Single Mom (49 page)

“Sure, I’ll take some,” I told her. I was getting ready for the “I’m so tired” speech that my mother often gave me whenever she didn’t want to talk about something. She was as evasive as Camellia. I smiled at that. However, my mother always found time to watch Cheron.

I said, “Mom, are you absolutely
sure
that Nikita has a night job?” I had a hunch that my mother knew that my sister was lying, and she went along with it anyway. I needed to be able to understand why. Why did she keep doing it? Why did she keep letting Nikita get away with murder?

My mother ignored me while she put some water on for tea. Instead of answering my question, she asked me one of her own. “Have I ever told you about your two brothers?”

I gave her a long stare. “My what?”

“Your two brothers. Or at least, that’s what your father called them.”

My mother was throwing me for a loop. I said, “Mom, what are you talking about?”

She sat down at the kitchen table. I sat there with her.

“Have you ever wondered why Nikita was so much younger than you?”

I was six years Nikita’s senior. I said, “I figured that it was odd, whenever I stopped to think about it, yeah.” I had never bothered to ask, however. A little sister was a little sister. I did wonder about having brothers though. I think most sisters do, and vice versa.

“So what are you telling me, Mom, that I had two brothers in between?” I was just shooting from the hip, trying to find out what my mother was talking about.

“That’s what your father thought,” she answered me.

“Well, did I or didn’t I? Why do you keep saying that’s what my father thought? You had miscarriages?” I almost whispered it. I was so unprepared for that discussion. Where was my mother coming from with it?

She nodded to me and said, “Your father was so hurt. I had two miscarriages in a row. I think the second one was due to plain stress. Your father
was just so hurt by the first one that he drank himself through the second one. And then Nikita came. By that time, your father was drinking nearly every day, believing that he was being punished for something.”

“Just because you didn’t have any boys?”

She didn’t answer me. She just sat there at the kitchen table in silence until the teakettle blew.

I didn’t know what to say. I wasn’t too happy with my father, that was for sure. And I had never known about it.

“So, you’re telling me that our father drank himself to death because he didn’t have any male children? What if they were all girls? How did he know for sure that they were boys?” It just didn’t make any sense to me.

My mother was busy preparing the tea. “It didn’t matter what they were, that’s just what your father thought.”

“And how did you feel about that? Because I would have been pissed!” I told her. “I would have told him to get a damn grip!”

“I know you would have.” She said it as if I was very different from her. And I was. My mother was a traditional, stand-by-your-man woman. I started off that way, but once my man didn’t stand by me, that was all that I could take. I had been standing on my own ever since.

I said, “I can’t believe you’re telling me this.” I was so frustrated that I didn’t know what to do. I felt like cursing my father’s grave. “So is that why you’ve been so sad all these years?” I asked my mother.

She said, “I just kept asking myself if there was something more that I could do to have a boy. I even asked the doctor about it.”

“And what did he say?” I was curious.

“He said it was all a matter of chance.”

“Well, the man carries the chromosomes for boys, right?” That part I
did
know.

“Yeah, that’s what they told me,” she said.

“It was something that
he
needed to do, not you, Mom!” I couldn’t believe we were even having that discussion. Was I in a bad dream or what? It was just so unreal and unexpected.

My mother got angry at me and nearly spilled the tea. “Well, it didn’t matter whose fault it was or who was supposed to do what, I’m just telling you what happened!” she snapped at me.

I calmed myself down and thought about it. I just felt so sad about it. I wished she hadn’t told me. “So why are you telling me this now?” My voice was actually cracking. For years I had been trying to figure out
what my mother’s problem was. But to find out that my father had turned into an alcoholic because of miscarriages, and had devastated my mother for the rest of her life, was not the kind of answer that I was seeking. I was beginning to think that
all
men were terrible, no matter
what
era they were from.

“I wanted to tell you and your sister … I just didn’t know how.” My mother took a sip of her tea and passed me mine. I didn’t even want it anymore. I didn’t want anything. I just sat there thinking, and was crushed by my mother’s revelation to me.

“So is that why you baby Nikita so much? You just gave up on her? Is that it? Because she wasn’t a boy?” My eyes hadn’t felt that heavy in years. They were flooded. I was actually crying, and I didn’t realize it until the tears rolled from my face and dripped into my tea.

My mother just stared into empty space.

I wanted to say more, but I was so angry and hurt that I lost my voice for the moment. I believe I was more hurt than angry though. If I was angry, I wouldn’t have cried. In fact, had it been
me
, I wouldn’t have cried. I was crying for my mother, my sister, and for my father, wishing that they could have all been as strong as I had become. Then I was just overcome with grief, and started to cry harder. Imagine not crying for fourteen years and having it all pour out of you at once. Once I started, I wasn’t able to stop the downpour of tears.

When I finally lifted my head again, my mother was comforting me as if
I
was the one who needed a helping hand.

“What’s ’da matter?” my niece was asking me.

She looked as if she was ready to cry, and Cheron could cry at the drop of a hat.

I wiped my face and told her, “I’m okay. Aunt Neecy’s okay. All right?” I found myself saying anything. It was no use though. Cheron was already starting to tear up, so I sat her on my lap and squeezed her like there was no tomorrow. As for my mother, I guess she didn’t have any tears left. Who knows for how many days and nights she cried?

