With her hand behind his head she clung to him, never wanting to let go. In a breath, he flipped her over and was on top pushing deeper. Don’t leave me, she thought. He was looking at her, his mouth open, eyes focused on her face. His baby blues watching her. Blue eyes, dirty blond hair and for a moment she felt panic. Was it his looks she loved, his classic all-American good looks, a hidden desire to have what society had claimed to be the epitome of handsome? Had she fallen for that? No. No, no, no. That wasn’t it. Yes, he was fine, but his heart was what had captured hers. His values. His beliefs. His laugh and sense of humor. His indifference to race. Yes. His acceptance of different cultures. Sure, he liked her skin tone, but he also loved her laugh, her views, her cooking. Their love was not about race.
He was slowing down, his eyes glazed and a grunt, deep, guttural escaped him making her toes curl. That noise she loved, so visceral and raw. His release, her satisfaction. Then he was still, his weight on her, his cheek against hers, his slowing breath tickling her ear. He kissed her temple, her cheek, her nose and looked at her, his eyes—those baby blues—full of laughter.
34
Charlene hadn’t argued against being escorted into Studio Theatre for the drama camp, but Kenya could tell from the way she walked a few steps ahead that her daughter would have preferred to be dropped off on the street like everyone else. Kenya just wanted to make sure Charlie got to the right place, that she was in safe hands. Though standing in the entrance, watching her daughter give her name to the camp counselor—who was checking attendees on a clipboard and directing kids upstairs—Kenya felt superfluous. Charlene gave a small wave and disappeared into the folds of the theater. Her daughter’s request to attend the two-week drama camp had surprised Kenya, but she thought it would be a great experience. Maybe get her out of her shell a little.
Kenya smiled at the counselor and slowly returned to her car, parked illegally on 14th Street. Fortunately, no ticket. She drove home knowing Junior was there and tried to calm her thoughts about his almost-arrest. Traffic stalled on River Road and she moved forward slowly before coming to a standstill on a slight incline. Must be an accident, she thought. She would talk to her son, but she must contain her anger. “They won’t talk to you if you shout and get angry all the time,” her therapist said. She wished Sidney hadn’t screwed things up and was home so they could talk to Junior together, as a team.
The car behind bumped into her. She groaned, put the car in park and got out ready to get insurance information and hoping for a straightforward encounter. The other driver exited from a beat-up Honda Accord, and Kenya’s shoulders tightened as the young man strolled to the slight gap between their cars. He had cornrows tight across his head, faint tattoos on his brown muscular arms, and his jeans hung low on his hips showing checkered boxer shorts. She took a step back as he approached, her arms stiffening at her sides. She imagined a gun stuffed into his waistband, illegal drugs hidden in his glove compartment, and waited for him to insult her and denigrate her wealth. He scowled as he inspected his bumper then faced her, squinting in the sunshine.
“Ma’am, you okay?” He waited a moment for a response then crouched down and ran his palm over the back end of her Mercedes. “This a nice ride right here,” he said straightening. “Don’t look like no damage though.”
Kenya looked at her car. He was right, not a scratch.
“You aiight?” He squinted at her and she stuttered a yes. “You rolled right back on me.” He chuckled revealing a flash of yellow teeth. “Thought you was trying to get outta the lane. This traffic’s a bitch.”
“I rolled back?”
“Yeah.” He cocked his head. “You sure you aiight?”
She was blinking at him and he was eyeing her, probably wondering if she was crazy, and she wondered if she was out of her mind. Traffic began moving again and the honk of a car jolted her. “Um, yeah . . . I’m good. Thanks. Sorry.” She scrambled back into her car and moved forward. There was nothing to be afraid of, yet she was afraid. Shame sprang up from her stomach and caught in her throat. She hadn’t even asked if there was any damage to his car. She swallowed a lump and turned up the A/C.
Fear. Fear is driving us all mad.
Junior was still in bed when she got home, so she enticed him downstairs with the promise of pancakes with fresh blueberries and syrup. When he was settled at the breakfast bar, she watched this burgeoning man-child, dark like his father, his height almost casting a shadow over her and she pictured him a few years from now, taller, bulkier, walking down a street, maybe wearing a hoodie, maybe with a tattoo, stopping to help a woman on the side of the road. She wondered what the woman would think of him, what she would see. A threat or someone offering help?
When he rested the fork on the empty plate and gulped his milk, she asked why he wanted to run away. He stopped swallowing but the glass remained at his lips then he continued gulping as if she hadn’t spoken.
“Junior, please. I just want to understand what happened.”
He put the glass on the counter and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Are you and Dad getting a divorce?”
“Is that what this is about?”
“Are you?”
She ran her fingers across her forehead. This wasn’t how she wanted to tell him, to tell her children. She and Sidney were supposed to sit down with them both and explain that . . . that what? That because their father was an asshole the family would be split up.
“Yes, I think so.”
Junior nudged his plate. “Why?”
Kenya stumbled. She hadn’t prepared what to say. “Sometimes . . . sometimes men and women can’t always get along. It doesn’t mean we don’t love you. That won’t change. We will always be your loving parents. We will always be here for you, no matter what.”
