by Nicole Falls
“RoRo!” my cousin Natalie sang through my speakers, “Where you at, brotha?”
“You know you gotta relax, right, Natti?”
“Man, if you don’t get your big ‘you gotta relax’ face ass outta here! RoBro, you were supposed to be here like a week ago. Coulda been here a week ago if you didn’t insist on driving like you couldn’t have just shipped Black Beauty. The Natives are getting’ restless, bruh!”
“The Natives being…” I trailed off, knowing damn well who she meant.
“Roosevelt the Second and Alice, fool. MaDear’s lawyer won’t release the terms of the will until you arrive. And since it’s just us four…”
“Oh, their religion precludes them from fellowshipping with their only biological child but does not preclude them from being greedy assholes who can barely wait for the casket to be lowered before they’re hoping to hit pay dirt. Fuck them; I should take another week to make my way there.”
“Ro…”
“Did you call to badger me into speeding up my journey, so you can see what Ma left you too?”
“Negro, please. I called to check up on my brothercousin. You’re out there on the open road, by yourself, in who knows what kind of a mental state since you lost the last person you really identified within this world as a parent…and you’ll soon have to face two folks who abandoned you in your most formative years.”
“Well damn, when you put it like that…” I replied, blowing out a slow breath.
“Shit. Sorry, Ro.”
“It’s fine, Nat,” I said, offering the words of comfort on a humorless laugh.
Except it wasn’t fine at all. Truth be told, I would have been perfectly content not to be present for any of the pomp and circumstance that was sure to unfold when I rolled into town. I already knew that it was going to erupt into a massive pile of bullshit. My grandmother had already informed me years ago that all of her worldly possessions were to be split between myself and my cousin Natalie. Nat’s parents died tragically in a car accident before she was barely a year old, so MaDear & Pops were the only parents she knew.
“You know you coulda just asked Mr. Lightford to do separate readings of the will?”
“Nah, we need to do it this way. MaDear stipulated that we all came together at once, so even if no one else wants to honor her wishes, I will.”
“Okay …you know what? I should just go…”
“Nat, you know it’s not about you, right baby girl? I just…they get me so…ugh, I hate that they can take me outside of my character. I should be there in time for the reading at ten on Monday, okay?”
“All right, RoBro. I’m gonna let you go, but just…be safe and get here in one peace, okay? Wub you.”
“Love you more, Bratty Natti, and I’ll see you soon.”
I’d never been to Nebraska before. Never had much cause, honestly, even when I was driving out West the first time I kept it moving through many of the flat plains states. This time, however? I had nothing but time, so I included an excursion to the birthplace of Malcolm X on my itinerary. I knew nothing about Nebraska or Omaha, but it was the place of origin of the man formerly known as Detroit Red, a man I’d long considered one of my formative idols, so making this stop was a no-brainer. I was a bit disappointed, however, to pull up and not see a more substantial monument to his life erected. The commemorative plaque was cool, but I’d expected…more I guess. Something akin to the shrine to King down in Atlanta.
Natti was always talking about ancestral memory and despite not having one shared ancestor with el-Hajj Malik el-Shabazz I felt a strong sense of…something, a sensation of peace washed over me in waves as I stood in the field near the plaque, taking in my surroundings. My eyes closed of their own volition as I breathed in deeply, making a connection with whatever spirits were reaching out to connect with me. It felt weird, being stirred by merely stepping foot into a town where the man spent less than a year of his life, but something about knowing it was the birthplace of one of the greatest leaders of our nation still resonated with me in a profound way.
“You know we’ve gotta stop meeting like this,” a sultry voice called out, drawing my attention a few feet behind me.
I opened my eyes, pivoting to lay eyes on Emerson. She was a vision in a yellow sundress that clung to her curves like the garment was a custom-made, one-of-a-kind piece. It was a sunny day, and her skin was soaking up every ray, emanating a glow that was damn near blinding. I strolled over to her slowly, unable to help the grin that split my face in two as I approached; matching the one that currently resided upon her face.
