by J. J. Murray
“No.” Hope balled up her fists. “Yuh goin’ to tell me yuh weren’t considering a ménage à trois with my man? Yuh were, Kiki Rafiki. Yuh go be vex, nuh. Don’t piss me off today, Kiki! I’m happy!”
Kiki closed her mouth.
“This is the happiest I have ever been in my entire life!” Hope shouted.
Kiki smiled.
Hope frowned. “Check yu’self befo’ yuh skin yuh teet, Kiki Clarke! All skin teet eh laugh!”
Kiki bit her lip.
Hope stared. She is not about to laugh at me!
Kiki cackled. “And you sound so happy, too!”
Hope took a breath and stepped back. “I am happy.”
Kiki continued to laugh, slapping her hands on the counter, tears coming out of her eyes. “Me mek eyewata!” she cackled.
Hope smiled, bit her lip, and howled with laughter, falling back into her chair and shaking.
Kiki wiped her eyes. “I did not know you had that in you, Hope. I thought you were going to vank me.”
“So did I,” Hope said, breathing heavily. “I was about to give you some licks. I’m so sorry, Kiki.”
Kiki shook her head. “Do not be sorry. I deserved it for prying.”
“I don’t understand why I said all those things,” Hope said. “I’ve been holding it back for so long. I can’t believe it spilled out like that.”
“Why have you kept that ooman quiet?” Kiki asked. “She be a trip all de way fi de islands, mon. I am not sure which island. You were Bahamas, you were Trini. Maybe you are from them all.”
“I don’t honestly know why I went off like that,” Hope said. “It’s as if something flipped a switch inside of me.”
Kiki shook her head. “Oh, Hope. You know why. You have always known why.”
Hope nodded. “I have. I don’t know why I haven’t admitted this before. Kiki, I was ashamed. I was genuinely ashamed. I’ve been trying so hard to fit in here. I guess I wanted to sound American.”
Kiki laughed. “Even Americans do not sound American! Find me one person in Brooklyn who speaks American. Find me one person in America who speaks American. There is no such thing as speaking American. All of us, all of them, everybody—all of it is American. That is what America is for. America is for being who you really are and damn them all if they do not understand what you say.” She nodded. “You are a powerful ooman, Hope Warren. I would never want to be your enemy. It felt good, yes?”
It felt great! “It felt good to let go. It felt good to be . . . myself.”
Kiki stepped over to Hope. “Stand up, ooman.”
Hope stood.
Kiki hugged her tightly. “I am really beginning to like you, Hope.”
Hope held Kiki close. “I’m beginning to like me, too.”
Kiki stepped back. “Would Dylan approve of such talk?”
“I doubt it,” Hope said. “It might remind him of an old Bermudan girlfriend’s mother.”
Kiki’s eyes popped. “Dem da vurst!” She laughed. “He might like to hear your patois, but do not overdo it. You will scare him as you scared me.”
“You weren’t really scared, were you?” Hope asked.
“You are tall with longer arms,” Kiki said. “I would have been no match.”
“I wouldn’t have hit you,” Hope said. “Very hard.” She laughed. I’m laughing! Wow! I’m laughing at work! “I’ll stick to French with Dylan. He loves to hear me speak French. He’s even speaking Irish to me.”
“Because he is an Island man, too,” Kiki said.
Hope blinked. “You’re right.” I have never thought of him that way. Dylan is from de Islands, too, mon.
Kiki returned the stool to its rightful place. “You are really not going to tell me your secret, are you?”
“Me mus’ have bad ways ’bout dis, Kiki,” Hope said. “Just know that it’s really important, okay?”
“Too important to tell me?” Kiki poked out her lower lip.
“Yes,” Hope said.
Kiki laughed. “You really think I’m a sip sip?”
Hope nodded.
“I would only tell On-Gee and a few . . . hundred other people. You must call me Christmas Day with this news. I will not be the last to know.”
If I don’t show up for work for, say, the rest of my life, you’ll know, Kiki. “You won’t be the last to know.”
“Good,” Kiki said.
Now all I have to do is keep from slipping and telling Dylan for the next twenty-two days.