Junior wasn’t looking at her. His eyes were directed at the counter, his brow furrowed more than any child’s should be. Kenya wanted to take away his hurt and squirmed in her seat not knowing what else to say. “Running away won’t make anything better.”
“It would for Timmy.”
“What do you mean?”
Junior hesitated before responding. “He likes boys. And his dad says he’s, uh, an a—an abomination. Did I get that right?”
Kenya’s fingers found her mouth and her breath came sharp and fast. “That’s awful.” Though having met the boy’s father, it didn’t surprise her.
“We thought it was best to just run away so we could be together and—”
Kenya put her hand out, not quite touching his arm. “So you could be together?”
“Yes.” He was giving her that look as if she was stupid.
She felt her eyelids blinking. “You like boys, too?”
He looked away from her and said, softly, “Yeah.”
Anxiety rushed through her chest and she wanted to stop him, block the path he was on and turn him around, send him back and rethink his direction. He couldn’t be a homosexual. She would have known. He never played with dolls or liked pink things or wore girls’ clothes. He was always . . . normal. She moved her teeth from one finger to another, tugging at the skin around her nails. She’d find someone to help her, to make him see right. Boys shouldn’t like other boys.
Quietly, Junior asked, “Do you think I’m an abomination?”
She stopped nibbling, motionless, silent for several seconds then said the word “no,” but she believed homosexuality was a perversion. The grooves in his frown deepened and Kenya almost fell off her seat to wrap her arms around him. “Oh, Junior.” He felt the same. Smelled the same. Her son couldn’t be an abomination. God wouldn’t do that. Not to her. Not to her son. Silently, she prayed it was a phase. That he’d wake up tomorrow and realize that liking boys was wrong.
35
The violent images on the television screen horrified Bet. Cops in riot gear pushing back crowds of young black and brown bodies demanding justice. She watched as if compelled to. Curled on the settee in the den with her back t
o the kitchen, she smelled something hot and spicy wafting through the air. Charlene was on the floor with headphones covering her ears, watching a movie on her tablet, and Bet was glad she wasn’t looking at the TV. More protests were erupting around the country. Another young man shot by a police officer. A black teenager. A white officer. Armored tanks dispatched to control the mobs. Police barricades looking like they should be on a street in Baghdad. A queasiness caught in her throat.
Kenya fussed around the kitchen making dinner, some sort of pasta dish. Junior was outside on the patio sulking about something. And Ghana would be here soon. Her girls were worried because she was alone while Malcolm was off “finding himself.” Her cell phone rang, a cheery melody she had no idea how to change. She recognized Tripp’s number and quickly declined the call then fumbled with the phone to turn off the ringer. She didn’t need more pills; it had only been a week. Looking over her shoulder as if Kenya was about to appear behind her at any moment, she texted back that her daughters were visiting. She hit send then laid the phone on the coffee table, face down, afraid she’d be found out. The memory of him touching and kissing her flashed through her thoughts like a lighthouse that started working after she’d crashed on the rocks. She wouldn’t sleep with him again. She just couldn’t do it again.
Bet jumped as Kenya came up behind her saying, “This is unbelievable.”
“What?”
Kenya pointed at the television. “Another shooting. All these protests. It’s unbelievable.” Kenya took the remote and turned up the volume. The Reverend Curtis Bishop, the New York City pastor who’d been demanding justice and leading marches across the nation was, once again, charging police departments all over the country with racism. “This must stop,” he said, looking directly into the camera.
“I don’t want to watch it,” Bet said sharply. “We shouldn’t have it on around the children.”
“Oh.” Kenya paused then said, “Of course.” And changed the channel to a talk show. “So when is Daddy coming back? Why did he go to Florida?”
“Jesus Christ, Kennie, how the hell should I know?”
Her daughter looked as if she would cry and Bet closed her eyes. She wasn’t going to talk about Malcolm. She didn’t know who he was anymore. Kenya returned to the stove and Bet heard Ghana call through the house as she came in the front door. Kenya yelled back that they were in the kitchen, and Charlene jumped up shouting “hooray.”
All this yelling. Bet could do without it.
Ghana lifted her niece off the floor and spun her around, then settled next to Bet and presented a bouquet of colorful flowers. Pink carnations, yellow and purple gerbera daisies and orange roses. Bet was taken aback. “How pretty,” she said and sniffed at the blooms. Charlene ooohed, leaning in to smell the fragrance just as her grandmother had done. Bet held the bouquet as if she didn’t know what to do with it and Ghana smiled. “Mama, I want things to be better between us. Dad always says we have to take care of each other, and, well, I need to make a bigger effort.”
Bet acknowledged her daughter’s words with a nod, but wasn’t sure how to respond. She knew she was as much to blame as her daughter and needed to be a better mother, too. And she would. Soon.
“Here,” Ghana said taking the bouquet from Bet and returning to the kitchen. “Let’s find a vase.”
Bet got up and lingered in the archway between the den and the kitchen watching her daughters. Ghana was rummaging under the sink while Kenya nudged her out of the way so she could drain vegetables. They argued and laughed with each other and for a moment Bet felt like everything was normal. Malawi should be here. She should be a part of this. And Malcolm, he should be here, too. Bastard.
