by H. M. Mann
“We’re havin’ a family reunion tomorrow. I didn’t tell you that?”
“No.”
He told you just about every other thing. The man kept me awake all night, too.
Shh.
“You’ll have a good time.”
I follow him to the front door, where Jeff knocks for about five minutes. “They’re some heavy sleepers.”
Or they aren’t here.
There are cars in the driveway.
Doesn’t mean nothing.
The porch light comes on, and a sleepy-looking, balding black man comes to the door. “What y’all want?” He looks past Jeff at me. “Who’s he?”
“Friend of mine,” Jeff says, trying to step past the man.
The man steps with him, blocking his path. “Where you goin’, Jeff?”
“C’mon, Jerry, let me in.”
Jerry nods at me. “He talk?”
“Not much,” Jeff says.
“Then he can come in,” Jerry says.
Jeff steps back. “You gonna do me like that?”
“You still owe money for the mortgage.”
Jeff turns to me. “And this is the brother I actually like.” He digs in his pocket and pulls out a wad of bills. “How much I owe?”
Jerry snatches the entire wad. “This much.” He steps aside.
Jeff walks in. “Now you know I don’t owe that much, Jerry.”
“You probably owe more!” Jerry calls after him. He turns to me. “You comin’ in?”
“Yeah.”
We should have stayed on 29.
I step past Jerry into a room full of furniture, a ceiling fan whirring overhead, two other fellas playing a video game hooked to a wide-screen TV. A few others are lounging behind them drinking beer on a semicircular sofa. They look up at me, nod, and continue playing. I hear Jerry fussing with Jeff down a hallway over the thermostat at the end of the hall.
“I told you not to mess with the thermostat, boy!” Jerry yells, turning the knob back and clicking a switch.
“But it’s cold up in here!”
They turn to look at me. “Oh,” Jeff says, “there’s a mattress downstairs. I’ll be down after I kill Jerry.”
That ain’t gonna happen. Jerry outweighs him by at least a hundred pounds.
I hope you’re right.
I walk through the front room, careful not to block the TV, and find a door leading down some dark stairs to a basement full of more furniture, a plain mattress lying in a fairly uncluttered corner near the water heater.
Nice digs.
Yeah.
The shed is looking nicer and nicer.
At least it’s cool and dry.
Then the heater comes on, a vent over the mattress pumping out hot air.
No wonder Jeff’s so skinny.
I’m gonna die of dehydration.
You could get you a beer …
Nah.
Since there’s no pillow, I prop up the backpack against the wall furthest from the vent, and in minutes, I’m asleep.
And minutes later I’m awake because a dog the size of a horse is standing over me, drool leaking down onto my forehead.
“Don’t move too fast, cuz,” I hear Jeff say from somewhere. “Rex might tear off your nose.” Jeff whistles, and Rex runs away and up the stairs. A door closes, and Jeff comes down with two beers.
“Rex looks mean, but he’s really a good dog.” He sips one of the beers. “Thought you might be thirsty.”
I sit up. “No thanks.”
He shrugs. “More for me, then.” He stands at one end of the mattress. “James ain’t here. He’s my older brother. So I’ll be usin’ his room. This gonna be okay for you?”
“Yeah.”
“All right then.” He returns to the stairs. “Sleep as late as you want. Our family reunions never start on time.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
“I ain’t kiddin’ about that,” he calls out. “Never.”
And Jeff doesn’t lie about that. I wake a little after sunrise and go upstairs to the little kitchen. Dirty dishes fill the sink, and beer bottles and cans litter the counter. I lift the lid off a skillet on the stove and see some leftover kielbasa and sauerkraut.
You ain’t gonna eat that, are you? It’s probably been sitting there for five days.
I open the refrigerator, hoping for some orange juice, and find a wall of beer instead.
The breakfast of champions.
I look out the kitchen window at Rex, who’s running around on a strip of bare earth surrounded by metal fencing. Sticking my head into the main room, I see the video game players curled up on the couch. I tiptoe past them to the door and go outside.
Where to?
Breakfast.
I’m with you.
Which way?
Which way’s the wind blowing?
Very funny.
I walk to the right of the house for about a block then turn down a hill to find Bob & Cheryl’s. I see several mail trucks parked in front of it, so I know it must be good food. I walk in and order the biggest stack of pancakes and a side order of bacon, washing it down with good, strong, dark coffee. After paying and leaving a tip, I’m down to eight dollars, but I don’t care. I’m going home tomorrow.
Wait. I’m going home tomorrow, and no one knows I’m coming.
It’ll be a surprise.
But I don’t want to surprise them anymore.
I find a payphone outside a convenience store and dial Auntie June’s number collect. After several rings, she picks up … and accepts the call.
Now that was a miracle.
“Hello, Manuela, how are you, dear?”
“Auntie June, it’s me.”
“I know it’s you,” she whispers. “They could be listening.”
“Who?”
“The police.”
