Daddy's Baby

by Landis Lain

  “This stuff is kind of lame,” said Chauncey. “Nobody talks like that anymore.”

  “Really?” asked Mrs. King. “What about your rap songs?”

  “They have some meaning for our lives,” said Chauncey, “This stuff was back in slavery time. That’s over, now.”

  “Interesting that you say that,” said Mrs. King. She gestured around the room. “I look around you and all you guys have on jeans, big shirts and two hundred dollar basketball shoes. What are you, if not a slave to the fashion of the day?”

  Damon laughed. “Good one.”

  “Man,” said Chauncey. “Shut up.”

  “So, you think booty shaking all around is poetry?’ asked Mrs. King.

  “Yeah,” said Chauncey with a cocky smile. Mrs. King looked disappointed. Damon raised his hand.

  “I think some rap is very conscious,” said Damon. “Like Gil Scott Heron, the Last Poets and the Roots.”

  “What do you know about the Last Poets?” asked Mrs. King, with a smile.

  “The revolution will not be televised,” said Damon. Mrs. King laughed.

  “I am impressed,” she said.

  “Brown nose,” whispered Digger, another football player. He made a smooching noise. Damon ignored him.

  “My dad used to listen to them all the time. He turned me on to them. They were kind of hype,” said Damon. “They were talking about angry young brothers and how we take our anger out on our own community. And how we should wake up, and stop being prisoners in our own minds.”

  Brielle looked at Damon with adoration in her eyes. He could say the most profound things sometimes. It really excited her that he liked poetry and literature. As far as Brielle was concerned, Damon was just about perfect. She looked down at her notebook where she had doodled Brielle Hamilton over and over in the margins. Raised voices caught her attention and she looked up.

  “They didn’t have it as hard as we have it now,” said Chauncey.

  “How can you say that?” asked Damon. “A lot of the rap of today is just so much gibberish compared to this stuff.”

  “Man, you don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Digger

  “Okay,” said Mrs. King, holding up her hand. “I’m impressed that you’re all so passionate about this subject. The next assignment for this class is to find a poem by the Last Poets and compare and contrast it to a modern day rapper and his song. Five pages. Due next week, Tuesday.”

  Everyone groaned.

  “Damon,” said Mrs. King, ignoring the general discontent. “Can you recite the next poem by Paul Lawrence Dunbar?”

  “Which one?” asked Damon. Paul Lawrence Dunbar was one of his favorites and he’d read the poetry over and over.

  “Invitation to Love,” said Mrs. King. The class laughed nervously.

  “It’s hard to just recite,” said Damon, still slouched in his seat. Chauncey snickered to his right. “It feels stupid.”

  “Recite it to somebody then,” said Mrs. King. “Pretend that you’re talking to some girl that you want to get next to. And you’re feeling particularly suave and debonair. Or pretend it’s a girl that you’ve been longing for forever and you want to tell her how you feel.”

  “Okay,” said Damon, with a shrug. “Should I just pick somebody?”

  “Or you can ask for a volunteer,” said Mrs. King.

  Damon stood up, turned around, and looked straight at Brielle.

  “Me?” she mouthed silently. She pointed to herself. He nodded with pleading eyes and she stood up and came forward as though he had a rope tied around her and was pulling her forward. When she was two feet away, she stopped.

  He started out so quietly that Brielle had to strain to hear him.

  “COME when the nights are bright with stars

  Or when the moon is mellow;

  Come when the sun his golden bars

  Drops on the hay-field yellow.

  Come in the twilight soft and gray,

  Come in the night or come in the day,

  Come, O love, whene'er you may,

  And you are welcome, welcome.

  Brielle realized that he was reciting from memory, because he was looking her directly in the eyes. Damon’s voice got louder, resonating through Brielle as he continued,

  You are sweet, O Love, dear Love,

  You are soft as the nesting dove.

  Come to my heart and bring it rest

  As the bird flies home to its welcome nest.

  Brielle clasped her hands together and smiled. He was saying the words like he really meant them. Damon walked closer, took her hand and continued.

