by Renée Watson
I walk over to the closet and get my coat. “Dad, are you coming?”
“Oh, ah—you two can go ahead.”
“Dad, you love coffee. You should come.”
Grandpa says, “You’ll barely recognize the block, Charles. Lots of things have changed since you’ve been here.”
I hand Dad his coat, not giving him a chance to say no. He puts it on slowly, like he is thinking of an excuse not to come, but I guess he can’t think of one because he starts to button his coat and heads out the door.
As soon as the door opens, the cold air suffocates me. I take a deep breath, put my hands in my pocket. Grandpa and I walk side by side. Dad trails in back of us. Close enough that he can hear what we’re saying but he is quiet and doesn’t add anything to the conversation. At least he’s here, walking with us.
“I’m glad it’s dry,” Grandpa says. “I was hoping the snow would hold off until after you and your father left.”
“Really? I love snow,” I tell Grandpa. “It doesn’t snow a lot where I live. Well, it does in some parts, like at Mount Hood, but not a whole lot in the city. And when it does it’s mostly the kind of snow that turns into ice, so we don’t really get to be out in it.”
“Well, we definitely get our fair share here,” Grandpa Earl says. “It’s beautiful to look at from the inside, but it’s not so great when you have to be out in it. But maybe that’s just the southerner in me talking.”
“But you’ve lived in New York for a long time.”
“Yeah, but Alabama is in my blood. I never did adjust to northern winters. But your grandma Grace? She loved snow. Winter was her favorite season.”
I look back at Dad, ask him, “Did you like having snowy winters?”
“Well, as a boy—yes. Snow meant I got to play outside and have snowball fights with the kids on the block. But once I was old enough to shovel, snow meant getting out of bed early to clear off the stoop and sidewalk.”
This is a start. Dad and Grandpa Earl are talking. Not to each other yet, but they are walking and talking with me, and that’s good for day one.
We reach the end of the block, and even though the sign says Don’t Walk, Grandpa looks down the one-way street and crosses anyway. When we get across the street, two men are walking and holding hands, and there’s not enough room on the sidewalk for all of us to walk side by side, so Grandpa steps over to the right, I walk behind him, and once the men pass us we go back to walking together.
I wonder if Grandpa Earl and Grandma Grace ever walked this way on a morning walk. What were her favorite Harlem places? “What else did Grandma Grace like?” I ask.
Grandpa’s face is the bright sun. “Oh, she liked a lot of things. She loved to garden, she enjoyed traveling. And she spent a lot of time reading. My Grace always had a book with her.”
I love how Grandpa calls Grandma “my Grace,” like she is his favorite everything.
We continue down the block, walking under leafless trees. The branches canopy over us. Cars honk their way down the street and come to a stop because a taxi is letting someone out of the car without pulling all the way over to the curb. A man yells out of the window, “Come on now!” He presses on his horn, and the cars behind him start honking, too, and now there is a symphony of beeping horns.
Grandpa keeps walking. “Here we are,” he says as he opens the door to the coffee shop. Lenox Coffee is small with square wooden tables lined up so close to each other it seems impossible for anyone to walk between the aisles to find a seat.
As soon as we walk in, the man at the counter says, “Mr. Baker! How’s it going?”
“Fine, just fine. Brought my granddaughter and son with me today.” He smiles and puts his arm around me. “All the way from Or-e-gone,” he says, mispronouncing Oregon.
The brown man whispers, “Oregon? There are black people out that way?”
Grandpa laughs. “I reckon we’re everywhere, but some places more than others, that’s for sure.” Grandpa walks over to the bar at the counter to a seat that looks like it’s been saved just for him. He hangs his coat on a nearby coatrack. Dad and I do the same. When Grandpa sits down at the bar, a steaming hot mug of coffee is already waiting for him. “Thank you,” he says. “And a hot chocolate for her.” He looks at Dad. “Charles, it’s on me. What are you having?”
Dad orders but pays anyway. “I got it,” he says to the cashier.
I hop up onto the stool next to Grandpa. Dad stands because no more seats are available.
