by Robin Farmer
CHAPTER 17
“Merry Christmas, Daddy!” We yelp in happy unison. We sprint into his arms. I bury my nose in his new red wool scarf: my gift. The vibrant color is a nice contrast next to his chocolate skin, making him look even more handsome and dashing.
I glance at Mom to see if she notices. Head tilted, Mom grins at our three-way hug fest. She tucks a wavy lock of freshcut hair behind her ear.
“Daddy, are we riding together to Mom-Mom’s?” Hope makes Charles’s voice squeak. We study Mom for the answer.
“We will ride together.” Her voice is soft and light like her makeup, which she started wearing recently.
Dad hugs and kisses Mom, who blushes. “Merry Christmas, baby,” he says.
“Merry Christmas, Chuck.” Mom smiles and so do our hearts.
“I got you a little surprise,” Daddy says, opening his shopping bag of wrapped gifts.
“You already gave me my gifts when you dropped off the kids. I don’t need you spending any more money on me. Christmas is just one day and—” Mom stops when Daddy hands her a small wrapped box with an oversized bow. He presses his finger to his lips.
“Shhh. No fussing on Christmas. Repeat after me.” He looks at us for back up.
“No fussing on Christmas!” we eagerly repeat.
Mom says it, too. Softly. She unwraps it to reveal a ring box. Taking a deep breath, she opens it. “Oh!” She steps back when she sees the diamond ring.
“Chuck, you shouldn’t have—” She pauses as Daddy holds two fingers to his mouth.
“I wanted to upgrade your lost engagement ring. One thing for certain and two things for sure, I bet you won’t lose this one.” Daddy chuckles and we do, too.
“Mom, it’s beautiful.” I wink at Daddy.
“It really is,” Mom says, peppering him with kisses. They snuggle for what seems like forever. Yay! Mom slips the ring on. “I really need to do my nails.” She admires the glistening stone on her slender finger.
I shoot Charles an enthusiastic two thumbs up. Apparently my constant playing of Jermaine Jackson’s “Daddy’s Home” worked.
“You want some coffee? I know it’s freezing out there,” Mom says.
Nodding, Daddy watches her until she disappears into the kitchen. He surveys the dining room and rubs his forehead. “Every year it looks the same way, like Christmas threw up all over.”
“That’s funny, Daddy. Very descriptive.” I remove my new black maxi coat from under the tree and model it.
“You sure you want it that long?” Dad cocks his head at the ankle-skimming coat.
“It’s the latest style, thanks to Superfly.”
Daddy groans. “I don’t know if that’s good or bad.” His smile disappears. “You haven’t seen that flick, have you?”
“It’s rated R!” I hold up a blue V-neck dress with tiny flowers from Mom-Mom. “It’s perfect for a special occasion.” I twirl. “Like an award program for essay winners.”
“Baby, you won? And you’re just telling me?”
I shake my head. “Not yet. The contest is in February, remember?”
“I thought we were wearing red, black and green,” Daddy says with a wink. He peers at my awards in the curio. “We need one more win, the big kahuna, to make our collection complete.” The way he says it makes me feel like I won already.
“Whether it’s first place, second, or honorable mention, do your best. When it comes to school, that’s what we expect,” he says, admiring Mom in the kitchen.
“This time the top winner will get a trophy instead of a plaque and have their picture placed in the school’s trophy case.”
“We’ll be there to see it happen,” Daddy says.
“We wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Mom says, returning with a steaming cup of coffee.
I bask in the moment, thrilled over the repeated use of the pronoun “we.”
Mom remains fuss-free during the thirty-minute drive to Mom-Mom’s. As always, her happiness has a domino effect on Daddy, whose mood is so Super Cheerios that he fails to grouse when it takes ten minutes to find a parking spot.
We exit into the brisk air feeling toasty with holiday cheer. Charles, carrying a stack of my 45s in a bag, races up the steps of the apartment building. I walk between my parents, a gloved hand held by each of them. I couldn’t care less if I appear dorky or too old for handholding. I prefer holding on to being torn apart.
