“I’m going back to grad school soon. My mother expects that of me. And I made that promise to her. So I have to go back to please her. Eventually. After the baby, I guess.”
“Babies change everything.”
“It won’t for me.”
“Babies become the masters and you become the servants.”
“Everything will be fine.”
I didn’t challenge her. “You’re working now?”
“Jet Propulsion Laboratory in Pasadena. JPL.”
“That’s a long way from Hollywood in traffic.”
“I catch the train. He keeps the car during the week.”
“You’re paying for him to be able to sit up and write and not work?”
“We’re a team. His scripts are good, especially the one about slaves coming back.”
“Coming back from where?”
“All the slaves killed in the Middle Passage come back to life.”
“That was over two million Africans.”
“Plus the slaves who died and were lynched come back to life all over the world.”
“That’s over twenty million. Lot of extras.”
“CGI.”
“Then what?”
“Revenge meets karma. They converge on America, France, Portugal, and London.”
“Like The Walking Dead, only with a mission statement?”
“No, they are alive again. Allah brings them back for retribution.”
“How do they know who’s their enemy?”
“It’s based on melanin. They can sense it or smell it. Haven’t worked that out.”
“They kill white people?”
“Yeah.”
“You think anyone in Hollywood is going to allow you to make a film like that? They will write about white people killing white people wholesale, or can imagine aliens coming here from other planets doing the same, but you know they won’t ever let a movie about blacks killing whites the way whites have killed blacks and Native Americans make it to the big screen. Hell, in the last Birth of a Nation, they didn’t let Nat Turner kill much before he was lynched.”
“We’re going to get it made.”
“Sure. Can’t wait to see that at the AMC.”
“Don’t be condescending.”
“So no matter how much cocoa butter she wears, Rachel Dolezal gets killed.”
“A lot of people who have been passing are exposed.”
“You’d be safe.”
“Don’t insult me.”
“Interesting concept.”
“He’s trying to get a meeting with Hazel Bijou.”
“Have no idea who that is.”
“She’s black.”
“Black people in Hollywood are working for whites and Jews. Just saying that factually.”
“So, until this pops off, no, he’s not in a good place financially. And he’s stressed-out.”
“Still, if he’s your baby dad—”
“Don’t call him my baby daddy.”
“I stand corrected.”
“Regardless of who pays for what, all of our money goes to the rent. Sometimes we have fifty dollars left over to get us through two weeks, and sometimes we skip paying a bill.”
“You work and only have fifty dollars? Where are your investments? Your 401(k)?”
“Car insurance. Gas prices are high. And health insurance is a monster. Renter’s insurance. Cell phone. Internet. Food. We eat gluten-free. We don’t do canned foods. We don’t do McDonald’s or Popeyes. Eating healthy costs a lot of money. Taxes, both state and federal. Money goes out faster than it comes in. Feels like we get paid to pay bills. And I’m a girl. It costs a lot more to be a girl than it does to be a boy. We have other needs.”
“You’re an adult now.”
She rubbed her nose, tense, stressed-out. “Being an adult is so damn expensive.”
“Welcome to the club.”
“I was forced to join.”
“We all are.”
“Eventually membership to a carefree childhood expires.”
“Having a baby will drive disposable income down and the cost of living through the roof.”
“I wanted to talk about that.”
“Okay.”
“We want to get married before I start showing. Same as you and my mother did.”
“Times have changed. People don’t care about a black woman being pregnant and unmarried. Actually, they laud it now. It’s a choice, a sign of empowerment, of getting what you want and making men disposable until the bill comes; then it’s on his side of the table.”
“Thanks for that helping of misogyny with a dash of bitter mansplaining.”
“You’re asking for a lot. I didn’t ask anyone for anything. Not one dime.”
“Well, I want to get married.”
“Yeah, being pregnant will make a lot of women suddenly feel that way.”
“And I don’t want a wedding like you had. I don’t want a sad shotgun wedding.”
“There was no shotgun wedding. No one was forced to get married.”
