“ ’Cause?” Dad waits for me to elaborate, but I don’t. “Oh, okay, it’s like that? The silent treatment?” Dad fumbles around the console, when he should be keeping both hands on the wheel, and puts a CD in the player. At the first snare of the drum, my ears tune in. All on their own, my lips curl up, but I tighten them back down into a grimace.
Listen, baby . . . ain’t no mountain high, ain’t no valley low . . .
Dad curls his fingers in Mama’s hair and croons the guy part of the song. His voice is deep and mellow. When the female part comes on, Dad balls one fist into a pretend microphone and holds it to Mama’s mouth. She smacks his hand away.
“You’re not gonna sing? Forget it. Come on, baby girl, let’s show your mama how it’s done.” Dad starts the song all over again.
When I was little, Dad used to sing me old Motown songs to stop my crying. Only Motown. “The old songs have lyrics worth singing,” he’d say. Singing together used to be our thing; but he hasn’t asked me to sing in forever. So now, half of me wants to stay mad. The other . . . loves to sing. And even though I’m salty, it ain’t enough to stop me from singing loud, so Dad can hear how much I miss those times.
“Ain’t no river wide enough, baby. . . .”
Soon, our voices drown out the CD. Before I know it, I’m no longer in an Impala with a dented bumper, but onstage in a short sequined gold dress and spiky heels, a giant fan blowing out my long blond weave like a horizontal halo, just like Beyoncé’s. The crowd shouts, “Genesis, we love you!”
“Damn it!” Dad suddenly swerves around a pothole, but hits another one instead. “Gon’ knock my wheels outta alignment again!”
The roads are so full of holes that it makes me bounce all over the place even with the seat belt on. Every year the mayor promises to clean up Detroit, but the potholes keep getting deeper no matter how much black gunk they fill them up with.
Forty-five minutes later, dead brown grass, overgrown foliage, and litter-lined streets are replaced by perfectly manicured lawns, sun-sheltering trees, and green recycle bins. We’re apparently in Farmington Hills. “And here we are!” Dad says excitedly as we enter a development sectioned off with tall trees that stand like a row of police, guarding the place. A huge white wood sign with carved blue letters reads, WELCOME TO FARMINGTON ACRES.
“Dwight, Mike, and Chico helped me move everything early this morning. We even got the beds set up.” Dad drives slowly down the street. “Nice, ain’t it?”
Mama gasps. “Sure is.” It’s true. There’s not a single boarded-up building, vacant lot, or ditched car in sight.
“And this here”—Dad parks in the driveway of a white brick house—“is ours, what you call a ranch-style house.”
“White bricks?” I say, gunning to get a close-up.
“It’s called ‘white washed.’ Like it?”
Now, I’m not gon’ lie, I’m pretty psyched. . . . You know how you’re watching a TV show and they flash to the outside of the character’s rich-looking house? This house could be one of those flashes, for real.
“Look at that grass!” Mama exclaims, scrambling out of her seat belt. Dad’s out of the car faster than Mama, and I’m not too far behind. “It’s so thick and pretty.”
This is true too. Not a single bald patch to be found.
“And these houses, they’re beautiful,” Mama goes on, noting niceties up and down the road. Shiny cars are parked in driveways, cute mailboxes posted at the curbs, and small lawn flags wave in the wind. It’s fancier than Grandma’s Sherwood Forest neighborhood.
Dad grabs Mama’s hand and pulls her up the front steps. “Wait till you see the inside.” He unlocks the door, swings it open and sings, “Ta-da!”
Mama’s the first in, leading us into the living room. “Wow, it’s a lot of space, Emory,” she says giddily. The floors are hardwood. I can slide on them if I want to, but I’m way too old for that, so I probably won’t. The room is long and wide, with a fireplace, not one of those fake ones that’s bricked over, but a real Ho-Ho-Ho-Here-Comes-Santa kind. The dining room has a high ceiling with a chandelier hanging in the center. A chandelier! A million diamonds dangle from it; I’m not bragging, but if we had company, we could sit under it drinking swanky tea, holding our pinkies in the air.
“Yeah, it is a lot,” I calmly chime in, but inside I’m screaming, Oh my gosh, this is so freakin’ fly!
