Wings of Glass (9 page)

My heart beat a mile a minute as I turned to sneak a glance at Fatimah and Callie Mae, who both stared at me, unblinking. Feeling ashamed and more than a little frightened at my reaction, I licked my lips and threw my ball gently against the bumper. By the grace of God, I managed to knock down the farthest pin, rendering me a total of three for the frame.

Callie Mae squeezed my shoulder as I sat. “That was quite a reaction to Casanova.”

I couldn’t look at her. How could I explain it? “I don’t know what came over me. I should probably go apologize.”

She hooked my chin, forcing me to look her in the eye. “You could have said it nicer, sure, but you weren’t wrong. You bet he’ll think twice about touching a woman without her permission again.”

It made me feel better to hear her say he’d crossed a line in touching me that way. Setting boundaries was something I hadn’t done a whole lot of before then. Changing the subject, I said, “Good thing we have those bumpers or I wouldn’t have gotten any pins.”

She pulled the towel from her pocket. “You’ll get better. I’ve been at this for years. It takes time and practice.”

I bit my tongue. “It’s not really my game.”

She chuckled. “Obviously it’s not mine either.” With a nod of her head, she motioned to the bumpers.

Fatimah jumped up. “Yes, it is your game!”

A devilish grin slithered across Callie Mae’s lips. “You think you’re the master prankster, but guess what, Fati? The laugh’s on you this time. I’ve been pretending to be terrible all these months just for this moment.”

Fatimah’s eyebrows dipped in disbelief. “You lie.”

After Callie Mae scored her fourth strike in a row, Fatimah was livid. “You play the most horrible joke I ever had seen.” Her lips disappeared into a thin line. “I will get you for this.”

With a wink in my direction, Callie Mae laughed. “Why
don’t we just call it even? You’ve been getting me for years, after all.”

“I have something to admit too.” I stood to take my turn. “I’m actually not pregnant, and my husband isn’t blind.”

Callie Mae’s and Fatimah’s jaws hit the floor.

I walked to the arrows and lifted the ball in front of my nose to aim. “Just kidding.” When I threw the ball, I managed to get a strike of my own, making my joke seem a little less lame. I looked back over my shoulder at them. “Who’s the master now, ladies?”

After five games, my arms were ready to fall off. Callie Mae had broken 200 each game, Fatimah averaged just under, and I came in last place, only breaking 150 once.

The three of us walked to the parking lot together. Callie Mae stopped and turned around. “Leaving this place always makes me feel like I’m burying Matthew again.” She looked at me. “This was our place.” Her gaze moved to Fatimah. “I really miss him.”

“I know you do. He was good man.” Fatimah held her arms out.

When Callie Mae stepped into them, Fatimah waved me into their little huddle. We hugged Callie Mae as she quietly wept. After a moment, she rubbed her eyes against the shoulder of her shirt, leaving a dark streak of wetness. “It’s silly, I know. He’s been gone three years. It’s really time to let the poor man rest in peace.”

“We should bowl someplace new,” Fatimah said.

With a grimace, Callie Mae nodded.

Fatimah patted her shoulder. “I think is very good idea. It is time to say good-bye.”

I felt a little like an interloper, knowing Fatimah was privy to so much of Callie Mae’s life I hadn’t been around for. I comforted myself with the thought that I’d been around for this moment and, God willing, would be for all the rest, too.

Callie Mae wiped her eyes again and looked up at the gray sky. “See you on the other side, Matthew.”

“You make right decision,” Fatimah said, looking at me for agreement, then back at Callie Mae. “You cannot grab hold of tomorrows when you hold the past with both hands.”

AT LAST
the weekend came, and I was off for two whole days. I probably should have been resting, but I had a compulsion to begin turning the spare room into your nursery. When we moved into that house on Abraham Street, the previous owners had left a few gallons of paint down in the root cellar.

After I peeled off the latex skin from the top, mixed the layers of goo back into one solid color, and got over the stinky-foot smell, they, and I, were ready to go. I wasn’t crazy about the lime-green color, but the price was right. Besides, I read infants liked vivid colors. If the paint was half as bright dry as it looked wet, I should have the happiest baby in town.

Wearing one of the face masks Callie Mae had given me to work in, I painted like a woman possessed as I rolled out the final coat on the last wall. My arms were sore from reaching over my head, but the closer I got to being done, the easier it was to ignore the pain. Ignoring your father was another matter entirely.

I figured by now he would have forgotten all about his drunken proclamation to be a better man and go back to treating me like a doormat. But once again, he surprised me. Having come in for the tenth time to check my progress, he stood leaning against the doorjamb staring in my general direction. “You shouldn’t have to be doing this in your condition. What was wrong with the way it looked before?”