  Come when my heart is full of grief

  Or when my heart is merry;

  Come with the falling of the leaf

  Or with the redd'ning cherry.

  Come when the year's first blossom blows,

  Come when the summer gleams and glows,

  Come with the winter's drifting snows,

  And you are welcome, welcome.

  When he finished, Brielle let out the breath that she’d been holding. He squeezed her hand and then let it drop to her side. He’d held her eyes the whole time. The entire class was silent for a few moments. The girls sighed as one. Then Mrs. King broke the spell.

  “Damon,” she said. “That was kind of hype.” She fanned herself with her hand. The whole class, including Damon and Brielle burst into laughter. They went back to their seats.

  “Playa, playa,” said Chauncey holding out his fist for. Damon bumped Chauncey’s hand before he took his seat. “I might have to take lessons from this boy.”

  Once the class settled down, Mrs. King asked Chauncey to recite another Paul Lawrence Dunbar poem called ‘The Poet.’

  “Can I do it my way?” he asked.

  “Be my guest,” said Mrs. King, leaning against the board. Chauncey had Digger drum out a beat on his desk and recited it like he was rapping. When he finished, he bowed with a flourish.

  “And that’s how we do,” he said. Mrs. King clapped in acknowledgment and gestured with her hand.

  “Who wants to go next?” she asked. Several hands went up. Brielle sat quietly in the back of the classroom and smiled. Her heart was singing.

  October

  Brielle

  Brielle was nervous. She felt like a cat sitting in a room full of dogs. Her father, mother and sister were all sitting in the family room looking at her like she was some kind of alien life form. She had dressed carefully for the upcoming inquisition. She looked good. Inside she was a mass of jittery shivers.

  “Now,” her father said, deep voice rumbling in his chest. “Who is this boy?”

  “Damon Hamilton, daddy,” said Brielle. “You know him. He took us to eat after the swim meet. He’s Jada’s youngest brother.”

  “The boy with those funny colored eyes?”

  “Yes,” said Brielle.

  “This boy is coming over, why?” asked her father. His dark face was scrunched up like a thundercloud. “We don’t do boys just dropping through. He doesn’t have it like that in my house.”

  “He asked me to the homecoming dance, dad,” said Brielle, patiently. “He said that he should ask you himself. So he wanted to know if he could come over.”

  Mr. Bronson looked over at his wife.

  “Eve,” he said. “Did we say this child could go on a date?”

  “We said sixteen, baby,” said Brielle’s mother. She averted her eyes to keep from showing her husband her amusement. Mr. Bronson was struggling with the idea that his beloved daughters were old enough to date.

  “They are too young,” said Mr. Bronson, looking upset. “I must have been on drugs when I said sixteen.”

  “Daddy, please,” begged Brielle. “Just talk to him, okay?”

  “Well,” said Mr. Bronson, relenting. His daughters knew how to work him. “I’ll meet with him, but I reserve judgment until later.”

  “Thanks, dad,” said Brielle, jumping up to go and call Damon, leaving her father t
o glower at her mother as though blaming Mrs. Bronson for allowing his daughter to grow up.

  Brielle nearly leaped off of the couch when the doorbell rang a half hour later.

  “Sit down,” snapped her father and Brielle subsided onto the brown leather couch and stared sightlessly at the television. He walked out of the room to go and answer the front door.

  “Brielle!” her father called a few minutes later.

  “Yes,” she answered, jumping to her feet.

  “You have company,” he said. Brielle bounded out of the room, through the kitchen and skidded around the corner to the front door. She stopped, composed herself and forced herself to walk sedately to the living room where Damon and her father were sitting.

  Mr. Bronson stood up. Damon stood up, too.

  “It was nice to talk to you again, sir,” said Damon. He was looking very nervous, but he stuck out his right hand. Mr. Bronson looked at it for a long moment and then, took it and squeezed. Brielle saw Damon flinch, but not change his expression.

  “I’ll be talking to you,” said Mr. Bronson. He looked at Brielle. “You have fifteen minutes.”

  “All right,” said Brielle.

  “What did my dad say to you?” asked Brielle in a hushed voice. Damon rolled his eyes.