I blink. “They don’t tap the phone if you’ve only broken probation, Auntie June. I just wanted you to know that I’ll be home tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“And you only just call to tell me today? Boy, that’s not a nice way to treat your Auntie. You know I have to clean the house now.”
I laugh. “Don’t go to any trouble, Auntie June. I’ll help you clean up when I get there.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow evening sometime.”
“How are you, um, how are you traveling? You aren’t calling from a police station, are you?”
“I’m riding shotgun with a trucker I met in Atlanta. He’s going to drop me off.”
Silence.
“Auntie June?”
“I have so much to do. I have to go.”
“See you tomorrow.”
“Bye.”
Click.
Then I dial Mary’s number.
You’re pushing your luck.
Maybe.
Mary’s mama’s gonna answer.
Maybe she won’t.
“Hello? Manny? Where are you?”
And then it’s my turn to be silent. Just hearing her voice …
You can cry if you want to.
I clear the sadness out of my throat. “Hey, how’s my girl?”
“I’m fine. Where are you?”
“In Virginia, and I’ll be home tomorrow night.”
I hear her shouting on the other end, and I do some shouting, too. The folks going in and out the convenience store give me funny looks, but I don’t care.
“I have so much to tell you,” she says. “Do you want to know what we’re having?”
“I already know. We’re having a boy.”
“Wrong.”
Huh? I was so sure. “We’re … not having a boy?”
She giggles.
God, I’ve missed that giggle.
“We’re having a girl … and a boy!”
“We’re having twins?” Why didn’t I see the girl? She’s been hiding from me. But Moses knew. He carved them together.
“I’ve already
thought out some names, but I want to hear your ideas.”
I’m, I mean, we’re having twins. She’s having …
“Manny?”
“I’m here. I just can’t believe it.”
“Twins must run in your family, because they don’t run in ours.”
I cover the mouthpiece and shout, “Yes!” The owner of the convenience store comes to the window with a stern look on his face.
“Manny?”
“I’m sorry, I’m just … so happy. Um, I’d like to name the boy Luke Slade.”
“Huh?”
“Luke Slade is the man on the Boonesboro who helped me through.”
“Oh. It’s a … nice name.”
She hates it.
I wince. “And for the girl …” I haven’t even thought a second about this. “Um, how about … Rose Abassa Mann.”
“Rose A-What-A?”
“Abassa. That’s the name of an ancestor of mine.”
“Oh. But that would mean her initials are R-A-M. You want our daughter to have those initials?”
What does that have to do with anything? “Well, um, maybe you should name the girl.” Silence. “Hello? Mary?”
“You wanna name my grandbabies Luke and Rose?” Mrs. Moore says. I hear Mary fighting for the phone in the background.
“Um, yes ma’am.”
“These ain’t gonna be Southern children, Emmanuel.”
They could be one day. Maybe I’ll move the family to Alabama, maybe even right down to Mobile. That’s a wonderful—
“She’s giving birth to Harrison and Truvie in honor of my grandparents, Emmanuel, end of discussion.”
Harrison and Truvie? What kind of names are those?
“Sorry about that,” Mary says breathlessly. Then she whispers, “I don’t like those names, do you?”
“No.”
“Good. Wait. You said Rose Abassa Mann, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Did you mean to?”
Where’s she going with this? “Yes.”
“You want our children to have your last name?”
“Of course.”
Hold on now, Manny. You just said—
Shh.
“Are you asking me to marry you?” Mary asks.
“Huh?”
That’s what I was trying to tell you, Manny. If they have your last name, then—
Okay, I get it. Now … go away.
“It kind of sounds like you’re proposing,” Mary says.
“I … I guess.”
“I guess what?”
You ain’t shouting now, are you? You ain’t hollering up a storm anymore, huh?
“I guess I am.” But this isn’t the way. You’re not supposed to propose to someone on a payphone.
Especially when it’s a collect call. Very trifling.
“You guess you are what exactly?”
God, I feel weak. “Are you, um, interested in, um … Mary Moore, will you be my wife?”
I hear her shouting.
“Is that a ‘yes’?” I ask.
“Of course it is, Manny. Of course it is!”
“Well, you know I’d rather ask you in person with a proper ring and everything. I’d need to get a steady job and a place for us to stay—”
I hear another struggle for the phone. “Did you, and please correct me if I’m wrong,” Mrs. Moore says, “did you just ask my baby to marry you? On the phone?”
“Yes ma’am. I guess I did.”
“You … you.” She growls. “Mary, take this phone before I break something with it.”
“Manny?” Mary says.
“Your mama sounds angry.”
“Yeah. She is. She’s punching the couch.”
Ouch. “Well tell her … tell her …” Tell her what? How do you stop a woman from punching a couch? “Tell her that I have a gift for her.” Yeah. The blanket. For the couch she’s hitting.
She’ll need it to cover all the holes she’s making.
Yeah.
“What is it?” Mary asks.
“It’ll be a surprise, and I have a gift for you, too, and you’ll love it.”
I hear Mrs. Moore shouting, “And calling after nine AM when it costs the most? What was he thinking?”
“I better get off now,” Mary says.
