Disgruntled (25 page)

“But what about what you said? When you were hiding out from everything in fucking prison?”

“What did I say?”

“That you’d made mistakes.”

“I
did
make mistakes. And actually, you’re saying I never said I was sorry, but if memory serves, I did apologize then. But I didn’t mean to. I hadn’t figured things out yet.”

“Now you’re saying you didn’t mean to apologize?”

“Look, Kenya, I am sorry about the things that you had to go through because of me. But everything that happened got us here. I mean, look around. Don’t I seem like a more stable person to you? All of this might not be your thing, but don’t I seem like I have more to offer as your father?”

“Except money! Or a simple fucking apology for what you did to my mother!” Kenya shrieked and covered her ears at the same time. Johnbrown gently pulled her hands off of her ears.

“Kenya, your mother and I loved each other. But we were young and times were downright perilous. My brainwashed parents raised me thinking all I had to do was keep my nappy hair cut and wash behind my ears and try to be as white as possible, but there was some fucked-up shit going on in America, in Philadelphia. Brothers were getting their skulls busted by the police for no fucking reason.
I
nearly got my skull busted a couple of times, just for walking around my—”

“You mean the time you gave the police that card and got to go home?”

“Your mother told you that one, huh? Did she tell you about the time I found myself in a police station right near where she lives right now, getting my ass cheeks spread?” His voice cracked.

Kenya stared at him as if unimpressed.

Then he was calm again. “Look, you don’t need to hear my war stories. All you need to know is that I was really scared of white people and I was really angry with black folks for not doing more.”

“Seems like you made your peace with those white people after you left us,” she said, with less acid than she had hoped.

“I loved your mother,” Johnbrown repeated. “And I mean whatever happened with us was my fault, too. I don’t know what I was doing that drove her to stay in touch with my mother behind my back, for example, but it must have been bad. And as much as I loved her, Sheila could bring out the absolute worst in me. She made me feel like the things I
had
to do, things I never minded doing before her, were things that I was doing only to please her. Other things that I needed, well, she made me feel criminal for wanting them.”

“Like other women?”

“Like being a real activist, or like my
work
, which was the main thing keeping me together. Every time I suggested new directions for the Seven Days, she shot me down, humiliated me, in front of the others. And then she tried to be supportive of The Key, but it was obvious she didn’t really believe in it.”

The fucking Key!

“Maybe you don’t believe either,” he said. But Kenya barely heard him. All of this time, she had imagined that the answer for Johnbrown’s defection lay somewhere on the person of Cindalou—her soft hair and freckles, her easy ways, which had hardened with time. But The Key?

She said, “I don’t even know what the fuck The Key is anymore. I mean, I thought it was some kind of philosophy. But now it’s just about your butler arsonist?” She could see that Johnbrown’s Zen mask was starting to crack, and it made her happy. She laughed.

“Don’t do that, Kenya. Please.” He looked stricken. “This is important.”

“What are you talking about? What are you
ever
talking about?”

“Look, just so you know, all that stuff, the philosophy—I got rid of that when I went to prison. I was too fucked-up back then to be telling people how to live. I didn’t know who I was. But the story of the butler: that was real to me then and real to me now. That is The Key, or
a
key. Maybe it’s a blueprint, maybe a cautionary tale, maybe it’s nothing. I don’t know. But what I’m also telling you is that I’m not making it up. It’s coming from me, but I’m not making it up.”

Kenya remembered when they’d talked back in prison, how he’d been under the tutelage of a man named Garrett Hadnitch. She had learned later why his name was familiar. The newspapers covered his grim circus of an appeal hearing, complete with the parents of the one Puerto Rican and two black women whose partial remains had been found in his freezer. There had been a picture of him, looking like an extremely dirty Jesus, on the front of the
Daily News
.

Kenya made herself laugh. “Baba, you know that guy in prison, your writing guru, he was—”

His face turned grim. “I know. I didn’t know, but then I found out. We’re getting way off track here. This isn’t about him, or even about The Key. I’m trying to tell you about what happened with your mother, with our family. I’ve wanted to talk to you all summer. I’m sorry it’s happening in this way now, but—”

“Please go on,” Kenya said drily. “What else have you been dying to tell me?”

