by Pearl Cleage
“Need help, Daddy,” she said, tugging gently on his shirtsleeve.
His mind racing, he helped her take off her coat, gave her some apple juice, turned the television to the Disney Channel, and dialed Aretha’s studio phone. It rang six times before she answered.
“Hello?” Her voice sounded distant and distracted.
“You okay?” he said, wanting to eliminate the possibility of an unexpected mishap like a flat tire or a broken leg before inquiring as to why the hell she had taken it upon herself to change the plan she had agreed to three weeks before. He was still trying to understand how a woman with no paying job and a kid in day care from nine to five could even have an evening schedule that required clearing. After all, it was his salary that paid the bills.
But he knew better than to bring that up. They were both well aware of the fact that her godfather’s money had paid for the comprehensive inventory of West End land and housing stock that was Kwame’s only project. When completed, it would not only give Blue a plan for the future growth and development of the area, it would make Kwame’s reputation as an innovative voice in his highly competitive field. Blue was paying him top dollar, so he couldn’t complain, but in the quiet moments when his wife and daughter were asleep, he would sit in the house his mother had given them for a wedding gift and know at the center of his soul that this was not the life he wanted. At those moments, he felt a helplessness and despair unlike any he had known before and he seriously doubted that he would ever be happy again.
“I’m fine.” Aretha sounded annoyed. “Well, I’m not really fine, but I’m not physically hurt or anything, if that’s what you mean.”
He took a deep breath and watched his daughter staring at a video of a little girl who used to be Denise Huxtable’s daughter on the old Cosby Show and was now a very grown-up eighteen and a Disney Channel favorite. Sipping her apple juice contentedly, Joyce Ann watched the screen. She was standing too close, but Kwame didn’t have the energy to tell her to move back. When she noticed her father looking in her direction, she smiled and pointed at the screen.
“Beyoncé,” she said, clear as a bell. “See Beyoncé, Daddy?”
He nodded and tried to focus through his rising anger. “What I mean is, I have an appointment at seven, remember?”
“What time is it?”
The question infuriated him, but he was determined to keep the anger out of his voice. “It’s ten to six.”
“I’ll be home by six-thirty.”
“I have to take a shower, Aretha. Joyce Ann has to eat.”
His wife was silent on the other end of the phone. He didn’t have time for this nonsense.
“You didn’t ask me why I wasn’t fine,” she said in a strange little voice somewhere between a whisper and a whine.
“Look, Ree.” He didn’t care how exasperated she sounded. That was nothing compared to how he felt. “If you’re having some kind of artistic epiphany and can’t get here, I’ll have to get a sitter, so cut to the chase, okay? What’s up?”
There was a long pause. “Why don’t you just ask Teddy to come by the house?”
He looked around the kitchen, with a day’s worth of dirty dishes still in the sink, toys scattered everywhere, and no sign of dinner on the way. “That’s not a good idea.”
“Why isn’t it?”
He didn’t want to argue with her. That’s all they seemed to do lately. The only thing they agreed on these days was how much they loved Joyce Ann. Beyond that, everything seemed to be up for grabs.
“I’ve got to hang up now, Aretha. Maybe I can still get my mom to come over.”
“Great,” Aretha said, sounding relieved, like his desperate suggestion actually constituted a mutually satisfactory plan. “Why don’t you ask her if Joyce Ann can spend the night?”
“What?”
“I’ve got to go. I’ll be home late.” She hung up without saying good-bye.
Kwame was so angry, he was shaking. His wife clearly had lost her mind, and now she was well on the way to making him lose his. What the hell was he doing here? Sometimes he thought she had tricked him by getting pregnant in the first place. It sure hadn’t been part of his plan. No way he meant to live his life in the same neighborhood where he had spent his childhood. And he never meant to be working exclusively for Blue Hamilton, either, and arguing with his crazy-ass wife about whose turn it was to feed the kid.
