Easier Said Than Done

by Nikki Woods

  When my mother was alive, she encouraged me to keep in touch with all of my first cousins; so I would painstakingly write letters and cards, making sure they were tailored for each cousin. Horses for Bianca. Ballerinas for Terry Anne. Anything dead or bleeding for Steven. For Andrew and Adana, I sent generic stuff like baseball for him, rainbows for her. But they never bothered to answer a letter, never sent a card. After my mother died, I gave up trying to keep in touch. Still, I couldn’t help but feel sorry for them. They’d probably be pretty nice people if their parents didn’t have so many problems.

  Queenie bustled into the room at just the right time. She had lemonade, sliced fruit, and crackers with three different kinds of cheeses laid out on a silver-serving tray. Setting it down on an end table, she left the room just as quickly as she came. “Dinner soon be ready,” floated over her shoulder.

  Uncle Winston looked at the food as if trying to add how much of his inheritance Queenie was spending. Auntie Dawn was pricing the silver tray. I looked away in disgust.

  Turning to my cousins, I asked, “So Adana, Andrew, how’s everything going?”

  Both looked at me like a deer caught in headlights, as if they’d never anticipated being asked such a question.

  “Well,” they both started then stopped together. Adana nodded to her brother and he finished the sentence, “Things are fine.”

  “What are you guys doing now?” I continued already knowing the answer while Bianca sucked her teeth.

  “Well . . .” again in surround sound. Andrew nodded to his sister.

  “We’re still working with Daddy.”

  Bianca steepled her fingers underneath her chin. “Do you think you’ll be moving out of mommy and daddy’s house anytime soon?” Her venomous words were packaged with wide-eyed innocence — she was determined to get something started.

  Her question made Andrew and Adana hem and haw while Auntie Dawn sped up the fanning process.

  Then, Uncle Winston slithered to the rescue again. “My children are more than welcome to stay with me until they are married or ready to leave. It doesn’t make sense to waste money on rent when there is plenty of room at our house.”

  The twins bobbed their heads absently.

  “Obviously,” Bianca said. “But how do you expect them to meet anyone if they can’t leave the house without you holding their hand?” She smiled and paused.

  Adana giggled behind her hand again while Andrew absently slapped at a mosquito.

  Auntie Dawn sent them an admonishing look before narrowing her gaze on Bianca. “ Speaking of parents, where’s your mother, Bianca? I’d think Lonnie would want to be here.”

  “Mommy’s at home. She and daddy will be here tomorrow. They wanted to come sooner, but couldn’t get away.” Bianca’s tone was matter of fact, but she crossed her arms in front of her like a shield, containing the rage bubbling beneath the surface.

  Auntie Lonnie had been a not-so-undercover closet alcoholic most of her life. Uncle Lee had the same problem, but functioned much better.

  Uncle Winston aimed directly for Bianca’s most vulnerable spot. “I see,” he rolled the words slowly around on his tongue. “Is your mother not feeling well, again?”

  She was ready. “Actually she feels just fine considering the fact that her mother just died. But then, you wouldn’t know how that feels, would you, considering you don’t have any idea who your mother is?”

  “You know I’ve had just about enough of you, young lady.” The wind off Auntie Dawn’s fan was so strong that it sent some of the pictures flying from the coffee table to the floor. No one moved to pick them up.

  Bianca flopped back in her chair, a smug grin distorted her face, satisfied that she’d gotten a rise out of someone. “Have you? Then leave.”

  Uncle Winston jumped to his feet with Bianca on hers right behind him. Obscenities flew back and forth with Auntie Dawn adding her two cents every few seconds. Andrew and Adana cowered against the back of the flowered settee. Even Toy had left her post outside to check out the commotion.

  I counted to ten before saying, “Enough,” but the word didn’t even make a dent in the ruckus. “I said, enough!” I shoved my hands on my hips. “Why can’t we be in the same room for more than fifteen minutes without it turning into a WWF wrestling match? Mama Grace is dead, but this is still her house. Now, you may not like it, but you owe her more respect than this. Y’all are acting like a bunch of little kids!”

  “But, Kingston . . .”