“Once is coincidental, twice is stalking…” I joked.
“Hey!” Emerson protested, slapping me lightly on the arm, “I saved your freakin’ life, mister! You could have died of dysentery or sunstroke out there on the Oregon Trail were it not for the kindness of this stranger.”
“Touché. Dysentery has been on the rise in recent times,” I chuckled.
“So, Brother Malcolm’s birthplace, huh?” Emerson said, awkwardly changing the subject and strolling past me to read the commemorative plaque.
“Smooth transition, Miss…hey, I just realized I still don’t know your last name? Despite you having all of my information stored in your cellular device right there,” I said, motioning to the phone in her hand as she took a picture of the area.
“Not my fault you don’t ask the right questions, Mr. Ashe.”
We sat on the benches near the Malcolm X center chatting for a while when Emerson’s stomach let out the most massive growl. After a bit of teasing, we ended up at Freddy’s again.
“You really like this place, huh? What’d you do, chart a cross-country course that would place you in the proximity of this place at least once a day?” Emerson teased.
“I can’t confirm nor deny the veracity of that statement, ma’am.”
Emerson’s face scrunched, “Ugh, please don’t do that?”
“Do what?”
“Call me ma’am. That’s for somebody that’s my mama’s age or older. Look at this face, do you see any lines? Bags under my eyes? Dark circles? Any stray greys? None! This is the face of a miss; not a ma’am!”
She ended her little tirade with the cutest pout that immediately made me laugh. The laughing only made her frown deepen, which honestly made her look even cuter. A grown woman sitting with her arms crossed and face marred with a scowl should not have been attractive, but there was something about the way Emerson’s lower lip poked out, combined with the cutest wrinkled nose that I found appealing.
“Duly noted, miss,” I replied once my laughter had subsided.
“Much appreciated, sir!” Emerson quipped.
“Oh, wait a minute? Now I’m old enough to be called sir? What in the reverse ageism and sexism hell is this, miss?”
“Well…technically, sir is a title of respect for any man of a certain age and doesn’t have the negative connotations that ma’am has over miss, but if you’d like me to treat you like a little boy and call you master…”
“You’ve really put some thought into this, huh?”
“Not really, I just honestly super hate being called ma’am. It’s a trigger word.”
“Again, duly noted. So, Miss…how much further do you have on your journey?”
“Not much longer,” Emerson sighed.
The fatigue in her voice sounded familiar as if she too was on a journey that she was not looking forward to finally completing. I didn’t want to pry too much into her life, but I was curious.
“Not exactly chomping at the bit to end your time on the road?” I asked an innocent enough question that could be answered enough to sate my curiosity, but also not be read as me trying to get all up in her business.
“No, I’m super ready to be done driving. Been over it, honestly. The whole road trip across the country is a splendid idea in theory, but in practice? This may turn into a one-way drive,” she giggled before sighing, “Not especially interested in what’s awaiting me at the end of this d
rive, though.”
I nodded, “I know that feeling all too well.”
“You’re heading back to Chicago for good, right? There must be something there that you’re looking forward to. Otherwise, you would have stayed where you were?”
“The circumstances of my move weren’t borne of...happy circumstance, but it will be nice to be back home amongst the folks who know me best, I suppose…”
“Funny, you’re traveling back home to see those who know you best, while my trip home seems like stepping into a world where no one knows me at all. Strange how life works in that way, huh?”
For a second Emerson looked as if she was on the verge of a breakdown, her shoulders a little stooped as she let out a shuddering breath. As quickly as she’d broken, however, she perked back up, turning toward me eyes blazing with mischief. For a long while, she said nothing, just took the opportunity to let her eyes slowly peruse my face as if she were committing every detail of it to memory.
“Uh oh, what’s that look about?” I asked.
“Nothing,” she responded, quickly, “Just a passing, inappropriate thought that’s probably best kept to myself for now.”
“What happened to say whatever’s on her mind, Emerson? Bring her back; I like her.”
She giggled and shook her head, “She’s back in her cage like she should have been, to begin with. Hey, we should get dessert!”
