You hear that, Princess? I say, to Kim’s navel. Dad’s going to grad school.
Say it first and believe it second; that’s my psalm.
Okay, and what happens after? Kim says. What happens all the while?
We went over this, I say.
We did, she says. But what if it doesn’t work out the way you think?
Don’t let her hear you, I say. You best not ever let her hear you doubt me.
Champ, she needs to survive, she says. We do.
I’m supporting us now, ain’t I? I say
You need a job, Champ, she says. A job. Why don’t you just finish and work?
You act like you don’t know me by now. You act like you don’t know better than judge me by these local-ass standards. My dreams are bigger than this place, and you nor no one else is going to kill them.
What’s that supposed to mean? she says.
You know what the fuck it means, I say, and whip her around by her chin rougher than I should. I refuse to be one of these fools anonymous everywhere but inside their head. Fucking refuse, do you hear?
Kim falls quiet. She tugs her shirt over her stomach.
My pager goes off. It’s one of my regulars calling too late for a lick, but I need the dough — and that’s that.
Who’s that this late? she says.
It’s business, I say. My business, I’ll be right back.
Chapter 37
Funny you should ask.
This heifer — forgive me, LORD — is wasting too much of my precious time, treating me as though I begged for the world, when all I asked for was change to make a call. At my back, rowdy kids knock over piles of folded clothes and kick overstuffed shivering washers. Metal clinks in multiload dryers. A giant steamer hisses somewhere unseen. I snatch the quarters and head outside to the phone booth.
I call expecting the line to ring and ring with no answer, for their machine to pick up.
Oh, so it’s you, Kenny says. Didn’t recognize the number.
It’s a whole lot that you don’t, I say. Where are my boys?
Grace, I don’t think I’m feeling your tone of voice, he says.
Cut the games, I say.
They’re at the park, he says. Call back.
I’ll do you one better, I say.
He lets the phone go quiet.
A barefoot toddler darts past me into the parking lot with no one giving chase.
Guess you didn’t hear me? he says.
Why should I be listening? I say.
See, that’s it, he says. We got court coming up. We’ll let the judge decide when you will and won’t.
Judge who? I say. I’m coming to see my boys.
Grace! he says. In all honesty, you can’t dictate shit, he says. What you need to do is get yourself situated, so when all this is settled, you’ll have a decent place for the boys to visit.
We shall see, I say.
Yes, he says. We shall.
The way I slam the phone knocks a quarter out the coin return. I turn my back to the booth, but don’t know where to go, don’t know what to do, but what I need is someone close who’ll listen, who could help. The nearest one I can think of is Kenny’s older brother Chris, who used to live not too far from here. Chris, who was an ear for me when his brother and I had troubles, whose advice Kenny would mind when no one else could get through. I hike Fremont, too tired to know how tired I am. A car toots at me, but I don’t bother looking up. I make a turn and amble by young girls twirling double-Dutch ropes. A block or so beyond, there’s a young couple carrying groceries into the same house where years and years ago I almost got caught in a drug raid.
That night the police kicked in the front door, guns drawn and shouting, and I burst out the back barefoot because I couldn’t run in heels. There was a dog chasing me till I hit the first fence, and I could feel the air from its bark at my feet. I sprang one fence and another, cut through black yards, my feet not feeling a thing. All I could think of was being caught, of having to explain what I was doing in the house in the first place. This fear kept me tearing through backstreets until there was nothing behind me but wind, until I reached Dawson Park, where I crouched behind a bush and waited till the sun rose.
You can hear the girls twirl their ropes and sing a tune. The woman grins at the man from the porch. He climbs the steps with armloads of bags and stops on a landing and a dog bounds out on the front to meet him and nuzzles against his leg. A last turn puts me on what used to be Chris’s block and what in a fair world still is. You can see a man that looks like Chris in a driveway, hovering over a two-seater with a hand sheathed in a fluffy glove. I huff to within a shout.
That sure is a nice ride, I say.
Hey, hey, hey. Well, ain’t this somethin. What’s happenin, sis? he says, snatches off his mitt. Ain’t seen you since can’t even call it. He rubs his pants, the hands he shares with his brother, thick and hairless, though his pinky nail is filed to a spike.
Happened to be in the neighborhood, I say. Thought I’d drop by and make sure you was still alive.
Now you know us pimps don’t die, he says, and moves closer. His cologne could knock you down.
Well, I see you ain’t lost your sense of humor, I say.
Ha! Never that. But on the serious tip, sis, what’s been up? When you last seen my thickhead brother? Me and Blood ain’t got up in a few.
Funny you should ask, I say. Cause I just got off the phone with him. Can I tell you I’m so finished.
Chris’s eyes linger on places I’d rather they wouldn’t. Makes me think what’s left to see in me of my last time out, what signs might give it away.
Yeah, Blood done flip-flopped, but that’s how it be when them white folks put you on payroll. Enough about him, though. How’s my nephews?
Getting grown too fast, I say. Actually, they been living with your brother this past year.
Oh, he says. Oh. That’s news to me. That a long-or a short-term deal?
Supposed to have been short, but your brother trying to see it turn permanent, I say. We go to court coming up here soon.
Court! As in before a judge? You got to be bullshittin! he says. That yellow nigga really is out his head. Chris throws his mitts on the hood. He swings open the driver’s-side door and plops inside. He thumbs the replica emblem anchoring his gold chain.
But on a happier note, I say. What’s the latest with you? You still ripping and running the streets?
Oh, you know how it go with me, he says. Get rich or go to jail trying. He laughs. He checks himself in his car’s tiny side mirror, pats the graying sides of his Jheri curl, pinches his hoop earrings. On the serious tip, though, sis, I got a little business I’m bout to start. Soul food restaurant by them old motels on Interstate.
That sounds nice, I say.
Hope so, he says. Got to find a way. But how about you? he says. You back working them corporate gigs?
Not so much anymore, I say.
He cocks his head and looks up at me. Well, I tell you what, I ain’t got but a couple weeks till my doors is open, and when they do, you got a job, he says. That’s my word.
Now, I just might have to take you up on that, I say.
Cool, cool, he says.
Chris asks where I’m headed and I tell him Kenny’s place. He asks if I’m driving and I admit that I’m on foot, catching buses, the train. So is Blood still out there in the boonies? he says. I nod and he offers me a ride. He collects his supplies in a bucket and sits the bucket by the garage. He tells me to wait in the car while he runs in to change. He struts out hot seconds later wearing a Hawaiian print shirt open to flash his chain and terry-cloth sweats. His Jheri curl is not of want for sheen.