I can’t frig up the best present I may ever give!
DECEMBER 2
Only 22 more shopping days until Christmas...
Chapter 24
After feeding Dylan grilled cheese sandwiches and home fries and falling asleep to his massage by eight the night before, Hope was bright-eyed the next morning as she went through her routine.
She also remembered to bring Dylan his coffee.
Dylan met her with a bear hug inside the door of Kinderstuff. “Good morning.”
“Good morning,” Hope said, releasing her grip and handing him the coffee.
Dylan pointed at a plate containing two slightly burned pieces of toast. “Sorry, but they’re a little burned.”
They’re not burned. They’re charred. “What happened to my breakfast?”
“I can explain,” Dylan said. “I put Ramón in charge of your toast this morning. He has a crush on you, by the way. Anyway, the phone rang, and they must have popped up, and I think Ramón cooked them again.”
I’m still hungry, though. Cook me more. “Okay . . .”
“Aniya’s mama is the one who called,” Dylan said. “Hope, Aniya is going to have her transplant tomorrow.”
“That’s fantastic!” I hope Aniya returns quickly. She always cooked my toast just right.
“Her parents believe Aniya can be out of the hospital by Christmas,” Dylan said, sighing, “but that might be overly optimistic.”
“What do you think her chances are?” Hope asked.
“I wish I knew,” Dylan said. “I hope she’s home by then.”
“She will be.” This is the season for miracles. Hope kissed his cheek. “We’ll have to go visit her.”
Dylan nodded. “And we won’t go empty-handed. We’ll have to get her some gifts in case she has to spend Christmas in the hospital.”
“Just tell me when,” Hope said.
Dylan blinked. “You want to go shopping now?”
“Yes.” After you’ve made the biggest purchase in your life, the rest is un morceau de gateau, a piece of cake. “Could I have some toast that doesn’t look like a hockey puck now, please?”
Dylan and Ramón remade the toast, and it was as brown as Dylan’s brown brown eyes. Hope hugged Ramón.
Ramón giggled. “Hasta luego, Hope.”
“In English, Ramón,” Dylan said.
“No,” Hope said. “I understood you perfectly, Ramón. You keep singing that American.”
Ramón looked away. “Is not American.”
Hope knelt before him. “Anything you speak in America is American, and don’t ever let anyone tell you anything different.”
“Okay,” Ramón said. “Like your toast.”
“I will like my toast,” Hope said. “How do you say ‘Have a great day’?”
“Tienen un gran día!” Ramon shouted.
“Tienen un gran día!” Hope shouted back. I think I made him blush. She stood and kissed Dylan. “I’ll explain later. Ayez un jour grand.”
“Mol an oige agus tiocfaidh said,” Dylan whispered. “Praise the young and they will flourish.”
“You have beautiful thoughts,” Hope said. “Ciào!”
“And now you’re speaking Italian,” Dylan said.
“Nope,” Hope said, “I’m speaking American.”
As she walked to Thrifty, a poster took shape in her mind. She’d make a map of Brooklyn showing stick people saying hello in all the languages spoken in Brooklyn.
It’s going to be a h
uge poster! Since Hope had lived in Brooklyn, she had heard “heyello,” “oi,” “ni hao,” “hi,” “hey,” “yo,” “salem,” “allo,” “hallo,” “shalom,” “ciào,” “yow wah gwaan,” “salaam,” “hola,” “pryvit,” “qué pasa,” “jambo,” and “greetings.”
I know there are dozens of others, and at the top of the poster it will say “Brooklyn: American Spoken Here.”
She walked by people from all over the world every day, and they were all Americans. America is not a melting pot, Hope thought. It’s a stew, and we all add the spices. English may be the base of this stew, but the rest of us make it taste good.
After cutting hundreds of tiny snowflakes, drowning them in glitter, and pasting them to the front window at Kinderstuff, Hope found a way to walk Dylan past 1001 Flatbush Avenue.
“Exercise is good for my period,” she said. “I want to go for a long walk.”
“Okay,” Dylan said. “Where to?”
He’s so agreeable. Now what did I pass down there? A Burger King and a McDonald’s. “How about . . . McDonald’s?”