“Did you see the news,” Ghana said, placing the flowers on the fireplace mantel. She switched the TV to a news channel. “If these were white people flooding the streets, rampaging after a ball game defeat, the news would be calling them revelers or hoodlums. But black folks are called looters and thugs. It’s such a—”
“Turn it off,” Bet shouted. She took a breath and said, more softly, “I don’t want to hear it. We just buried our daughter. I don’t want to hear about any more death.”
Ghana turned off the TV and laid the remote on the coffee table. “Are we gonna talk about Malawi?”
“No.” Bet shook her head firmly. “I don’t want to talk about anything.”
“When are we going to talk about her? Yes, her death was tragic, but we can’t pretend it didn’t happen. Her story is part of a bigger issue happening across the nation. We’re a part of it, whether we want to be or not.”
Bet shrugged Kenya away as she tried to place her hands on her shoulders. “Ghana,” Kenya said, “just leave it.”
“There’s another march, here in D.C., on Saturday,” Ghana said. “I’m going to represent the family there. Mama, you should be there. You should come and show your support for all the black lives that have been taken.”
“All the black lives?” Bet said. “I don’t care about all the black lives. I only care about Malawi.”
“Then come for her.”
Bet just wanted to go back to bed. Cover her head and sleep. She was exhausted and unable to process what was happening in the world these days. So much violence. She took Ghana’s hands in her own and squeezed.
“Ghan-Ghan, you are strong, much stronger than me. Please understand. I just can’t. Not right now. But I . . .” She inhaled. “I love you.” She looked at Kenya. “I love you both. I don’t say it enough, but I do. You are both so beautiful. So much like your father. Please. Just let me be. For now. Okay?”
Ghana and Kenya exchanged a look. “Okay, Mama,” Ghana said, returning Bet’s squeeze.
“I’m going to lay down for a bit. I’ll eat something later.” Bet released her daughter and went upstairs. She took another sleeping pill and snuggled under the covers. She’d feel better after a nap.
Ghana looked up the stairs as if her mother would reappear and the image reminded Kenya of when they were little, when Ghana would sit on the bottom step waiting for Daddy to come home. When Malawi was old enough to walk, she would sidle up next to her and the pair would sit and chatter until, most often, Kenya dragged them upstairs to bed.
“Let her sleep,” Kenya said. “At least she knows we’re here and that we care about her.”
With a nod of agreement, Ghana returned to the kitchen. “I can’t stay too long. I promised Ryan I’d meet him later.”
“Can I talk to you about something?” Kenya turned off the stove and beckoned her sister to the settee. “Let’s sit.”
She ushered Charlene out to be with her brother, almost pushing her out the door despite the girl’s protests that it was too hot outside. Ghana eyed her suspiciously and asked if it was about Sidney. “It’s about Junior,” Kenya said. She checked to make sure the sliding glass door was firmly closed then sat next to her sister and began, “He’s . . .” Suddenly she felt strange saying the word, using it to describe her son. “He’s a homosexual.”
“People don’t really use that word anymore. Just say gay.”
Heat rose into Kenya’s cheeks and she swallowed a lump. “Okay. He’s . . . he says he’s gay.”
Ghana continued looking at her expectantly.
“He likes other boys,” she said.
Her sister laughed. “I know what being gay means.”
“You’re not shocked?”
“Oh, Christ, Kennie. He’s your son. He’s still our Sidney Junior.”
Kenya looked at the carpet and nibbled the skin around her thumb.
“Are you seriously upset?”
“Well . . .” Kenya could feel her cheeks burning hotter. “It’s not normal.”
“Nuh huh. We are not having this conversation. You are not going to sit here and speak bullshit about the gay community.”
“Men are supposed to be with women.”
Ghana raised her palm to Kenya’s face, and Kenya swatted her hand away.
“Di
d you just smack me?”
“I’m afraid for him,” Kenya said. “It’s bad enough being black these days without being . . . gay as well.”
“That’s not what’s bothering you. Admit it, you’re homophobic.”
“I am not.” She couldn’t hold her sister’s judging stare and feared her sister was right. She’d always thought of homosexuals—gay people—as abnormal. Sidney had said it was a choice people made to get attention. People have said they were gay but weren’t and said they weren’t when they were. Kenya wasn’t sure if it was a choice or genetic.
“But what do I do?”
“You can be a complete idiot, you know that?” Ghana patted her sister’s knee. “Just keep being his mother. Stop being judgmental. Accept him for who he is.”
Her sister went back to the kitchen and stuck a spoon into the pasta to taste it. Kenya followed her and leaned against the cabinet. “Is it my fault, you think?” she asked.
Ghana ate another spoonful from the pot. “This is good. Hey, should we be worried about Mama? You think she’s gonna be okay?”
“She’ll be fine.” Kenya looked back at the patio doors. “But do you think it’s my fault?”
“What?”
“Junior.”
Ghana stopped eating, tilted her head and slowly blinked at her, then finally said, “Half of me wants to pretend you’re not asking what I think you’re asking, and the other half wants to smack you.”
Malawi's Sisters Page 18