“Well, he’s a handsome young man,” Jada says with a twist of the lips. “Let’s just leave it at that. Reminded me of your brother sometimes.”
“Which one?”
“Manny.”
Immanuel. The womanizer.
The one who had broken Jada’s cousin’s heart over and over again, until he finally, and through no fault of his own, broke it irreparably.
Dee was dead now. She had OD’ed while Ibrahim was in prison, dying in a flophouse in Woodland after having picked up a drug habit in the late nineties that she battled on and off ever since. The onset of her addiction came shortly after Immanuel was shot and killed in a drive-by in Elmhurst. Four other young men in his set had died that night in what came to be referred to in the press as a “massacre.” But by then, Oakland had grown both accustomed to, and weary of those kinds of murders.
Ibrahim and Jada had been married for a few years when it happened, and at the time he hadn’t had much contact with his father and brothers, wanting to shield his wife and young son from their lifestyle. When he went to the funeral, he insisted that Jada stay home with the baby, even though she wanted to go. It wasn’t uncommon then for even funerals to turn into bloody, violent affairs, and Ibrahim wasn’t convinced that his brother who had lived a noisy, messy life, would have a peaceful homegoing service.
But the event had been a solemn one. His father and Zac both cried openly. And Dee was there being held up on either side by two of her friends. She looked like a shell of her usual beautiful, vibrant self. Her eyes were bloodshot and dry, and empty, her black dress askew, and her hair, barely presentable. Ibrahim had only seen her occasionally after that day, and only in passing. She had never come back to herself ever again.
When Ibrahim thinks of Immanuel it is with sadness, and with love. Despite whatever else he had done, and been, Manny had been a loving brother and Ibrahim missed him still. And when he thinks of Immanuel, he sometimes thinks also of Dee who, despite all her drama had loved his brother, just as he had loved her. There was no question that they had loved deeply, they just didn’t know how to love each other well.
“Kaleem was like Manny, huh?” Ibrahim gives a short laugh. “That couldn’t have been good.”
“He course-corrected,” Jada says, shrugging. She looks him directly in the eye. “He had a strong foundation for that.”
Ibrahim says nothing, but reaches for his mug, now only half-full of tepid and stale coffee. He sips from it, nevertheless.
“I know you don’t entirely believe me,” his wife says, lowering her voice. “But it’s true. He isn’t who he is in spite of you, Ibrahim. He is who he is because of you.”
“I know I planted some seeds. I believe that. But hard to take credit for the man he is since I wasn’t around when he became one.”
“Well, you should take credit. At least some. And there’s no point now, regretting the choices you … the choices we made.” And when he looked up, Jada nodded. “Yes. We. Because I was part of it, too. Agreeing that he wouldn’t see you while you were away. Don’t tell me you’re second-guessing that … after all this time, and when we’ve made it to the finish line with him.”
“Depends on the day you ask,” Ibrahim says. “Sometimes it seems like I had no other choice. Other times …” He sighs. “Other times I regret it every waking minute. That Kaleem is in some ways a stranger to me. That you are sometimes as well.”
At that, Jada’s eyes open slightly wider. She leans in.
“Me too? You feel like that about me as well, Ibrahim?”
“Well, you’re different since …”
“We both are!”
The vehemence of her response takes him aback, and it must have been apparent on his face, because Jada leans back, and her tone softens.
“You feel like I’m a stranger, Ibrahim? Like … what? You don’t know me anymore?”
“Let’s just be real, baby. Don’t you sometimes feel …?”
“Like you’re a stranger?” Her voice is shrill as she says the last word, as though it’s something unspeakable. “No. Never a stranger. Never that. Have we changed? Yes! But …”
Her voice has grown thicker, and Ibrahim sees in her eyes the beginnings of unshed tears. He reaches for her hand.
“Let’s call Kaleem and Asha,” he says. “Take a ride over to see our young warrior.”
At the moniker that Ibrahim has adopted from his son, Jada rolls her eyes.
