I came out of those thoughts when I caught a whiff of cow manure coming through the vents. Saw stretches of freeway with no houses on the side, geography I hadn’t seen in ages.
She’d driven past the 57 a while ago. We were at least eighty miles from home. She transferred to the 215 north.
I asked, “Smell that fertilizer. Where’re you taking me?”
“I’m almost there.”
She exited the 215 and drove past the Carousel Mall, Phoenix Information Center, cruised down E Street. A few minutes later, she parked in front of a one-story beige house made of stucco, double driveway, windows with dark brown awnings. Lights were on in the living room, also in the back.
We were in front of Malaika’s mother’s house.
She said, “A while ago I saw a letter you had mailed to Malaika’s mother. This is the address. This is the house. I went on-line and used the Internet to print out a map of how to get here.”
We stared at each other.
She said, “Everything that is faced can be changed. Nothing can be changed until you face it. On the Santa Monica boardwalk, you told me that.”
I took her hand.
She said, “Something in there belongs to you.”
Dana released my hand, patted my flesh with sincerity.
She sighed. She always did that when she didn’t know what to say. I nodded. I always nodded when I was out of words.
She said, “I’ll be right here. I’m your moral support.”
I didn’t make a lot of pomp and circumstance. I walked across the grass up to the door and rang the doorbell. Only rang it once. The porch light came on.
“Who is it?” I didn’t recognize that voice.
I said, “Vincent Calvary Browne Junior.”
Malaika’s older sister Regina opened the door. Fear was in her eyes. It seemed like everybody was scared of me.
“Where Malaika at?”
Regina barely said, “In the kitchen. Washing her hair.”
“Go get her.”
Regina’s older, petite body like her mom’s. Her hair was cut boy short. She moved awkwardly, like she didn’t know how to handle the surprise visit, then motioned like she was going to open the door.
I shook my head and said, “I’ll wait out here on the porch.”
Kwanzaa came into the living room. She had on Anastasia pj’s. Hair in those goddess ponytails. Her eyes met mine. The eyes that I helped create met mine for the first time in years. She saw me. I wasn’t invisible anymore. My hand came up slowly, and I waved at her. She did the same motion, slowly, without a smile. In her world, I existed.
I spoke gingerly. “Hi, Kwanzaa.”
She sang, “Hello. Good evening, Mister Man.”
“It’s after eleven at night. You’re up kinda late.”
Regina cut in, “It’s past your bedtime. What did I tell you about getting out of bed?”
Kwanzaa’s eyes were still on me.
She sounded like an angel. Better than when I had heard her sing, because those words were for me. She looked even taller than she did at the skating rink, because we weren’t so far apart. I could’ve pulled the door open and grabbed my child. But I didn’t. Regina closed the door.
I went and stood next to the car.
Dana asked, “What happened?”
“Malaika’s coming to the door.”
“Go back over there. Don’t come this far and back down.”
The door opened. A tall figure with a short haircut stepped to the porch and looked out. Jeans. White V-neck T-shirt.
It was Drake. The last time I saw him, I was trying to use my foot to examine his colon. He went back inside. He was keeping his distance. I was on their turf, keeping mine.
The door closed.
Then the front door opened again.
I heard them talking. Rushed words. Panic.
Malaika came out. Black jeans. Orange cotton blouse that was loose enough for me to see some of the swell of a new life in her belly. Her arms were folded across her chest as she came down the steps, marched across the grass. I strolled in her direction, away from Dana’s car. Malaika stopped a few feet away from me, not too close, then glanced back at the living room window before she snapped, “What are you doing here, Vince?”
“You knew I’d come.”
Her golden brown hair was wet, traces of soap on her ears and neck. She sounded irritated. “This isn’t appropriate.”
“But you knew I’d come.”
“Yep.” She sighed. “I did.”
“I want to see my daughter.”
“I’m not ready for you to meet Kwanzaa yet.”
“You’re not ready. What does that have to do with her being ready?”
“I haven’t prepared her.”