She shrugged. “I’ve never asked you for anything. Never. Not once.”
“And now you’re asking for it like there is an acceleration clause.”
“Fifty thousand isn’t that much to ask for.”
“That’s more than most people make in a year. Some don’t make that in two years.”
My brown-turned-white daughter said, “You going to be able to do it?”
“This is sudden. Why didn’t you talk to me, have a conversation about anything, even the weather, before now? You don’t just call somebody up, not even your estranged daddy, asking for that kind of money and expect him to have that kinda wad warming up his pants pockets.”
“You owe me.”
I sat back, head tilted. “I owe you? How in the hell you figure I owe you anything?”
She took a breath, her nostrils flared, and the fissured dam that held back her issues broke; the animosity she felt for me all came out in four flaming words. “You were never here.”
“Talk to your mother about that. Talk to her parents. Ask for the truth.”
“She said she didn’t know where you were.”
“She lied. My address hasn’t changed. I haven’t moved in . . . over two decades. I still live where I lived when we were married, same place you lived from birth until you were about five.”
“She told me you never really sent her much money.”
“That’s a lie. A big lie. I paid for your private schools and I sent her plenty of money to make sure you had a roof over your head. I handed her twenty grand at a time, and she got used to living the high life. I gave her so much she lived off of money that was meant to take care of you.”
“Liar.”
“Child, don’t you ever call me a liar.”
“Then don’t lie. And I’m not a child.”
“I had hoped she would save some of your money. Yeah, when I had big money I sent big money. I always put you first when it came to that. Then things went south, money dried up, and after I sent her my last dime, I had nothing to send for a while. I almost lost everything.”
Again her nostrils flared with resentment. “You never called me.”
“I called. She didn’t let me talk to you. She took you from me. The East African side of your family kept you from me. Told me to keep away. So, I waited for a call. That was like waiting on Godot. Your mother knew where I was. After we divorced and she ran back to Diamond Bar and got remarried to someone her parents approved of, she came to see me more than a few times. She came once a week, on Wednesday afternoons, until her second husband found out.”
“Momma came to see you for what?”
“We were only good at doing one thing.”
�
��Don’t lie on my momma.”
“You say you don’t know me. Well, you don’t know your momma either.”
“Liar.”
“Don’t keep pushing that button. Disrespectful child, don’t think I won’t get ugly in public.”
“Then stop lying.”
“She doesn’t tell you the truth, and I’m the liar? Get your momma on the phone. We can all talk right now. I wasn’t hiding. I’ve never hid from the government, a man, or a woman. I took care of you each month and never missed a payment. Without fail or court order.”
“I still had to eat.”
“I paid without fail for eighteen years. Until you were an adult.”
“College wasn’t cheap.”
“I know. I had student loans. Had my own debt to pay because of dropping out of UCLA.”
“Things a father should do, you didn’t do.”
“What should a daughter do? Just walk up to her dad with her hands like cups and ask for fifty grand like she thinks I own a chain of five-star hotels that have my name on the door?”
“Don’t turn this around. Don’t be selfish.”
I clicked my teeth and said, “K’ebet’i.”
“Did you just try to call me a brat in Amharic?”
I snapped, “I called you a spoiled brat, Tsigereda.”
“Don’t call me that name. Not you. Never you. You get to call me what you named me.”
“You remind me of your mother, Tsigereda. Tsigereda is what she called you.”
“Don’t ever fucking call me by my Ethiopian name. You are not worthy.”
“Watch your fucking tone. When I was growing up, my daddy would have slapped me across Greenwood for saying some bullshit like that, Tsigereda. Then my momma would have found me and slapped me back across town to my daddy. And he would have slapped me back to my momma. That slapping match would have gone on until I had some sense in my head.”
“Times have changed, Ken Swift.”
“I guess they have. I bet you’ve never had a spanking in your life, never have been given the extension cord, a house shoe, or had to get switches from a tree. Keep it up. Keep calling me by my first name like I’m your first cousin and talking to me like I’m less than a bill collector.”
She didn’t give a fuck. I had no power when it came to her, no influence.