I look around the coffee shop. There are so many shades of brown here. I’ve never seen this many black people in one room except at church. This place feels like some kind of church the way Grandpa says, “I know that’s right, brotha,” to the man working behind the counter. They are talking about politics. The two of them talk loud, as if there’s no one else around, and maybe that’s okay since everyone sitting at the too-small tables have headphones plugged in their ears anyway. Most of them are typing on laptops or reading thick books, marking pages with highlighters. There are a few people talking, but not many.
Grandpa Earl turns his attention to me and asks, “What do you want to do while you’re here? Do you have a list?”
I smile at Dad. “Oh, yeah, I have a list.” I tell Grandpa Earl everything on my list, and halfway through a tall man approaches Dad. There is shock and joy in the man’s face all at once. He hugs Dad. Tight. I’ve only seen Dad give hugs like this to Big T.
“Charles Baker in the flesh. Man, why you didn’t tell me you were in town?”
“Quick visit. Just here for a week,” Dad says. “Mostly for work.”
The man turns to Grandpa Earl. “Coach Baker, how you doin’?” He holds his hand out like he is going to shake Grandpa Earl’s hand, then pulls him in for a hug. When they let go of each other, the man says, “I’m still hoping you’ll change your mind about joining us next season as assistant coach for my community league for teens. We could really use your expertise.”
Grandpa Earl shakes his head. “Now I done told you I’m too old for that now. I retired many moons ago, and I am enjoying every minute.” Grandpa Earl puts his hat on. “Plus, I coached you so you should know how to coach them.” He pats the man on his shoulder.
The man nods. “I hear you, I hear you. A man can dream though.”
Dad puts his arm around me and says, “Sorry to be rude. This is Amara, my daughter. Amara, this is Arnold Fuller. You can call him Mr. Arnold. We went to high school together.”
“This is your daughter? Oh my—wow, how old are you now?”
“Almost twelve,” I answer.
Mr. Arnold shakes my hand. “It’s so nice to meet you. You look just like your dad, you know?”
I smile. Yeah, I know.
Mr. Arnold says to Dad, “Man, I haven’t talked to you in forever. You still writing poems?”
Still?
Before Dad can answer, Mr. Arnold says, “Your dad sure had a way with words. He was like our school’s in-house Shakespeare. I swore he was going to become some famous poet one day.”
“My dad?”
Mr. Arnold laughs.
Dad lets out a long sigh, like he is tired of this conversation even though it just started.
“Yes, your dad. I was busy leading our basketball team to the city championship, and your dad was crushing on the poetry slam team.”
I look at Dad, who looks like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t have.
Grandpa Earl says, “We’re having family dinner at my place tonight, Arnold. You’re welcome to come.”
Dad says, “Yeah, come through and bring your wife. It’s been too long.”
“I will, I definitely will.” He takes another look at Dad. “Man—Charles Baker. Can’t believe this.” Mr. Arnold gives us each another hug and walks to the barista to order.
Once Dad, Grandpa Earl, and I are finished with our drinks, we leave the coffee shop. There are so many questions swirling in my mind. We are halfway down the block
when I finally break the silence and say, “Dad, I didn’t know you wrote poems.” Well, he mentioned something about it, but I thought he meant he wrote poems for Mom. Not that he was a poet.
Grandpa Earl says, “Yeah, your dad was always writing in a journal, always reading a book.”
I turn and look at Dad. “I didn’t know this about you.”
Dad smiles. “Yeah, where do you think you get your love of reading from?”
When he says this I feel a soft pounding in my chest, like someone is knocking on my heart. The kind of knock a person gives when they know you are there but aren’t sure if it’s okay to come in. I start thinking about what Mom always says, wondering whose child I am. I think maybe I am not so different from Dad. We have more in common than just our love of shoes.
We stop at the corner and cross when the light changes. Grandpa says hello to every person he passes. At the corner one block away from Grandpa Earl’s home, there’s a gated playground. Even in this cold there are men outside playing basketball. Grandpa Earl says, “You remember this park, Charles?”
Dad nods.