“Really?”
“I love their fries,” Hope said, “and we can walk through the park.”
Dylan pointed up Flatbush. “There’s a McDonald’s up the street from here.”
The Golden Arches are inconveniently everywhere! “I need to work up an appetite first. Let’s go.”
They walked down Flatbush and through the Grand Army Plaza and through Prospect Park, pausing to look through black iron fencing at the Prospect Park Zoo.
“Did you have a good day?” Dylan asked.
“Yes,” Hope said. “You?”
“I had trouble concentrating,” Dylan said.
“Why?” Hope asked.
“I was thinking about Aniya,” Dylan said.
“Let’s visit her this weekend,” Hope said.
Dylan kissed her cheek. “That’s one of the reasons I love you.” He looked up Empire Boulevard as they crossed. “There’s a McDonald’s up there.”
Wrong one. “I’m still not hungry. You?”
He shook his head. “I can wait.”
When they found the “correct” McDonald’s near Snyder Avenue, it was sandwiched between a Sprint store and Sleepy’s mattresses. Now I am hungry. I hope the service is more sprint than sleepy.
Hope was wrong.
It took fifteen minutes for their Big Mac meals to appear (“miraculously,” Dylan said) at the dirty counter, there were no condiments, and there were no clean tables.
The fries, though, were deliciously greasy and salty.
“Let’s go see how the Kings Theatre is looking,” Hope said.
They carried their bags and sodas a block south, and as they approached their oak tree, Hope noticed clean windows at 1001 Flatbush. She slowed and saw hardwood floors instead of carpet. Mr. Vacca has been busy! The floors need some polish, but otherwise—
Dylan was several steps ahead. “The theater’s up a bit farther.”
Hope nodded. And you’ve just walked past your future dream, Dylan Healy. We’ll catch it on the way back. That’s what happens with future dreams sometimes. You walk right past them without knowing it, and those dreams are often in the last place you look.
There wasn’t much to see of the Kings Theatre, four stories of scaffolding and tarps hiding the facade, the marquee only a metal shell of tubes and wires hanging above the sidewalk, the front windows heavily taped and soaped.
Dylan finished his Big Mac. “It looks tarpy, wiry, and soapy.”
“When’s it supposed to open?” Hope asked, stealing several of his fries.
“Soon,” Dylan said. “Maybe this spring. They think they can do two hundred live performances in there annually. Four thousand seats.”
“I want to be at the opening,” Hope said.
Dylan smiled. “So do I. It’s a date.”
She took his hand. “Let’s go back now.”
This time, Hope stopped and looked in the window at 1001 Flatbush. “I hear this one’s been leased.”
Dylan put his hands around his face and peered through the window. “How’d you hear that?”
“I’ve been looking online for you, Mr. Healy,” Hope said. “I saw this property on Craigslist. It was there one day, and it wasn’t there the next. I assume that means it has been leased. You ever look at this space?”
Dylan nodded. “Once. The guy wanted too much, something like twelve grand a month.”
Twelve thousand? I stole this building!
“Too much sentimental value, he said,” Dylan said. “Been in his family for three generations. Right.”
It’s about to be in our family, too. Sort of. “It has character, doesn’t it?”
Dylan shrugged. “Could be nicer inside for twelve grand. At least he got rid of the puke-green carpet.”
Dylan actually visited this space? “I wonder what’s upstairs,” Hope said.
“Two open floors, decent space,” Dylan said. “No light, though.”
“That isn’t good,” Hope said, her eyes wandering up to the bricked-in windows. “I wonder where people would park.”
“Parking lot’s on the other side,” Dylan said. “Not much of one. A few spaces. Ready to go?”
“Sure,” Hope said, taking his hand. “Twelve thousand, but right on Flatbush, though.”
“I’ll keep looking,” Dylan said.
It is so hard not to say anything! “Oh, you’ll find it, Dylan.” I’ll even hand you the key to it. “Besides visiting Aniya, what are we doing this weekend?”
“For Operation AHHH?” Dylan asked.
“Ah, yes,” Hope said. “You seem to need a little cheering up, too.”