I set the roller back in the pan, letting it soak up what little paint there was left clinging to the aluminum ridges, and rested my aching arm at my side. “You may not remember, but the walls were full of nail holes and scuff marks. Our baby should have better than that.”

“I just wish you didn’t have to work so hard. It ain’t right you’re shouldering a man’s share.”

I swiped my forearm across my brow and pulled down the mask. It felt so good to breathe without that thing on. “I’m not doing anything more than other women my age.”

With a grump on his face, he mumbled something I couldn’t make out, and didn’t really want to.

I walked over to him, touched his cheek with my paint-speckled finger, and kissed his lips. It was the first time in a long time he didn’t smell like booze. “Taking care of my family is an honor. Don’t take that away from me.”

His eyes glistened. “You don’t know what it’s like to be so useless. I wouldn’t wish this on nobody.”

Your father could be tougher than a two-dollar steak, but he had his tender side too.

“I know, baby.” I wrapped my arms around his narrow waist.

“I hate my wife has to work. It ain’t right,” he repeated.

“It’s just for a season.” I hoped that season would be a lifelong one. Now that I had a taste of freedom, the thought of going back to the way things were was unbearable.

He rested his head atop mine. I could feel his chin moving as he spoke. “Darlin’, it’s lonely out there in the living room. I’ve been missing you all week. I was hoping you could come lay with me on the couch and watch some TV. You can tell me what those streaks of color are doing.”

I looked at the walls. They were as green as they were going to get. I just needed to peel off the masking tape from around the windows and edges. “You go on out. I’m just going to clean up and then I’ll join you.”

“How’s it look?” he asked.

“Kinda like a big square lime,” I said, pulling my mask back up.

He chuckled. My word, your father was a good-looking man, and never more so than when he laughed. I’m grateful to say God blessed you with all of Trent’s looks and none of his disposition.

It used to make me sad to wonder how differently things might have turned out if his upbringing had been better. Funny how bad parenting echoes through the generations. That will stop with you, though, Manny. You’ll be the father to your children your daddy wanted to be. As I watch you sleep in a crumpled ball with your thumb in your mouth and
tattered Pooh bear hugged tight against your chest, I know that as surely as I know your name.

After cleaning up and showering off the grime, I joined Trent on the couch. He lay behind me, pressed against my back, holding me tightly around my middle like he was afraid I might run away.

His warm breath on the back of my neck didn’t set my nerves on edge, and I didn’t have one eye on his fists. For the first time in a long time, I felt safe in his arms.

He flipped through the channels until an old rerun of M*A*S*H came on. “I won’t have to guess what they’re doing tonight,” he said happily. “I’ve seen this one.”

And there I lay with him, content as a kitten. Trent talked through the entire show, telling me, from memory, what the actors were doing. “Colonel Potter’s petting the horse now, ain’t he?”

“That’s right,” I said.

“His eyes are tearing up now. I remember that.”

I pulled the afghan up over our shoulders. “They are.”

“Radar hugging that teddy bear?”

“No, it’s laying at his side.”

“Our son should have a teddy bear.”

“He will,” I said.

“Not a little sissy bear, neither. One of those giant kinds you have to win at a carnival.”

I laughed. “That would be a little tough to snuggle with.”

“He don’t need to snuggle. He’s going to be tough like his old man.”

Little did your father know I was praying every morning and night you
wouldn’t
be tough like him, but tenderhearted like me.

Straining my neck, I looked back over my shoulder at him. “He or she is going to be born a baby, you know, not with hair on his chest.”

He cleared his throat. “You don’t need to argue with me over what my son will or won’t do or be.”

A commercial for a truck we couldn’t afford the hubcap for blared as we lay silent.

His tone softened. “You hear me, One Cent?”

“I hear you,” I said.

He grunted that way he does when he’s in agreement with himself. “He needs to understand who the boss is. If you’re questioning everything I say, he’s going to, too, and I can’t have that. The Bible says I’m the head of the household. Try to remember that.”

As if I could forget. I found it interesting he only knew the parts of the Bible that seemed to justify his distorted viewpoint.

When the show was over, he pushed against me to let me know he wanted to sit up. I hated that our snuggling time was over already, but grateful he didn’t just push me onto the floor like he might have before his coming-to-Jesus moment.

He patted the table in front of us, feeling for his Coke. “Speaking of the baby, I’ve been thinking. With my sorry excuse for a father being in jail and my mother probably on some street corner, our child ought to have a set of decent grandparents in his life.”