“Not you too with that ‘young warrior’ stuff. I told Kaleem I don’t like when he calls him that.”
“He’s just preparing him for the world he’s going to face.”
“I don’t want him to face the world thinking he’s going to be fighting every step of the way,” she says, her expression pensive. “I’m hoping it’ll be different for him.”
“I hope so, too,” Ibrahim says, nodding. “But I fear that it won’t. So, his father’s gotta make sure he’s ready. If he needs to be.”
This philosophy was one he and his wife had discussed when Kaleem was still small. There were values they had to teach him, drill into him until they were second nature.
Self-sufficiency.
Resilience.
Strength.
Integrity.
Cultivating and holding on to those qualities were the toughest battlefields for Black men. Ibrahim knows all too well how tempting it is to bend rules and cut corners when the world is doing you no favors. He had considered it his fatherly duty to make sure his son was ready to fight on all those fronts. He considers it Kaleem’s duty now.
“So, should we go?” Jada asks, pointedly changing the subject. “Drive on down to see our grandbaby?”
Ibrahim nods, acquiescing to her will to move on from what is to her a difficult subject.
“Yup. Call ‘em and let’s ride.”
~~~
Ibrahim takes the wheel, and Jada is happy to have him do it. The drive isn’t a very long one, or rather, it is long though not far away. Kaleem and Asha live in a small, charming bungalow near the university. The housing is subsidized by Kaleem’s sponsors, who also pay for a significant portion of his family’s living expenses. His MBA, which is almost complete, is on hold until after the Olympics.
Asha, also, does not work. Kaleem was insistent after Anwar was born that she take a year with the baby. It reminds Jada of how Ibrahim was. They couldn’t afford for her take a year off, and though it was early in their marriage, it was among the toughest times for them as a young couple as well.
Ibrahim had been withdrawn almost all the time, and short with her. He went for long runs and returned in no better humor than he had left.
What’s the matter with you? Jada remembered screaming at him one evening after a ‘short run’ in the afternoon ended up with him returning after dark. Do want to leave us? Is that it?
She was standing in their small living room, holding a crying Kaleem, getting up from her vigil on the sofa just so she could be sure to confront Ibrahim the second he came in.
Is there someone else? Do you not want this family anymore? she’d demanded.
She would never forget the expression on his face. He seemed to blanch—if someone with his dusky complexion could do such a thing—and then he sank to the seat nearest him.
No, he said, eyes wide. He sounded almost breathless from shock at what she was suggesting. Baby. No. Never. Why would you think …?
Then he stood again, and took his son, carefully, gently from her arms, as if in asking that question she had proven herself mentally unsound and so it was safer for him to hold the baby.
Jada, I would never, he repeated. Of course I want you. Of course I want this family. I would never …
Then what? she implored. Why are you being like this? Why do you keep running off and … leaving us?
She was only just twenty-one that year. A scared new mother, hormonal and overwhelmed. Her parents made it clear that they thought she and Ibrahim had married too soon, and too young, so Jada w
asn’t inclined to ask for their help aside from occasional babysitting, and prove them right.
Besides all that, she felt fat and unattractive. Ibrahim’s distance only made that insecurity worse. Even if he had reached out to her for sex, she was too tired from long hours working; and disappointed to have to drop her infant son off with a questionable local daycare provider to go work a low-paying job that didn’t even seem worth it.
I feel like I’m messing this up, Ibrahim confessed. He was bouncing from side to side, instinctively trying to calm Kaleem. Like I’m failing you. I can’t even take care of my family … take care of you.
Jada still recalled how he looked standing there, holding their son. His face was drawn, almost tortured.
I just need you here, she said, going to him. I don’t need a whole bunch of stuff, Ibrahim. I just need you.
And even when she wrapped her arms around him, holding him close with their baby between them, she felt that her reassurance had eased his mind for the moment, but ultimately wasn’t going to be enough.
Looking over at him now, she feels the same way. He said he was against the ropes, and lost, and she told him it was fine, and that he always found a way for them. Always. That was who he was. She had reassured him. But now, like then, she didn’t truly believe her reassurance was enough.