Grandpa says to me, “We’d go to the park, and I’d try to get your dad to play basketball with the other boys, and he would for a little while, but before long, he was off wandering around the park or sitting under a tree with a pencil and notebook.” Grandpa sounds sad when he says this. He sighs and says in a quiet, quiet voice, “I didn’t understand him back then.”
I look back at Dad, wonder if he heard Grandpa. Wonder if he is listening.
“What do you mean?” I ask Grandpa Earl, loud enough for Dad to hear me just in case he wants to join in on this conversation.
“Well, I guess I just didn’t see a good reason why a boy would want to be writing in a journal all the time instead of being out with his friends. Charles just always had to have that notebook with him. And, well—” Grandpa Earl stops talking and just shakes his head. “I didn’t understand him back then,” he repeats.
I look back at Dad, and our eyes meet. Yeah, he’s listening. But he is giving me that look that lets me know I should not ask any more questions, that I need to drop it. So I do. For now.
We continue down the block, none of us saying a word. I whisper another prayer to Grandma Grace.
11
My first day in New York is ending with Sunday Supper. Aunt Tracey is here with her daughters. Nina and Ava are in high school. Nina is sixteen, Ava is fourteen. I have never met them in person, but Aunt Tracey always sends photos and I’ve talked to them on the phone a few times. Our conversations are always awkward because none of us can think of anything to talk about. I’ve seen Aunt Tracey a bunch of times when she’s come to visit Oregon. She always says, “Next time I’ll bring the girls,” but she never does. Mom says it’s because airfare is expensive and it costs too much for a family of three to travel when Aunt Tracey is the only one working.
Nina gives me a hug when she comes in. Ava does, too, but not as tight. She seems more interested in watching TV. She sits on the sofa, picks up the remote, and starts flipping through the channels. She does this like this is her home, like she is not a guest. I wonder how often she visits Grandpa Earl, wonder if this is her second home.
Dad comes downstairs and as soon as he enters the living room, Nina and Aunt Tracey are bombarding him with hugs. Ava gets up and hugs Dad, too. Dad looks them over. “It’s so good to see all of you. Tracey, your girls aren’t little girls anymore. My goodness.”
Aunt Tracey smiles. “I feel the same way about Amara. Where did the time go?”
Grandpa Earl is sitting in an armchair, just watching and listening. He rubs his head and says, “My son and daughter and all my grandchildren in one place. How ’bout that.”
I look at my family, study them for a moment. Nina and Ava look just like Aunt Tracey, who looks like Dad. Not just in features but the way they move, how their faces make the same expressions, have some of the same mannerisms. I wonder if my baby sister will look like me. Will I see my reflection in her smile or hear echoes of my voice in her laughter?
“I better get dinner ready,” Aunt Tracey says.
“I can help.” I’ve always wanted to cook in Grandma Grace’s kitchen.
“Well thank you, Amara.” She looks at Nina and Ava, who are now watching The Wiz with Grandpa Earl. She shakes her head and says, “Come with me.”
Aunt Tracey takes out a pot from one of the cabinets. It is deep and wide. She teaches me how to make gumbo, and we make corn bread, too. Once the corn bread is finished baking and has cooled a bit, Aunt Tracey says, “Slice the corn bread for me, baby.” She shows me how before handing me the knife. “In square chunks like this.”
The last dish Aunt Tracey is making is dessert. Banana pudding. Dad’s favorite. Dad comes into the kitchen, looking into the pot and snooping around. Aunt Tracey shoos him away, swatting him with a hand towel.
“I can’t get a taste test … a little sample? Just like Momma,” Dad says.
They laugh, and Aunt Tracey says, “I’m not completely like her. You see I’m the only one in here working. I can’t get Nina and Ava to be interested one bit in cooking. Momma had us in the kitchen up under her all the time. But these girls? They’d rather be on their phones or glued to the TV.”
Dad smiles. He looks at me, pulls me close, and says, “This one right here is my little sous chef. I’m trying to pass Momma’s good cooking down to her.”
It feels so good to be in his arms. To have him holding me while he’s talking about Grandma Grace.
Ava comes into the kitchen. “Mom, you’re in here cooking like it’s a holiday.”