“That’s not all.” Dad beckons us to the kitchen. It’s big too, with white cabinets and silver knobs, a cabinet that you give a swirl to open—which Dad calls a lazy Susan—both above and below the countertop, and a double sink with a spray faucet.
“Whoa, this is a big closet,” I say, opening two doors.
“That’s a pantry,” Dad corrects. “Nice, huh?”
“All for food?” I step into it. “We can only put high-quality stuff in here like Grey Poupon and Evian water,” I joke.
Dad raises his chin high. “Oh, yes, ma’am, we must stock Grey Poupon,” he says snootily. We both laugh, taking turns mimicking his bougie interpretation, until Mama calls us silly.
“Stainless steel,” she says, checking out the refrigerator. We’ve never had a silver refrigerator before. And definitely not one with a water and ice maker right on the door!
“Sharon”—Dad is beaming big time—“remember how we used to dream about having a house like this?” Mama remembers, because her eyes get glassy. “This is real marble, feel!” Dad knocks on the counters to prove how hard they are.
“It’s like—from a magazine,” I admit.
“Gen-Gen, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet.” Dad opens the backdoor and steps out onto the deck. “There’s so much we can do with a yard this size. We can finally have a barbecue with all our friends. Whaddaya think about that?”
At the mention of friends, my mind flashes back to Thursday’s beef with Regina and the girls. I’m about to remind Dad that I don’t have any friends, thanks to him, but I decide not to ruin this moment because for one—this house!
“I don’t know,” Mama says. “Let’s just take one step at a time.”
“I’ll be right back.” Dad disappears into the house humming “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough,” leaving Mama and me outside, letting this all settle in. Could this place really be ours? After a few minutes, Dad comes back saying, “Okay, y’all ready to see the rest yet?” Then he shows us the laundry room with a washer and dryer already in it—which Mama goes gaga about—then he takes us to a different door and opens it.
“This is our room, Sharon. The master bedroom. We even have our own bathroom. Check it out.”
“Wow,” I can’t help but say. “It’s . . . it’s as big as our old living room.”
“And see here,” Dad says, going over to the window. “You can even sit on this little ledge, drink coffee, and read the paper. We can throw some cushions on there and make it real nice. What do you say?”
“It is . . . comfy,” says Mama, trying out the ledge, her voice sounding uncertain. “But . . . can we afford this place? Your cut hours and my thirty-two don’t add up.”
Dad hesitates just a beat and then says, “I got it all under control.”
“A place this size . . .” Mom glances around. “The cost of heat alone will eat up my paycheck, and then you add on electricity, water, cable, and groceries. . . .”
“Sharon . . .”
“You forget about the car note and insurance? Then there’re the other expenses—”
“Sharon?”
“I don’t know. . . .” She pauses, then adds carefully, “Plus, the weekly bus fare for catching the bus from out here—”
“Sharon?” Dad places a hand gently on her shoulder. “I’ve got one more surprise. . . . There’s a high position opening up, with more money—” Mama’s face stays worried, but Dad keeps talking. “I’ve got the years and experience; I’m a shoo-in for it.”
Dad’s never discussed a promotion before. A promotion—hey—maybe things could go back to the w
ay they used to be, before the budgeting and the “we’ve got to make do.”
“Dad, you’re getting a new job? Like a real new job?”
“Yep, Gen-Gen.” He laughs. “A real one.” Then Dad lifts Mama’s chin and peers into her eyes. “So stop worrying. Just have my back, like you used to, okay?”
“Yeah, of course.” But not three seconds after Dad plants a sweet kiss on Mama’s cheek, she asks, “But are you sure? Because, it never fails, every month there’s some unforeseen bill—a tire’s blown out, car tax due, insurance deductible for—”
“I said ‘I got it,’ didn’t I?” But Dad rubs his forehead like he does when he’s getting stressed.
I remind Mama that Dad’s a shoo-in. “He’ll be collecting those baller paychecks, right, Dad?”