Once again my throat dried up and I was out of words. I nodded, all I could do. Behind me was the warmth of Dana’s anxiety, her emotions giving me energy, making me strong in the right kind of way.
“Can I ask you something?”
Malaika glanced back at the house before she answered, “Sure.”
“This is between me and you. It ain’t got nothing to do with Kwanzaa. It ain’t Drake’s business.”
“Everything in my life is my husband’s business.”
“If it was so much his business, he would be out here right now. Standing next to you, like you stood next to him that night . . .”
I let the pause sink in.
I said, “I’ll be right here. Go get ’im.”
“Ask your question.”
Again, she sighed as she glanced back toward the house. The curtains in the living room moved, then stayed parted just enough for whoever was inside to spy out. The front door was open too. Maybe just in case I lost my mind and the calvary had to come charging to the rescue.
I asked, “I just wanna know what happened to us.”
Malaika shifted, and her hand came up and scratched her head.
She asked, “What do you mean?”
“I mean what I said. Don’t bullshit me. I just want the truth.” I tried to keep my voice even. “That’s all. I never understood. It’s always bothered me.”
Her eyes lowered. Hand made circles on her unborn child.
“Please, Vince. Don’t do this now.”
I said, “I loved you. Did you love me?”
“God, Lord have mercy, Jesus.” Her eyes went to the sky, then to her feet. “I knew this moment would come.”
“Be honest. Just be honest.”
Her tongue was under her top lip, moving slowly back and forth. Her shoulders lowered a touch. She rubbed her belly and I waited.
Then we were eye to eye. No room for misunderstanding.
She said, “I never loved you, Vince.”
Silence. And peace.
I said, “Thanks. That’s all I wanted to hear.”
Curtains moved again. Drake was in the door. Her sister in the window. Everybody was probably holding knives, waiting to dial nine-eleven.
“Vince?” That was Dana’s voice in the darkness. “Everything okay?”
I waved at her. She stayed where she was.
Sweat was on my wrinkled brow, but I was as cool as I’d ever been.
I faced my ex-wife and said, “One more question.”
“Sure.”
Again I swallowed and closed my eyes. “Is she mine?”
Malaika whispered, “God, how can you ask me something like that?”
“With the way things have turned out, how can I not?”
“She’s yours, Vince.”
I said, “You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“She’s mine. That settles that. When can I see my child?”
Malaika played with her wedding ring, turned it over and over, like she was twisting the thoughts inside her head. Finally she said, “He’s going to be upset. Look, I’ll talk to Drake, then I’ll call you.”
“When?”
“At the right time.”
I said, “When it’s appropriate.”
“Yes.” She drummed her fingers on her arms. “When it’s appropriate. In the meantime, I don’t want you driving out here and being disruptive.”
“Who’ll determine when it’s appropriate?”
“I will.”
“All under your terms.”
“Vince, don’t do this.”
“Everything always has to be under your fucking terms. When you got tired of being married you leave, under your terms. You call when you feel like it, under your terms. Now, if I’m gonna see my child, you decide that you get to decide when and where. So everything has to be under your fucking terms.”
“Don’t curse me.”
“You’ve already damned me.”
Silence.
“Vince, I care for Kwanzaa.”
“If you did, shit wouldn’t be like this.”
“I don’t want her to be traumatized.”
I shook my head. “It don’t matter. I’m not dressed for the occasion. I want to look nice when she sees me.”
Malaika nodded.
“Vincent?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t pop up over again, please?”
I told her good night. She told me the same, headed back toward their house in the same breath, rushed like she was on a timer. Her husband held the door open. Mumbles sprinkled the air. The door closed. Their porch light turned off.
“Well?” That was Dana. She was getting out of the car, pulling her hair from her face.
I got in the car. Got ready for my long ride home.
Dana got in for a moment. She said, “Vince?”
My voice was low. “Yeah.”
“I was sitting up eating breakfast with my momma. We were laughing, planning on going to see a play over the weekend. She was looking good, healthy, happy. The next morning she didn’t wake up. Talked to my daddy one week, the next I was getting a phone call. He was dead too.”