“Smooth, real smooth…” I cracked, garnering another giggle from Emerson, “Let me guess, you want a concrete.”
“With hot caramel, pecans and heath bar pieces, please,” Emerson crooned.
I got up from where we had been eating to head back inside and grab her ice cream treat much to her delight. I let the moment to grill her about her inappropriate thought pass because no matter how tempting this woman was there were two things that I knew for sure. One was…something was going on with her, and she didn’t need me disturbing her groove tryna lay the mack down and the second was, I needed to get my shit together before I even thought about blinking in a woman’s direction. There was something about Emerson though…that made me want to ensure she’d be around. Even if it was as just a friend for now.
Just like in Grand Junction, Emerson and I sat at Freddy’s for almost two hours talking about absolutely nothing. The conversation just flowed as we discussed silly things we’d seen on the internet, our favorite TV shows and debated about what she called my “misguided and unfortunate tastes” in music.
“Roosevelt, you can’t possibly tell me that a man who rhymed Hennessey with enemies every chance he got is not one of our foremost hip-hop legends! You simply cannot!”
“I never denied Pac’s presence or influence, just said that I wouldn’t put him in my Top Five best MCs ever, dead or alive. He might make top ten though; I’d have to give it some thought.”
“Ok, well who is your top five then?”
“Black Thought, Jay, Big, Tip, and BDK,” I fired off quickly, without a second thought.
I often got into this debate with Natalie, which was hilarious because neither of these women were hip-hop heads as far as I knew, so it just seemed like they were arguing for argument’s sake.
“You’d put T.I. over Pac?” Emerson screeched, incredulously.
“Yo, chill. Tip as in Q-Tip, not Clifford Harris. But I meaaaannnn…” I replied, more to rile her up than what was actually my truth, “Aight, who is your top five?”
She was cute when she was all worked up; I had to admit. Eyes narrowed, mouth agape, metaphorical steam coming from her ears and her voice steadily climbing up the pitch scale to damn near dog whistle tone.
“Pac,” she started, exaggerating that one syllable to drag for at least thirty seconds, “Big, Jay, Nas, and Snoop.”
“Wow, sounds straight out of the ‘girl who only listened to hip-hop on the radio in the 90s’ primer,” I jeered.
“Ouch,” Emerson chuckled, “You got me…I’m not really a head…isn’t that what you guys called yourselves? You hip-hop purists? I ain’t a real hip-hop head.”
“Cute.”
“I know you think so…”
“Oh snap, say whatever’s on her mind Emerson is back?”
She just laughed and shook her head before peering down at her phone. It hadn’t made a sound or vibrated, so I took that as my cue to wrap things up here. I gathered the trash from our food and Emerson’s dessert and tossed it. As I walked back to the table, I noticed Emerson hadn’t made a move to get up, despite the clear “wrap it up, b!” signals she had been giving earlier.
“Ready?” I asked.
She sighed, lowering and shaking her head, “Nope. I don’t wanna.”
“So, what do you want to do instead?”
Emerson’s head shot up at that question to counter it with another question, “How much time do you have?”
One simple question led to a quick stop at Eppley Airfield to park Emerson’s car and then an almost three-hour drive in the opposite direction in which we were both set to travel. After traveling down I-80, then a state route for nearly twenty miles, we pulled up to the Hastings Museum of Natural and Cultural History. I’d seen billboards along I-80 as I drove east earlier, bragging on an exhibit that had apparently caught Emerson’s eye as well, but she’d decided to forego, instead making her way to Omaha. My simple question, however, rekindled her desire to see the exhibit, titled “Kool-Aid: Discover the Dream!” Apparently, Kool-Aid had been created in this random ass small town in Nebraska, and there was an entire exhibit dedicated to the genesis and evolution of the powdered greatness that fueled us through childhood. I don’t know what drove me to say yes, but the look of sheer joy on Emerson’s face as we strolled through this exhibit on the lower level of this museum was worth it.