“Yeah, Gen-Gen! See, that’s what I’m talking about. I got it.” Dad drapes his arm across my shoulders, saying, “Come on, let me show you your room.” That’s when he tells me the best part of this place is that the school’s in walking distance. New school? I gotta be the new kid again? An attitude instantly creeps up my spine. But just as quick, my ’tude vanishes when we get to my room. So big! Huge! My bed, dresser, and bookcase fit with plenty of room to spare. I could turn up my music and give a whole concert, pretend to have a band plus backup dancers, and still have tons of space.
“It’s dope, right? Didn’t I tell you?” Dad hugs Mama. “Get settled. I’ve gotta make a run.”
“Wait, you’re leaving?” All the excitement drains out of me. “We just got here.”
“Where’re you going already?” Mama’s tone gets real serious, real fast.
Dad scratches his head, stalling for an answer. One comes because he says, “Well, this house can’t pay for itself,” and then laughs as if it’s funny.
I don’t laugh. Neither does Mama. She repeats, “Where are you going, Emory?” But before she can launch into a rant, Dad flashes a dazzling smile. “I’ll be back soon, trust me.”
four
With Dad gone, Mom and I mill around the house as if we’re at a fancy department store, afraid to get attached to the big bedrooms, schmancy chandelier, and washer and dryer. We resist putting sheets on the beds, towels in the bathroom, or dishes in the cabinets. We take turns shaking our heads in disbelief ’cause we know what we’re both thinking—we’re sure we’ve made a mistake giving Dad another chance but maybe we could—for once, if only for a little while—chuck our worries and enjoy this unbelievable house.
“Should we wait till he comes back . . . ,” I suggest, “to unpack?”
Mama runs her hand along the marble countertop and looks dreamy. “No, let’s do it,” she says, suddenly going to a box and ripping off the tape.
The boxes and bags are all unmarked, so we attack at random. Mama finds our cleaning supplies and unloads them. And then she starts unpacking so fast it’s as if she’s afraid Dad’ll race back and say, “Sorry, babe, but we’ve gotta load it all back up,” before she even gets everything out of the boxes. I’m just as fast ’cause in barely an hour I’m done cleaning and unpacking my room and the bathroom. Four hours later, it looks like we’ve lived here for months.
The house is stuffy like it’s been shut up for a while, so Mama’s opening all the windows. She tells me to get the broom to sweep the living room. When I get back, she’s standing by a window, letting the wind catch her hair.
“I like the yard next door. Their flowers are pretty,” she says. “I’d love to plant some, or hey, maybe we could start a garden with vegetables and stuff. I’ve always wanted to do something like that.”
Mama looks real happy in her dream home. I mean, who wouldn’t want to not have to haul their dirty clothes to the Laundromat or live with bars on the front door? As if living next to an abandoned building or lot is something we want to do. So yeah, it’s not only Mama’s dream to have a house like this, either. And now, here we are. So I answer, “Yeah, flowers would be cool.”
What’s not so cool is that Dad’s still not back. And now I’m hungry, but I keep on pushing the broom around getting hungrier and madder about having been evicted, and scared of it happening again, and I finally burst out with, “It’s not fair how we got to up and move.”
“Why don’t you take a break and go find some kids to hang out with?”
I won’t tell Mama that there’s no way I’m going to bother looking for new friends. Instead, I empty the dustpan and then find some saltines that made it here from our old place. I grab a packet of crackers, then flop on the sofa and stare at the fabric, remembering how Regina trash-talked it. It is sorta worn. “We need new furniture. This stuff doesn’t fit with this house,” I inform Mama.
“This is a beautiful place,” Mama says. “Clean neighborhood, too.”
“Yep and yep,” I agree. “Mama?” I hesitate ’cause one issue is still bugging me. “You think we’ll have to move again?”
Mama takes a good look at me, as if deciding whether to answer or not. Then she says, “I don’t know, Genesis,” in her no-more-questions voice.
But just when I think she’s done, Mama continues, “Monday I’ll have to get a copy of your latest school transcript and request a transfer.” Mama rummages through a box and pulls out a big brown envelope and some other papers. She’s learned to keep her own files on me, including my birth certificate, previous transcripts, and immunization records. “I’ll take this to the new school while your paperwork is being processed.” Again. “Walking distance to the school is a plus. So, no more public bus passes or transfers.” Is this supposed to make me want to go to school more? Mama adds, “Think of it as a new beginning. An adventure.”
