. I placed my hand on the worn terry cloth and leaned in. \u201cWho\u2019s Betty, granddaddy?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYour mama, Betty Douglas. She lives in North Carolina. In Pettigrew.\u201d<\/p>\n

The two adults behind me descended on the old man like an ER team, doing everything but cover his mouth with their hands. Looking back on that day, I think if they hadn\u2019t been so obvious I wouldn\u2019t have gotten so suspicious. I would have marked it up to another Mimi incident. Maybe he had had more than one tryst. He was a handsome old guy with those eyes and that square jaw, and probably had played the field as a younger man.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s going on, Chloe?\u201d asked granddaddy. His body fell back onto his pillow and he gasped, \u201cGood Lord, help us all.\u201d<\/p>\n

Ulysses Hunt, the man I had grown to love and trust and learned to call Granddaddy Ulysses, died the next morning. Two days later, I hired a private investigator to help me find this Betty of Pettigrew.<\/p><\/div>\n

<\/embed><\/object><\/p>\n

MY REVIEW:<\/h3>\n

I began reading The Making of Isaac Hunt<\/a> with no preconceived expectations as Hargrove was an unknown author to me. I have since learned that this is her first novel. Wow – quite impressive for a first novel!<\/p>\n

Isaac Hunt has always felt caught between two worlds – too white for the blacks and too black for the whites. When his dying grandfather reveals the name of his birthmother and her location, Isaac began a quest to find out his true identity. As he gets closer to finding the truth, Isaac discovers that nothing is as it seems and that someone desperately wants him out of the way.<\/p>\n

The Making of Isaac Hunt<\/a> is a book about a small town riddled with rascism and those of both races who have taken a stand against it. It is a story of both love and unbridled hate; desperation and redemption. The Making of Isaac Hunt<\/a> is filled with twists and surprises around every corner, action and suspense. But most important, it is a book that will make you stop and think.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

It is time to play a Wild Card! Every now and then, a book that I have chosen to read is going to pop up as a FIRST Wild Card Tour. Get dealt into the game! (Just click the button!) Wild Card Tours feature an author and his\/her book’s FIRST chapter! You never know when […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_et_pb_use_builder":"","_et_pb_old_content":"","_et_gb_content_width":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[8],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-349","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-books"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.daysongreflections.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/349","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.daysongreflections.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.daysongreflections.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.daysongreflections.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.daysongreflections.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=349"}],"version-history":[{"count":4,"href":"https:\/\/www.daysongreflections.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/349\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":356,"href":"https:\/\/www.daysongreflections.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/349\/revisions\/356"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.daysongreflections.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=349"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.daysongreflections.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=349"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.daysongreflections.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=349"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}