“Well, it’s a special occasion,” Aunt Tracey says.
Ava looks at Dad. “You should come visit more often, Uncle Charles.”
“Hush now,” Aunt Tracey says, laughing.
Mr. Arnold and his wife arrive, with a few other friends that Dad hasn’t seen in years. Everyone gets to hugging and laughing and fixing plates. We don’t sit at the formal dining room table; instead we are scattered all over the living room and kitchen, fitting in wherever we can. The television is off now, and Grandpa Earl has a jazz record playing on his record player. I can barely hear the music because everyone is talking so loud.
Aunt Tracey, Mr. Arnold, and Dad have been telling stories about all the wild things they did when they were my age. Aunt Tracey says, “Remember that time we snuck in the church’s kitchen and drank up all the grape juice during Sunday school so there wasn’t any left once the deacons were ready to prepare Communion?”
Everyone laughs.
Nina says, “Mom, you would lose it if me and Ava did that.”
“You got that right. Glad you know, so don’t even try it.”
We all laugh harder.
Aunt Tracey says, “I’m serious. I can’t have you out there acting like you have no home training. You two represent the Baker family.”
Dad mumbles, “You sound like your father right now. Worried about the Baker name.”
Aunt Tracey gives him a Don’t-Start-That look and keeps talking, like Dad didn’t just say what we all heard him say. “So, Amara, tell me—what are you into these days? The last time I was in Oregon I could barely pull you away from your books.”
Grandpa says, “Sounds like Charles.”
When he says this, Dad puts his fork down. “And what’s wrong with that?”
It’s my turn to give Dad a look.
Grandpa Earl says, “Nothing wrong with it at all, son. Nothing at all.”
Mr. Arnold is either clueless to the tension or trying to help. He says, “Do you write poetry, too, Amara? Maybe you’ll be a poet just like your dad.”
Dad gets up and goes into the kitchen. “Nah, I want Amara to be who she wants to be. I’m not trying to create a mini-me.” He looks at Grandpa. “I don’t want my child growing up with pressure to be someone she’s not.”
The room is quiet. It’s not the kind of quiet that happens because everyone is eat
ing and there’s no time for words, not the quiet that comes at the end of the day with a good friend who you’ve talked and talked with for hours and have run out of things to say but you still want to be together. No, this silence is not refreshing or comforting. It feels stuffy like a too-hot attic, like the inside of a car that’s been sitting in the hot sun all day.
Finally the silence breaks. “When are we going to get into this banana pudding?” Dad asks.
Nina and Ava go into the kitchen and help Dad dish out dessert.
I look at Grandpa Earl, try to tell him sorry with my eyes.
He smiles a little. Just a little.
Nina has two bowls in her hand. She gives one to me and then says to Grandpa Earl, “Are you having dessert?”
“No, thank you. I think I’m going to call it a night. This old man can’t hang as late as all of you can.” Grandpa Earl gets up, says good night to everyone, and goes to his room.
I feel my phone buzzing. It’s Mom wanting to FaceTime. How did she know to call at this moment? I answer. “Hi, Mom.”
“Hey, Amara. Wanted to talk with you before it gets too late. How’s everything going?”
“Um, good. Things are—we just finished dinner. Things are good.” I try to sound convincing, but I am not sure it’s working.
Mr. Arnold comes behind me and says, “Hey, Leslie. It’s a blast from your past!” Mom screams, and I hand the phone over so they can talk. After Mr. Arnold and his wife talk with Mom, the phone passes like a Communion tray. Aunt Tracey talks with Mom next, then Nina and Ava share their turn. When they’re finished, they give the phone to Dad.
Dad asks, “How’s the baby?”
“Well, I had Braxton Hicks last night, so I’m just taking it easy today and resting.”
“And you weren’t going to tell me?”
“Honey, I’m calling now. I was going to fill you in. I know you’re with your family. I don’t want you to worry. I’m fine. I’m fine.”
“I can come home now, Leslie. Just say the word.”
“I’m fine,” Mom says.
Aunt Tracey notices me listening to every word my parents are saying, so she taps Dad on his leg, says, “Maybe you should go upstairs.”