  “He asked me all kinds of questions like he’d never met me before,” said Damon, looking a little shell shocked. “Your dad is a big dude.”

  “Oh,” said Brielle. “He is. But you’re almost as tall as he is.”

  “He told me that you were his daughter and he didn’t want any mess out of me,” said Damon. “Then, he tried to break my hand.” He flexed his right hand.

  Brielle could feel her cheeks burning. She put her hands to her cheeks.

  “How embarrassing,” she said. “He’s so old fashioned.”

  “Naw,” said Damon, taking her hand in his. “He just cares about you. He said we could go.” Brielle nodded, relieved that Damon understood.

  Damon chuckled.

  “My dad told me that one time my grandfather, my mother’s father, I mean, pulled a pistol on him when he came to pick my mother up for a date and told him he better bring her back in the same condition that he was picking her up in,” he said.

  “I bet that was so scary,” said Brielle.

  “Yeah, dad said he almost messed his pants and was afraid to even hold her hand for about two hours,” said Damon.

  “At least my dad was a little more civilized than that,” said Brielle, with a shudder.

  “I wouldn’t count on that,” said Damon, casting a fearful glance towards the door that Brielle’s father had left the room through. “Your dad said if any mess jumped off, he was coming over my house to kill me.”

  “Oh, my God,” said Brielle, covering her mouth with her hand.

  “It’s okay,” said Damon, with a sigh of relief that the ordeal was over. “I told him that I was going to be very careful. I’ll pick you up at six thirty for dinner, is that okay?”

  Brielle nodded.

  “We can have dinner with Kyzie and everybody if you want,” he said.

  “Maybe the same restaurant,” said Brielle. “Then dad won’t have to follow us.”

  “Well,” said Damon, with his own shudder. He reached over and tugged on her braid. “I’d better go, before your dad comes back.”

  “Yeah.”

  Damon got up and pulled on his brown leather bomber jacket. The temperature had dropped suddenly and the leaves had changed from green to red, brown and orange nearly over night. Brielle walked Damon to the door and pulled it open. Damon stepped outside onto the porch.

  “Oh, I almost forgot,” said Damon, turning to face her. “What color are you wearing?

  “Purple,” said Brielle. She had picked her dress weeks ago.

  Damon nodded, glanced behind her to make certain the coast was clear, and swiftly moved in for a quick kiss to her lips. Then he sprinted off the porch and got into his car. She watched him drive off, bemused and thrilled all over again that Damon Hamilton was hers.

  “Brielle!” her father roared from the family room.

  “Yes, dad?” she answered.

  “Shut that door, girl. I’m not trying to heat up outside.”

  Brielle touched her bottom lip with her fingers and shut the door with a smile.

  Damon

  “What’s going on man?”

  “Well,” said Ephraim. “She did it.”

  “What?” asked Damon. He was lying on his bed. Ephraim was sitting at the desk with the chair backwards like he always did. Ephraim had come over and sat not making conversation for over an hour. That was one of things Damon liked most about Ephraim. He wasn’t always talking. But his silence today was oppressive. Ephraim, not the most cheerful of Damon’s friends to begin with, looked like he had a thundercloud hanging over his head. He and Damon played video games for a while until it became apparent to Damon that Ephraim wasn’t even trying to win any of his battles. Damon, posed the question, “What’s going on,” and Ephraim opened his mouth and the words tumbled out like water from a faucet that had been turned on too quickly.

  “She got the abortion,” said Ephraim. He clenched his jaw.

  When?”

  “Last Tuesday,” said Ephraim. “She took off from school and went and had it done.”

  “Did you go, too?”

  “No,” said Ephraim. “I told her that I wouldn’t and her mama took her.”

  “That’s messed up,” said Damon. He was at a loss as to what else he could say so he kept quiet.

  “I didn’t even tell Stump, because he wouldn’t understand at all,” said Ephraim. He rubbed one long hand over his face and then rubbed his forehead, looking like he wanted to cry. Damon thought about the time they’d called Ephraim five head, because he had such a big forehead, he could fit all of his fingers on it and still have forehead showing. They’d all laughed and acted stupid. That seemed a million miles away from this. This was serious.