As soon as we step off the elevator into the narrow, dim hallway, a scrumptious aroma guides us to Mom-Mom’s apartment. I fight an urge to drool. Daddy pretends to loosen his belt.
“Lord, Almighty if I could bottle that,” Dad says inhaling deeply, “I’d be a millionaire.”
The door swings open. Mom-Mom, clad in a gravy-stained apron, greets us with her throaty laugh. “Hello, precious lambs.” A parade of mouth-watering scents rushes out and smacks us, in the best possible way, all over our faces.
Mom-Mom pulls us in for a wet kiss. This means we take turns being buried in her massive bosom. After she releases me, I peer down at my own smallish breasts and pray they will not grow another freaking millimeter.
“Everyone is here,” Mom-Mom says, her eyes welling at us choking the entrance. I guess it’s been a while since she’s seen us together.
I scoot into the frilly living room, take my records from Charles and set them on the doily next to Mom-Mom’s ancient record player.
“You two know you’re supposed to hang up your coats. Give them to me,” Mom says. I wiggle out of my coat, hand it over and join Charles in munching chocolate pecan caramels better known as Turtles.
“Dora, put the coats in my sewing room,” Mom-Mom says, shooing her away from the nearby closet. “That closet is full of old clothes I’m giving away.” Beaming, she claps her hands. “Wash your hands so we can eat.”
We file into the small dining room. Sitting before us on a pressed linen table cloth are mounds of greens, candied yams, cranberry sauce, macaroni and cheese, turkey with stuffing, Virginia ham, string beans, and homemade buttered rolls. We hold hands and bow our heads while Daddy says grace.
“Merciful Father, thank you for the food we are about to receive for the nourishment of our body on this Christmas day. And thank you for my blessed mother, lovely wife, and talented son and daughter. Amen.”
“Amen.” I smile at my parents holding hands, again.
We dig in, eating heaping portions of Mom-Mom’s awesome Southern-style cooking, which Mom has yet to master. Everyone treats themselves to seconds and in Charles’s case, thirds.
“The food isn’t going anywhere, son. Slow down,” Dad chides Charles.
“Let that boy be,” Mom-Mom says. “He just eating so he can grow up and be big and strong like his daddy.”
Mom-Mom’s brown eyes narrow. “How you doing in school?”
“Fine,” I say. “I’m staying out of trouble.”
“She has no choice,” Mom says, patting her belly. “Or no Christmas.”
“How can anyone see behind you?” Mom-Mom asks, eyeing my Afro with a frown.
“I sit in the back of the class, Mom-Mom.”
“As smart as you are?” She looks disapprovingly at my parents.
“I have to if I wear my hair like this. I want to look like Angela Davis.”
Flinching, Mom-Mom fans herself. “Baby, she was on the FBI’s most wanted list. All that foolishness with the Black Panthers. She ain’t nobody to be looking up to. Don’t be getting all that militant foolishness in your head like your father.” She scowls at Daddy. “Charles, you know I’m right.”
I don’t dare mention my admiration for Malcolm.
“Momma, please. Let’s change the subject or just agree to disagree,” Daddy says.
“Mom-Mom,” I say, “Angela is really smart. And she was innocent, that’s why she was freed.”
“Sssh,” Daddy tells me, but Grandma is on a roll.
“Why you letting her sit in the back when we fought like the dickens to sit i
n the front? No wonder she’s getting into all kinds of devilment.”
“Momma, relax, don’t get your pressure up,” Daddy says.
“I bet you sit up front, Charles Jr. And no teacher calling home about you.”
“Yes, Mom-Mom, in all my classes. And I never get in trouble.”
I become preoccupied with my gravy.
“I need ginger ale,” Daddy announces, clearly over the conversation.
“Me too.” Mom rushes behind him into the kitchen.
The school nurse says I can hear grass grow every year when she tests my ears. Which is why I can hear my parents kissing in the kitchen. Mom-Mom and I exchange knowing grins.
It took a while but God is giving me the best Christmas gift by reuniting our parents. Soon we’ll be under one roof. This upcoming new year will be a great one, I think, yawning. My lids feel heavy, a result of going to bed late, getting up before the sun to open presents and stuffing myself. I fall asleep imagining Daddy moving back in.
