by Mia Mckenzie
“Yes, it is,” I say, making a mental note to go to Ethiopia.
“This world the Lord made is a wonder,” she says.
Brother Nguyen nods his agreement.
There’s the sound of a screen door creaking open and a woman steps out onto a back porch a few houses away. She’s white, in her mid-thirties, and holding an infant in one of those carriers that’s all fabric and a few well-placed knots. I remember red-faced Ethan, and figure this must be his wife. When she spots us, she hesitates for a second, then smiles sheepishly and waves at the reverend.
“Good morning, Amanda,” the reverend calls. “How’s that sweet baby doing?”
I’m surprised at her friendliness but I guess I shouldn’t be, considering she’s a reverend. That’s kind of their thing. You can’t bring souls to Jesus with a funky attitude. I notice she didn’t call the woman sister, though.
“She’s a little fussy this morning,” Amanda replies, rubbing the baby’s head. “But otherwise good.”
With pleasantries out of the way, Amanda looks like she really wants to turn around and go back inside now. Instead, she sits down on her porch swing and begins to sway back and forth with her baby, staring out at the sunflowers in her backyard. It’s so awkward.
“Sister Skye,” Reverend Seymour says, turning back to us. “Tell us about your favorite place to travel.”
“Yeah, tell us!” Vicky says.
“Um. I don’t really have a favorite.”
“Oh, you must.”
I think about it. “Everywhere’s so different. It’s hard to pick one place. I like how the people in Denver are kind of weird at first, but once you get to know them, they’re really welcoming. I like how familiar Gaborone feels. Whenever I go back, no matter how long it’s been, I still know it. I like how high and chill everybody is in Oakland. I like how Black Brazil is. And how easygoing the people are about sex—” I stop.
Vicky giggles.
Brother Nguyen glances at Reverend Seymour and they share a little smile.
I haven’t asked what their deal is because, despite what just happened upstairs, I don’t feel like it’s my business. But I’m dying to know.
We hear the sound of the screen door creaking again and Ethan comes out onto his back porch. When he sees us, he doesn’t smile or wave like his wife did.
At the sight of him, Vicky blows a gigantic, bánh bò–flecked raspberry.
“Vick.”
She shrugs. “What?”
Ethan whispers something to his wife, and she gets up off the swing and follows him back inside.
Brother Nguyen shakes his head, frowning. “That was uncomfortable.”
“It always is,” Reverend Seymour replies.
“You seem friendly with the woman,” I say.
She nods. “I try to be. I know it’s what God expects of me.”
“I sense a ‘but.’ ”
“But I’ve never had an easy time with women who stand by watching their men treat people badly. And think they, themselves, are not culpable. White women have a long history of that.”
Not just white women.
When we’re done with our bánh bò, Brother Nguyen returns to the attic and Reverend Seymour walks Vicky and me around the side of the house to the front. She thanks us again for our help with Brother Nguyen.
“Is he your boyfriend?” Vicky asks.
The reverend looks a little bit embarrassed. “ ‘Boyfriend’ isn’t the term I’d use,” she says. “We’re…well, I’m not sure what to call us. But I’ve known Philip Michael for thirty years. He and his wife used to run the corner store. Folks called it the ‘Chinese store’ back then, even though Phil and his wife, Linh, were Vietnamese.”
The corner store I frequented as a child was also run by Vietnamese people. We also called it “the Chinese store.”
“I used to buy loose cigarettes there, when I still smoked,” the reverend continues. “We struck up a good friendship. My late husband and I used to have Philip Michael and Linh over for dinner, and vice versa. People always assumed that Linh and I were friends. And I did like her, she was very nice. But Phil and I had so much in common.”
“Like what?” I ask, interested.
“We both love baseball. We watched games together on TV and went to a few over the years. We both love to bake. And theology. We used to talk for hours about religion.” She gets quiet for a moment. Then she says, “When Linh died, Phil…well, he couldn’t handle it. He couldn’t even get out of bed. He ended up losing the store. Then, one day, he was gone.”
“Gone where?”
“Just gone. Vanished off the face of the earth. Even his grown children didn’t know where he was. I didn’t see him for fifteen years. Then, a couple of weeks ago, I was in Center City and I saw him sleeping on a park bench. I brought him home with me. He’s been here ever since. No one knows, except Faye and Nick. My kids and grandkids would worry about it if they knew. I’m not going to turn him out onto the street. So, he just stays in the spare room. Nobody goes up there. He can stay until I get it figured out.”
“Philip Michael is kind of an…unexpected name for an older Vietnamese man,” I say.
“He named himself that when he opened the corner store. You remember that show Miami Vice?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“He thought if he gave himself the name of a well-known Black actor, the Black people in the neighborhood would embrace him.”
I laugh. Partly because it’s funny but also because I’ve never heard of an Asian immigrant who wanted to be embraced by Black people.
“Did they?” I ask. “Embrace him?”
She thinks about it, smiles. “I did.”
We’re in front of her house now and the reverend turns to me and opens her arms for a hug. I take two steps back and offer my hand for a shake instead. Don’t get me wrong: She’s a nice woman. But hugging strangers is not how I do life.
