The women shook hands and Ghana offered thanks for Lisa’s interest in the group. After she’d left, Ghana cheered and did a little dance, waving her hands in the air. “This is truly amazing,” she said, giving Kenya a tight hug. “And look at you, getting your lawyer on.”
Kenya rolled her eyes and laughed. “This is more than I imagined. And you are amazing. This is all you. I’m so proud of you.”
When the article was published, a picture of Kenya and Ghana, both looking purposeful, eyes directed at the camera, was on the front page of the Features Section. The story was passed around on social media and Kenya received congratulatory calls from neighbors and friends.
“We’re famous,” she said.
Ghana screeched like a child on the other end of the phone. “If this spreads, we can be more than just a support group. We can be a much larger organization offering all kinds of resources with the ability to push for real change.”
“Slow down, there,” Kenya said with a laugh. “Let’s just make sure we have more food for the next meeting.”
49
Bet listened to the television news while folding laundry—she needed clean sheets for Kenya and the kids coming to stay, and Ghana and her boyfriend may spend a night. Eventually she turned off the TV. It was too much. Images of death. Endless analysis of race. Black versus white. It was just too much. It was Christmas Eve for goodness sake. She turned on the radio station that had been playing Christmas music since Thanksgiving and stood, looking through the sliding doors in the den, folding towels and sheets that had come out of the dryer last night. She watched the bare trees that bordered the property line with the Johnsons and wished it would snow. Christmas seemed more special when it snowed, but the weather this year was unusually warm. A slight breeze tickled her legs as it crept through the eroding seal on the patio doors that Malcolm had yet to fix. But it wasn’t important anymore, she thought.
She didn’t hear her husband come down the stairs and slip into the kitchen until the refrigerator door opened. She didn’t look; simply imagined him there, leaning on the open door, letting out the cold air, mulling what he wanted to eat and drink. People didn’t see this side of him, padding through the house in his socks and sweatpants as if he had no responsibilities in the world. Judge Malcolm Walker. Her Malcolm. He had returned to work a month ago, and she could tell he was happier for it.
“Did you eat breakfast already?” he asked.
“Uh huh.” She didn’t look his way but heard the crunch of corn flakes and knew he was standing in the archway between the kitchen and the den, watching her, holding a bowl in one hand, shoveling food into his mouth with the other.
“What’s the matter?”
She shook out a towel and glanced at him. “I’m fine.”
His head cocked to the side and he came closer. “What is it?”
Bet shrugged. “Everything changes, yet nothing changes.” He kissed her forehead and turned back to the kitchen. A chair scraped the floor, and the rustle of newspaper stirred the air.
“When are the kids getting here?” he shouted.
Bet paused, inhaled slowly and continued folding. Not everyone would be here. So much change. Yet nothing changes. People die. People continue to fight.
“Huh? When is everyone getting here?”
She snapped a pillowcase in the air, folded and placed it neatly on the pile on the couch then ambled through to the kitchen. “Why are you shouting through the house? I’m right here.”
“You were supposed to wake me,” he said, grabbing at her. She swatted his hand away and he laughed. “Huh? Why didn’t you wake me?”
She rested her hands on his shoulders and leaned in to kiss his cheek. He pressed his right hand on hers and she hugged him.
“You okay? Talk to me,” he said.
They’d begun again, the two of them. Attending AA meetings together at her church. Working through the steps. She never told him about the young man with the pills, and never would, though Kenya knew. Her daughter had come by the house one afternoon and hemmed and hawed until she finally said she’d found a condom in the bedroom. Bet’s blood had thinned leaving her dizzy. She’d said nothing and Kenya explained that she cleaned up the house before her father had come home.
After several moments of silence, Bet had said, “It was a foolish mistake.”
“Is it over?”
“Yes, of course.” Shame had rushed back heating her cheeks. “It wasn’t really anything at all.”
Her daughter’s understanding surprised Bet.
Kenya had taken both her hands into her own and said, “It’s okay, Mama. We all make mistakes. Nothing good will come of me telling anyone.” Flustered, Bet hadn’t known how to respond. All she could say was, “Thank you.”