  I held up a warning finger in her face. “Don’t try me, Bianca. Now we’re going into the dining room, sit at that goddamn table and eat whatever Queenie has cooked and we’re going to act like a family. I don’t want to hear a word that is not polite even if you have to lie through your teeth. We’re burying Mama Grace tomorrow. All hell can break out after that. I don’t give a damn; but until then, there will be peace and quiet or all of you can get the hell up out this house. ”

  No one responded—each one picking a different spot on the floor to study. A red blush slowly made its way up from Uncle Winston’s scrawny neck. I turned on my heel and went in the dining room.

  One stubborn tear fell and I rubbed at my cheeks until no sign of it remained. And they wondered why Mama Grace wanted me to oversee her estate. Didn’t anybody else in this family have any sense? I understood that Bianca was just defending me, but she was the main one starting the fight, not knowing that you had to pick your battles. Today’s fight didn’t add up to anything but a waste of time.

  The war that really needed to be fought would start after we buried Mama Grace.

  Dinner had already been laid out and the table was well on its way to looking like Martha Stewart had flown in to set it for royalty. I could only hope nobody ended up throwing any of the good stuff. The spicy aromas from the chicken, rice and catfish danced slowly from each dish, and set my stomach to growling.

  As Queenie finished folding the napkins, dismay was etched on her face. She had heard every word. She had probably spent more time with Mama Grace than any of us and simply showed her allegiance to me by smiling and nodding. Her eyes said, “You done right by Mama Grace.”

  I grabbed the silverware from the china cabinet and helped her finish setting the table. It was so quiet you could hear a mouse dancing in Africa, but I knew everyone was still here—sitting in the same place, staring at the same spot. They had too much pride to leave.

  “Dinner’s ready, Ma’am and I’ll clean up after dinner. Tray is coming for me in a couple of hours.”

  “Thanks, Queenie,” I said, “For everything you did for Mama Grace and for me.” Emotions swelled, threatening to overwhelm us as I hugged her. She tensed, then embraced me back.

  “Mama Grace was always good to me. Gave me a job when I didn’t know how I was going to feed my babies. Staying now is the least I can do.” She smiled. “Yes, Lord, it’s the least that I can do.” Her bare feet sounded her quick retreat on the cold kitchen tile.

  “Dinner’s ready,” I yelled, forcing a lightness that I hoped would help reset the tone; but when everyone filed in like they were headed for their last meal, I knew it wasn’t going to be easy to turn this evening around. They kept shuffling, playing musical chairs until I assigned seats. Bianca sat between Auntie Dawn and Andrew. I pulled out the chair separating Uncle Winston and Adana who were seated on the opposite side of the table. No one sat at the head of the table—one less power struggle. Bianca shot me a look full of piss and vinegar. We were just about to bless the table when Toy started fussing up front.

  Before I could push my chair back and stand up, Queenie whisked past me headed towards the front door.

  “I’ll get it, Ma’am,” she called.

  Bianca scooped some callaloo on her plate and added a generous portion of scotch bonnet peppers. She started to replace the bowl, but I cleared my throat and she passed the bowl to Auntie Dawn with a slight scowl, careful to avoid the slightest contact between hands. I wanted to remind her that frowni
ng inspired a faster onslaught of wrinkles, but feared for my safety as she attacked the rice and peas, digging into the bowl as if they personally had placed her in this unfortunate position. When she was finished and passed the bowl, I smiled, nodding as if rewarding a child for a new behavior learned.

  “So,” I directed to no one in particular, “I heard all the way in the states about the Prime Minister’s education-reform package. I was impressed. Is it being received well?”

  Uncle Winston angrily swiped a piece of rice from his mustache with the napkin and swung a half-eaten chicken bone around like a sword. “P.J. Patterson and his reform package are full of rubbishness! Only an idiot would think that putting more money toward after school-activities is going to improve the opportunities for our youngsters when they graduate. Jamaica’s going to hell in a handbasket with Patterson in the driver’s seat and I’ve said so since Michael Manley left office, isn’t that right Dawn?”

