Wisdom Seeds (13 page)

“Just working nine to five.” I tried not to sound sarcastic.

“Girl, I'm staying home with my babies,” she replied indignantly.

For the good of all, I left that alone.

Noah and Tashika had packed on some pounds since the last time I saw them. Noah looked more like a football player than a former basketball player. His jeans were starched, just like I remembered, and his sneakers looked new. He always hated dirty sneakers. He wore his oxford shirt untucked – something that drove my dad crazy when Noah was a teenager. Tashika's red leather pants looked like they dared her to even drink water, but she didn't appear uncomfortable. Her boots had a three-inch heel and matched her pants. She even wore a red leather pony tail holder.

Taisha and Maisha were identical twins. They had thinned out and were tall to be eleven. They still dressed alike and had on hot pink Jordache jeans and matching jackets. Their hair was parted into four perfect ponytails held by ballies that looked like oversized bubble gum. The edges of their hair were slicked straight with Tricky Sticky. Rakeem and Raheem looked like Noah. There were only eleven months between them and they could have easily been twins. Their jeans were starched and creased and they wore their shirts untucked like their dad. Their heads were squared by the box haircuts.

We settled in the game room and Noah swore Josh looked just like him.

“Dee Dee is a Mommy,” Noah said mockingly. “How did you ever get pregnant? You mean Pops let you out of the house?”

“You have four children, do I really need to explain how I got pregnant?”

We had plenty of laughs and priceless moments. I used three rolls of film trying to capture all the memories, not knowing when we would gather like this again. The girls were playing the card game War and the boys were glued to the television. Our Thanksgiving gathering seemed to be turning out great.

We heard the front door close. Mom greeted everyone loud enough for us to know that we should come upstairs. Noah was playing with Joshua and said to him, “Well Dr. J, let's go see the old man.”

They were in the foyer and Mom was helping Grandpa Tim take off his coat while my dad took Grandma Rita's coat.

“Pappy, Nana,” I announced entering the room with Joshua on my hip. “How are you?”

Grandpa Tim's arthritis had put him in a wheel chair and Grandma Rita had new teeth she hadn't gotten used to yet.

“That's my baby girl,” Grandma Rita said hugging me. “And who's this?”

“Your great-grandson, Joshua Boaz,” I announced proudly sitting Josh on Grandpa Tim's lap.

Mom smiled – my dad looked the other way.

“Hey, hey, hey, hey,” Noah announced from behind me. “Hey Pops. Que pasa?” He would do anything to drive my dad crazy.

Mom squeezed Noah's hand as she walked past him on her way back to the kitchen.

“It's nice of you to join us,” my dad said looking at Noah.

“Grandpa!” All the kids followed Stormy and rushed my dad. He was particularly fond of Stormy and had to be careful not to slight the other children. He passed out dollar bills to all of them, but had already given Stormy ten dollars. She was smart enough not to mention it.

“Hey Rev,” Tashika said to my dad.

His reply was flat. “Hello.”

“And who's this?” Nana asked Noah referring to Tashika.

“This is my wife,” he began to answer before being interrupted by my dad.

“Did I miss the wedding?”

The reunion was getting hot and I hoped Mom was in the kitchen praying.

“This is my wife Tashika,” Noah repeated again with emphasis on the word wife. “And these are our children.” He called them one by one and they smiled at the great grandparents they had never met.

Joey was the last to enter the room and he took Joshua from Grandpa Tim. “Hey Pops. Hi Granny,” he said hugging her. He gave Grandpa Tim a high five and went to give my dad one – my dad never raised his hand.

“Pops, lighten up,” Noah told him shaking his head.

My dad never answered.

Noah began singing We Are Family and his family joined in to sing the entire chorus. My grandparents enjoyed their rendition. My dad excused himself to the kitchen in the middle of it.

Joshua fell asleep just before dinner which took away my excuse to eat downstairs with the children. My anxiety level elevated as I anticipated potential dinner conversations.
There were several topics which could be explosive, among them Joshua's father.

The family gathered in the dining room and we held hands around the table before sitting down. My dad stood at one end and my grandfather was seated at the other end. Their wives were to their right.

“Let us pray.” My dad bowed his head. “Lord we thank you for this day, for your mercy and for your grace. Lord we ask that you would bless this family gathering. Bless each and every person around this table, dwell in each heart. Be real to all of us. Lord bless this food that it may nourish our bodies so that we may be used in the building up of Your kingdom. Amen.”

The small talk around the table quickly became secondary to the passing of platters and the clanging of spoons against Mom's good china. Food is the universal peacekeeper and everyone smiled and laughed around the table while we piled food on our plates.

As we settled into our seats Grandpa Tim commandeered the conversation.

“I was known all over Fort Greene in Brooklyn,” he announced wiping his mouth with the corner of the linen napkin. “Everybody called me Brother Love. My congregation loved me, I spread love and compassion to hurting peoples.”

“More like lust to gullible people.” My dad interjected without looking up from his plate.

Grandpa Tim continued to brag. “My church was packed every Sunday. People came from all over the five boroughs. I usually had standing room only.”

“It was a storefront on Fulton Street in Brooklyn,” my dad corrected him. “It was not a church.”

“All the struggling sisters loved to come and tell me about their troubles.” Grandpa Tim was intentionally
ignoring my dad. “I always took the time to listen.”

I remembered Alicia telling me that Uncle Paul caught Grandpa Tim doing more than praying with the young women. It was rumored that he fathered a baby with one of the choir members.

Grandpa Tim paused to finish chewing his food. “Tell me Son,” he said, looking across the table at my dad. “Do the peoples love you? Can they talk to you? Tell you about their troubles? Or do you judge them, too?”