Bet was learning to find God again. To see Him in all things around her. Some days were harder than others, but her grandchildren especially brought her a profound joy. She’d been painting again; though it was coming slowly, she could see potential in her sketches. Sudden tears blurred her vision and she blinked them away.
Malcolm pushed back from the table and wrapped his arms around her. “Shh, it’s okay. It’s going to be okay.”
She didn’t want to cry anymore, but couldn’t stop; some days the tears brought a moment of relief from the chaos inside. News coverage of protest marches, no indictments for the guilty, and more shootings rubbed like sandpaper on her wound.
Malcolm released her and she grabbed a piece of paper towel to blow her nose. “Everyone should be here this afternoon,” she said. “It’s going to be so strange. You know, without . . .” She’d been thinking this for days. Christmas without Malawi. She gripped the back of a chair to stop herself from falling, and added, “And without Sidney, too.”
“No chance of them getting back together?” Malcolm poured himself a mug of coffee then sat back down at the table, scanning the newspaper.
“I don’t think so. Kenya didn’t share details, just that he cheated again.” Bet pulled out a chair and gestured for Malcolm to get her coffee, too.
He frowned, but got up and poured her a mug. “He and I never got along that well, anyway,” he said. “I’m not going to miss him that much.”
“After all these years, that’s all you have to say?”
Malcolm jerked his shoulders.
Bet filled her coffee with cream. “Ghana is bringing Ryan. He’s going to have dinner with us tonight and then spend tomorrow with his family. I think she’s going to spend some time with them, too.”
“We should meet them. Don’t you think?”
“His parents? You think so?” Ghana’s relationship with this Ryan had seemed so vague and distant. Almost secretive. Or perhaps Bet had never made more of an effort. She would.
“Yeah.” Malcolm adjusted his eyeglasses and peered at the newspaper. “Seems to me it’s getting serious.”
Bet pondered this for a moment. She had no excuse for the years past, only for the last few months. She’d been wandering through each day wrapped in gauze, everything hazy and out of focus. She’d do better with her daughters.
Kenya was the first to arrive with Charlene and Junior, who rushed in with hugs and kisses for both Bet and Malcolm. Junior wanted to start setting up the train track around the Christmas tree right away, and Malcolm grinned. He’d already gotten out the box and had tested the equipment to make sure it would work smoothly, but pretended he’d forgotten and wasn’t sure they could do it.
“Maybe tomorrow?”
“No! Grandpa, we have to do it right now. It has to be all ready for Christmas morning.”
“Right now?”
Junior pleaded, getting on his knees and placing his hands in prayer position. Malcolm chuckled. “Well okay then. You lead the way.”
Kenya and Charlene joined Bet in the kitchen; Kenya was tasked with peeling potatoes and washing and cutting the collard greens while Charlene grated the cheese for the macaroni. Bet prepared the turkey. Christmas Eve, the b
eginning of their three-day celebration of Christ and family; Bet wondered how much of either she had ever truly embraced. She’d always been stressed throughout the season, buying gifts and preparing meals to impress. In the early years, Christmas Eve had been her day to prepare dinner for family, and then on Christmas Day, she and Malcolm would traipse over to his parents’ house on 16th Street. After Malcolm’s father passed away, Bet continued to cook on Christmas Eve and prepared a small ham on Christmas Day with Caroline spending the three days with them.
The doorbell rang and Bet heard Charlene running to the door. “Grandmama is here.”
Bet’s shoulders tightened. Caroline breezed in carrying several bags, one filled with various pies and another with two large tins of popcorn, much to the grandkids’ delight. She gave hugs and kisses to Charlene and Junior and offered a light hug to Bet. “You’re looking well,” she said warmly, before heading to the sitting room to place gifts under the tree. The woman wasn’t so bad, really.