He was clutching the phone so hard it felt like he might crush it. He wanted to crush it! Without knowing he was going to, Kwame drew back and flung the phone across the room as hard as he could. It hit the opposite wall with a loud plastic pow and scattered its electronic innards all over the less-than-spotless kitchen floor. He stood there watching the pieces rolling around at his feet and felt the anger leaving his body like a whoosh of bad air. The sound of his daughter’s surprised little voice behind him turned him toward her.
“Daddy break it?”
He plastered a reassuring parental grin across his face, scooped her up in his arms, and kissed her chubby cheeks. She smelled like apple juice. “Yes, baby, Daddy broke it. Now Daddy’s going to sweep it up and make you some dinner, okay?”
“Okay.” She smiled at him, wiggled out of his arms, and went back to her cartoons, confident that he had things under control, which, of course, he didn’t. He swept up the pieces of the kitchen phone and opened the cupboard to survey the variety of single-serving microwavable foods that were the basis of his daughter’s diet these days. Aretha had never been much of a cook, but now it was getting ridiculous. He grabbed a can of pasta shaped like the letters of the alphabet, popped the top, and stuck it in the microwave for ninety seconds, just as he heard his cellphone ring.
It was playing “Fire,” an old-school song by the Ohio Players. The tune let him know it was his mother calling. He had programmed the same song into her phone for his calls, startling her more staid constituents from time to time when she forgot to put it on vibrate before a meeting. Kwame was one of the few people who knew that under her carefully cultivated professional veneer, State Senator Precious Hargrove was a true funkateer. When he’d chosen that identifying ring for her, he knew it would show her that he remembered all those Friday nights when he was a little boy and she was a hardworking, housebound single mother who sometimes longed for a night out with loud friends and loud music and no babysitter to pay extra when she came home a little late.
Even as a child, Kwame suspected that she was lonely, but she never took it out on him. She’d just put on the Ohio Players and dance around the living room with her son as if there was no other place she’d rather be. Kwame had loved it. The sound of the music, his mother’s laughter when he showed off his disco moves, the way she smelled like vanilla when she tucked him in, listened to him say his prayers, kissed him good night, and tiptoed out to do whatever helped her make it through the rest of those long nights.
Kwame grabbed his jacket and fumbled for the phone before it could go to voice mail. “Mom?”
“Hey, sweetie,” she said cheerfully. “Where are you? On your way to meet the Big Shot for drinks?”
Precious didn’t like Kwame’s friend Teddy. She thought he was pretentious and arrogant. She had once said Teddy represented all the worst things about light-skinned Negroes, including their infuriating sense of entitlement, just for being light. At this point, though, Kwame didn’t care what she thought as long as she could babysit.
“I’m still at home with Joyce Ann. Aretha’s at her studio and she’s running late.”
“Want me to sit?” Precious said before Kwame could even make the request. She loved spending time with her only grandchild, and as busy as her schedule was these days, she never passed up an opportunity like this one. “I just finished my last meeting of the day. A good one, too.”
Relief flooded through Kwame’s body. He still had to shower and change to get to the restaurant by seven. “Tell me later, Mom.” He cut her off before she started a story he didn’t have time
to listen to right then. “How soon can you get here?”
The microwave dinged loudly.
“Fifteen minutes?”
“Bless you!”
Joyce Ann appeared in the kitchen door. “Dinner ready?”
“Let me speak to my granddaughter,” Precious said, hearing the child’s voice.
“Speak to her in person when you get here,” Kwame said. “She’s having her dinner.”
“I’m on my way.”
Kwame clicked off the phone and turned to his daughter with a smile that said all was right with the world again. “We’re saved, Little Bit,” he said, lifting her into her high chair and clicking the tray into place. “Mommy’s cuckoo, but Granny’s on the way!”
“Cuckoo train,” his daughter sang out. “Mommy’s on the cuckoo train!”
He laughed, even though he hoped his precocious daughter wouldn’t share the joke with her mother. Somehow, he didn’t think Aretha would find it funny.