“Get up, sleepy head. Come on, show us the latest dances.” Daddy shakes my shoulders. I cup my eyes from the bright lights as I shake the cobwebs away.
“Whoa, that was a delicious nap,” I say. “I’m ready for dessert.”
“First, show your momma some new moves,” Daddy says with a deep grin. “’Cause she’s been doing the same three steps the entire fourteen years I’ve known her.”
Laughter fills the apartment as Daddy hands me a cup of steaming cider.
“Charles, you need to stop,” Mom calls out from the living room. The playfulness in her tone warms me better than the yummy cider. Stretching, I trail my father into the living room, where the coffee table is pushed up against the wall.
“Now don’t jump around too hard and scratch my records,” I warn, setting my cider down on a paper coaster.
“Roberta, you’re the main one jumping around like a Soul Train dancer,” Mom giggles.
“No, Momma is the main culprit,” Daddy chirps. Mom-Mom is heavyset and up in age, but she can mimic just about every step I do. She just gets winded quick.
“Take your shoes off so we don’t mess up my grandbaby’s records.” Mom-Mom holds the needle above the spinning record. After we are all shoeless, she gingerly drops the needle on James Brown’s “Say It Loud.”
Mom sashays forward, her shoulders and hips moving to the beat. Daddy’s fancy footwork matches the groove as he moves toward Mom. They continue their solo grooving until Daddy holds out his hand, Mom inserts hers and they bop the familiar two-step that Mom loves. It’s her favorite dance, and, judging by Daddy’s face, it’s his, too. He swings her around and pulls her close. It’s like an unseen hand pushes them together.
Midway through the song, Mom-Mom hits the floor, shimmying and hopping.
“Let me show you some real dancing. Whatcha know about the Lindy-hop?” she says, swinging her arms and kicking her legs.
“Go Mom-Mom, go Mom-Mom!” Charles and I chant until she whips out a handkerchief from her meaty cleavage, mops her sweaty brow, and excuses herself to the sofa.
Now it’s my turn to execute some of the latest Soul Train moves. I shift into the Robot, jerking my body in a series of stop-and-go movements.
“Ah, go head girl,” Mom says, admiring my mastery of the latest new dance craze.
Not to be ignored, Charles executes a deep pelvic thrust and then descends into a perfect split. We stare, stunned by a move he has never done before. He remains on the floor a beat too long.
“Son, you okay?” Daddy asks.
“I think I split my pants,” Charles says meekly.
I cover my mouth to spare Charles seeing me laugh, but Daddy doesn’t even try to fake it. He laughs so hard tears roll down his face. He falls on the sofa, making everyone crack up, including Charles. Daddy rolls off the sofa and collapses in hysterics on the floor. In response, Mom-Mom doubles over with a laughing spell so shrill we can’t help but laugh harder at the dolphin sounds she makes.
Mom, hooting and clutching her stomach, heads to the closet by the door as the song ends. “Mom, did you say there are some old clothes in here? Any of the kids’?”
“What did you say?” Mom-Mom asks, between peals of laughter. She doesn’t look up.
Maybe a minute passes before a stricken-looking Mom returns to the living room carrying a tiny pink sweater on a hanger. It takes a few seconds before Mom-Mom and Daddy notice her agitated expression.
“What’s this?” Mom asks. “It wasn’t in the bags with the old clothes.” She looks directly at Daddy. “Whom does this belong to?”
“Now Dora, we’re having a great time. It’s Christmas,” Daddy answers, sitting up on the floor. He looks like he does when he’s late paying a bill.
“Whom does it belong to?” Mom asks, her voice gritty.
“Duke’s girlfriend has a little girl. It’s hers,” Dad says, rising.
“Duke, eh? Stay right there,” Mom snaps. She looks at Mom-Mom with red eyes. “Why would you allow Duke to bring that woman and her kid here when I am friends with his wife?” Her voice is jawbreaker hard. Her tone tightens my grandmom’s mouth.
Charles and I frown at the tiny garment changing our best Christmas ever into our worst. What’s the big deal? Uncle Duke has tons of girlfriends. It’s not right, but everyone knows. I met at least four of them over the years. I kind of like them, too, even though they wear too much makeup and perfume and call me “sugah.” I think about Peaches on the trolley.