Your father’s words stopped my heart as I hoped against hope. I had wanted to pick up the phone a hundred times and call your grandma to tell her I was going to be a mother myself, but I knew it would just rip her heart out to know about you, but not be allowed to see you.

As I held my breath, Trent took a long, leisurely drink from his soda can. Finally, he set it down. “I may regret this, but I think you should call your folks and tell them about the baby.”

Unable to contain my excitement, I hugged your father, pulled back then hugged him again harder.

He put his hands up as if in caution. “They need to understand, though, this is my kid, not theirs. They’re going to need to abide by my rules if they want to be part of his life.”

Here we go,
I thought, but said nothing. He was giving me my parents back. I’d negotiate the details later. “I’ll make it clear, baby. They won’t cause no trouble. They’ll just be so happy for us.”

“Well, go on, then. Call them. Don’t try to put me on the phone, neither. Just tell them about the baby and let them know you’ll call when he comes.”

It was all I could do not to break out into a moonwalk, I was so thrilled. Experience told me not to overdo it, though. He didn’t mind me being happy now and again, just not too happy. “Mama might want to stay with me when I go into labor,” I said without thinking.

He puckered his mouth as if I’d said something stupid, and I realized I’d played my hand too soon. “You’ll just have
to tell her you’ve got your doting husband here to help. She’s welcome to come visit, but she ain’t moving in.”

Mama was not going to take that lying down. Every woman in my family, for generations, stayed with her daughter when she gave birth. At least for a week or two. It was just what the womenfolk did. A new mother needed help, and even with the change in Trent, he was still about as much help as a toddler.

With my heart in my throat, I dialed my parents’ number, but it just rang and rang. Looking back, I think maybe that was God’s doing. Trent didn’t know I’d spoken to Mama recently. Since I wasn’t much of an actress, I doubt I could have pulled off the performance needed to both communicate effectively with my folks, and not give myself away to him.

When the answering machine came on, I weighed every word carefully as Trent listened in. “Mama, Daddy, this is Penny, your long-lost daughter. I have wonderful news. Trent and I are going to be parents. I’m due on Christmas day. Can you believe it?” I left the number I knew they already had, and hoped they would read between the lines they weren’t to mention our previous phone call.

NOT AN HOUR
after I called my parents, the phone rang. Running from the kitchen to answer it, I tripped over your father’s foot. Luckily I caught myself just in time. I’m sure the sight of it would have been something to see if there had been anyone there who could.

“I’m fine,” I said, not that he’d asked. I grabbed up the phone. “Hello?”

“Peeny, dat you?” Fatimah asked. Trying as I might, I couldn’t keep the disappointment out of my voice. “Oh, hi, Fatimah. What’s going on?”

“I and my husband, Edgard, would like invite you to dinner with us tomorrow night.”

I looked at Trent. He pulled his sock off and rubbed his foot. I could see from where I stood why it was bothering him. A bruise spanned the length of his toes. My stumbling into them couldn’t have helped. “Dinner?”

“You and your husband, Tent, come here and eat. I will make for you Sudanese food. You never eat so good!”

“His name is Trent, Fati, not Tent.” There was no way in the world your father was going to agree. Not unless there was a keg involved. “And that’s really nice of you. Hang on just a minute and let me make sure he doesn’t have anything else planned.” I put my hand over the receiver, pressing my palm tight against it. “It’s my coworker. She wants us to come to her house tomorrow night for dinner.”

Trent looked up. “I think you know the answer.”

I uncovered the phone. “I’m sorry, Fatimah. He’s not up for it.”

“Good. You come.”

I turned around and brushed the dust off the top of a wood-framed picture of your grandparents resting on the shelf. “I wish I could, but he needs me here.”

“For what he need you?” She didn’t bother to try to hide her annoyance.

“Um, it’s not like he has a seeing eye dog, you know?”

“You are not a dog, Peeny.”

“I know I’m not.”

Suddenly I felt the phone yanked out of my hand. Trent jerked it to his ear. “This is Penny’s husband.”

I strained to hear what she was saying on the other end, but couldn’t.

“That’s very nice, but—” He made an annoyed face. “It sounds delicious, but I’m not much of a—” Another pause. “I know Penny isn’t my dog. I never said she was.” He shot a
dirty look in my general direction. “I’m sure it would be. I’m just not that social. . . . No, I ain’t telling her she can’t go. She can go.” He thrust the phone out for me to take.

My hand shook as I did. “Hey, it’s Penny again.”

“I tell your husband you come tomorrow at seven.”

