He asks me if I’m ready to head upstairs.
We start in the kitchen. And this ain’t what it was. Gone the teacup wallpaper, the painting of The Last Supper, the decorative copper spoons, the sloppy white paint that sealed our cabinet drawers froze. They’ve refinished the cabinets, fastened them with bronze handles, laid tiles over our old Formica counters. Our fridge used to make the sound of a band warming up, but theirs could lullaby a nigger to sleep.
We hit the second floor. Stop in the room where Mama Liza and Bubba slept, a room they kept locked during the day and while they were gone. We meander into Uncle Sip’s old room next. Uncle Sip’s room stayed fragrant with cologne tester bottles he stole from the mall, was stacked with men’s fashion mags, stacks that, no matter how tall I got, were taller than me.
The husband asks what it was like growing up in the neighborhood.
What I could tell him about my Sixth Street crew. My homeboy from next door who was the king of all tumblers, who could backflip on command or challenge for a whole block. My other boy who lived in the cluttered house across the street, the one we all envied for his lax curfew. There was my boy, who was less of my boy, with the palsied arm, the last pick no matter what game we played. And there was the big homie Scoop, the most resourceful of us. Scoop was the one who knocked the bottom out a milk basket for a makeshift hoop, who built a go-cart we crashed wheeling down a steep hill.
I could tell him about the old homies, but what I say is, it was great. Lots of friends. Lots of good times.
Upstairs, they’ve pulled up the carpet in the hall and laid down hardwood. Upstairs, he takes me into the bathroom. The claw-foot tub (it’s refinished) that I’d bathe in for school still takes up most of the space, but otherwise the bathroom’s revamped: a recessed fan where the old bulb hung, new sink and porcelain toilet. We head into Mom’s old room, which is now a shrine of trophies, helmets, mitts, balls, a pair of grubby baseball cleats encased in glass. We roam the rest of the floor and the attic, which ain’t an attic no more, him pointing out this and that, calling out types of woods and metals, the names of manufacturers. Did most of the work myself, he says, and please believe you never seen a man more proud.
There’s piano music playing when we get downstairs. It lures both of us into the same nook where Mama Liza would lie on a couch and demand I tweeze stubborn hairs out her chin, where us kids were forced into torturous hours of song, prayer, and Bible verse recitation. The wife fingers a piano that looks like our old one. She asks if we had one when we lived in the house, tells me it was left inside when they bought it.
We did, I say.
Then we owe you thanks, she says. Thank you.
They walk me out together. We hope this was all you hoped it would be, he says. They stand on the porch and watch me leave.
For Mom and my bros, for my girl, for Uncle Sip, for my aunt if ever she needs, even a room or two for my cousins who never reside too far from grief, if I can buy this, when I reclaim what by ethic is ours, there will be rooms for the whole battered bunch of us. The owners, yes, they were cool, but they must be told — it takes more than hardwood floors and paint, more than tile and granite, more than a new keyed key; they must know it takes more than a deed and mortgage for a house to become your home.
Chapter 19
What you got, some big old plan?
There ain’t a merciful bone in his body, the way he struts in my job full of himself and some. The way he tarries inside the door looking around, the way he finds a free space for his bigger, swollen self, and, till the front counter clears, plays as if fixing his shirt is what matters most in the world.
Afternoon, Grace, he says, strolling up.
Most of the years we were together, Kenny wore Jheri curls, wore velour tracksuits and tenny shoes, but this newfangled Kenny wears a low fade, tailored suit, and glasses never sold as two-for-one.
Good afternoon, I say. What’s up?
How you been? he says.
Blessed, I say.
So this, he says, it what they call blessed.
That a joke? I say.
Came to rap to you a second, he says. Can we? Won’t be but a hot second. I promise.
I ask my coworker to watch my till, find an empty booth. You can see that he’s losing his hair. So when you start wearing glasses? I say.
It’s been a minute, he says. But only to work. When I need whitey to take me serious. He takes off his frames and blows on the lenses. So here’s the deal, he says. Christmas, me and Helen taking the boys to Hawaii.
He sweeps straw scraps and shredded cheese off the table.
Taking them for Christmas? I say. You asking or telling?
Which? he says. Would you prefer?
What, you got some big old plan? You taking them to see your brother?
Both, he says.
Taking my boys to see a man who still call himself a pimp? I say.
He’s a preacher now, Kenny says. Ordained and all. Matter-fact, he’s doing the ceremony.
Ceremony? I say.
Yes, wedding, Kenny says. His smile, it steel. A brotha held out as long as he could, he says. Anyhow, thought I’d give you a heads-up in case you want to do something with the boys before we leave.
Once during a trip to Vegas Kenny and me meandered near the end of the strip. We were steps from a chapel with a bright fluorescent-light sign outside. We saw a groom carrying his bride out across the threshold, and I mentioned to him about how beautiful it was. Kenny screwed his face and crossed his arms. That depend on who’s doing the seeing, he said, and neither he nor I broached the subject again.
Oh, I say.
You know it ain’t like me to show up at person’s place of employment, he says. But I tried your crib a few times and I couldn’t reach you. He taps the table a finger at a time, his nails clipped to slivers of clean white.
Been working, I say.
Say, if you don’t mind me asking, how much you making here? he says.
Is that important? I say.
Is it important that I know, or is it important how much you make? he asks.
My take-home is less than my old state checks, but I’d never give him the pleasure.
You might’ve run out ahead of me, I say. But I’ll catch up.
Bet you will, he says.
Yes, I will, I say. God provides.
He puts on his glasses and gets up. Figured you say something of the sort, he says. The boys told me you mentioned to them about going to church, which is a good thing for sure, Grace, a real good thing. And you probably right about the Lord providing, he says. He fixes his tie and sweeps his hand over his slacks and shoulders. But I’ll tell you this: Fordamnsure I can’t speak for no one else, but for me, he says, for me, I ain’t cashed check the first from the Father, the Son, nor the Holy Ghost.
There’s new construction at the bowling lanes. Long tarps make temporary walls. The whole place fumes wet paint and paint thinner. The boys break up stairs splattered with dried putty and wait on the floor above the lanes, the arcade floor. They sprint for the games while I exchange bills for quarters from a girl with purple hair and piercings in her lip and nose. When I get down to where the boys are, I count them out equal sums. When it’s gone, it’s gone, I say.
Champ is nowhere to be found.
I find a seat and watch them play. This goes on for games and still no sight of my eldest. I tell the boys to keep an eye out while I head for the restroom to fix — I’m always fixing my face. All I have is my face — my eyes and lips. There’s a woman in a stall who isn’t smelling womanish, so I take less time than I would. When I walk out Champ calls me from the steps.