Courtship: A 'Snowflake' Novel

by Nia Forrester

  Ibrahim had been in only three years by the time her mother passed. He called her when he heard. One of only a handful of calls over the years while he was locked up.

  Baby, he said, his voice sounding tinny and far away. I’m here, but with you too. Can I feel me? I’m there with you.

  That night she cried harder than any of the other previous cries—and there had been many. It wasn’t just because she was orphaned. It was because she couldn’t feel him. She had begun to feel Ibrahim with her less and less.

  “I got through it,” she says, woodenly.

  “What else did you get through?”

  “Ibrahim, we’ve already …”

  “I wanna know,” he says. “Feels like we talked about everything but that since I’ve been home. Everything except for what it was like for you.”

  “I’ve talked about it,” Jada looks away from him. She plays with her fork, rearranges her knife.

  “Just in generalities though. You say things like, ‘I got through it’ or ‘we figured it out’ or ‘it was what it was.’ But you never tell me, really tell me, what it was like.”

  “Because what would be the point?” she almost snaps.

  “To get it out,” he says. He is leaning closer now.

  “I do get it out. With the women in group. With … I get it out.”

  “But not with me.”

  ~~~

  There was a time when his wife told him everything.

  Early on, even before she was his wife, when it became clear to them both that she would become that, Jada told him everything. Like it would not have occurred to her that she shouldn’t, or that it would be okay for her to have some things for herself. Marital intimacy … no, not just marital, couple intimacy was something they had learned together. It was something neither of them had ever truly had with anyone else.

  “Whatever happened to that girl?” she asks now, unexpectedly.

  “What girl?”

  “The one you were dating before me.”

  “I didn’t date anyone before you,” he says.

  The topic feels like a ruse, something to set him back on his heels, catch him off-guard. She’s deflecting but he doesn’t know why.

  “She was there that day. That day I came to see you at that house. The day I came by … how did you put it at the time … uninvited?”

  “I can’t believe you’re still mad about that.”

  “We’d only just met, and even though I hadn’t seen you a bunch, we saw each other at that sideshow at Foothill Square and I thought we were getting … I thought something was happening between us. Then you ran me off. And that girl was there. The next thing I knew I was hearing from my cousin that you’d gotten locked up.”

  “I didn’t run you off. If you remember, I took you home.”

  Jada scoffs. “Because you couldn’t wait to get rid of me.”

  “After all this time, that’s what you think. That it was about Breonna.”

  “That’s her name,” she says, almost triumphantly. “Yes, I remember now. Breonna.”

  The way she pronounces Breonna’s name causes a pang. Ibrahim doesn’t want to talk about her. Not even with Jada. Maybe especially not with Jada.

  “Breonna,” he says very slowly and deliberately, “was never any threat to you. Or to us.”

  Jada looks like she isn’t so sure.

  7

  Then

  His eldest brother was supposed to pick him up, but Ibrahim wasn’t particularly surprised that Isaac didn’t show. Zac could be flaky on a good day, unpredictable on a bad. But Ibrahim actually kind of liked walking out on his own, looking up at the blue, blue sky and taking a few moments to feel the sun’s direct rays on his face for the first time in eleven-and-a-half months, unmarred by the view of a chain-link fence, topped in razor-wire.

  He stood there for a long while, absorbing its warmth, eyes closed, and inhaling long, slow and deep.

  Two other dudes were getting out at the same time as him. One of them, an ese, once he hit the pavement outside, let out a whoop and was swept up into the arms of a noisy group of men who ushered him to a waiting, tricked-out orange Cutlass Supreme. Just before he pulled off, the ese gave Ibrahim the slightest lift of the chin in acknowledgment.

  Inside, they had been cool. As cool as they could be, considering. They had both hovered on the edges of their respective racial groups rather than getting in too tight with anyone. And they definitely couldn’t get too tight with each other. You didn’t want to beef with the eses, but you couldn’t buddy up to them either.

  Damn near the first question you got asked when you went in was ‘who you wit’?’ Who you were with on the outside dictated who you were with inside.

  Tempted as he was, Ibrahim knew that ‘no one’ was the wrong answer. Jail was no place to make a declaration of independence. You had to be with someone, otherwise you’d get jumped, or much worse. First day in, he dropped the name of the set his brothers ran with and like magic, he was protected.

  He took a charge that wasn’t his because both his brothers had records, and there was a rumor of new legislation that would stack your time if you had two priors. Even without that law, judges were beginning to consider your third strike the one that should take you off the streets for good.

  The ese had been in a similar predicament, and like Ibrahim seemed only half-assed committed to the life he’d found himself wrapped up in. On the odd occasion they had exchanged a few words, it was clear that he, like Ibrahim, was more interested in getting out of jail alive and intact than in making a name for himself while inside.

  The second releasee was another Black dude, and he had no one to greet him either. Probably from much farther off than Oakland, he looked right and left, as if he didn’t know which way to go.

  GDJ, as the Glenn Dyer Jail was not-so-affectionately called, was only a stone’s throw away from the courthouse and close to many transportation options, so Ibrahim didn’t need to play Good Samaritan and offer directions. Besides, Jefferson Square Park was just around the corner, and he could hear its call. Feeling the need to see some trees, and bask in a lot more of that sun, Ibrahim ambled in that direction. Behind him, he could feel that dude was poised to ask him a question, so he walked a little more briskly.

