The Retreat (20 page)

The Holy Spirit had convicted Jamal over the last four months. This was the first time Jamal had visited his father since the infamous Sunday barbeque brawl. If his father even allowed him to walk into the house, Jamal would consider it an accomplishment. He heard the squeak that came from his father's recliner. Then he heard the sound of his father's heavy feet pounding the hardwood floor until he got close enough to the door, where Jamal could hear his father breathe, until finally the door opened.

“What you want?” his father asked from the other side of the door.

“I'll tell you this much, I ain't interested in round two.”

“You gave me a sucker punch; we know how round two would turn out.” His father said as he opened the door.

Jamal's father stepped aside to allow Jamal to enter the living room. The Chargers were playing, and since LA did not have a football team, San Diego was the next best thing. Jamal took a seat on the couch next to his recliner. They spent the next twenty minutes in silence. The only words that were spoken were frustrated grunts of Philip Rivers and his struggles to move the Chargers into the end zone.

“I hope you're not here to make up, because I've already turned the other cheek,” his father finally said.

“I'm sorry. I shouldn't have lost control of my emotions, and you're my father. I should have never put my hands on you.”

“Especially over some tramp who got your nose wide open.”

The same anger that was present at the barbeque had returned. That same anger that existed throughout Jamal's childhood was now present.

“I didn't hit you because of Chantel. It's because so many men would kill to know who their fathers are, and I've got a father I'm not even proud of.”

His father sat up in his recliner and put the game on mute as he turned around. “Did I keep a roof over your head?”

“Yes.”

“Did I keep you in a warm house over the winter and a cool house in the summer?”

“Yes, you did.” Jamal nodded.

“You always had plenty to eat, and I mean real good, too. Steak, pork chops, and potatoes.” Otis sat for a minute to let his words sink into his son's head. “I didn't put no Payless shoes on your feet, either; you had Nike and Adidas and the best sports equipment. And you ain't proud of me?”

“I'm not saying that I'm unappreciative of what you did, but I'm saying that it takes more to be a father than just providing stability. That's part of it, but I learned it's who you are when nobody is around that defines you.”

Now the TV was completely off, and his father's bronze eyes were staring dead center at Jamal. “Well, since you're the wise, know-it-all son, tell me, what makes a father?”

Jamal never thought that he and his father would get to this point in their relationship, where he could tell him how he felt and what he had learned over the years.

“You want to know when I was most proud of you as a father?” Jamal took his father's silence as a sign for him to move on. “It was those last two weeks before Mom died. It was not the women you ran out on her with. Don't get me wrong, you had some dime pieces on the side, but for those two weeks you treated Mom like she was the last woman alive.” The memories of his mother dying of ovarian cancer were still hard to shake even after all of these years.

“You treated her like your life would end just as soon as her life would end. You fought with the doctors to make sure that Mom's life mattered, and that was the man I wanted to grow up to be like. How you are in the storm is how I want to be twenty-four seven. In the storm you're a man of integrity, of courage, and you're willing to fight for those you love. I don't know why that man is not good enough for you the rest of the time.”

“It's because I had no one to show me how to sustain it,” his father replied. “I stood by your mother those two weeks because I wanted her to forgive me. I didn't want her whole marriage to be a joke.”

Jamal could never understand why death brought the best out of some and the worst out of others. “How could you love my mother and cheat on her?”

“I mean, we lived in a different time. Lots of guys cheated. That was just something we did. We didn't see it as a big thing,” Otis put his head down, and then, moments later, he lifted it up. “I'll tell you this much, seeing the man you've become and seeing that I did not have any hand in it, at least, not a positive hand, that drives me crazy.”

This entire time Jamal thought that his dad viewed the way he lived as a sissy. Jealousy was not what Jamal expected to be the reason for his father's harsh actions.

“Dad, do you remember what you told me when I first entered junior high school?”

Jamal allowed his father to search his faded memory bank for the answer.

“Son, honestly, I said a lot of things back when you were in school.”

“You told me that if I ever got into a fight, I better not come home unless I've won, because if I lost, then I would have a second beating when I got home.”

Otis nodded in agreement. “Yeah, I remember that because that was the way my grandfather raised me. That makes you a man.”

“That's what makes me self-conscious of what people think. To do something because you're afraid of what someone might say or do is not a passage into manhood, but a passage into slavery.”

“You may not be proud of me and I deserve it. I am proud of you, even if I don't say it.”

Jamal achieved showing his father that Jamal's way was not the way of the weak, but the way of the strong. “Dad, I want us to go to church together.”

His father started to shake his head. “Oh no, I don't go in God's house and He doesn't come into mine.”

“That needs to change, because the only way you're going to get the peace you need is from Him.” Jamal pointed up at the ceiling.

It was as if his father had placed a huge “S” on his chest and sent him out to save the world. Only Jamal needed to go save his family.

 

Jamir slept soundly as Jamal and Chantel hovered over him. One day he would be strong enough to understand all of the drama surrounding his entrance into the world. Jamal hoped that Jamir would be strong enough to understand that, despite the fact that his parents were children pretending to be adults, he had been conceived out of love, and his life represented a changed life for all parties involved. He was their caveat into adulthood, but not all of them had made it. Jamal followed Chantel out of Jamir's room as he closed the door. Chantel took a seat on the couch, and Jamal sat Indian style right in front of her.

“Can I ask you something?” Jamal waited until he had Chantel's complete attention. “How often have you thought about the night that Clay died?”

“At least a million times,” Chantel said.

“I've tried to replay the scene over and over in my head and figure out which version would bring the right results. But in the end, I can't live with the best scenario because that leaves me without you.”

Chantel looked up with her eyes full of life.