We were standing in front of a mock general store, where the inventor of Kool-Aid first sold his product when Emerson sighed.
“I loved Kool-Aid so much! My brother Michael always made the best Kool-Aid. Nobody could touch his, not mama nor daddy nor Grace. I don’t know how he did it, but he always managed to make Goldilocks Kool-Aid every time.”
“Goldilocks Kool-Aid? I don’t think I ever had that flavor,” I joked.
“Just right.”
I chuckled, making the connection after she uttered those two words.
“He always made the Kool-Aid just right. The perfect amount of sweetness,” she spoke softly, almost as if it were more to herself than to me.
Something in her voice was…off, her vibe much more subdued than it was as we drove down, and she sang along to the cd we’d picked up in the gas station—one of those Body & Soul Time Life joints they used to sell on TV in the nineties. Emerson had insisted we stop to fill up given my track record with gas gauges. That tremble in her voice coupled with a slight sniffle she tried to make as quiet as possible had me asking if she was okay. She assured me she was fine as we moved through the rest of the exhibit, but I could tell something wasn’t quite right. I didn’t press, instead following alongside Emerson silently as we progressed through the museum. It wasn’t until we were standing in front of a giant poster that was a collage of Kool-Aid logos past and present that I finally said something. I looked over to see tears silently streaming from her eyes as we stood.
“Man, I don’t know I know anyone who loves Kool-Aid as much as you,” I cracked, trying to bring some levity to a situation of which I wasn’t entirely sure of the gravity.
Emerson chuckled which quickly careened into sobbing. Not knowing what else to do, I guided her to a nearby bench, wrapping her up in my arms as she sobbed, gently rubbing her back in a soothing manner. After a few minutes, her tears quieted, but she remained in my arms, face tucked into my t-shirt and she fought to compose herself. A few quick shuddering breaths and she disengaged our coupling. She reached into her bag to pull out Kleenex which she used to quickly wipe her face before turning back to face me.
“Wow, I am so sorry, Roosevelt.”
“You have nothing to be sorry
about, sweetheart. I was barely holding back the tears at Freddy’s when I bit into my double bacon burger, it’s all good,” I replied, using my thumb to wipe away a stray tear that slowly cascaded down her face.
“Hush!” she giggled, “It’s not about the darn Kool-Aid, man!”
I remained silent, despite my tongue damn near burning to blurt out “Well what is it about then?” If she wanted to share, she would, but I didn’t want to make her feel obligated to share anything she was comfortable with sharing quite yet. We sat for a few minutes more in silence until a worker of the museum told us that they were closing in five minutes. Still silent, we made our way back to my car. We were settled in and buckled, and I was just about to put the car in gear when Emerson spoke.
“Mikey’s been gone for four years as of today. My big brother, the perfect Kool-Aid maker. He was supposed to always be around to make me some Kool-Aid, but he was senselessly taken from us way too soon. I…I thought I was okay, that I would be fine, but…I’m sorry, Roosevelt…”
“Hey, didn’t I tell you that you don’t need to apologize to me. Loss and grieving is never a succinct process, no matter how much we wish it could be. Let those tears out, baby. Better to feel that emotion than keep it bottled in. Trust me.”
Emerson sank her head into her hands and silently cried once again. I unbuckled my seatbelt, gathering her as close as I could with the center console between us.
“It just seems so fresh, you know?” she said after a few moments, “And…I haven’t been home since we buried him, so it’s…this trip...it’s a lot right now. And I thought it would be fine, but it’s not fine. I’m not fine.”
“Whew,” I breathed, “You have no idea how timely this entire conversation is right now.”
I told Emerson about burying my grandmother and moving back home to sort out her affairs. I left out all of the extra family drama dynamics but assured her that everything she was feeling was valid and okay. Time didn’t heal all wounds, and she shouldn’t live life beholden to an adage that no one actually had any scientific proof to back up. As I finished my story, Emerson said nothing, eyes still downcast, but reached out to grab my hand and squeeze it between her two. We sat in silence for a few minutes more before she finally spoke.
