Malaika cut to the chase, said, “Remember our arrangement?”
“Yeah.” My mouth smiled under my frowning eyes. “Sure.”
She wanted to go in first, said she had a seat inside with some friends, to the right by the video games. She told me not to skate, just to stray to the left and stand near the rail.
She said, “Don’t go near my child.”
“My child.”
“My child. Don’t go near her.”
“I won’t.”
“Don’t let me down, Vince.”
Another nerve was struck. “Malaika, if she doesn’t remember me, what difference would it make if I went in with you?”
She fingered her wedding ring. “Don’t cause a problem.”
To tell the truth, I was afraid. Afraid to see my own child, because I was afraid of what she would see when she saw me. If she was indifferent, that would hurt just as much as it would if she despised me.
At least three hundred people were inside, ages eight months to eighty years. Mostly black people. I moved toward the benches, stood next to the rail, and watched Kwanzaa. My insides were on a roller coaster. She struggled to skate lap after lap, but she fought and did it. She’d slimmed out, more than doubled in height. Overprotective Malaika had her decked out in a helmet, knee, and elbow pads. Other than the battle gear, she had on jeans and a top the same color as her mother’s. It was easy to tell that my child was her daughter. That they fit into each other’s lives. And I was the man on the sidelines, out of the game. Kwanzaa’s mane was pulled back into a shiny dark brown goddess braid. Seeing her so big kept me wondering what parts of her life I had missed. Made my heart bleed.
Malaika put on her in-line skates, danced backward for a few laps, mixed with the serious skaters, then slowed down and took Kwanzaa’s hand. The last time I was with Malaika, she couldn’t skate backward. Back then Kwanzaa couldn’t talk or walk without falling on her rear.
I scanned the room and tried to find the thief who had put on my shoes. When I looked to my left, Naiomi was smiling.
“She looks like you, Mr. Browne.”
I blushed. “Think so?”
“Thick eyebrows. Thick fingers. Ashy elbows.”
Naiomi had put on skates. She grooved with the beat, rolled over the lime carpet, passed video games, and whizzed out onto the floor. After a couple of laps of bouncing, rocking, and rolling, she slowed next to Malaika and Kwanzaa. Naiomi said something. For a brief second Malaika turned toward me, then smiled and shook Naiomi’s hand. Naiomi pointed at Kwanzaa’s shoe. They stopped. Malaika held Kwanzaa steady while Naiomi bent over and tied the loose string. Kwanzaa laughed. A joyful sound I longed to hear. Malaika smiled. Kwanzaa went right back to skating. Naiomi sped off in the bopping crowd. I stayed put. I wanted to run out and grab my child, but I did just like I had promised. Stayed put.
Naiomi tried to get fancy by crisscrossing her legs and doing a 360-degree turn. She fell flat on her booty, tripped two little boys. She held her skirt so her draws wouldn’t show. Damn near every booty-watching brotha on the floor tried to skate over and help her. They left the little boys stretched out like dead men in a coffin.
Malaika left Kwanzaa with some adults, her friends I guess, searched for me with her eyes, head-signaled to meet her near the exit. When she passed me, I let a few people get in between us, stayed a few feet behind and followed her into the lobby.
She led me outside, up the asphalt walkway, took me around the corner on the side of the building.
I asked, “Where’s your second husband?”
“Why?”
“Thought I might get introduced. Formally. It’d be nice to see him under more reasonable circumstances.”
“You came to see my daughter.”
“Our daughter.”
Malaika put her hands in her back pockets, exhaled, and said, “Kwanzaa’s smart. Too smart for her age.”
“She got that from my side of the family.”
She coughed, ignored me, said, “She’s asking questions.”
“About what?”
“I was teaching her to write her name and my name—you know, just in case something happened—and she realized her last name was different from mine. She wanted to know why her last name is Browne and mine is Quinones. People say things that make her ask about things.”
“What kind of things?”
“Things that make her ask questions I’m not sure how to approach. The other day she asked me if she was adopted.”
For a moment Malaika’s voice softened to the point of pain.
I waited for her to tell the rest.