“Timothy!” Grandma Rita slapped her hand down on the table.

It was good that the kids were eating in the game room and would not be exposed to whatever was about to happen.

My dad stopped eating to look at his father. “I'm just glad I had a grandfather who was a godly man.”

“David.” Mom's voice was pleading. “Just this once.” Tears swelled in her eyes and Joey held her hand.

“Old Reverend Will, Mr. Do It All Himself,” Grandpa Tim retaliated. “I hope you treat your family better than he treated his.”

I never knew my great-grandfather Reverend William Allen. Family talk says he worked himself to an early grave. He died when he was only fifty-one years old.

“Now Pappy,” Grandma Rita reached over and held Grandpa Tim's hand. “You know he just didn't know how to delegate anything and tried to do everything himself.”

“He did so much for everybody else that he never got around to doing anything with me.” Grandpa Tim was still resentful after all these years. He looked at my brothers and me. “Let me tell ya'll some family history - I was raised by the people in the church who thought my dad was the greatest thing since electricity. That man never thought anyone could do anything right, not even me.”

“This is not the time or the place.” My dad's voice was raised. “You are out of order!”

Grandpa Tim put his fork down and continued. “Even my mother spent her life gloating over the merits of her husband who, in his own eyes, met the need of his underprivileged community for thirty years.”

“He was a good man,” my dad interrupted. “He helped people.”

“He kept people helpless so he could keep saving them day after day, week after week and month after month.” Grandpa Tim was getting angry. “Until the day he died he could tell you how many times he helped each person and how they never could have made it without him.”

Noah intruded in the conversation to change the subject. “I don't know about ya'll, but I'm ready for dessert.”

“I'm going to check on the kids,” I announced getting up from the table and motioning for Tashika to come with me.

As we descended the stairs she put her hand on my shoulder. “Girl, what was that all about?”

“Skeletons in the closet, and a lot of pain,” I told her not really wanting to talk about it.

“Ya'll don't do a lot of forgiving in this family, do you?”

“Mommy!” Her boys shouted when they saw her.

The old sheet on the carpet was covered with food.

“It wasn't me,” Stormy volunteered when she saw the expression on my face.

“Me neither,” Taisha stated shaking her head.

“It was the boys Mommy,” Maisha tattled, pointing to her brothers.

Tashika seemed unfazed by the mess. “Ya'll are so sloppy.” She impassively addressed her seven and eight-year-old. The boys smiled.

Hoping Tashika would help without me having to ask, I began cleaning up the mess. She sighed as she knelt on the floor to pick up some food.

“I'm not done,” Raheem whined as I threw his plate in the garbage.

“Oh yes you are,” I answered before Tashika could respond. “You were up playing – dinner is over.”

“Was it good, Boo?” Tashika asked, extending her arms for him to come to her.

“Stormy please get me two wet wash clothes for the boys. You and the girls can go to the bathroom to wash your hands.”

Thanksgiving was more of a mess than I had imagined – literally and figuratively. It was apparent that my dad and his father needed therapy. They were harboring intense pain from the past and they were bitter. I felt bad for Mom. She had planned the day so meticulously and bitterness robbed her of a perfect family dinner.

A dysfunctional family system. My dad was a product of it and he had passed it on.

Life returned to its normal routine after Thanksgiving. It should have been a time to reminisce, but no one mentioned it. Mom talked about making her usual pies and cobblers for the sick and shut-in members, yet she didn't seem excited about Christmas. I wasn't sure if she was angry about the turmoil of Thanksgiving or just looking forward to a quiet Christmas. She seemed unusually sullen.

Mom spent many evenings in the recliner in the game room, pretending to watch television and ultimately falling asleep. I was helpless. I didn't know how to help her or what to say. My dad didn't seem to care. He should have loved her
more, held her, kissed her, anything – he did nothing. Every time I suggested they go out to dinner, Mom declined and Dad conceded.

I read Nana's letters looking for clues. There was nothing scripted about her relationship, it was just pure, raw love. There were no anecdotes to pass on – Nana said true love was a gift from God. On top of my anxiety about the possibility of relocating, I added worrying about my mom. Sometimes I wished she would leave my dad and find someone who really loved her. My motives were truly selfish – I hoped that if she left my dad she would come and live with me. More pipe dreams.

Christmas was quiet. Josh and I went to church and then to Rhonda's for dinner. After exchanging gifts we had a pouting session while Joshua took a nap. How was it that we didn't have dates that dropped off beautifully wrapped packages? Why weren't we getting excited about New Year's Eve? It was dismal. Rhonda was convinced that there were no single men in Smithtown. I knew if it was hard for a single woman to find a boyfriend, then my situation with a baby was beyond hopeless. We ate another piece of pie.

Later that evening I called my cousins and left a message wishing them a Merry Christmas. Joey and Stormy called to thank me for the gifts. Noah and Tashika left a message on the answering machine wishing us a Merry Christmas. Joshua was fully engaged in tearing up the wrapping paper balls Mom made him. I sat under the tree playing with his toys. This was not the kind of family Christmas I had imagined.

It was another cold, wet March evening. The rain was pouring down like sheets of water and we got drenched running from the car to the back door. Joshua had just gotten over a bad ear infection and I remembered all too well the night I spent in the emergency room. His one hundred and four-degree temperature rendered him lethargic and dehydrated. I wanted to get him out of his wet clothes immediately. The letters on the kitchen counter caught my attention – a letter from Rutgers was on top. I grabbed all the envelopes and went upstairs.