Bunny Cried When the Rabbit Died

Arley was anxious. The main conference room of the auction house was spacious, yet full to capacity. The event had been well advertised and her item was one of the featured lots. Her pulse tripped up a notch when the little black book appeared on the large video screens flanking the dais, signaling the bidding for her auction was about to begin.

“Next we have a spectacular piece of Americana up for bid,” the auctioneer began in a distinct British accent that positively reeked of class.

“I bet he doesn’t have any student loans,” Arley thought. “Is college free in England?” she mused, mentally distracting herself from the tension of the moment.

“As stated in our program, the provenance of this marvelous item has been independently and positively verified as one hundred percent authentic,” the auctioneer interrupted her thoughts.

“Authentic, yes... No doubt,” she thought, agreeing with his assessment.

Momma had secreted away the pocket-sized address book for decades, her most precious possession. Arley had never gotten the straight story of how it had come into Momma’s hands, but her name was in the book, etched in tight blue script — Bunny Jackson — with just a phone number beneath it. It was obvious her mother had returned to that particular entry time and again, because when the little booklet was held freely in the palm of your hand it gently opened, half-cocked to that page.

Arley assumed there had been no necessity for an address because Momma lived at “The Mansion” for a time, but that didn’t explain how she had a separate phone line — that was a different story. Momma had been the first woman-of-color to don the rabbit ears and cottontail costume. She claimed her own mother had blessed her when she named her Bunny because it had made her a natural for the part, most assuredly playing into why she landed the gig in the first place. But when she got “knocked up” (that was the term she always used for it — knocked up), she had been asked to leave... Politely, tactfully, but in no uncertain terms.

“A quaint, yet poignant relic of America’s coming-of-age, this unique item embodies a cultural-historical turning point in the nation’s history,” the auctioneer continued admiring the little black book, snapping Arley back to the moment. “Can we start with one?”

Her heartbeat jumped up another level, because she knew that opening bid wasn’t for one dollar, but one thousand. She couldn’t bring herself to think of how much the program pamphlet had projected the auction might bring as a final price, in part because she found the figure simultaneously absurd and obscene.

“I’ve got one, can I get two?” the auctioneer relayed matter-of-factly, as though thousand-dollar increments were perfectly reasonable.

“Well, maybe this will take care of the student loans after all,” Arley thought hopefully.

Momma had scoffed when Arley opted to major in environmental science. “You gonna waste all those scholarships on something where there ain’t no sure jobs to be had?” she had implored. And though she knew her mother was secretly proud, she had showed pretty much the same reaction when Arley continued on to grad school in the same field (especially because that’s when the student loans had begun). It wasn’t until she was accepted overseas into the doctoral program at Australia’s prestigious National University that Bunny could no longer mask her gratification at her daughter’s mounting achievements. Arley once overheard Momma cooing to Auntie Jade on the phone, “Imagine, me startin’ out as a high school drop-out and cocktail waitress, and my girl’s gonna be a doctor!”

Arley supposed it was kismet that she wound up working with rabbits. Early on she had developed an interest in invasive species, and as life has a habit of doing, daisy-chaining one seemingly unrelated decision to another, she wound up researching the furry scourge of the Outback. Going to pursue her terminal degree firsthand “Down Under” was only natural. But five years of living rough in the bush plus another year of post-doctoral work had given her her fill, and the final straw came when she’d learned she was pregnant.

Arley talked with the father, a fellow researcher, about the pregnancy, but he’d shown little interest. When he asked, “So what are you gonna do?” she knew what that meant. It wasn’t that she found the idea of pursuing a man to support his child distasteful, so much as the prospect of fighting it out in a local family court against a native Aussie. Besides, Momma had been sick, and she knew it was time to go home. She was undecided whether she would ever tell the baby who her father was.

“I’ve got five thousand, can we try for six?” the auctioneer asked casually.

“Well, looks like you’re bringing us luck little one,” Arley whispered as she patted her round belly with a smile.

She hadn’t even started to show yet when she got home, but Momma knew right away. “What’s that glow about you girl?” she asked from her sick bed, looking like she had aged a decade in the past year. Eventually the ensuing conversation came around to, “You know who the daddy is?”

“Of course!” she snapped at her mother, and immediately regretted it.

Momma had always pretended she was unsure who Arley’s sire was, but Arley knew differently. All her growing up, she had looked at pictures of her mom’s former boss countless times, combing the images for a clue. And it was all so obviously there... The long roman nose that pushed through her own bi-racial genes so clearly. The pronounced chin and ears that the press loved to caricaturize. The straight-across eyebrows. Especially in his younger pictures, Arley was clearly her father’s daughter.

“We’ve got ten-thousand, anyone care to bid eleven... Can we get eleven?”

The auctioneer’s latest number snapped her out of her reverie, but he couldn’t hold her for long. It was as though her emotional charge was ramping up along with each new bid made in the plush hall. Many of the bids were offered only by the silent gesture of a numbered paddle, as quietly as Arley was forcing herself to appear externally. But for a couple employees of the auction house, no one in the whole room knew this well-pregnant brown woman was the owner of the small, preposterous treasure so many collectors coveted.

“Momma, I can take care of myself,” she explained, softening her earlier response, “And I can take care of my baby, too.”

After a long, penetrating look, Bunny patted her daughter’s hand and her gaze drifted away. “I know you can girl,” she said softly, “I know you can.”

It was too near the end for contention, and they both knew it. She had seen her mother then like never before. She saw all the years of struggle, the toil of raising a daughter on her own, never asking for or receiving any assistance from anyone. Arley never knew if her father had offered to help. She guessed he had, but that Momma refused it.

Bunny Jackson didn’t talk about him much, but whenever the subject of her former boss or “The Mansion” came up, she showed no bitterness, but only pride and perhaps even gratitude at the opportunity she’d received in being America’s first Black bunny. Yet Arley was never really sure about Momma’s feeling towards the man until they heard on the news that he had passed... Died at a ripe old age for the grizzled hare he’d become.

It was during the one visit Arley made home from Australia, before coming back for good. She had returned to celebrate getting her doctorate, and they were sitting together when the TV announcer said he’d gone. Momma didn’t say a word. She just got up and went into her room and didn’t come out again all day.

That night, nestled in the security of her old bed, Arley listened to her mother quietly weeping in other room.

“Fifteen... Can I get sixteen?” the auctioneer asked with genteel aplomb that struck Arley as entirely at odds with the nonsensical figure being offered.

It was barely a month after her mother had passed that Arley happened across the notice regarding the auction online, and it only took her a day to decide to sell Momma’s heirloom. It was the student loans that had tipped the balance. She’d landed a tenure-track teaching position at her undergraduate college, and not only was the administration okay with the newly appointed Assistant Professor Jackson being a single mom, they even offered great health and daycare benefits. But Arley wanted to start off with a clean slate financially, and she knew Momma would approve of the decision. Three months later, and here she sat in the auction house...

“Going once, going twice... And sold! For twenty thousand dollars, the little black book of America’s original playboy.”