  “I don’t know what to say, man,” said Damon.

  “The killing part is,” said Ephraim. “She acted all sad and haunted about the whole situation. She’s all like, E, you don’t understand, this is my body, my life, my future, like I didn’t count for nothing.”

  “Man, she was probably scared,” said Damon.

  “I know,” said Ephraim. “But I told her that I would be there for her. She didn’t have to kill my baby. We could’ve made it. She called me on the phone and told me, ‘it’s done’. I wanted to kill her or kill myself.”

  “Don’t do nothing like that, E,” said Damon, feeling chilled. “Talk to my dad or something.”

  “No, I won’t,” said Ephraim, covering his eyes with his hand. “I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction. But I’ll always wonder, would it have been a boy or a girl? How would it have acted? Would my baby have looked like me? It’s like she killed me, too, man. I loved that girl.”

  Damon was speechless in the face of his friend’s anguish. Ephraim dashed his hand across his wet eyes and sniffled. Damon pretended not to see.

  “I would have loved my baby, too,” said Ephraim. He dropped the video game controller and buried his face in his hands. Damon got up and put his hand on Ephraim’s shaking shoulders, more freaked out than he’d ever been in his entire life. After a while, Ephraim got himself under control. He wiped his eyes and nose with his sweatshirt sleeve and the back of one long slim hand. By mutual consent, neither mentioned the tears. Damon picked up the controller and handed it Ephraim and they played another video game.

  Brielle

  “Ow, mommy, don’t pull,” said Brielle. She grabbed the side of her head, to protect her freshly done French roll from the hair jewelry her mother had just yanked off of her head.

  “Sorry,” said her mother. “It got caught in a strand of hair.” She repositioned the ornament and stuck it into Brielle’s hair. Brielle was sitting at her vanity in her bra, panties and pantyhose, putting on makeup. Kyzie was sprawled on Br
ielle’s bed in a blue chenille robe.

  “I don’t know why you had to get your hair fried, anyway,” said Kyzie, patting her twists. She, too had opted for an up do, but hers was still in its natural state. She’d just pulled the twists to the top of her head and put glitter jewelry in it to dress it up. “And I don’t see why we have to wear pantyhose anyway. They itch.”

  “You don’t have to wear pantyhose,” said Mrs. Bronson. “You can stay home and have naked legs.

  “Mom,” said Kyzie. “Nobody else is wearing hose.”

  “You are not a hooker,” said her mother fiercely. “The only time you will go without hose to a formal affair is if it is ninety degrees outside. Besides, I have told you before that you cannot do everything everybody else is doing.”

  “That is so old fashioned,” complained Kyzie.

  “You trying to stay home?” asked her mother.

  “No,” Kyzie’s reply was sullen.

  “Then take your little narrow tail into your own room and get dressed,” said her mother. “I’ll be there in a minute to help you.”

  Kyzie obediently got up and slunk out of the room muttering, “You’d think this was the nineteen eighties or something.”

  Mrs. Bronson cast her eyes to the ceiling. “I don’t know why I had to have girls,” she said.

  “Mo-om,” said Brielle.

  Her mother looked at Brielle’s reflection in the mirror and smiled.

  “I could have had some boys,” said Mrs. Bronson. “Then, somebody else would be doing heads and helping with the primping.”

  “You said that daddy is just as prissy as we are,” said Brielle.

  “That’s true, he does stay in the mirror a lot,” said Mrs. Bronson. “I guess boys wouldn’t be the answer after all.” She finished putting the last ornament into Brielle’s hair and then helped her daughter into her deep purple strapless gown. The dress was very simple with rhinestones around the bodice and discrete sparkles woven into the material. Because of her height, they had had the dress modified to tea length so it wouldn’t hang too short. She had on sheer hose and purple satin sandals with silver heels. Sammie had loaned Brielle long silver gloves and a little silver sequined bag to carry. Once Brielle was done dressing, her mother stood back and looked at her older daughter with tears in her eyes.