I said, “You came here to try and tear me down. Is that what this is about?”
“You left. Like a coward.”
“I never left. Your mother left and refused to bring you back for me to see you.”
“You know my first strong memory of you? I remember crying when you left.”
“I remember. But you have it wrong. That was when your mother left me.”
“It doesn’t matter who left who. You have to be present to have a relationship.”
“She took you from me and kept you away from me.”
“No, she didn’t. You left her and turned your back on us.”
“I didn’t.”
She paused. “What happened with my mother and Auntie Lila?”
“Have you seen your godmother?”
“Not since I went to live in Ethiopia.”
“You lived in Ethiopia, or went to visit?”
“I lived there. With my mother and my daddy.”
“I’m your daddy.”
“You’re my father. He’s my daddy. I call him Dad.”
“You call Yohanes your dad.”
“He’s the only man I’ve known as my daddy.”
“Wait. Hold on.” I shifted, blinked a few times. “When did you move to Africa?”
“I was ten.” Again she clacked her tongue ring against her teeth. “Maybe nine.”
“After your mom’s family and I had the big falling-out.”
“We stayed in Ethiopia four years and ten months.”
“Now I get it. I had called for about three years before I gave up. You were in Africa.”
She nodded. “We moved all of a sudden. My mother and my stepfather were arguing, and the next thing I knew we were packing and on a plane to Addis Ababa. They pulled me out of a private school in Diamond Bar and put me and my American accent in Bingham Academy.”
Stunned, realizing that’s what had happened after her stepfather had caught Jimi Lee in my bed, knowing that was what had happened after her grandfather and stepfather had attacked me in front of my building and beaten me on a cold, rainy day, I asked, “How was it over there?”
“We were in the heart of Oromia regional state. It was crowded. People were sociable, everywhere chatting. I remember being bored a lot. It took forever to get anything done. Felt like everyone moved in slow motion, especially the government. My stepfather complained about that all the time, that and went on and on about how he hated you as much as he hated Mulugeta Asrate Kassa. Traffic was worse than here. Buses were overpacked. People were hit by cars and no one cared. Shopping, you had to negotiate for everything. Horrible Internet connection. But I enjoyed Asmara, in the Eritrean Highlands. We drove to Massawa, on the Red Sea coast.”
“I heard it was pretty over there.”
“It is. Modern, clean, and friendly, but not everywhere is sparkling. Places like Lalibela, where I had some relatives, I didn’t like it there. A pickpocket stole things from us in Bole. Same thing happened again at Merkato. That market was large and crowded. I had food poisoning at least five times. When we took a taxi, we had to ride with a dozen strangers. My American accent earned me the side-eye. I couldn’t relate, and neither could my mother. But I loved the coffeehouses. My mother and I would go to Tomoca, then go shop at Eliana Mall. Sometimes we went to Mokarar and had coffee. She also dragged me to Alem Bunna, Kaldi’s Coffee, and Yeshi Buna. That was our thing. All of those places make Starbucks seem like an overpriced joke.”
“Was it safe there?”
“Inside the city.”
“Outside the city?”
“There were lots of fights, lots of skirmishes.”
“So, Ethiopians do more than battle with words over philosophies.”
“Violence is everywhere. Some people are paid to make violence for a living.”
She said that last sentence as she looked in my eyes, clacking that metal against her teeth. It felt like we’d almost connected, but my heart was beating fast, and I felt the resentment driving the next question. “Who gave them permission to take you out of the country?”
“Why would they need your permission?”
“Because I’m your father and taking you without my permission is a criminal act.”
She rolled her eyes, made a face like she could taste something disgusting, and said something nasty in Amharic. Just like that, bonding was over, and the moment of calm that felt like we could connect was gone. I was about to break it down, tell her a long story, was going to tell her about her mother, about her East African relatives, but instead I took a deep breath.
I said, “You don’t know me, but I know you.”
“What’s my favorite color? What’s my favorite food? What music do I listen to?”
“Even if I don’t know those things, we’re family.”