* * *
—
Vicky’s house smells like collard greens and the hint of a man’s cologne. I don’t like it. From the front door, I can see Faye’s dude in the kitchen, getting something out of the refrigerator. His back is to us, so I haven’t yet ascertained exactly how ugly he is.
“Hi, Uncle Nick,” Vicky says, skipping toward him.
He turns, just as we enter the kitchen and I stop walking, mid-step, because guess who the fuck it is? The guy I got drunk with a couple of weeks ago. The guy who slept naked in my bed. Mister “that’s cold-blooded” himself. Ain’t this a bitch?
He greets Vicky with a smile, avoiding eye contact with me. “Hey, Vicky. How was school?”
“It’s Sunday,” she says.
“Oh. Right.” He looks nervous and he should.
“This is Skye,” Vicky says.
Finally, he looks at me. “Skye. Faye was just telling me about you. Nick Ruffin,” he says, extending his hand. “Good to meet you.”
I just stare at him. Like, what in the entire hell?
“Vicky?” Faye calls from the basement.
“Yes?” Vicky yells back.
“Come down here, please.”
Vicky disappears down the basement stairs.
“Wow,” I say to him when she’s gone. “You’re engaged? To be married?”
“You can’t tell Faye we know each other,” he whispers.
“You expect me not to tell her she’s engaged to a cheater?”
“Shhh!” He comes closer to me, takes my arm, and steers me out of the kitchen into the dining room. “It’s not like that,” he whispers. “I don’t cheat. I never have sex with other women. I just like to go out and…have fun.”
“Naked fun,” I remind him.
“That was an unusual night. Most of the time I just talk to women. Maybe dance. That’s it.”
<
br /> “If it’s so innocent, why don’t you want me to tell her? Why are you whispering?”
“Faye isn’t as easygoing as you or me,” he replies. “She wouldn’t get it.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Look,” he says. “I know things between you two aren’t great.”
“How do you know that?”
“She told me.”
“When?”
“Just a few minutes ago,” he says. “She told me the whole story about how Vicky tracked you down and how she chased you and all of it.”
“Just now?” I ask him. “You know all of that happened like two weeks ago, right? Why’d she wait so long to tell you? Does she sense that she can’t fully trust you for some reason?”
He frowns. “If you tell her, it’ll only make things weirder between you.”
We hear footsteps on the basement stairs. Nick goes back into the kitchen. I follow him.
“Hi again, Skye,” Faye says when she sees me. “Vicky said you left something behind earlier?”
“My room key,” I say. “I don’t see it, though. I must have just forgot it in my room. I’m going to go now.”
“Nice meeting you,” Nick says.
I ignore him. “Bye, Faye. See you later, Vicky.”
And then I beeline it to the door.
I’m almost down the front steps when I hear, “Skye, hold on a second.”
I turn and there’s Faye holding the copy of The Color Purple Vicky got at the festival. I totally forgot this was going to happen.
“I wanted to give you this,” she says.
I try my best to look s-u-r-p-r-i-s-e-d. “Oh, wow, what’s this?”
“I asked Vicky to look for a copy for you at the festival.”
“Oh, wow.”
“It’s important to have books around that are meaningful to you,” she says, “even when you’re…unsettled.”
It’s weird that she kind of read my mind.
“Think of it as a peace offering.”
And I want to. I really do. But I’m conflicted. Because, on the one hand, I’m not a barbarian. I like peace. Also, if my goal is to have a good enough relationship with Vicky that she’ll be willing to change my adult diapers in my old age, or at least put me in a pretty good nursing home, then peace with Faye is probably a good thing. But on the other hand, I don’t trust people very easily.
Faye notices my hesitation and says, “I’m sorry I chased you down the street.”
“Oh, riiiiight,” I reply, laughing. “I totally forgot about that.”
“And that I took so long to invite you into our home.”
“Did you?” I ask, legit like Meryl Streep up in this bitch. “I didn’t really notice.”
“Okay,” she says. “Well, I’m glad no slight was felt, then.”
Oh, noooooooo, not at all.
I open the front cover of the book and see she’s written something inside. For Skye. From Faye. Not exactly sentimental but still nice.
“Thanks,” I say. “Really. I appreciate this.”
She smiles and goes back up the steps.
“Faye?”
“Mmm-hmm?” She turns around to face me again.
I think about what Nick said, that telling her how I know him will only make the weirdness between us worse. I’m pretty sure that’s bullshit. I’m pretty sure she’d thank me for exposing his ass. But another part of me doesn’t want to risk ruining the peace when it’s so fragile and new. At the last second, I decide I will tell her. But not now. Later.
Trouble is, she’s looking at me, waiting for me to say something. Come on, brain, don’t fail me n—
“I like your toes.” REALLY, BRAIN? REALLY?
She looks down at her feet.
“The polish,” I say, trying to sound less creepy. “It’s nice.”
“Oh. Thank you.”
“What’s it called?”
“A Oui Bit of Red. Like, French ‘oui.’ ”
And we both smile, because that’s actually really cute.
“Bye,” Faye says, heading back inside.