  In his pocket was just enough money for a phone call, and maybe a soda and an all-beef hot dog. And not the crappy boiled-to-bland kind he’d gotten inside either. Ibrahim was craving the real thing. Something that had been cooked on a grill, slathered with sauerkraut and spicy mustard. Or maybe a couple tacos, and an empanada. And once his stomach was full, he might find a girl, some weed and spend his first day of freedom getting faded.

  But all that was, was habit, a recurrence of the unclean thinking that had helped get him locked up in the first place. It was tempting, though. If he wanted, he could easily call Breonna. She would scoop him and within the hour they would be in his bedroom, buck-naked and doing the nasty.

  Ibrahim stopped his thoughts from going down that path and reminded himself of the bundle he had in his back pocket. He had disposed of the bag they’d given him to carry his things out of the jail. And then given away most of the things he’d initially put in the bag as he left his cell. He didn’t need any mementoes of his stint as a guest of the State of California.

  All he kept were the letters, folded into a large knot and stuffed in the back pocket of his jeans. There were more than two dozen of them, all of them from Jada Green.

  Thinking about her made him smile as he made the turn onto Jefferson Street heading toward the park.

  Damned if he knew what a girl like Jada was doing writing to the likes of him. She said in her first letter that she’d heard from Desiree that he got locked up. And that she was “sorry to hear that.” Like him getting locked up was an act of God, or the same as the onset of an unexpected illness, and not the predictable result of an act of law-breaking.

  That first letter had been short, and written on plain old notebook p
aper, that looked like it had been ripped out of a composition book. Because of that, it felt like it might have been impulsive, something she wrote while not really sure that she should. There was a slight perfume scent to it as well, that even if not purposeful, was welcome.

  When he first received it, and was sure no one was looking, Ibrahim held the paper up to his face and inhaled. It wasn’t a scent he knew, but now, it was one that he would always associate with her.

  When he met Jada at that party in Eastmont she told him she wasn’t even supposed to be there. Later, he would think that Desiree should’ve known better than to take a seventeen-year-old girl to a party like that one. It wasn’t just Jada’s age that made him think that she shouldn’t have been there. Lots of girls at the party were probably her age. It obvious that she just didn’t belong.

  At first, Ibrahim noticed Jada across the yard, swaying to the music only because next to her, Desiree was being chatted up. And since Desiree and his brother weren’t completely done, he knew that when Immanuel saw her practically leaning against some dude, they would scrap for sure.

  That’s what he was thinking when he noticed the hair. The girl next to Desiree who was moving to the music had skin the color of milk chocolate and a headful of thick, long, jet-black hair. It was straightened, but still full and massive, like neither a straightening comb, nor chemicals could completely tame it. She kept flipping it off her neck like it was making her hot. And when she did, it cascaded like a dark curtain back down her back and over her shoulders.

  The evening was warm, though the sun had long gone down, and she was dressed like a lot of girls there, wearing a spaghetti-strap top with tight stone-wash jeans, and Reeboks. But the top and the Reeboks were both red, which could have meant she was affiliated. If she was, it was an act of pure stupidity to leave her house on a Friday night, all Blood-ed up like she was, and to show up at a party like that one.

  What you lookin’ at?

  Ibrahim had turned to see his brother, unexpectedly next to him. Within moments, Immanuel followed his gaze and noticed Desiree with her admirer now standing even closer.

  Without pause, he shoved his way through the crowd and toward them, Ibrahim on his heels, hoping he wouldn’t have to break anything up. Manny was a hothead. He acted first and thought later. Often, he didn’t think at all.

  But when he was directly in front of Desiree, all Manny did was give her a pained, almost pitiful look. His brother was a savage, but this girl? She could break him down with a quickness.

  Dee, he said, ignoring her companion. Lemme talk to you a minute …

  Desiree, who generally loved the drama that came with her and Manny’s on-off-and-on-again relationship, twisted her lips to one side, and uncharacteristically, gave in.

  I’ll be back in a short, Prophet, Manny said, glancing his way before following his girl.

  Ibrahim knew his brother. He would not be back “in a short.” Whenever he got caught up with Desiree, it was a marathon, never a sprint.

  Ibrahim checked Desiree’s admirer’s expression, but homeboy was already looking around for a new conquest and didn’t seem interested in putting up a fuss about the interruption. The muggy evening had mellowed everyone out. No one had the energy to start anything, wading through the humidity as they all were.

  When Desiree and Immanuel walked away, her friend in red looked momentarily at a loss, so moving in to occupy the vacancy next to her, Ibrahim extended a hand. She looked at it for a moment, then up at him. She stared directly into his eyes and in hers he saw something. He didn’t know then how to describe it, but much later he would think that what he saw was recognition. Like they’d met before and she was inviting him back after a long absence.

  Hi, he said.

  The greeting alone was not at all how he usually stepped to chicks. It should have told him right away that something about them, was going to be different.

  I’m Ibrahim, he continued, still holding out his hand.

  Curiosity lit her eyes. Girls always asked about his name: you a Moos-lim or somethin’?

  But this girl didn’t ask anything.

  The dude who had been talking to Desiree moved on. Tipping back his beer for a long gulp, he sighed as if conceding defeat and wandered off.

  Dee’s girl in the red top with the mass of dark hair and milk chocolate skin took his hand. He almost expected to feel a jolt of electricity.

  Hi, she said. Her voice was soft, but calm and self-possessed. I’m Jada.