“Look, I don’t want you to misunderstand me when I say this, but another part of all of it was that I wasn’t quite ready to be a father when you were born.”

“You didn’t want me,” she said.

“Of course I wanted you.”

“I have to get out of here.” Kenya started walking again but changed her course, heading back through the cultivated land to the house. “Somebody needs to give me a ride to the bus. Not you. I’ll throw my shit in a bag and you can get a member of your harem to take me.”

“Maybe we should finish this particular discussion before we get back. I know you have a lot more to say to me and I’m ready to hear it.”

“Actually I think I’m done talking to you. Like, forever.”

Now they were at the house. Kenya moved swiftly past the kids, playing jacks on the porch, and Cindalou, who kept saying, “What’s wrong what’s wrong,” and up into the Zen room. She slammed the door and then yanked open the drawers and closet as savagely as she could, throwing dirty and clean clothes in a pile on the floor. As on the first night, she heard murmurs downstairs that concerned her, but she couldn’t make them out.

She meant to stay in motion, but she lost her spirit, surrounded by her things in haphazard piles. She was satisfied, however, that the room looked the way she felt; a pair of her underwear dangled on the Buddha, covering one of his eyes. She clambered up into the loft and fell sobbing into a fitful sleep.

*   *   *

Johnbrown must have warned them to stay away, because everyone did. Kenya awoke to find her stomach growling. When she heard what sounded like lunch happening, she slunk down to the kitchen. Just as she walked in, she heard Johnbrown praising Cindalou’s bean salad. All eyes turned toward her.

“You need to try some of this,” her father said, adjusting his belt.

“How are you feeling?” asked Sharon.

“Fine,” Kenya muttered, wondering what her father had told them. It was impossible to know.

“Do you want some tea?” asked Sharon. “I have a chamomile mint blend that’s good for anything that ails you.”

“I just need to eat,” Kenya said. Rage and sadness had made her ravenous. She tried to seem distant while shoveling cold beans that were annoyingly delicious into her mouth.

“What’s wrong, Kenya?” said Nannie, oblivious to the fact that the adult women had not asked. Kenya wondered what she must look like that even a four-year-old would inquire after her well-being.

“I’m leaving tomorrow,” Kenya said.

“You really don’t have to,” said Johnbrown.

Kenya had come downstairs so spent that she’d felt almost calm. All she’d wanted to do was eat and go back to sleep. But sitting with these people and their rustic-gracious living on their forty acres of land, watching her father enjoy his lunch after all that he had said to her, turned corn bread to dust in her throat.

“No, I really do have to go.”

Johnbrown finally put down his fork. “I want you to think about what you’re doing, Kenya.”

“What am I doing,
Baba
?”

“You’re storming off angry because I can’t give you money.”

“Do you need money, sweetheart?” asked Sharon.

“Sharon,” said Johnbrown.

Kenya fumed.

Everyone stayed where they were. No one ushered Nannie, Dennie, or Amandla out of the room. But as far as Kenya was concerned, just she and her father faced each other.

“So were you ready to have kids when you got Cindalou pregnant?” she said suddenly.

Cindalou made a curious noise.

“Of course not. I was committed to another woman.”

“But of course by the time
Sharon
got pregnant!”

“What? That’s supposed to mean something about the fact that she’s white?”

“I think that’s enough,” Sharon said. “Johnbrown, Kenya, that’s quite enough. If you guys want to continue—”

“I’m saying this in front of all of you,” Johnbrown said, his voice rising angrily. “In fact, I was the least prepared when Sharon got pregnant. I had just gotten out of prison, but—”

Kenya stood up from her chair. “So you didn’t want any of us,” she said. “He didn’t want you,” she said, pointing at Amandla, who looked interested rather than distraught.

“Kenya,” snapped Cindalou.

“Well, it’s true and you know it. But why are you even talking to me? Your whole confused Kentucky Fried act! You knew exactly what you wanted when you met my mother. The good man she had at home. Or rather the good man she thought she had at home. Or the man in her home she thought was good!”

“Daddy, did you want me?” asked Nannie. “Did you want us?” Dennie echoed.