A short time later, Ghana’s laughter filled the front foyer and Bet heard her argue with her niece. “Not until tomorrow. No. Not until tomorrow.” Ghana breezed into the kitchen and dumped two bags of wrapped gifts in the corner. Bet dried her hands on a towel. “Those go under the tree, my dear.” She’d only met Ryan once or twice before, brief encounters she barely remembered, so today she wanted to make sure he felt welcome. His chosen profession wasn’t getting much love in the press, and police officers—the good ones at least—deserved respect. As they fussed with the gift bags, Bet saw the contrast between the two: her wild child with her dreadlocks and tattoos, and this tall blond white man, wearing a gray sweater and black pants. A complete opposite of Ghana. Bet still struggled to see the beauty in her daughter’s style, but she was trying. Perhaps this man would influence her to tone down her wild ways. But then, maybe that’s what he loved about her. Perhaps, in their opposites, they brought balance.
She hugged Ghana close and tight. For too long she’d taken her children for granted. When she let go, Ghana seemed surprised. Her daughter stared for a second then turned and said, “You remember Ryan?”
Bet opened her arms to him and felt his lips soft against her cheek. As she released him, he said, “Thank you so much for inviting me to share in this family gathering,” and offered her a small deep red poinsettia.
She accepted the gift with a smile. He was soft spoken, gracious and gentle, just like Malcolm. “You are most welcome,” she said. The world needed more young men like him.
When dinner was ready everyone pitched in to get the bowls and dishes to the dining room, and Bet made sure the candles were lit. As was the family custom, Caroline gave the blessing before they ate. She asked God to bless the food and the family as she always did, but asked Him to hold Malawi close in his care. The words, “Hold her, oh Lord, in your care,” poked at Bet’s heart and she bit her lip, pushing back a gasp. She wouldn’t break down. She wouldn’t.
The house was full of warm and loving energy and Bet enjoyed this feeling, a sensation of love and excitement she hadn’t felt in many months. Even Caroline’s presence wasn’t oppressive. Lounging on the couch, she admired the shimmering white lights on the Christmas tree and Johnny Mathis singing seasonal tunes in the background. Dinner was settling heavily in her stomach, yet she couldn’t wait for some apple pie and ice-cream. Malcolm and Ryan appeared to be having as much fun with the train set as Junior, with all three of them hunched over the miniature tracks. Kenya and Ghana were in the kitchen whispering and tittering with each other. And Charlene was on the loveseat playing a game on her tablet. Bet shifted from the couch to sit next to her granddaughter.
“What’re you playing?” She peered at the screen and saw it was a word game. This made her smile.
“You don’t have to be sad anymore, Grandma.”
“Why’s that?”
“Everyone is happy. And Aunt Mowie is with God. So that’s not so bad, right?”
Bet chuckled. “True. Sooner than expected, but she is at peace.” She patted the girl’s lap. “What are you most happy about?”
“That we’re all together and we’re all happy.”
“Aren’t you sad that your daddy isn’t with us?”
“Yes. But he gave me a phone and I can talk to him anytime I want to.” She pulled an iPhone from her pocket and flashed it at Bet. “We talked this morning, and I’ll call him tomorrow, too.” She paused to look at her phone then looked back at Bet. “Mommy is happier. They were sad together. It’s better now.”
“My goodness. How old are you?” Bet pressed her lips to her granddaughter’s forehead.
When the girls came in from the kitchen, Kenya settled on the couch next to Malcolm and Bet got up, letting Ghana sit in the loveseat behind Ryan; her daughter’s hand caressed his head as she passed him. With everyone here, Bet decided it was time to present her special gifts.
“Okay, okay,” she said. “Girls, I have something for you.” She got on her knees and fished out two bags from under the tree, then settled on the couch in the space next to Malcolm.
“I was wondering who those bags were for,” said Kenya, leaning forward and clapping her hands together. She and Ghana burst into laughter like little girls.
“I finally went through Malawi’s things.” Bet paused. “And I saw the yellow blanket. Takes my breath away that it’s still around. My mother gave it to me and each one of you cherished it.” Bet inhaled sharply, remembering her mother’s death just after Kenya was born. “Anyway, I met this woman some years back who made teddy bears out of clothing of loved ones who had passed away. I found her card and asked if she could make something with the blanket.”