“Yeah. I’ll see you tomorrow, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ve missed you.”
“I’ve missed you, too.”
Bet Mrs. Moore ain’t missing that couch.
I take a deep breath. “I love you, Mary.”
“You do?”
Oh yeah, her mama’s listening. She can’t say it back. “And it’s the first time …”
You can’t tell her that.
I have to.
“And it’s the first time I really, really mean it when I say it. I love you.”
“You’re going to make me cry.”
I hear Mrs. Moore shouting, “Oh, and now he’s making her cry! What next? Is he going to make her go into labor?”
“Please, please don’t cry, Mary. I’ll … I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“I can’t wait, Manny. Bye.”
Click.
And here I thought all we was getting was some breakfast. All this drama, and I bet no one’s up at the house yet.
I put the receiver down. My heart’s beating a mile a minute. I’m going to be married, and I’m going to be the father of a boy and a girl. I don’t care if the fellas at the house sleep all day.
But they try.
It must be two o’clock and ninety degrees before we get to Booker T. Washington Park, and it is thick with Jeff’s family. They’re everywhere I look, like a sea of black and brown, with even a few white faces. A huge banner fastened to the fence around the tennis courts announces: “Happy Juneteenth! Pettis Family Reunion.”
“What’s Juneteenth?” I ask Jeff as we roll up, Jerry beside him in the front seat.
“June nineteenth,” Jeff says. “When the slaves got freed.”
Because I had nothing better to do, I had read the Roanoke Times that morning. “But isn’t today the twentieth?”
“Only time we could get the park,” Jerry says.
“Besides,” Jeff says with a laugh, “it wasn’t like them slaves had calendars.”
On the tennis courts, some folks are selling clothes, and when Jeff and I carry in the boxes of Timberlands, he sells out in twenty minutes because he only charges them “a little over my costs,” he tells me.
“Why?”
“Why? They’re my family. I’d be crazy tryin’ to rip them off cuz they know where I live.”
“What about other folks, like in Atlanta?” I ask.
“They ain’t my people.”
I shrug. “They could be.”
He looks at me funny for the rest of the day after that.
I walk through the tennis courts watching kids play little games for prizes. They putt golf balls on green carpet, shoot mini-basketballs, throw footballs through holes, and even pick up ducks in a little baby pool, all to win prizes like pinwheels and jump ropes.
“What’s all this for?” I ask the little girl who works the duck pool.
“We’re raisin’ money for the children’s choir to go to Disney World,” she tells me. “Wanna try?” Her shirt says, “I sing for God in the St. John’s Children’s Choir.” She is so cute, her hair in little braids, each braid tied with a yellow ribbon.
“Sure. How much?”
“You gotta go down to the tent and get a card.” She points to a sign. “This one costs two smiles. I mark them off the card.”
“So if I get a card, I can play?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I’ll be right back.”
I leave the tennis courts and head down a grassy hill to the basketball court where folks are serving drinks, hot smokes, nachos, burgers, fried fish, and hot dogs at one end, a stage and sound system set up on the other, one of those inflatable jumping castles
in the middle. I weave through lots of running children and standing adults to the tent, using my last eight dollars to buy two cards.
“You gonna be playin’ lots of games,” the girl selling the cards tells me.
“Maybe.”
While soloists, duets, and a couple trios belt out some good, old-fashioned Gospel music on the sound stage, their songs and harmonies echoing on the cars flying by on Orange Avenue, I act like a kid. I try putting first and end up putting the ball off the tennis courts twice.
You’ll never play golf.
Tell me about it.
I do better with the mini-basketballs, but I still don’t make enough shots in thirty seconds to win a prize.
This is like the midway at Kennywood Park, Manny.
And I made ten in thirty seconds. I should have won something.
These choir kids is hardcore.
At the football toss, I hit the edge of that hole three times, the ball bouncing back to me each time, kids giggling at me as they watch.
You’ll never play for the Steelers.
And at the duck pond, every duck I pick up doesn’t have a number on the bottom. The little girl giggles every time I come up empty, crossing off ten smiles on the card before I finally get a duck with the number two on the bottom.
“You win!”
I want to tell her that I’ve already won, that her just seeing me is the greatest victory of my life. She holds out a bag full of toys, and I choose a pinwheel, spinning it in the hot breeze.
“Your card’s all full,” she tells me.
I show her an empty card.
“You bought two?”
Yeah, I’m crazy that way. I see a little boy who can’t be older than four standing a little ways off. “You want to play?”
He nods.
I hand him the card. “Here you go.”
He takes the card and immediately hands it to the little girl, the biggest smile on his face. I watch him win a prize on his first duck, and he, too, chooses a pinwheel.
Must be a lucky card. You should have used that one first.
And then … I wander, the pinwheel tucked into a belt loop. I help some kids across the bars at the playground, play tag, push kids on swings, some two at a time, hearing “Higher!” and “Look at me!” I could get used to this.
Me, too.
Now look who’s getting soft.
So I like kids. That don’t make me soft.