My eyes stayed on my palms. A little kid. That’s who I was. A kid with grown-up problems. Dana put a finger on my chin, raised my head until my eyes belonged to hers.
She whispered, “Nothing’s promised.”
“I know.”
“Not the rest of tonight, not all of tomorrow.”
In that moment I remembered that I thought my folks would be here a lot longer than they were. Thought about how this drive back to Los Angeles could be my last. And if something bad happened to me before now and whenever Malaika came to her senses, I didn’t want to have to wait for my daughter to get to heaven before I kissed her face. I still didn’t know her favorite colors. Her favorite foods. If she liked Big Bird or that purple dinosaur Barney, or if she played with whatever kids’ stuff they’re pushing at Toys “R” Us.
Dana said, “Let’s bum-rush that house.”
“Slow down. Be civilized.”
“Stop being so passive. Damn, I never realized how much you need me.”
“Dana—”
“Don’t go back home not knowing.”
In her eyes I saw some stubborn tears, saw she cared for me, and I saw she was right.
She was my second love. The one I’d live for. The one I’d always wish was there from the get-go. A diamond with a heart of gold. Her eyes told me she saw the same, felt the same undeniable magic when she gazed at me.
I opened the door. “C’mon.”
Side by side we walked up to Malaika’s porch. Didn’t muffle our steps. Dana gave me some strong eye contact. Her cat eyes were ferocious.
I said, “You’re going back to New York tomorrow.”
She ran her hands through her hair. “Only if you don’t ask me to stay.”
“It wouldn’t be a walk in the park.”
“Might be like Central Park after midnight.”
My voice wasn’t easygoing when I said, “I’d make you suffer.”
“I know. I’d suffer you back.”
Softly I said, “Stay.”
Her voice was just as tender. “Okay.”
“If it don’t work, there’s always an open door.”
“I know.”
Everything would turn around in time. That thing with Gerri would do like most news—change from news to gossip to rumor, then, except for by a few, all would be forgotten. And forgiven. Dana would sell more houses than she ever imagined. We’d share years of smiles. Arguments. Tears. Three children and years of mostly smiles. And I know we were together in a carnal way countless times, numerous ways before we stood on the beach in Malibu with twenty of our friends and faced God, but for the record, let me say that there is no better feeling than when a man makes love to his wife. Nothing compares to that union.
She’d never mention Claudio.
She’d never ask about Naiomi.
But that five minutes of pleasure, that one-time experience in a musty and dusty garage, my crime of weakness that was done in an alley behind Stocker and Degnan would come back to haunt me.
The next time I saw Naiomi Smalls would be long after Harmonica had played his last song on his magical C-band and was summoned to the Upper Room to be with Edna and my parents. He’d live a few more good years, take care of those grandchildren, take care of all of us the best he could. But his time was short, as time will be short for us all.
Anyway, when my eyes fell on Naiomi Smalls again, Dana would be at my side. Ten years down the road. Today when Naiomi packed up her Jeep and headed over the dips at Stocker and Degnan, she wouldn’t look back. She’d become a nomad and live where she stopped. Canada. Jamaica. London. South Beach. France. Living the life of a millionaire. I’d run into her again at LAX. Her hair would be longer, straight. Her skin tanned. She’d still be slim but not as tight.
Me and Dana, we’d be married, would be with Womack and Rosa Lee, Gerri and her second husband, all of us trying to catch a flight to Vale so we could tackle the slopes at the black ski summit. Naiomi would be rushing to catch a flight to Puerto Villarta, the place that she was calling home for that winter season. Dana would notice Naiomi first, because I’d be too busy struggling with our luggage to recognize her. She would be out of my memory. And I don’t think that she’d recognize me.
We’d make eye contact and both of us would remember what had happened inside a dusty garage on Stocker and Degnan. Naiomi would have her son, Otis, with her. He’d be tall like his father was, about sixteen, Kwanzaa’s age. Naiomi would have a little girl with her too. A nine-year-old child with thick hair. A child with a British accent who looked like a female version of me.