17
Now
“Perfect timing.”
Kaleem is just about to leave the house when Ibrahim and Jada arrive. Ibrahim can’t remember the last time he saw his son in anything other than running gear, and today is no different. Though it is warm out, he is wearing running tights and a long-sleeved thermal shirt. A pedometer is strapped to his upper bicep.
“C’mon, do these five miles with me,” Kaleem says, clapping his father on the shoulder, and they hug briefly.
Ibrahim feels as well as sees his son’s strength. And maybe because Jada made the comparison earlier, he is seeing his brother Immanuel in his son’s features today. There is the same sharply squared-off jaw, the nose with strong ridge, a slight bump in the middle, the thick, perfectly symmetrical lips.
Manny was the handsome one. The one most likely to draw eyes and make girls just about stand at attention when the Carter boys entered a room. Like Kaleem, Manny always had smiles and charm at the ready, seducing his way through life’s rockier patches. Until the night he met the bullets, and the shooter impervious to seduction.
Ibrahim thinks now that he would have liked to see his brother and his adult son get to know each other. That would have been something.
“I called and told you we were coming,” Jada says, giving her son a hug. “How long are you going to be gone?”
“Five miles, so about thirty minutes tops.”
Kaleem towers over his mother by several inches. It fills Ibrahim with pride to see it.
“Ash is back there waitin’ on y’all with the baby,” he continues. “But Pops, you should come with me. Loosen up those old bones.”
“I can still give you a run for your money, young blood. Believe that.”
Kaleem laughed. “C’mon prove it then. Lemme get you some kicks. And I got some shorts you can borrow. If you can, you know, fill ‘em out.”
“Oh, he can fill them out,” Jada says.
Kaleem groans and turns to head back inside, calling for Asha.
Moments later, Ibrahim’s daughter-in-law emerges from the bedroom, wearing a long, flowy, sleeveless dress. Anwar is on her hip. Her face brightens at the sight of them, and hugs and kisses are exchanged. But the star of the show is Ibrahim’s grandson.
It hasn’t been that long since they saw him last, but he’s changed a little more, turning a shade or two darker, and his hair, more massive, curlier, and with a hint of the same auburn shade as his mother’s.
His eyes brighten with curiosity when he sees there are guests and when Jada reaches out to take him, he goes to her willingly, succumbing to her kisses. Only occasionally does he glance at his father, making sure all is well. Ibrahim kisses him on the top of his head and inhales the baby scent that for a moment takes him back a couple of decades to when he was a new father.
“Babe, we gon’ do these couple of miles and then we can go check out that thing you were talkin’ about,” Kaleem tells Asha.
“What thing?” Jada asks. “We’re here to visit with you guys for the afternoon.”
“It’s just a street festival and craft fair,” Asha explains. “We thought we could all go after Kal’s run. Is that okay?”
“Fine with me,” Ibrahim says. “Assuming I can still walk after Kaleem puts me through my paces out there.”
“You’ll be a’ight,” Kaleem says dismissively. “Lemme get you some gear so we can go.”
~~~
Kaleem keeps up a steady stream of conversation while they run. He doesn’t even sound breathless. He talks first about his training regimen, and the two weeks he will be away just before the Olympic Trials, and his ambivalence about having Asha and the baby there.
“Might be motivation, might be distraction,” he says. “I don’t know.”
“Does she want to go?”
“Always. Gets all antsy about it if she misses any of my meets.”
“So, let her be there. If that’s what she wants.”
“Give ‘em whatever they want, huh?” Kaleem laughs. “That’s your marital advice?”
Ibrahim glances over at his son. Kaleem has slowed down a little, and he knows it’s because he is pacing himself to allow Ibrahim to catch his breath, and to keep up. He is fit, but he is not nearly as well-conditioned as his son.
“You don’t need marital advice from me, Kaleem. Seems like you’re doing pretty good on your own. She’s a good girl.”