She went on, “She saw something on TV, then came to me almost ready to cry. She’s sensitive and gets upset very easily. And one of her friends has a different last name, because her mother has remarried too, so Kwanzaa wants to know if she has two daddies like her friend does.”
“Why don’t you tell her the truth?”
We caught a view of Kwanzaa when she and the other children ran across the parking lot. My ex touched my arm, moved us behind an SUV.
She said, “I’m going to have a talk with her about you.”
“What about Drake?”
“Thanks for the money you’ve been sending.”
“Don’t thank me for doing what I’m supposed to do.”
“Thank you, anyway.” She nodded. “I’ll be in touch.”
Malaika stalled and stared. She intimidated and irritated me. That uncaring face housing her insensitive words.
Malaika said, “She might be singing in L.A.”
I grinned. “She sings?”
Malaika smiled. “She got that from my side of the family.”
We shared a laugh, a positive moment.
Malaika shifted back into her all-business persona. “I might invite you. Just to watch your daughter.”
The sun rose over my soul. I asked, “When?”
“If it happens,” she said, didn’t smile, but her words were friendly, “same conditions as today. Agreed?”
“Okay, sure, no problem. When?”
“I’m just going to think about it, that’s all. Vince, it’s just that she doesn’t know you.”
“Not my fault. Not my fault at all.”
“Stop placing blame. Listen, I know she’s going to hate me for what I’ve done. That worries me. I don’t like the fact that I’ve lied to my child.”
Sounded like Malaika had told Kwanzaa the same lie that I’d told Dana. So many lies had been told, and I wondered which ones were forgivable.
She moved restlessly. “Are Rosa Lee and Womack still together?”
“Yeah.” I smiled. “They just had another baby.”
“Rosa Lee’s popping them out, huh?”
“Yeah. But she’s done. She’s quit at four.”
“Thought she was going to quit at three.”
I chuckled nervously. “So did Womack.”
“You haven’t had any more, have you?”
“Nope. Not yet.”
There was a pause. A very uncomfortable pause.
“The Lord willing and the creek don’t rise—” Malaika stopped. She bobbed her head, finger combed her hair. “ ‘Lord willing and the creek don’t rise.’ Remember, Harmonica used to say that?”
I said, “He’s still living. Strong as an ox.”
“Good. I think about him from time to time.”
Seeing Malaika now, seeing her doing so well, got me to thinking about what I’d been doing for myself. I’d been treading in place since she left. She’d moved on.
Then she jarred me, “My momma died.”
“Miss Joanne died? When?”
“Six months ago. That’s why I came back. I had to put everything in order. Then you sent another check. So I called.”
“I know.”
Malaika said, “Until I collected Momma’s mail, I didn’t know that you were sending Kwanzaa any money or keeping in contact.”
“She didn’t tell you?”
Malaika shook her head. “She sent money, but she never said that any of it was from you. Guess she took that secret to her grave with her.”
“She hated me.”
Malaika didn’t deny my accusations.
She continued, “What I was saying was, if the Lord’s willing, I’ll be having my second baby in about six months.”
I kept the twinge of jealousy subdued. I smiled some, said my warmest “Congratulations.”
“Vince, I’m sorry things turned out like this. It’s just that, well after . . .” Again she paused. “Things were pretty bad between everybody. Not only Momma, but Drake thought it was best for me to cut all ties with you. Especially after we left the country.”
Regret was the mask that covered her face. Mine too. I let her know what I felt: “This ain’t right, Malaika.”
“I’m trying to keep my marriage together.”
“He doesn’t know you talked to me since you’ve been back?”
“No. But I’m going to tell him.”
“Why do you need his permission?”
“Vince, this is hard enough as it is.”
I stood and listened to how she’d let another man take control of her life. She didn’t say control, but when you gave up your right to do what was right, that was what you gave up. Control.
“Well, I’d better go. Kwanzaa’s looking for me.”
Her face blossomed into a wide smile as she jogged off and called my only child’s name. I mumbled the same name and remained hidden in the shadows. Played by the rules. They held hands and hurried to their Paseo. Kwanzaa jumped into the front seat. The Mexican child got into the back.