12
By the time Kwame arrived at Paschal’s twenty minutes after the agreed-upon hour, Teddy had already taken a booth in the back of the restaurant and ordered a soul-food feast. Kwame was so surprised, he forgot to be disappointed in the change of his unspoken plan for the evening. He had wanted to have drinks with Teddy here and then cook a meal for the two of them at his newly renovated loft space. Last time Teddy’s travels had brought him through Atlanta three months earlier, the place was a raw shell. It had since taken shape under Kwame’s careful design and construction. He’d even brought in some basic furnishings just for this occasion to give Teddy the full effect of his efforts. He was looking forward to a chance to show off the place. Other than the guys who had helped him with the parts of the renovation he couldn’t do alone, Teddy would be the first person allowed inside.
Kwame wondered, with a sudden pang of guilt, what Aretha would say if she knew he had bought and refurbished a space she didn’t even know existed. He had intended to tell her when he first started looking around for what he told himself were investment opportunities. But when he found a place he really liked outside of West End, he knew she would object, so he didn’t mention it. After all, they had a modern marriage with separate bank accounts. He was making enough money to cover it, so the whole thing was really none of her business. Why should he tell her? He needed a private space, a place where he could just be alone with his thoughts and his dreams. A place where he could bring a friend for dinner and drinks without having to be anybody but himself. Nobody’s husband. Nobody’s father. Nobody’s son. Just Kwame.
The person who knew that Kwame better than anyone was Teddy Rogers. They had been friends since Teddy came to speak on a panel at Howard University when Kwame was a senior in the school of architecture. Although just a few years older than the students he was addressing, Teddy had already opened his own firm and was billing over three million dollars a year.
His fellow students were only half listening, but Kwame looked at Teddy and saw his future; a bright, young black man, polished, articulate, ambitious, Morehouse undergrad, Yale architecture degree with high honors. In addition to all that, Teddy had great contacts in both the government and corporate worlds and a confidence that was contagious. Kwame had learned the art of networking at his mother’s knee and he recognized an opportunity when he saw one. He waited until the program was over and then went up to introduce himself.
Teddy had been wearing a beautiful blue suit that complemented his slight frame. Kwame suspected those shoulders were the result of artful tailoring as much as hours at the gym. He told Teddy he appreciated his take on doing business with municipal governments and asked if he could have a copy of the remarks to share with his mother, who was an elected official herself and would probably find them interesting. Teddy apologized for not having a prepared text, explaining that he enjoyed the challenge of speaking off-the-cuff, and invited Kwame to dinner.
By the time they finished their coffee, Teddy had become both a mentor and a friend. Two weeks later, they became lovers. It was, in fact, Teddy’s generous offer of a place in his firm that Kwame had to turn down when Aretha wouldn’t consider moving to D.C. She had told him he didn’t have to marry her. She wanted a baby, she said, and she had a strong—what did she call it? A sisterhood support network? She’d be fine having the baby without him if that’s what he wanted.
Like that was a possibility. It was his fault as much as hers and he was going to be an honorable man, no matter what. His father had told his mother to have an abortion and disappeared when she refused. He wasn’t going to be that kind of daddy. He called Teddy in D.C. and told him he couldn’t take his offer because he was getting married and moving back to Atlanta.
Teddy, being Teddy, didn’t beat around the bush. “Is she pregnant?”
“Yes,” Kwame said, feeling like a high-school boy confessing to his father.
“Is this what you want?”
The question was so unexpected, he’d almost answered it honestly, but he didn’t have to. The hesitation told Teddy everything he needed to know.
“Yes.” Kwame said the lie softly, like it pained him to have to tell it.
“I see. Does she know about you?”
“Of course not.”
“Are you going to tell her?”
“Did you tell Genevive?”
“Genevive is from Northampton. Everybody she knows is bisexual.”
“Even her husband?”
“We’re not talking about me, brother, but I guess in a way we are. Long-distance relationships are always difficult.”