  As Auntie Dawn nodded, I said, “It works in the states. Sometimes kids just need something to do other than hang out on the street.”

  “Well, if their parents took control of their families like I did, we wouldn’t need any kind of after school nothing.”

  Bianca and I both looked at Andrew and Adana. I should have known that politics was not a safe topic of discussion. Next time I would stick to the weather and the uses for pickapeppa sauce in Jamaican cuisine. I speared another piece of catfish and stuck it in my mouth.

  As we sat at the table, Queenie tried in vain to hush Toy’s excited barking. Soon another voice joined Queenie’s—this one with more bass. Even before they entered the living room, I knew it was him.

  When Queenie came back into the dining room with Damon and pulled out the chair at the head of the table for him, my recently consumed rice and peas tumbled in my stomach like Mexican jumping beans on speed.

  “Good evening, all.” Damon placed his hands on top of the walnut-back chair, and his class ring sparkled from his pinky finger. He looked like a king about to address his advisors. His locks were unbound and touched his shoulders; he wore a yellow linen summer suit that flowed around him like sunshine. It might have looked feminine on any other man, but only added to Damon’s regal carriage. His forearms were bare and the fine hair that covered them glistened with sweat. A vision of his left hand covering my right breast caused licks of fire, hotter than the curried catfish, to shoot downward and I had to cross my legs.

  “Good evening, Damon,” Uncle Winston said and made introductions all around.

  “An evening that just got better.” Bianca angled closer. “Hello, Doctor Damon.” His name oozed from her lips and in her mind, I knew Bianca was already sporting a three-karat wedding ring and signing Christmas cards from Dr. and Mrs. Whitfield. I restrained myself from kicking her under the table. Barely.

  “Glad you could make it, Damon.” I assumed the role of gracious hostess, even going so far as to get up and scoop generous helpings of each dish onto his plate.

  “Thanks, Kingston.” He sat down and bowed his head slightly before picking up his fork.

  “No problem,” I murmured, my left breast grazing his right shoulder as I poured his lemonade. He smiled up at me—his teeth still perfect rows of enameled white pearl—and my breath caught in my throat.

  Damon sampled the curried catfish and Queenie hovered until a satisfactory smile spread across his face. He touched fingers to thumb and brought them to his lips, kissing them in salute and sending her away with a schoolgirl blush as if the Pope had deemed her meal the next best thing to heaven. Damon had always had charisma more powerful than a magnet. Even Toy had taken up court at his feet, resting contentedly.

  Bianca continued to flirt, asking Damon every dumb blonde question under the sun except maybe, “What’s your shoe size?” Damon was cordial, but didn’t seem to feed into it.

  Everyone else concentrated on eating with the exception of Uncle Winston, who offered a few comments just to keep things interesting. And even though Queenie had outdone herself, I too was giving more attention to the food than necessary until Uncle Winston began once again to stir things up.

  “I was telling Kingston that I thought you and Bianca should meet. Maybe go out sometime. I didn’t expect introducing you two was going to be this easy.”

  Bianca had the nerve to duck her head coyly. I rolled my eyes and smothered the urge to hit her.

  Damon looked at Uncle Winston, his gaze then moving over Bianca before resting on me.

  “Now that would be interesting,” he said pointedly.

  Chapter 13

  “Girl, this fine dude is heading your way and you look an absolute mess,” Essence squealed! “Come here, wipe your mouth, you got some stuff taking up residence in the corners.”

  I stopped slurping on my chocolate shake, rolled my eyes, and lazily ran the back of my hand over one corner of my mouth and then the other. Essence sighed and re-wiped my mouth; the only thing missing was the spit.

  “Kingston, you really are beautiful and I know that it’s become trendy to do that whole natural-girl thing, but men don’t like a woman who doesn’t bother to put on a little lip gloss or something, you know comb your hair, for Christ’s sake! Be a lady.”

  My standard reply, “Men also like to know what they’re getting without having to scrape through a ton of makeup.”

  “You would buy into that theory,” she replied. “Trust me, you gotta get a man interested enough to want to look beneath the ton of makeup.” She no longer pushed the issue as vehemently as she once did. I had never been one to do something just for the sake of vanity and no amount of lecturing from Essence was going to change that.