“I've loved you since high school,” Jamal said.

Chantel rubbed the side of her face in disbelief. Jamal noticed something different when he told Chantel that he loved her. He did not feel guilty, but it felt natural, as if he was where he was meant to be all along.

“How come you never said anything?” Chantel asked him.

“Because part of me felt like I was betraying Clay.”

Chantel wrapped her arms around Jamal's neck. “I want us to at least give it a try.”

“Yeah, let's give it a try. At least for him.” Jamal looked toward Jamir's bedroom. “You know we're going to have to tell him the truth when he gets older,” Jamal said.

“We'll do it together,” Chantel stated. “Now that we have that settled, I guess I could reap the benefits of that promotion, because if Clay has taught you anything, it's that I'm high maintenance.”

The extra money from the promotion had finally allowed Jamal to get some peace between him and his bills. He still managed to see Jamir, though not as often as he'd have liked. Jamal realized that he did not have to sacrifice his career for the sake of family. He just had to keep things in their proper perspective. His boss did not like that Jamal was not a weekend warrior like some of his other coworkers, but he could not deny that Jamal brought excellent results from his work. If he'd learned anything from Quincy's situation it was that family had to come first in a person's life.

“Oh, I know,” Jamal replied.

The last piece in Jamal's puzzle was completed. He had the only woman he ever wanted, and he had a chance to still be a father in Jamir's life.

 

“I know Somalian children who eat more than you do,” Quincy hissed at his daughter, Sasha, as she swallowed up her father's sarcasm with a big wide smile. They decided to sit outside of a local Italian restaurant and enjoy a hot lunch.

“What? I'm not hungry!” Sasha said sheepishly.

Her reddish-brown skin was passed down from her mother. The beauty of Karen had been transferred to their one and only offspring. “So how are things at UC Santa Barbara?” Quincy took a bite of his fettuccine alfredo.

“You were right; going to a college near a beach is too distracting. But I did okay this semester.”

Sasha was in her sophomore year of college. She'd decided, against her father's better judgment, to major in medieval literature. In 2009, Quincy did not know what people did with comparative lit degrees, but he did know that they did not get paid.

“How's your mother?”

“She's good. She looks great, but she misses you.”

How that statement penetrated Quincy's wall was a mystery to him. He did not spend too much time thinking about Karen, but when his thoughts were centered on her, he noticed that his resentment started to decrease more and more.

“How are you, seriously, Sasha?”

“About as well as any child could be who lived through her parents getting a divorce. The only difference is that I do not feel like it's my fault. I just feel like I've been the only grownup in the situation.”

“You got me there. I could've handled the situation better, but what can you do? Emotions run high. I'm only human.”

Sasha leaned back and crossed her arms as she stared at her father. “I remember when I did not used to believe that. I used to think you were invincible. I never saw you get hurt. I never even saw you get so much as a cold. I still believe you are my hero, Dad. I just wonder where he is.”

“He's gone, sweetie. He was my alter ego.” Quincy took a sip of his water. “You're going to have to settle for the real me.”

 

One of the reasons Quincy gave up going to the movies was because there was a lack of originality in the films. Everyone seemed busy remaking older movies. That became even more apparent as he surveyed the New Releases section of Max's Video store. Being an action buff, he started to get discouraged, until he shot a glance over to the comedy section only to find a familiar face.

A slimmer Karen examined the back of a DVD. She wore a hot pink butterfly-collared shirt with a gray undershirt. Quincy had every intention of walking over to her, but first he wanted to admire her silhouette from afar.

Six months had passed since the Retreat, and four months since the last time he'd seen Karen. It was amazing how lost two people could become in one city. He approached her gingerly, not knowing if she was going to embrace him or slug him.

“Hey, you!” Quincy called out.

Karen turned with a pleasant smile as if he was the one who'd undergone a physical change over the past six months. He had developed a beer belly from massive alcohol consumption.

“Hey, no work today?” Karen asked.

“I decided to play hookie. My golf buddy wasn't available, so I decided to grab a movie and maybe a pizza. And you?”

“I called in sick.” Karen gave a naughty smile.

“I'm telling!” Quincy said.

Karen grabbed Quincy's hand as her eyes enlarged and she flashed a big smile. It had been a while since a woman who Quincy had a history with touched him.

“No! Don't. Maybe I can buy you lunch in exchange for your silence.”

“You're a good negotiator. What were you about to rent?”

Karen showed Quincy the
Coming to America
DVD and burst into song. “‘She's your queen to be…'”

Quincy checked to see if the entire store was watching this scene unfold.

“Okay, okay, okay. Simon Cowell is probably gouging his eyes out right now. You've seen that movie a million times,” Quincy said.

“Some things never get old.” Karen took Quincy by the hand as she headed toward the cash register. “Indulge me. Come watch a movie with me.”

He could not recall his wife ever being this sexy before, and he felt powerless against her.

 

The house had undergone reconstruction on the inside. Earth tones gave the house a calming feel. A blank canvas stood in line, waiting to be painted.

Karen led Quincy to an oil painting of a woman cradling a Bible. The words “The Holy Bible” were illuminated.

“I see you still got talent,” Quincy said, admiring the painting.

“You know I got a little something-something.” Karen shook her hands to signal her talent was so-so.

She had a glow back. After almost fifteen years, something that had dilapidated over time came roaring back. Quincy was amazed at how she was able to reinvent herself.

“But this one is my prized possession.” Karen pointed to a painting next to the white staircase.

Quincy felt a gravitational pull toward the painting. It was of a man and a woman as black as sable. The woman had on a gold robe and a gold head wrapping. The man was shirtless, but he wrapped his arms around the woman, who formed her hands in a prayer.