“I’m fine,” Dylan said. “Really.”
She rubbed his back. “I know you are. So, what’s the plan, man?”
He pulled out his memo pad.
Hope laughed. “You’re kidding. You wrote it down?”
“I write everything down,” Dylan said. “I have hundreds of these memo pads in my apartment. In a few centuries, an archaeologist will excavate wherever these end up and piece together my life. I’m sure it will make the National Geographic.”
“Right.” She leaned closer to look at the page. “So what’s it say we’re doing?”
“Everything we can do in Brooklyn before Christmas given our work schedules,” Dylan said. “Your weekends are about to get very busy.”
On the first weekend in December, they took the B65 bus from Bergen and Washington to Smith Street in “BoCoCa” (Boerum Hill, Cobble Hill, and Carroll Gardens) to shop.
At Brooklyn Bead Box, Hope bought pounds of beads and stones and meters of string and wire for Kiki. “For when we’re not busy so I can keep her from getting into my business,” Hope said. “I mean, she’s already loud. Why not make her louder?”
Dylan bought Whack some cat toys at Beastly Bites.
“She won’t play with them,” Hope said.
Dylan didn’t think it would hurt.
At American Apparel, Hope picked out several Brooklyn hoodies in green and blue for Justin. “I have to do something to retire Justin’s purple belly shirt.”
Dylan pouted.
Hope bought him another hoodie.
In her size.
After eating shish kabob at Zaytoons, they went to Modell’s, where Dylan ordered a personalized Yankees jersey with “Pierre-Louis” and the number one on the back. “Aniya’s been asking for one for the last two Christmases,” Dylan said. “I already got her Yankees–Red Sox tickets, home side, first series in the spring.”
“What did that cost?” Hope asked.
“Why not get her some of these?” Dylan asked, pointing to a display of Yankees leather and platinum bracelets.
“That much?” Hope asked.
Dylan nodded. “I’m kind of hoping she takes us along, but she has a baseball-crazy family.”
Hope chose two different leather bracelets.
“Where to?” Dylan asked.
“Jay Street,” Hope said.
At W. C. Art & Drafting Supply, Hope priced drafting tables and found a nice set of charcoal pencils and several sketchbooks.
“Who are they for?” Dylan asked.
The drafting table is for me eventually. That kitchen table kills my back. “For Aniya the artist,” Hope said.
They wrapped Aniya’s gifts at Dylan’s apartment and took them in a cab to the Brooklyn Hospital Center, which was only a few minutes’ walk from Thrifty. I know where I’ll be on my lunch breaks until Aniya gets out.
Dr. Mishra, Aniya’s doctor, met with them and Aniya’s parents, Violine and Georges Pierre-Louis, in the pediatric ICU waiting room.
Hope hugged Violine. It’s like looking at an older Aniya. Violine has those big eyes, too. So pretty.
Georges shook hands with Dylan. “It is good to see you again.”
“How is she?” Dylan asked.
“She is very sleepy,” Violine said, “but she is doing well.”
Dr. Mishra, who was lithe and dark with a thin nose and long black hair, nodded. “She is still very weak,” she said with a slight English accent. “Try not to excite her too much.” She smiled. “Though I am sure you will. Presents! She will be so happy.”
“She has been asking about both of you,” Georges said. “She talks of no one else. Oh, she still talks about baseball.”
Dylan held up the bags of presents. “Is it okay to take these in?”
“After you show them to her,” Violine said, “we will take them home.”
“But—” Georges started to say.
“Georges, Aniya will open them at home on Christmas morning,” Violine said.
“You’re right,” Hope said. She took the bags from Dylan and put them in Georges’s hands. “Take them now. We don’t want her asking a million questions about them.”
Georges nodded. “She will do that.”
Aniya’s eyes were open when Hope and Dylan walked into her room, but just barely. Dylan took a seat near her bed as Hope approached the plastic tent around her.
“Hope,” Aniya whispered.
Don’t cry, don’t cry! There are too many lines and tubes around such a small child! She’s getting better, she’s getting better . . .
“Bonjour, Aniya,” Hope said. “Comment allez-vous?”