  “Yeah, Kingston,” Keela said. “He’s so cute and has been asking questions about you all day. He’s got Terrance all worked up, that’s for sure, drilling all his boys for information.”

  I’d been with Terrance for a while now only because I couldn’t find anything wrong with him. He was intelligent, outgoing, sexy as hell, and brought no drama to my life.

  Keela and Essence had money riding on this one. But I knew better, just like a Christmas toy in March, eventually he, too, would be thrown to the back of my closet, long forgotten as my focus zoned in on a new and improved model. Dating to me was more like a past-time, a hobby.

  It was not the main event.

  “Me?” I pointed to my chest, my finger grazing Howard University’s logo emblazoned in yellow, green, red, and black stitching.

  “Yes, you!” Essence replied as if she could hardly believe it herself, and plopped down in a chair, flipping her long tresses over her shoulder in one fluid movement.

  Blackburn Center—the hub of student life on Howard’s campus—was a scene of constant movement, a flurry of activity; studying, socializing, debating, making out, breaking up, making up, strategizing, politicking, recruiting, or just chillin’ out. Howard was a sweet mixture of twelve thousand of the best and the brightest students from all over the world.

  Just imagining the achievements of alumni such as Thurgood Marshall, Debbie Allen, Ralph Bunche, David Dinkins, Vernon Jordan, Toni Morrison, Jessye Norman, Phylicia Rashad, L. Douglas Wilder, and Andrew Young and what they meant to African Americans and the nation—put me in the mindset to conquer the world.

  Amidst the melody of clanking silverware, banging trays, and groans from students used to a more edible selection of culinary delights, a fierce game of spades was underway in one corner of the cafeteria. In another, the student ambassadors were conducting a tour for potential high school students. Our usual table had been pushed against a wall far away, but close enough not to miss even the most minute bit of gossip always in the air.

  We had been friends for three years now. Essence, the stereotypical glamour girl was born and raised in the good part of Los Angeles; her father, a prominent entertainment attorney, and her mother, a talent scout for a major movie company. Even with those connections, Essence didn’t want anything to do with the business. She didn’t
aspire to be a model or actress even though she sure looked and acted like one. Waking up beautiful, her skin was a radiant tone of light copper that looked as though it had been kissed by the Goddess of Sun. With hair, long and straight, her ethnicity was hard to determine; guesses ran the gamut from Puerto Rican to Ethiopian. A bit on the thin side, the extra weight she did carry was settled nicely in her chest and butt. But her most redeeming quality was her straightforwardness. Essence shot it to you straight from the hip, no sugar coating and no chaser. “The truth is the truth,” she would say, “no matter how pretty you package it, bows, ribbons, and all that shit. When you unwrap it, it’s still the truth.”

  Keela was just as beautiful and just as oblivious to the effect her strong African features had on people. Her cheekbones sat so prominently on her perfectly round face even Grace Jones would have been jealous. Her skin looked as if it had been colored with the burnt end of an artist’s charcoal stick, dusted softly with a glimmer only seen on African royalty. Her hair was cut in the short, sassy style like Toni Braxton's, with spikes gently cupping her face. Keela’s hairstyle was an accident though, the result of a relaxing job done in a dormitory room. When her soft, fine hair began to fall out, I thought we would have to admit her to a mental ward, or worse, jail for killing the “incompetent ho” as Keela so eloquently put it. It turned out well though; the haircut marked Keela’s entry from her teen years to the legal status of twenty-one. Whereas Essence was long and lean, Keela was short, chunky, and proud of it. We called her the poster girl for “Big Girls Need Love, Too.” Her favorite saying: “Why would a dog want a bone when he can have prime rib?”

  “That’s why black men are dying at such an alarming rate of high cholesterol,” I shot back just as quickly.

  Keela would laugh. “Yeah, but they die happy.”

  Keela packaged all her extra stuff well. What I spent on books in a year, Keela paid out four times that in a month on clothes, not including the shoes. Her clothing allowance was financed by her on-again, off-again drug-slinging boyfriend in Detroit.