  ~~~

  There was a Mexican food truck near the edge of the park with a short line, so Ibrahim joined it without pausing to glance at their menu. Anything they had was bound to taste much better than jail food.

  The first two days he was locked up, he hadn’t eaten at all. The CO told him it was his business and to suit himself if he wanted to starve. But by the third morning they threatened him and said they weren’t about to put up with any ‘hunger strike bullshit.’

  Eat it, a sheriff’s deputy had told him of the bologna sandwich he’d been given. Don’t let me come in there and make you.

  That dude, a big dude Ibrahim heard people call “Officer Pete” had been different from the other ones. Rumor had it, he had a boy serving time himself. His manner toward the inmates, especially the young ones like Ibrahim, was a mix of threatening and paternal. He was one of those who gave maybe too much of a shit about the men in his custody.

  Anyway, after that threat, Ibrahim ate. But the food was just like it looked—tasteless, fatty and disgusting. Within a matter of weeks, he was practically vegetarian, ignoring the processed meats and only eating chicken, or fish sticks when he removed the oily clumps of breading. And after a while, even the fish sticks became suspect, so he refused those as well. He reluctantly drank the ‘juice’ but since that was more water and colored syrup than the juice of anything from nature, he had water, or milk whenever he could.

  Now that he had the luxury of choice, he would never eat false food again.

  Ibrahim ordered two empanadas from the food truck and sat on the curb eating them out of their aluminum foil wrappers. With the first, he paid attention to and savored every spice crushed into the meat, trying to identify each one—cilantro, green peppers, onion, chiles—and feeling his taste buds awaken from their long slumber. The second empanada, he enjoyed without analysis, already taking for granted the taste of good food. He washed his meal down with bottled water and then just sat there, watching people go by.

  There was a woman with two kids, both looking like they were under the age of five, moving hurriedly in the direction of the jail. Then a couple walked by, arms around each other, pausing to kiss, deeply. Ibrahim watched them for a moment, then looked away, his mind drifting involuntarily toward Jada once again.

  He and Jada had never kissed. They had barely even touched. And when they did, it was most often she who initiated it, lightly resting a hand on his forearm to emphasize a point.

  At the party, once they’d introduced themselves and Immanuel and Desiree went off to do whatever, Ibrahim didn’t think they’d have much to say to each other. He figured he’d hang around nearby, just to make sure she was okay, since she was Desiree’s people. Maybe he would crack on her a little, flirt a little, just because that’s what you did with pretty girls, even when you knew you didn’t stand a chance.

  But she was the one to speak first, surprising him.

  Why’d your brother call you Prophet just now? she asked.

  How’d you know that’s my brother?

  You look a lot alike, she said. Almost like twins. Not quite, but almost.

  Nah, Ibrahim said. He’s the good-looking one.

  Jada shook her head. No, she said. I don’t think so.

  And then her gaze fell to the ground, like she realized how that might have sounded. That dropped gaze intrigued him.

  Shy girls didn’t often wind up at parties like that one, at places like that. There was music, dancing, card and dominoes games, food on
a grill and a mood that was reminiscent of a family reunion. But it was far from a family-friendly event. The house was a stash house. Everyone there knew it was and knew that most of the guys there were bangers. And the hosts of the party? Two of the neighborhood’s biggest names in the game. Since there was a party, which sometimes attracted police attention there probably wasn’t too much product on the premises that night, but girls like Jada shouldn’t have been anywhere near a party like that one anyway.

  How you know Dee? he asked her.

  Desiree was precisely the kind of girl who wound up at parties like that one.

  She’s my cousin. But you didn’t answer my question. They call you Prophet because …?

  Ibrahim is a version of ‘Abraham’. Abraham was …

  Oh. Of course. I get it. Cool, Jada said, nodding.

  Yeah. I’m not out here prophesying or nothin’ like that. It’s a nickname, a street name. He shrugged.

  A street name, she repeated slowly. As though she had never heard the phrase before.

  Where you from? he asked.

  She told him her neighborhood and suddenly everything about her made sense.

  She was from way across town, an enclave that was much more placid than this part of the city. The folks where she was from tended to be older; they were teachers, postal workers and other civil servants. They were the folks who lately had been making themselves visible in protests against NWA and other California-based rappers who they thought were giving the state, and Black people in general a bad name. They were the folks who would just as soon have the rest of the country keep thinking that California was all Hollywood and palm trees.

  I asked Desiree to bring me, she added, as though she’d read his mind. She shrugged. She didn’t want to. Now I guess I see why. She only came to get her boyfriend back.