Forgetting he couldn’t see very well, I mouthed I was sorry. “What can I bring?”

“You bring yourself fully dressed.”

“I wasn’t planning on coming naked.”

“I did not know. I have never had an American for dinner.”

“Well, don’t think you’re having me for dinner,” I said.

She laughed that wonderful laugh of hers. “I don’t want you, but I bet your husband taste good in stew.”

“You’ll never know,” I said. “I’ve got to go. See you then.”

I had one eye on Trent the whole conversation. The anger on his face told me he’d wanted to do more than just grab the phone out of my hands.

“What was so funny?” he demanded to know.

“Nothing. I was just—”

“Fine. Don’t tell me. ‘Seeing eye dog’?”

My mind whirled trying to figure out what exactly had offended him. “I was just saying you can’t see. How was I supposed to get us out of it? I can’t come up with excuses on the fly like you.” I hated the power he had to turn me into a driveling idiot.

“Oh, so now I’m a burden and an accomplished liar?”

He was no longer close enough to reach me, but I was ready just in case he decided to lunge. I glanced over my
shoulder to see if the front door was locked. It wasn’t. “You’re not a burden. I was just trying to get us off the hook.”

The crease between his eyebrows sunk so deep it looked like his face was splitting plumb in half.

“I’m a joke to her and obviously to you, too.” He groped at the end table, making me wonder if he was searching for something that could be used as a weapon. All that was there were his socks, the remote, and an empty soda can. He grabbed up the can and start shaking it in front of him. “Go on, Penny, put some change in it for your pathetic, blind husband.”

I didn’t know where his mind was, but I tried my best to backtrack. I’d have all the time in the world to analyze the conversation later during the silent treatment sure to follow. “Baby, you can’t help what happened to you. You’re not a burden. You’re my . . . ,” I had to choke the word out, but I knew it was what he needed to hear, “hero.”

His face relaxed. “Don’t,” he said, but his eyes said do.

“Who else could lose their eyesight and take it like a man the way you have?”

He looked to the side the way he did when he was embarrassed but eating it up at the same time. Relief filled me when I realized a little ego stroking was all it would take to make things right this time.

“What do you mean?” he tried to sound indifferent, but his vulnerable expression gave him away.

“You were up fixing me eggs,” I said. “I mean, you can’t even see, and there you were cooking breakfast.”

His lips started to turn up, then shot back down again. “I don’t want you talking that way about me to your friends, you hear?”

I wasn’t quite sure what way he meant, but I agreed just the same. A waft of cumin, beef, and onion floated by. “Come on, love, dinner’s ready. Taco soup, your favorite.”

“Steak’s my favorite,” he grumbled.

Feeling confident his rage had passed, I ventured over. He allowed me to hold him, but didn’t hug me back. That was his way of saying there was a tentative truce, but further buttering up would be necessary to ensure an end to the battle.

“If I had the money, you’d be eating steak every night,” I said.

He frowned. “No, if you had the money, you’d buy me a monkey suit and set me on the corner with a harnessed dog and can of pencils.”

“Please, don’t.” I snuggled up closer to him. He felt so warm and smelled of soap. “I love you. I’m having your baby, and you are every bit the man you always were.”

Finally his hands came up to rest on my hips. “What time you fixing to go to dinner with that African loudmouth?”

“Seven. Don’t worry. I’ll fix you something before I go.”

“Believe it or not, I still remember how to use a can opener.”

He followed me to the kitchen. With the ladle, I scooped two bowls of soup from the Crock-Pot and set them down on the table. Normally, he wouldn’t join me in saying grace, but I figured with the change in him, it might be a good time to
try again. I took his hand. “Lord, thank you for this meal and for providing for us through this trial. Please let Trent know how much I love him and how much you love him. Bless this food to our bodies. In Jesus’ name, amen.”

“Amen,” Trent added, already with a spoonful of soup halfway to his mouth.

I watched as he took the first bite to see if this batch turned out all right. His expression didn’t change, which told me it must be okay. “Are you praying for my eyesight to come back?” he asked.

His question caught me off guard. I wasn’t about to pray for things to go back to the way they used to be. “What do you think?”

“You’re a good woman,” he said, taking another bite.

Guilt came down on me like the Holy Spirit at Pentecost. You know, Manny, God has the funniest way of using people you think are so beneath you spiritually to convict you. I guess that’s one of his ways of keeping us humble. Well, I was feeling meek as a mustard seed right about then.

“Let’s pray, the two of us together, for that,” I said, fighting with myself to not cross my spiritual fingers.

He swiped his hand across his mouth. “If you’ve been praying, that’s enough. I know God hears a good woman like you.”

