by Gina Holmes
“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.”
SIXTEEN
YOUR FATHER surprised me for the hundredth time that week by honoring his word to go to church. I didn’t have to prod or plead or anything. The church he had picked out was as charming on the inside as it was warehouse-like on the outside. Men in suits stood holding open the doors for us and thanked us for being with them that Sunday.
Inside, the foyer was adorned with bouquets of fresh flowers and gilt-framed oil paintings. It smelled like coffee and a department store perfume counter. I led Trent by the elbow past the lingerers who seemed to go out of their way to block the path into the sanctuary. After your father bumped into a few people and stepped on a child’s foot, we took our seats on the aisle in the very last row of pews.
The choir, dressed in majestic purple robes, sounded like angels from heaven. One song I remembered from my childhood church; the other I mostly just lip-synched the words as they flashed on the overhead screen. Poor Trent just stood there with his head down as though he were praying. I don’t think he’d ever been in a church before, except for his brother’s funeral and once at Christmas when we were newlyweds.
While everything seemed the way it should, the place made me uncomfortable. If it had been up to me, I wouldn’t have gone back. There was something about the way the pastor preached the whole sermon without the giant smile leaving his lips that gave me the heebie-jeebies. Even when he spoke of damnation, the man was grinning. But he read straight from God’s Word, and so I figured that was all that really mattered.
Your father sat at my side with his arm draped over my shoulder. The weight of it irritated me, maybe just because I was pregnant, or maybe because it seemed to me like he was trying to appear to be something he wasn’t—a loving, Christian husband. I chided myself for being so suspicious of his motivations. He was a changed man or, at the very least, changing. The public display of affection might have more to do with that than keeping up appearances. I hoped it did, even as doubts lingered.
At the end of the service, churchgoers milled about. I shouldn’t have cared, but I admit I was grateful Trent wasn’t the only person sporting jeans. My own dress was old and faded, but I figured God couldn’t care less and so I tried not to, either.
Still smiling, the preacher came up to us, and with a once-over I’d have missed if I had blinked, he thrust out his hand toward Trent. “Pastor Nathan Harold.”
“He lost his eyesight,” I said, hoping that wouldn’t set off your father. “He’s trying to shake, honey.”
Trent held out his hand. “Trent Taylor.”
The pastor slid his grip into it and gave his hand a pump, then turned his eyes to me.
I could feel my face flush. Something about the way he held my gaze with that giant smile of his made me self-conscious. “I’m his—”
Trent broke in. “And this is my wife, Penny.”
“Nice to meet you, Penny.” He held out his hand to me. I didn’t like shaking hands. It always felt so inappropriately masculine. Your grandpappy used to say you could tell a lot about a man by his handshake. I don’t know how he would have interpreted this man’s too-firm, sweaty grip.
“Nice to meet you, Pastor Harold,” I said.
“Please call me Nathan, or Pastor Nathan if you must.”
Trent talked to him as I excused myself to use the bathroom.
As I washed my hands under lukewarm water that kept shutting off every few seconds, I snuck a glance at myself in the mirror. The dark circles around my eyes were starting to resemble a panda bear’s. I don’t know if that was pregnancy hormones at work or just fatigue, but if Fatimah was right that a baby girl would steal her mother’s beauty, I figured I should be buying pink.
When I returned to Trent, he was still talking to Pastor Nathan, or rather the pastor was talking to him. “We’re holding a class in a couple weeks for those new to our church. You and the missus think about coming if you can.”
“We sure will.” Your father sounded like a happier, more-refined version of himself.
I slid my hand into his to let him know I was back. Pastor Nathan waved good-bye and was off to talk with another couple.
On the drive home, a frown replaced Trent’s smile.
My partially open window let in the warm spring air. “What’s wrong?”
He shrugged, but I knew he wanted me to probe.
“Something’s obviously upsetting you. Please tell me.” A minivan sped up to pull in front of us, then slowed down once it got there. I was glad Trent couldn’t see it, or he would have been cussing and carrying on. I just flipped my blinker on and pulled to the middle lane.
“Is Fatimah married?” he asked.
My mind whi
rled, trying to guess what he was getting ready to fuss about. “Yes.”
“What’s her husband look like?”