“Of course I wanted you,” barked Johnbrown, though he clearly hadn’t meant to. Dennie started to cry.

“I hate you, Kenya!” yelled Nannie.

“Nannie,” Kenya said, listening to herself with equal measures of horror and glee, “you’re a fucking brat. And didn’t you hear what your baba said? He
just
told me that he wanted you least of all. But you guys are the golden eggs keeping the goose here.”

“What the hell is
that
supposed to mean?” snapped Sharon, looking especially feral. She had stood and for some reason was holding a bottle of wine.

“You’re the goose,” said Kenya.

“Oh
my
God,” said Sharon. “Oh my God, why am I sitting here listening to this?” She finally jumped up from the table, sweeping the twins out of the room with her. Cindalou walked out as well, but Amandla didn’t budge, even when her mother growled her name. She sat looking at Johnbrown, as if he was an agitated creature in a cage.

“You’re not making any sense,” said Johnbrown, “but you are causing irreparable damage!” Finally he yelled, “Get out of the kitchen, Amandla!”

She slowly rose from the table and strolled out, and Kenya made as if to follow her.

“Where are you going?” Johnbrown said. “You started this and we’re going to finish it!”

Now he was standing in front of her, his jaw thrust forward. She had never seen her father do anyone physical harm, and she knew he wasn’t about to touch her now. But she thought about Teddy grabbing her. In a way, that was Johnbrown’s fault. All of it was.

She punched him—not as hard as she meant, but low. “That is it! I’m calling the police!” yelled Sharon, who stood in the doorway. Johnbrown doubled over, making a soft, surprised sound, then snapped at Sharon that the cops were rednecks. In that instant, an unfamiliar wave of memory broke and washed over Kenya. She knew then that she’d been aiming the gun at Johnbrown and that Sheila had gotten in the way. Well, she’d finally hit her mark.

*   *   *

No one followed her back into the Zen room, but she could hear their voices raised at one another. Kenya packed her things and fell heavily into sleep. When she opened her eyes, the moon had burst in through the blinds as if it couldn’t help itself. Instead of being alarmed, she felt calmer when she woke and saw Amandla sitting below her on the rug, flooded in moonlight.

“There’s some water,” said the girl. The glass was in the window cubby up in the loft. Kenya marveled that Amandla had gotten the glass up there without waking her. She gulped it down, hurting her throat.

“What time is it?” she asked.

“It’s nine o’clock,” said Amandla. “I’m supposed to be in bed.”

“Jeez. Feels like the middle of the night. What’s up?”

“I thought you might be thirsty.”

“I’m so sorry,” Kenya managed.

“Well, they’re really upset,” Amandla said. “But I’m not.”

You just don’t know it yet
, Kenya thought.
It might take you years
.

“It was so dumb,” Amandla said. “My baba seemed like he wanted to tell Nannie and Dennie the truth. He wouldn’t just say that you had lied. Sharon was getting so mad at him. And my mom just kept shaking her head and saying she knew this summer was a bad idea.”

That bitch
, Kenya thought. “Amandla,” she said. “I feel so bad about what I said to you. It isn’t true at all.”

“Yes it is,” she said sadly. “I used to pretend that he wasn’t even my real father. When he was in jail, my mother started dating this other guy for a while, Mr. Taylor. He was boring but he was normal. I used to pray that he would be my dad. I mean, I love my baba and I know he loves me. He’s supersmart, but he’s a spaz.
You
know. And he makes my mom act like a spaz. She’s
so
different when he’s not around.”

Kenya wondered where the girl had learned the word
spaz
, considering she didn’t go to Barrett—or any school at all. And then she remembered a few weeks ago, describing Phyllis Fagin while Amandla laughed, grabbing her stomach.

“Plus everything is so weird,” Amandla continued. “We live with Sharon. She’s okay, but when I grow up, I’m never doing anything like this. I’m either going to live by myself or there’s just going to be one other person. I used to want to go to school in town, but then I was like, what am I going to tell the kids in town about how I live? I mean, it would be bad enough being, like, the only black kid.”

“Yeah,” said Kenya with a sigh.

“Why’d you get so mad anyway?”