My heart turned to jelly. There are moments of truth in life. I saw then that even though your father acted like he despised me, something about my Christian walk must have been right if he thought my prayers were reaching God’s ears.

“The Bible says when two or more are gathered in his
name, he’s there with them. I’m only one person, baby.” With that, I took his hand and prayed for his vision to be restored. For God to bless him, me, you, my parents, his, and everyone else that came to mind. Silently, I added a prayer that the change that had begun in your father would continue, with or without his sight.

I could have gone on praying, but Trent’s hand left mine, telling me he’d had enough.

We ate silently for a while until he tilted up his bowl to his mouth and slurped the last bit of liquid. He set it on the table and leaned back in his chair, giving his belly a satisfied rub.

Poking at a piece of floating corn, I asked, “Do you want another bowl?”

I figured if he did, I’d just slide mine over to him. My appetite had left me when he lost his temper.

“Maybe later. You are one good cook, One Cent. If I hadn’t married you for your body, I’d have married you for your vittles.”

Now, every woman likes to hear she has a nice figure and is a good cook, but I don’t know a single one who wants to be married because of either. It might not have bothered me if I didn’t think it was really true. I couldn’t say anything, though. I married him for his swagger, which I guess is just as shallow and stupid. “Thanks.”

He felt around for his napkin, then brought it to his lips. “You know, I’ve been thinking of names for the baby.”

My stomach knotted as I braced myself for the worst. “And?”

“Trent Junior if it’s a boy, of course.”

I cringed. A name might not seem like such a big deal so long as it’s not something that’ll get the child shoved on the playground, but for a mother wanting her son to be so much more than his father, it meant everything. “What about Tommy, after my mom’s brother?” My uncle had passed away from a heart defect when he was just a baby. I know she would have loved to have you named after him.

“He ain’t his kid. He’s mine.”

I swallowed a spoonful of soup, not really tasting it. “What if he’s a girl?”

As he scratched his chin, an idea came to my mind. Trent couldn’t turn down a bet. “What if we flip for it?”

“Why should I flip for it when I’m his father?”

“You know, I’m the one who fills out the birth certificate, and last time I checked, 50 percent of her DNA is mine. Are you chicken you’ll lose?”

I knew that would clinch it. That man didn’t back down even when the challenge was idiotic.

“How will I know if it’s heads or tails? You can say anything you want.”

“Have I ever lied to you?” I asked.

“Just because I haven’t caught you, doesn’t mean you haven’t done it.”

His words stung. Despite years of devotion, he still refused to trust me even on the simplest matters. “Remember how you said you were going to be the man I deserved? I deserve your trust. I’ve earned it.”

He huffed. “Fine. Tails.”

I hated calling heads because it seemed to me tails came out more often, but I prayed God would let me have this one. I picked a nickel out of the bottom of my purse and returned to the kitchen table with it. Balancing the coin on top of my thumbnail, I said, “Here we go. Tails, you name the baby; heads, I do.”

He slapped it from my hand and it clanged to the floor.

I watched it roll under the table. “What was that for?”

“This way I know it’s fair.”

Gracious, that man could make me so mad. Never mind that if I wanted to cheat, I still could. It’s not like he could see which way the coin ended up.

“Where’d it go?” he asked.

“Under the table.”

“And?”

I squatted down and looked at it. “It’s heads.”

“Of course it is.”

I picked up the coin, along with a piece of eggshell that had somehow made its way under his chair. “I didn’t cheat.”

“Sure, you didn’t.” His tone was dripping with sarcasm.

I took my bowl over to the sink and dumped the remainder in. “I said I didn’t cheat.”

“You’re not naming him after your mom’s brother,” he said.

“I won the toss.”

He practically growled. “You’re not naming him after some dead baby.”

Blood rushed to my head so fast it felt like it would shoot off my shoulders. “I don’t believe you just said that. He wasn’t some dead baby; he was my uncle. Have some respect.”

He crossed his arms. “So, what’s it going to be? It better not be one of those names a girl can have too, like he’s some kind of transsexual.”

I liked those kinds of names—like Charlie, Addison, Jordan, and such—but if you couldn’t be named after family, I wanted you to have a biblical name, so I let him think I conceded. “It won’t be.”

“So what’s it going to be? Dagnabbit, Penny, don’t toy with me.”

“Leah if it’s a girl,” I said. “Emmanuel if it’s a boy.”

He scowled. “No way. That’s—”

“Manny for short,” I quickly added.

The scowl left his face as he scratched his chin considering it. “Manny,” he repeated. “I don’t hate it.”