I wondered why it mattered what he looked like, but the question told me he’d been brooding about it and probably inventing all sorts of scenarios to work himself up to jealousy. Either that, or he was just looking for an excuse to pick a fight so I wouldn’t go to dinner that evening.
“I’ve never seen him.”
He pulled at a string on the pocket of his jeans. “You told me she was beautiful.”
“She is.”
“So she probably has a good-looking husband.”
I turned to look at a field of cows and spotted a calf nursing on its mama. The smell of fresh manure floated in. “Not as good-looking as mine.”
“I don’t want you to go tonight.”
“I already said yes.”
“Well, say no.”
The last place I wanted to get into it with your father was on a main road with our car just inches from oncoming traffic, so I kept my mouth quiet until I pulled into our driveway.
I led him into the house and walked to the kitchen to fix us some leftovers for lunch. After heating up two bowls of soup from the night before, I called him to the table.
I waited for him to finish eating before I said, “I’ll fix you a couple of chicken salad sandwiches for dinner and leave them on the top shelf of the fridge. There’s a bag of chips on the counter and a whole crisper full of Granny Smiths.”
He wrinkled his face at me. “I told you I don’t want you going.”
“I know you did, but I already said yes.”
“You’re not going without me. We don’t know anything about that man.”
“Then come with me if you’re worried.”
He refused to talk to me the rest of the afternoon. Flipping channel after channel, he just sat there in front of the television until it was time for me to go.
When I bent down to kiss him good-bye, he grabbed my arm. “You’re not going without me.”
By turning my wrist and yanking at the same time, I was able to break his grip. “Come with me or don’t, but I’m going.” I could feel my heart slamming against my rib cage, but it felt good to be finding the courage to stand up to him after all this time.
When he followed me out the door, I knew it was going to be an interesting night.
SEVENTEEN
I CALLED FATIMAH right before we left to ask her if it was okay if your father joined me. While I could hear the sigh in her voice, she couldn’t have said no without being rude.
She lived in a historic apartment building downtown. Of course, our downtown consisted of nothing more than a half-dozen stores, a couple of apartment buildings, and Marty’s Feed and Seed, but still Trent complained the whole ride over about how much he hated going “into the city.”
Getting to Fatimah’s was simpler than I thought, and I was grateful for that. She lived just two turns off Main Street, and her apartment happened to be on the first floor, which made getting your father inside a whole lot easier than it could have been.
I’d never seen her in anything but her self-imposed uniform of sweatpants and T-shirts, but that night she wore an ankle-length cotton dress covered in bright red and purple flowers and a head wrap of the same fabric.
With her blinding grin, she ushered us in. I noticed a line of shoes beside the front door and Fatimah wearing house slippers. “Peeny, Mr. Peeny, come in!” She was practically yelling, she was so excited.
I leaned into Trent and whispered that we needed to leave our shoes at the door. He made an annoyed face, not knowing, and probably not caring, that Fatimah was looking right at him. I was embarrassed, but couldn’t say anything without running the risk of setting him off. He slipped off his boots and pushed them to the side with his socked foot. Taking mine off, I remembered too late I had a hole in the heel of my left sock.
Fatimah caught me trying to hide it. “I see you are with air-conditioning. This is good. You will need. Edgard’s blood runs too cold. He makes it hot as Nubian desert in here.” As usual, her smile put me at ease.
The smell of cloves and some other spices I couldn’t put a name to filled the air as she closed the door behind us. She picked up two small glasses filled with a pink liquid off a buffet table and handed one to each of us. I could tell by the exaggerated enthusiasm in Trent’s thank-you he assumed we were being given predinner cocktails. Bless his heart, that man loved his alcohol. Without so much as smelling it, he slammed it down like it was a shot of whiskey . . . and promptly started choking.
I rubbed his back. “You okay?”
It took him a few seconds to catch his breath. “Grapefruit juice?”
He couldn’t see the look of amusement on Fatimah’s face, and I was glad for it. “Yes, juice. Refreshment for your long journey.”
He swiped at his mouth. “What long journey? We live fifteen miles from here.”
“Baby,” I gently chided, squeezing his hand.
I drank mine down, doing my best not to pucker at the bitterness. “That was very refreshing. Thank you.”
She took our empty glasses and set them back on the table. “You are most welcome. Let us come and meet Edgard.”
Trent cleared his throat. “That name doesn’t sound very African.”