“We are not family. You donated sperm and left the scene of the accident.”
“You can bleach your ass until you make Casper the Friendly Ghost look darker than Wesley Snipes at midnight, but we’re family. Love me or hate me, be Muslim, Christian, or atheist, fascist, or antifa, I’m still your goddamn father. Nothing can change that. Nothing.”
She huffed, arms folded, closed off, superior. “Do you still hurt people for a living?”
Our eyes met. She sucked her teeth, then gave me the evil eye. She held her malevolent glare as I gave her the hard look many bad men had been given before I’d broken them in two.
A few people watched us like we were the best
reality television show going.
Margaux looked at a girl. “Dafuq you look at, fugly dark-skinned black-ass bish?”
Margaux issued that insult like she was repeating what other fools had said to her.
I said, “Margaux. Unless that’s a quote from the Quran, that’s not very Muslim of you.”
“I don’t like people staring at me like I’m an animal in a zoo.”
“Lower your voice, Margaux.”
“Lower yours, Ken Swift. Lower yours.”
The pretty girl muttered something and turned away, but not before I saw pain in her eyes. Black women of all hues have had to endure so much, could never just be seen as human beings. Darker skin staring at lighter skin had triggered a war, had been the first shot fired. Margaux’s words had cut her deep and strong, but now Margaux redirected her venom at me. My daughter. She was an adult, more disrespect than blood, angry, coming at me like she was my enemy. So I had to talk to my rebellious seed like she was an adult. Because she was my enemy.
CHAPTER 2
I TIGHTENED MY jaw. “Stay in your lane, Margaux.”
“Momma told me. I know what you did in Florida. You killed a man.”
I sat up straight. “Are you wired?”
She saw my instant paranoia, read my angst, grinned, then laughed.
I took a slow breath. “Never been to Florida, Margaux.”
She said, “Balthazar Walkowiak.”
My hands became fists. She said that name and I saw flashes, saw that foreign man come out of a bathroom in his home with a gun he’d had hidden in a plastic Ziploc bag in a toilet’s water tank. He had exited the bathroom running at us, yelling and shooting, almost killed Jake Ellis. Balthazar Walkowiak was a cunning man, a rough man in this business. Before he could shoot us dead, when his gun had jammed, I had rushed him, thrown a dozen hard blows, then gotten him in an LAPD chokehold, the dangerous chokehold that put the bone in the forearm hard across a man’s windpipe, the infamous chokehold that had killed many black men back in the eighties. Walkowiak was as strong as a man on PCP, probably because his system was in overdrive. I choked him while Jake Ellis used his one good arm to throw knockout blows. Nothing made Balthazar ease up. He bled all over me, Jake was bleeding, and even with Balthazar Walkowiak in a chokehold, he rag-dolled me around the room, smashed me into walls, broke mirrors, then threw his head back into my face and bloodied my nose. He almost knocked me out. I had to choke him until I killed him. Jake Ellis came to us while we struggled. By then Jake had a kitchen knife in his hand. I wasn’t going to let Balthazar Walkowiak go until his soul left his body. If he had gotten free and gotten to another gun he had stashed in his crib, Jake Ellis and I would have been the ones in the back of a van going to the Everglades to be fed to the alligators. Jake Ellis went into a stabbing rage. I remember the sounds of that blade plunging into that man’s flesh. Time to time, in my dreams, I heard Balthazar Walkowiak’s neck pop while he was being gutted, then felt his spirit leave his body as he finally went limp. And Jake Ellis kept on stabbing the dead man. Our blood was all over the place: Jake Ellis’s from being shot and mine from being thrown into the mirrors. My cuts were minor, but they had set free my DNA and the same for his. After that, it was a blur, but I remembered how the gators rushed to feed on Balthazar Walkowiak’s bloody corpse. By then San Bernardino was there, showing us what to do. My daughter had said that name from twenty years ago and widened my eyes with bad dreams. Couldn’t play it off. My reaction told her that those two words were a bull’s-eye.
Bad Men and Wicked Women Page 2