“Peace out,” I reply, ruining it.
16
Every other Friday evening, Vicky’s dad picks her up and takes her to Bala Cynwyd for the weekend. Spoiler alert: She hates that shit. “It’s so boring over there when Sabrina’s at college. My dad’s always working. His dumb wife just bugs me about watching too much TV, but what am I supposed to do? Talk to her or something? I don’t even know why I have to go over there at all.”
It’s a chilly day. For the last couple of hours, since school let out, we’ve been hanging out by the fire at the B and B, eating leftover pastelillos de guayaba Viva saved us from breakfast, and watching YouTube videos of stupid dogs, while Vicky waits to be hauled off to the suburbs.
“Do you have to go?” I ask her.
“My dad gets mad at Aunt Faye when I don’t.”
Kenny arrives, a blaze of horn-honking and bad new-school hip-hop announcing him before his beamer even pulls up to the curb. Through the parlor window, I can see the car idling, Kenny concealed behind dark-tinted windows.
Vicky’s still watching dog vids, giggling through a mouth full of Puerto Rican pastry.
“Your dad’s here.”
She shrugs just as her phone rings in her hand. I watch her dismiss the call with a bored swipe of her forefinger.
Kenny honks again.
Viva comes out of her office, pops her head into the parlor. “Vicky, it sounds like your father’s outside.”
Vicky looks up from her phone. “Viva,” she says, holding up her half-eaten pastelillo, “did you make this?”
“Sí,” Viva says. “It’s a twist on my abuelita’s recipe.”
“It’s, like, the best thing I ever tasted.”
“Gracias, cariño.”
Vicky looks at me, then back at Viva. “What does ‘cariño’ mean?”
“Sweetie,” Viva says.
Vicky smiles. I can tell she likes Viva. I’m not sure if it’s an admiration thing or a crush thing or both, but it’s cute. “Cariño,” Vicky repeats, before taking another bite of pastry and returning to her phone.
Kenny turns off his shitty music, then gets out of his car and stands there, frowning up at the B and B. I shift a little to the left of the window, so he can’t see me but I can still peek out at him. After a moment, he leans down and says something to someone inside the car, and I realize Charlotte must be with him. Sure enough, a moment later, the passenger door opens and she gets out, too, also frowning. I shift all the way out of view as they start walking up the front steps.
When the bell rings, Vicky doesn’t move to answer it, or even acknowledge it in any way.
“They’re not gonna go away, Vick.”
She looks at me and frowns, looking a lot like her father frowning up at the B and B, then groans. “Fine.” She puts her phone in her pocket and walks extra slowly to the door.
Kenny and Charlotte are dressed alike, in matching purple running clothes and pristine white Nikes with purple swooshes. It’s gross. I half-smile a hello and introduce them to Viva anyway, because that is what you do when you stay in the same place long enough to have to see people you don’t like on a semi-regular basis. If I’d met these fools in Brazil or Malaysia, I’d never have had to speak to them again.
“What took you so long?” Kenny asks Vicky.
“I was changing my tampon.”
“Oh. Yeah. Okay.”
Charlotte shakes her head at her husband. “She doesn’t even have her period yet, Kenneth.”
Vicky scowls at her. “You don’t know my life, Charlotte.”
Charlotte presses her lips tight together and takes a deep breath. “I don’t have the emotional capacity to handle your
attitude right now, Victoria,” she says. “I just had a very stressful experience at a red light.”
Neither Vicky, nor Viva, nor I ask what she’s talking about. This doesn’t stop her from continuing.
“A woman was so rude to me on the way over here. She was glaring at me, just because I’m a Caucasian woman with an African American man. Can you believe that? In this day and age?”
Viva glances at me with a look that asks: Why did you let this woman into my house?
“How do you know that’s why she was frowning?” I ask Charlotte.
“Glaring,” she says. “Not frowning. And trust me. I’ve seen it before. Plenty. Right, Kenneth?”
Kenny nods. “It’s just silly and backward. It’s the twenty-first century, for Christ’s sake.”
“Exactly,” says Charlotte. “It’s just flat-out unfair to look at me with such violence over something as trivial as skin color.”
Okay, first of all: She looked at you “with violence”? That’s some white nonsense. That’s the type of shit white women say about Black women who don’t bend over backward to make them feel comfortable in every imaginable situation. Maybe that Black woman was frowning because
you were breaking the unspoken rule of not making eye contact with other drivers unless it’s to scowl at them for cutting you off a ways back;
she didn’t like the mumbly, misogynist music Kenny was blasting from your obnoxious car; or
she’d just remembered how Judy Winslow disappeared from Family Matters with no explanation at all!
Or maybe she just had resting bitch face. I don’t know and it doesn’t even matter because—newsflash: It’s not a Black woman’s job to smile at you so you can feel comfortable about your life choices, Char.
But, honestly? There’s no way I’m putting in the time to explain any of this to her, so I just say, “Caucasian is a racist term.”
“Sí,” Viva says. “Muy racista.”
Charlotte blinks at us, looking confused.
Kenny says, “Um, we really need to get going. You ready, baby girl?”