She looked him over slowly, not bothering to hide her disdain. “Edgard,” she enunciated, so hard she almost parted his hair.
We followed her to the living room, where a man sat with his hands folded in his lap. When he saw us, he stood. Manny, I had never seen anyone that tall before. I’m sure I was probably gawking, but since he’d been tall his whole life, I’m guessing he was used to that kind of reaction. He had to be at least six and a half feet.
He wore a suit and tie, which also surprised me. I guess I figured he would be dressed, like Fatimah, in some sort of African garb. Trent still wore the dungarees he’d gone to church in, and I was no better in my old brown dress and air-conditioned stockings.
Edgard’s smile was every bit as charming as Fatimah’s as he held his hand out to Trent. “Welcome, brother—please allow me to shake your hand.”
I thought it clever of him to let your father know he wanted to shake without bringing attention to his disability.
Trent held out his hand. When Edgard clasped it, Trent’s jaw dropped so far down he looked like one of those giant clown faces on a putt-putt course. “How big are you?”
“Trent!” I couldn’t believe him. Sometimes he could be downright Yankee.
Edgard’s laugh was even more contagious than his wife’s. “Your hand feels like a small child’s in mine, true? My wife should have warned you I am a very tall man. Two meters, nearly.”
It was all I could do not to laugh when Trent must have realized his face was pointed at Edgard’s middle instead of his eyes. He bent his head back as if he could actually see him. I don’t know why it struck me so funny, but I had to tuck my lips in to keep from laughing.
Edgard turned his attention to me. “Penny, I’ve heard very good news concerning you and your husband. Is this correct?”
A proud smile crept across my mouth. “It is. We’re expecting too.”
“And I am told your baby is to come one month after mine. Perhaps they will be good friends.”
The scowl left Trent’s face. “You too, man? That’s great. Congratulations.”
I told your father more than once Fatimah was pregnant, which proved how good he was at tuning me out.
Edgard gave Trent a hearty slap on the back that sounded like it might have hurt. “We all have very good reasons to celebrate tonight. Let us begin!”
I was grateful the tension had broken, and your father actually seemed to be warming up to them. Edgard led us to a dining room filled with shelves of carved wood statuettes and a wall covered in family photographs—a slew of smiling faces set against the backdrop of a dusty landscape. In the center of the room sat a table that looked like it was made for presch
oolers. It stood just a foot or two off the floor, surrounded by oversize, colorful pillows in place of chairs. It was what I would have expected to see in China, not Africa, but then, I knew nothing of any culture other than my own. In the center of the table sat half a dozen miniature ceramic bowls filled with different-colored sauces, surrounded by half circles of flatbread.
“Tonight you get the Sudanese experience, my friends,” Edgard said. “I hope you have come hungry. My wife is an excellent cook. Not as good as my mother, but much better than my sisters. I would be a very fat man if I were not so tall.”
Although Fatimah was too dark to see the blush in her cheeks, the way she averted her eyes with the hint of a smile told me it was there.
I whispered in your father’s ear that the table was low and we were going to be sitting on pillows. Prepared for a snide remark, I was shocked when none followed.
After we situated ourselves at the table, Fatimah took my hand and her husband’s. Edgard and I each took one of Trent’s.
Edgard closed his eyes. “Lord Jesus, you are so good to us. You have given us so much for which to be thankful. You have filled our stomachs with food, our minds with knowledge, our souls with love, and now our women’s wombs as well. Thank you for these friends you have brought safely to our home. May we show them every kindness you have shown us.”
“Amen,” we all said.
Fatimah carried out the first course on a large copper platter. She knelt beside the table like I imagined a geisha might do, and set before each of us a bowl. Although it looked like vegetable soup with chunks of carrots, cabbage, green beans, and white rice, it smelled heavily of garlic and peanuts.
Our hosts waited for Trent and me to go first.
I put a spoon in your father’s hand and told him it was hot soup. He sniffed the air wearing an expression that looked like someone had just passed gas. I was determined to make up for his reaction no matter how bad the stuff tasted, or how it affected my queasy stomach.
I scooped a spoonful of vegetables and liquid and blew the steam from it. My tongue was in shock at the combination of tastes I’d never experienced before. It took me a few seconds to decide whether I liked it or not. It was definitely not something I would have ordered again in a restaurant, but it wasn’t bad, exactly—just different.