“Birds of a feather,” Mom hisses. She levels a look at Daddy that stops me cold.
My parents eye each other, and I know the distance between them is greater than the few feet separating them.
“Dora, stop,” Daddy says. “It’s a holiday. In fact, it’s a holy day, right? Let’s not fuss and fight, please?”
Mom-Mom steps in between them and addresses my mother.
“First of all, this is my house. I don’t need anyone’s permission about who crosses this threshold. Second of all—” Mom-Mom clutches her chest.
Daddy feels her forehead and nudges Charles. “Get your grandmother a glass of water.”
“Go get my pills out my bedroom,” Mom-Mom says to me.
I rush into Mom-Mom’s bedroom to search for her pillbox on a bureau crowded with glass figurines, perfume spritzers, ornate boxes, lotions, pincushions, and mounds of gaudy costume jewels. I look with a quiet desperation. Mom comes in.
“Put your coat on. We’re leaving.”
“Mom, it’s not Dad’s fault that Uncle Duke is a cheater.”
Mom’s eyes dart between my angry reflection and hers in the bureau mirror.
“No lip. I am not in the mood,” Mom says. “Be ready to go when I come out of the bathroom.”
The warning in her voice is clear. Still, I can’t help myself. “Happy birthday, Jesus. Merry Christmas.”
Her shoulders flinch, but she keeps moving. I finally spot the pillbox, snatch it up and race to my beloved grandmother.
“Mom-Mom, are you okay?” I hand her the pillbox.
“Yes, lamb, don’t worry about me. I ate too much, and now I have heartburn along with my heartache over this family that I love so much.” She glances at my parents. It’s a three-way tie for whose face is more torn up.
“What about my pants?” Charles whines. He looks like I feel: crushed with sadness.
“No one can tell they’re torn under your coat,” Mom says. “We’re going straight home.”
Sniffling, Charles looks at Daddy, who ruffles his hair and squeezes his shoulder.
“I’ll see you soon, son.”
Charles rests his head against Daddy’s torso, oblivious to the way the adults are side-eyeing each other. I take my turn wrapping my arms around Daddy and then with cement feet trudge to the door.
Daddy pulls his keys out of his pocket.
“Dora, take these.” Daddy tosses his car keys. Mom doesn’t even try to catch them. They clang, crash, and skid across the floor. “I’ll
stay here the night and pick the car up after I get a ride over sometime tomorrow.”
“Fine,” Mom says.
I pick up the keys and hand them to her.
She turns to us. “Kiss your grandmother and father goodnight.”
Charles and I squeeze and kiss Dad and Mom-Mom while my parents and grandmother avoid looking at each other.
Heart dragging behind me, we leave the apartment in silence. Daddy shivers on the sidewalk as we pull off. Charles waves goodbye from the back seat. I can barely lift my hand to wave, sitting next to the negative energy force known as Mom. I feel so low that I’ll need to roll my socks down in order to see.
I shift toward the window to avoid traitor Mom’s pinched-up face. If I could walk home without turning into a human popsicle, I would.
Life is so unfair. I had been riding a train of hurt for the longest time, and just when I think I’m getting off, we roar past the stop. Just being so close to the conductor of my misery makes me furious because I have no idea what makes Mom detest Dad so much. He tried so hard today to be perfect. And he was, too.
I lean against the passenger door as much as possible, wishing I could fall out. Bet my funeral would bring my parents together.
This Christmas debacle raises all kinds of questions. But at this moment all I know for sure is that 1974 is shaping up to be a lot like 1973. Real sucky.
CHAPTER 18
I slide my shoes on and clomp downstairs in my Sunday clothes. Mom insists we attend church together. So the three of us dress up our dysfunction and pile in her car.
We are a mess, and things will never be the same. Going to church won’t change that, because all of the praying I’ve been doing hasn’t made our life any better. Mom-Mom sings a song about Jesus being on the main line so tell him want you want. But he won’t take my calls, even though he knows, if Mom has her way, Daddy is never coming home.