I don’t remember how I managed to make it back home that night, but I had to, so I did. I was a virtual zombie for the entire SMO meeting. I just wanted to get back home to my sons. I didn’t even have many words for Camellia and Monica that evening. I had to see my sons. I had to hug them. And I had to ask them if they loved me. That was all that I could think about.

“What’s wrong, Mom?” Jimmy asked, defensively. He was at the age where he was ready to protect.

“Just hold me,” I told him. I still hadn’t regained my usual level of strength yet.

Walter asked, “What happened?”

I held both of them together. “Nothing happened.”

“Something happened,” Jimmy said. I could feel him tensing up in my arms. “Did somebody rob you or something, Mom?”

“No,” I told him forcibly. “Nobody robbed me. I just—”

I lost my voice again, so I just shook my head.

Jimmy looked even more confused. “You just did what, Mom?”

“Jimmy, I’m okay,” I told him.

“So why was you crying then?” Walter asked. I guess I didn’t do such a good job of cleaning up my face that night. Since I wasn’t used to wiping my own tears, maybe I didn’t know how to. My sons were definitely not used to seeing me that way. It was scary for me, too.

“Do you two love your mother?” I asked them.

“Yeah,” they told me.

“Well, just hold me then.”

My sons held me, and I squeezed them into me, kissing their foreheads and rubbing their faces. Then I closed my eyes and said a silent prayer:
Dear God, I know there’s no guarantees in life, but if I could have just one thing, just one, it would be that these two boys grow up to love black women the way they need to be loved. Is that so hard to do, God? Is that so hard to wish for? Because I don’t know what else I can do. It’s all in your hands. I give it up to you. All I can do is my best. And I’m going to make sure I keep trying until the day I die.

HE
first game of the play-offs was in February. Little Jay’s high school team had a record of 17-3, and they were seeded number six in a sixteen-team championship tournament. I was so excited for my son that I could hardly sleep that week. I could have put in sixteen straight hours of overtime at work without missing a beat. That’s just how wired I was.

“Come on, Jamal, let’s go! We’re running late!”

I was in a rush to get to the game, while Jamal was busy tying his shoelaces. I had bought him some new boots and a hooded coat during the after-Christmas sales. I didn’t have much to offer when Little Jay was young. I was struggling just to clothe myself, get a bite to eat, and buy a dime bag of weed to ease my nerves. My son didn’t need much with his mother’s success as a businesswoman though, so I was giving a helping hand however I could.

The gym was jam-packed when Jamal and I arrived. We could hardly find a seat, and the first two minutes of the game had already gone by. Those suburban leagues don’t play. They start the games on time, every time.

“Who scored for Belmont Creek?” I asked a high school—aged spectator.

“Ah, number forty-four scored twice,” he told me. “Two of them were from the foul line. It’s a pretty tough defensive game so far. They’re trying to shut our shooter, Marc ‘Speed’ Wilkins, down.”

I looked at the young guy again. Everybody sounded like scouts at them damn games! Whatever happened to watching the game for the fun of it?

“Who do they play next?” Jamal asked me.

“They have to win
this
game first,” I told him. “Then we’ll have to wait and see who else wins.”

“What if they
don’t
win?”

I smiled. “Then the season’s over with.”

“And they don’t play no more games until next year?”

“That’s right.”

Jamal grimaced. He said, “Dag. So they
gotta
win.” Then he asked, “How many games do they have to play to win the trophy?”

“Four.”

“Do everybody on the team get trophies?”

“Wait a minute,” I told him. I was trying to pay attention to the game. “Okay, what did you ask me?”

“I asked if everybody on the team get trophies if they win?”

I rubbed my chin and thought about it. “I think they get jackets and letters in high school, and the school gets the trophy. Players get trophies during the summer leagues.”

“Can
I
play in the summer league?”

I turned and looked into Jamal’s face. He was excited. “You wanna play in the summer league?” I asked him.

He nodded. “Yeah.”

I nodded back to him. “All right then. We’ll ask your mother about it when she gets home from work tonight.”

The final score was 69-58. Little Jay scored 21 points and had plenty of rebounds and blocked shots. I didn’t get all of his stats, I was just satisfied with the win and his strong contribution. Marc “Speed” Wilkins added 18 points and a couple of key steals on defense.

“Hi, Mr. J.D.,” someone said. I looked around and faced Walter. He had been to a few of the games before, so I was used to seeing him there, but not with a bodyguard.

“Hey, Walter,” I said to him with a hand on his shoulder. Then I nodded to his large friend. “You must be Brock,” I assumed. Denise had told me he was no small man. He wasn’t as tall as I was, but he did have size to him.

He held out his hand and smiled at me. “How are you doing, brother? That’s a hell of a game your son has there.”

I shook his hand and said, “Yeah, he worked hard on it, just like he worked hard this semester to get his grades up.” Little Jay had a 3.1 GPA for the second semester, and I was making sure that everyone knew it, especially my boss, Roger Collinski. I don’t know if he was doing it on purpose, but whenever I told him how well my son was doing in the league as a freshman, he would talk about his boy’s excellence in academics
as well as
in sports. It got to the point where it seemed like we were competing against each other.