“Everything is difficult.”
“No, it’s not,” Teddy said soothingly. “The fact of the matter is, everything is disarmingly simple. This isn’t a problem. I’m in and out of Atlanta all the time. We’ll meet, we’ll have drinks, we’ll talk. We’ll be two good friends with hot wives at home who sometimes meet for dinner when business brings us together.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Kwame said, relief flooding his body as he realized his friend wasn’t going to judge him harshly for making a mess.
Teddy chuckled on the other end of the line. “Admit it. A part of you wanted this to happen. A beautiful wife. A cute kid. You want that respectable Atlanta lifestyle.” Teddy’s sarcastic tone caressed the words contemptuously. “In D.C. you’d be an outlaw, undefined, making yourself up as you go along, as Miss James Baldwin put it so succinctly.”
“Fuck you.”
“Claim your dreams, brother!” Teddy said cheerfully. “Just play safe and don’t get caught with your pants down.”
“I’ll do my best,” Kwame said.
After the wedding, Teddy had been as good as his word. Business brought them together once or twice a month. They’d meet at whatever restaurant was currently the place to see and be seen and then let the evening proceed at its own pace, but what Kwame saw before him tonight was a first. Teddy was eating pork chops!
On all the times before this one, Kwame had never seen a morsel of meat pass his friend’s lips. After his wife’s dramatic conversion to a strict vegetarian regimen six years before on the promise of perfect skin and eternal life, Teddy had been strongly urged to follow the same path. At first he refused. The idea of life without even the possibility of a steak in it was inconceivable to him. It was only when his wife made it clear that sex with a nonvegetarian would be considered unclean by those adhering to her particular discipline that Teddy reluctantly became a vegan, too.
How, then, was Kwame to explain the two giant, center-cut pork chops on the plate in front of his friend? Not to mention a liberal assortment of side dishes, including macaroni and cheese, candied yams, and collard greens cooked in the traditional Southern style with some ham hocks thrown in to sweeten the pot.
Terry wiped his mouth and stood up as Kwame approached so they could engage in that handshake, chest-bumping thing that brothers use for greetings in the ritualized way Italian men sometimes kiss each other on both cheeks to say hello. Kwame slid i
nto the booth across from Teddy, who grinned over the meal he was in the midst of enjoying.
“Sorry I had to start without you, brother,” he said. “I’ve been on Genevive’s damn diet for so long, when I came in here and smelled this outstanding soul food, I had to have it, man. I was powerless to resist the lure of Paschal’s world-famous pork chops.”
“Paschal’s is famous for their chicken,” Kwame said, relieved and happy finally to be sitting across from his friend. Precious had Joyce Ann until morning and Aretha could go to hell for all he cared. He was out for the evening and the first thing he needed was a beer.
“That’s only because whoever took the damn survey didn’t taste the pork chops,” Teddy said as the white-jacketed server glided over to the booth. Kwame order a Heineken.
“You’re not eating?” Teddy said as the waiter headed to the bar. Kwame leaned back and spread his long arms out on the back of the black leatherette booth. His friend looked good. At thirty-five, Teddy already had a sprinkling of what he called “distinguished grays,” but otherwise he hadn’t changed. Still handsome. Still curious. Still Teddy.
“Actually, I’m sorry you got dinner,” Kwame said. “I wanted to cook for you at the place so you could see it.”
Teddy smiled. “So if you don’t cook, I can’t see it anyway?”
Kwame smiled back and tried to relax. His mind was still racing from the mad rush to get here. Calm down, he chided himself. Everything’s cool. This is what you’ve been missing. Just let it happen. Isn’t that what Teddy used to tell him at first whenever he’d get tense. Just relax and let it happen.
“On my best day,” Kwame said, “I can’t compete with Mr. Paschal’s kitchen.”
“Genevive wouldn’t fuck me for a month if she knew I was eating all this pork,” Teddy said, taking another bite of the succulent chops.