“Better than I deserve,” Kaleem agrees.
“Why? You messin’ up?” Ibrahim asks, Immanuel and his stepping out on Dee coming to mind.
“What you mean?” Kaleem sounds insulted. “You mean with other women? Nah. Hell nah. I just mean … you know … I want to give her everything, man. Like everything.”
“That’s good,” Ibrahim returns. “To feel that about your wife. That’s how it should be.”
That was how he’d felt about Jada. How he felt now. So much so, he remembered before he proposed wondering whether marrying her was an act of selfishness. She loved him. God knew she did. He could see and feel it, and she never shied away from saying it. But he knew, even then that he might never be able to give her the life she could have with someone else.
And he’d been right. Because he hadn’t given her anything near the life she deserved.
“Y’know what she called me about last week?” Kaleem continues. “I was doing some warm-ups and she calls me, right? Which she never does while I’m at practice. So, I pick up ‘cause I’m thinkin’ it must be some big emergency. Maybe the house is burning down or something. Y’know what it was?”
Ibrahim shakes his head.
He is breaking a serious sweat now, even in the light shirt and shorts Kaleem loaned him, while Kal in his gear looks barely misted in perspiration and doesn’t sound like he’s running at all.
“She wanted to tell me Anwar petted a puppy at the park.” Kaleem laughs. “That was it. Our son petted a puppy, and she took a picture of it, and said she was thinking that that was the first time he’d been that close to a dog, and it was so cute and that maybe she might journal about it so she can remember all of his ‘firsts’. And also she wanted to know, did I think we could get a dog because Anwar would love it. You believe that?”
Kaleem laughed again.
Ibrahim says nothing. He does believe it. Because he had been equally full of wonder when his son was born. He wanted to be there for everything, wanted Kaleem to experience everything and be there to witness it. Even when he got older, he didn’t want to miss a thing. And yet …
They get through the five miles in a little over forty-five minutes and as they are rounding the block, Ibrahim pauses, suddenly recognizing something ab
out the topography. He stops at the end of the street and looks toward the house, then left and right.
Kaleem stops next to him. Now that they are done, his breathing is more labored.
“What’s up?” he asks, noticing Ibrahim’s expression.
“This is Redwood City,” Ibrahim says.
Kaleem looks confused. “Yeah. You know it is.” He speaks slowly. “And?”
“I think …” Ibrahim says. “I think I used to work around here. In this neighborhood. Maybe even near this street.”
“Around here?” Kaleem says, his brow wrinkled. “I never knew that.”
He places emphasis on the word ‘I’ as though he of all people would have, should have known. It is the only remaining way that the lingering resentment Kaleem has at having been separated from his father for so long surfaces. Everything he doesn’t know about Ibrahim, he seems to imagine he would have known, had his father not gone to prison.
Ibrahim nods and then shakes his head in disbelief.
“Can’t believe I never realized this before. It’s been a long …”
“What’d you do around here?” Kaleem still sounds skeptical, a little confused.
Ibrahim doesn’t answer. He is lost for a moment in his memories. Of a skinny Indian kid, and of a meal of kale and spiced potatoes and cauliflower.
After a moment, he shakes his head, chasing the memories away though they make him smile.
“Let’s go in,” he says to his son. “Race you to the front gate.”
Kaleem’s face spreads into a grin. “Ah, you sure you want some o’ this?”
Ibrahim shrugs. “You gon’ beat me, no doubt about that. But it’s really about just how bad.”
“Oh, it’ll be pretty bad,” Kaleem assures him. “You ready?”
“Ready,” Ibrahim confirms, and together, they sprint the last quarter mile, heads up, eyes squinting as they face the bright, August sun.
~~~
The women walk ahead of them at the festival. Anwar has been strapped close to Jada’s chest in a kind of wrap, or sling. It looks a little snug and restrictive to Ibrahim, but Asha insisted that he is used to it, and likes being held close like that. Kaleem shrugged when his parents looked to him for confirmation.
Courtship: A 'Snowflake' Novel Page 14