I stood on the side, wondering what Kwanzaa’s voice sounded like. What girlish texture it had. I wanted to hear her laughter. The pitch of her cries when she woke from a bad dream. Wondered what kind of food she liked. What she didn’t like. Her favorite color. Her favorite song. What she smelled like if I held her close and tickled her belly.
There were a lot of things I didn’t know.
And if all that was true, that meant I didn’t know her. And if I didn’t know her, I couldn’t expect her to call me daddy.
Naiomi came to where I was, under the shade of the awning.
She touched my hand and said, “Mr. Browne?”
I pushed my lips up into a polite smile. “Yeah?”
“It’ll be all right, Mr. Browne.” Naiomi slid her fingers between mine and held my hand. Her voice softened. “Stop crying before you make me start boo-hooing like a fool. You gonna be okay?”
I wiped my face. “Everything’s cool.”
We went to her Jeep but didn’t get in. Stood in the shade. Words running low. Emotions running on high.
She sniffled, shifted, did nervous things with her hands.
I asked her, “You okay?”
Naiomi said, “I was thinking about my little boy. Your ex seems like a good mother. I could tell by the way your child reacted to her with smiles and hugs. Made me miss being with my son all the time, that’s all.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
She smiled, wide and strong. “That’s where I’m coming from when I creep in late at night. A lot of times, I miss my boy and I cruise down the 605 to Cerritos and stay until my baby boy goes to sleep.”
“Oh, I see. Creeping with your ex husband?”
“Heck, no. He’s remarried. To somebody his own age.”
“How old is he?”
“Sixty-five. I married to get citizenship.”
“You married to get his discount at Denny’s.”
She thought that was knee-slapping funny. “We had a kid, tried to stick it out, but it didn’t last three good months.”
I asked, “Not seeing anybody else?”
“Nah. I’m a one-woman kinda woman, or a one-man kinda woman.” She laughed like she’d told the world’s best joke. “Depends on the season.”
Her laughter was contagious, made me chuckle a while as well.
At first we were strangers, then neighbors. Today I needed a ride, and we were friends.
I wondered if what Dana felt was normal, so I asked Naiomi, “So, how does Juanita feel about you having been married and having a kid?”
“She could care less. She wants me to bring my son to live with us. And I’m not comfortable with that thought.”
“I see. Your problem is one hundred eighty degrees from mine. But your situation puts a little more on your table.”
“Not because I’m living with Juanita. I’m comfortable with who I am.” She bobbed her head. “It takes harmony to raise a family. And my ex would drag me through court. It’s not worth it. The pain, I mean.”
A beat later, she laughed lightly. “Mr. Browne, let’s run away.”
I winked. “Changing horses doesn’t mean the ride’ll get any better.”
“You get Kwanzaa, I’ll get my Otis, and we’ll go to Mexico. I’ll be your
señorita
, you can be my
papi
. Enjoy sunsets. We can do this.”
I said, “And live off of beans and corn?”
“And whatever fattening food they eat down there.”
Now we were parents joking about our troubles, expressing a longing. In between the jokes, Naiomi put her hand on my shoulder, got my attention. Gave me soft, womanly eyes. Stared deep, sent a dangerous message, one that couldn’t be misconstrued. When I turned away, she moved her hand.
“You know what, Mr. Browne?”
“What?”
With warm eyes she said, “You’re decent.”
What I saw in her eyes was what I wished I got from Dana.
We went to the Beverly Center, ate downstairs at California Pizza Kitchen. I paid. We weren’t ready to go home to play out our individual dramas, so we rode the Pacific Coast Highway, drifted close to Malibu, ended up parked near Gladstone’s restaurant. We sat on the rocks, right over waves that were wetting the debris in the dirty brown sand. Just like I’d done on my first date with Dana, I closed my eyes and inhaled the ocean’s salty breath. Ocean air, a fading sun, a rising moon. Night was on the way. Naiomi sat close to me, her back to my shoulder, using my body to block the light breeze and keep warm. I needed her heat.
She told me, “No more talk about your ex-wife. Or Miss Smith. No talk about Juanita. Or our children. Let’s let it all go for now.”
“Okay.”