Kenya and Ghana sat grinning, Ghana bouncing like a toddler.
“So, here.” Bet reached across Malcolm to hand a bag to Kenya and stretched out to Ghana, who moved from the loveseat to sit by her mother’s feet. The sisters rummaged quickly through the tissue paper and pulled out, almost simultaneously, a small yellow teddy bear.
“They’re called memory bears,” Bet said, “and they just seemed like a fitting memorial to Malawi. The blanket has a part of each of you and, well . . .” Bet fell silent, tears filling her eyes. Both Kenya and Ghana each emitted a screech of joy. Each bear had a ribbon around its neck with a small tag with their names on it.
“Mama they are beautiful,” Kenya said, wiping her eyes.
“So, so beautiful,” Ghana echoed.
“This is the best gift ever, Mama,” said Kenya. She leaned over her father and gave Bet an awkward hug and a kiss on the cheek. “Just perfect.”
Bet grabbed a tissue and blew her nose and Ghana rested her head on her mother’s lap.
“I haven’t been the best mother,” Bet said, stroking Ghana’s hair. “I’m going to do better. I promise.”
Charlene chimed in that she wanted to see the gifts and positioned herself on the floor next to Ghana, who gave her the bear. Charlene ooohed and cuddled the bear. Bet was overwhelmed with a mixture of joy and grief. She blew her nose once again and passed the tissue box to Kenya.
Just as she was about to suggest some apple pie, Ryan stood up and gave Malcolm a look. In response, Malcolm offered a slight nod.
“Um,” Ryan began. “I, uh, don’t want to spoil the moment, but figured this would be a good time to say thanks to you all for being so welcoming to me.” He looked at the floor and stuffed his hands in his pants pockets. “I had a chat with Mr. Walker earlier this evening to make sure I had the all clear.”
Bet started to smile and watched Ghana’s face, her damp eyes widening in suspicious surprise. Ryan continued. “Ghana and I have been together now for about two years, and . . .” He fumbled with his pocket and pulled out a small box. “I would like to ask for your hand in marriage.” He got down on one knee and looked at Ghana who was still on the floor, her hands covering her open mouth, tears glistening her cheeks. He opened the box, revealing a small diamond ring. “Ghana Walker, will you marry me?”
A moment of silent anticipation passed until Ghana nodded emphatically and everyone erupted into cheers. Ryan pulled the ring from the box and slipped it onto Ghana’s finger. Tears splashed Bet’s cheeks and she swatted them away with a laugh.
“This calls for a glass of champagne,” said Malcolm, rushing to the kitchen where he uncovered two bottles of Dom Pérignon and two bottles of sparkling cider that he must have hidden earlier in the back of the fridge. Bet pulled out champagne flutes from the cupboard and smacked Malcolm on his arm when he came back. “You knew this was happening?”
He gave her a wicked grin. “He called me a few days ago and we met at the courthouse. Said he wanted to do it right and asked my permission, but said he wanted it to be a surprise.”
There was a glow in her house that Bet had never felt before. A warm glow keeping the darkness of night at bay, and she wished the family could have experienced this every year, this joy that had nothing to do with race or culture or religion, or even age. Just family loving each other.
Bet stood next to Malcolm and raised her glass. “To love,” she said.
Yes, to love.
50
Malcolm finished his sparkling cider and settled into the cushions of the couch. He was tempted to have a glass of bourbon, but resisted. Bet shifted toward him and he draped his arm over her shoulders as she snuggled closer. Ghana and Ryan were on the floor playing with Junior, though Ghana was mostly admiring her engagement ring. Kenya was on the loveseat with Charlene, playing with the bears, and his mother was nodding in the armchair. And Malawi. She was here, too. Life didn’t get any better than this.
“Do you think it’s true?” he said.
Bet looked up at him. “What’s that?”
“That love will conquer all.”
“Where’s this coming from?” She chuckled and he laughed too, feeling embarrassed by his melancholy.
Malawi's Sisters Page 23