An adventure? Was she kidding? First of all, there’s nothing remotely fun about standing in front of a room full of students staring me down like I stole something. And second of all, the teacher always makes me announce my name to a bunch of stank-faced kids. I might as well put a bull’s-eye on my forehead. And third, the teacher almost always sits me in one of two places: the very front of the class or the very back. If I’m in front, I’m doomed because my head is target practice for every kid behind me. If I’m in back, I’m doubly doomed because then I have to walk the walk of nervousness, praying that some clown doesn’t try to trip me on the way to my seat.
Yeah, great adventure.
Mama doesn’t seem to notice my lack of response. She just looks around, pleased, until it hits her that Dad’s not back. For another hour, we do a bit more cleaning, distracting ourselves from speculating where he might be. Mama dials him, but he doesn’t pick up. My stomach growls, the crackers digested an hour ago. “Maybe we should order a pizza,” she says, searching for restaurants in her phone. “Gosh, I don’t even know this zip code.”
Once she locates a pizza place and calls, Mama repeats the topping choices to me. My mouth is already watering in anticipation. “Yes, let’s go with breadsticks, too,” she says into the phone. “Let me make sure I have enough, hold one second.” Mama grabs her purse and takes out her wallet. “How much is the total again? Wait a minute . . .” Her fingers go frantic, going through each small section, and then repeating it all over again. “I’ll have to call you back.”
“What’s the matter?” I ask.
“I could’ve sworn I had some money . . . no, I’m almost positive I had thirty-something dollars in here,” she says, now searching her purse.
“Could you have spent it and forgot?” I ask, checking her wallet.
“I know a lot has been going on, but I ain’t losing my mind, I don’t think.”
Then, as if on cue, we hear the familiar hum of Dad’s car. “Dad’s back?” I say, shocked. We both dash to the window, and we’re even more shocked: He’s filling his arms full of bags. I run to the door and open it.
“Why’re you staring at me like you’ve seen a ghost?” Dad says, coming up the sidewalk, grinning like a maniac. “I told you that things would be different, didn’t I? Now, come help put this stuff away.”
; “Okay, but Mama . . . hey, what’s that smell?” I start poking into the bags as he steps around me. “Chinese food?”
Mama lags behind, closely observing him shelve the groceries. She’s wearing a serious frown, but when Dad blows her a kiss, she relaxes a bit. “Emory, did you—”
“See,” Dad says, cutting her off. He’s stocking the pantry with cereal, pancake mix, rice, crackers, and canned vegetables. “We’re going to fill this thing up, plus the cabinets, too,” he says, a little too happily.
I put the milk and pop in the fridge, a little miffed that Dad didn’t inform us he was going grocery shopping. I would’ve asked for lemons, if I’d known.
“Hmph.” Mama raises an eyebrow. “Chinese food? You bought it because you know I’m nicer with a full stomach.”
“I bought all this food ’cause I know y’all hungry,” he says, wiping sweat from his brow.
“He’s right about that,” I say, moving past my irritation and forgetting about Mama’s wallet. The table is loaded with all our favorites. Chicken and broccoli for Mama, sweet-and-sour chicken for me, General Tso’s chicken for him, and shrimp fried rice for all of us. And orange Faygo, too. He brought the good stuff, as if he just won the lottery.
“You know, Gen, we might not’ve had Chinese food if it wasn’t for the Gold Rush.”
“The Gold Rush?” I ready myself for one of Dad’s mini history lessons. I set the table, listening as he explains how rumors of gold nuggets drove folks to California, some coming from as far as China. I’m thankful for those rumors ’cause now I can chow down on this good meal.
Dad goes to the kitchen sink and washes his hands. “Yep, the miners loved it,” he says, grabbing a paper towel. “Good food and cheap prices.” Before he sits down, Dad takes off his jacket and swings it onto the back of his chair. And four flat circles fall out of his pocket and clink to the floor.
“Chips? Poker chips?” One split second passes before Mama flies off the handle. “Is this how you paid for all this food?”
Dad’s forehead goes sweatier, and it’s not from putting away groceries.
Genesis Begins Again Page 3