Love the One You're With

by James Earl Hardy

  He returned the gesture. “I love you, too, Grammy.” They giggled.

  I finished putting on my jacket and buttoning up. “You have a jood weekend, Ms. Rivers.”

  We hugged.

  “You, too. And take care of my grandson.”

  “I most certainly will.” I picked up his bag. “You ready?”

  “Yes!”

  “Okay. Let’s go.”

  “Bye, Grammy.” He waved as we walked out the door.

  “Bye.” She waved back, with that smile.

  “SO, HOW WAS SCHOOL THIS WEEK?”

  “It was jood. I learned to count to ten in Spanish!”

  “Really?”

  “Uh-huh. You wanna hear me?”

  “I’d love to.”

  “Ooh-no, dohs, trey-s, qua-tro, seen-co, say-s, see-yet-tay, oh-cho, new-ay-vay, and dee-ez!”

  “Wow, that’s great. I bet you’ll be able to count to twenty in Spanish by the end of next week.”

  “I’m gonna do it by Sunday!”

  “Oh really?”

  “Uh-huh. Anjelica, Uncle Angel’s daughter, is gonna help me.”

  “Ah …”

  “And we talked about Black History today. Every Friday this month is Black History Day.”

  Hmm … it’s bad enough the celebration takes place during the shortest month in the year. But to delegate any acknowledgment or discussion of Negro achievements and contributions to just one day per week in February? “Oh, did you? And what did you all talk about?” Please, not Dr. King.

  “Martin Luther King.”

  Of course. “And what did the teacher say about him?” Please, not that he had a dream …

  “That he was a great civil-rights leader who had a dream …”

  Of course. White folks have reduced his entire life into that one catchall phrase, a condensation that is palatable and digestible for them.

  “… that one day people would be judged by their character and not their color,” he predictably finished.

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  “But I raised my hand.”

  “You did?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what did you say?”

  “I said, ‘He had more than a dream.’”

  I grinned. “And what did your teacher say?”

  “He said, ‘What do you mean?’ And I said, ‘He didn’t just dream about it. He worked to make it happen.’”

  Uh-huh … just like a razor. “Yes, he did.”

  I’m sure that teacher was thrown by his insight. He may only be six, but Junior has no problem comprehending things that may be complex—and also knows that, when someone is trying to present something in too simplistic a way, they aren’t telling him the whole story. He also interacts with adults like he is one of the elders and likes to discuss things that are very grown-up in nature. I know that one should encourage a child to be inquisitive, but whenever he questions me about an issue I think would best be handled by his parents—such as Susan Smith killing her kids (“How can a mommy drown her own children?”)—I’ll say, “Well, I think you should ask your mommy or daddy about that.” But he always comes back with: “I already know how Mommy feels, I already know what Daddy thinks; I wanna know what you feel/think.”

  We were heading into Brooklyn on the A train going over those words in Webster’s (he’s on the Ds: desk) when I sensed he wanted to have one of those talks again.

  He studied me intensely. “Mitch-hull?”

  “Yes?”

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “Sure.” I braced myself.

  “Um … do you have a grampy?”

  Well … he finally brought it up. After walking out on him and his mother seventeen years ago, Pooquie’s father reentered their lives last year. Although they’ve talked on the phone a couple of times, Junior hasn’t met him—yet. Pooquie says that they will after he and his father sort some things out. Of course, Junior can’t wait to meet him—he’s always wanted a “grampy.”

  I sighed. “I had a grandfather. He’s in heaven now.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” he consoled, rubbing my hand.

  “You don’t have to be sorry …”

  “When did he go to heaven?”

  “When I was twenty-one.”

  “And you twenty-eight now?”

  “Yes.”

  He tapped his temple and the tip of his left thumb went into his mouth. “He’s been in heaven for seven years.”

  “Yes, he has.”

  “Did he get shot like Uncle D?” That’s what he called D.C.

  “No. He had cancer.”

  “Cancer? I know what that is.”

  “You do?”

  “Uh-huh. Cancer is a disease that can start in one part of your body and go to another.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Grammy says it causes a lot of pain. Was he in a lot of pain?”

  “Yes, he was.”

  “He won’t feel pain anymore, being in heaven,” he assured me.

  I nodded. “No, he won’t.”

  “Did you have fun with him?”

  “Yes, I did. A lot of fun.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Oh, we went to the park. He would push me in a swing. We would play catch. And then we’d go for an ice-cream cone.”

  “Ooh, what kind?”

  “Chocolate.”

  “Oh, my favorite!”

  “Mine, too. And then he would place me on his shoulders and carry me home.”

  He sighed. “I’d like that.”

  I know he would.

  “You know, you two had something in common.”

  “We did?”

  “Yes.”

  “What?”

  “He loved Michael Jackson.”

  Those little eyes grew wide. “He did?”

  “Yes.”

  “Wow.”

  “When we get home, I’ll show you a picture of him.”

  “Okay … um … do you miss him?”

  I nodded. “Yes, I do.”

  “I miss Uncle D, too.”

  “I know. I do, too.”

  He held my hand the rest of the ride home.

  After I located that photo (“Wow, Mitch-hull … you look just like him!”) and he quickly inhaled two plates of spaghetti and turkey meatballs, we watched The Jacksons: An American Dream. I knew he wouldn’t be interested in seeing how Joe and Katherine Jackson met, so I tuned up the tape to the scene where Michael is born. He balked at Michael’s choice of a playmate (“I could never be friends with a mouse! Yuck!”) and sang along and even imitated some of the fictional Michael’s moves.

  The only time he took his attention away from the TV was when the phone rang. He normally didn’t answer my phone but knew I wouldn’t mind tonight, given who he hoped would be on the other end.

  “Hell-oh? … Hi, Daddy! … I’m jood, how are you? … that’s jood … uh-huh … I am … I’m looking at a movie about Michael Jackson, when he was a little boy … uh-huh, I finished it before I left Grammy’s house … Mitch-hull said he’s gonna help me with my vocabulary … uh-huh … no … okay … I will … he’s right here … okay … Daddy? … Please come back home soon … I miss you … okay … okay, I’ll be jood … I love you, too … okay, hold on, here’s Mitch-hull.”

  He handed me the phone, grabbed the remote, and unpaused the film, settling back on the floor with his legs crossed and placing the popcorn bowl between his legs.

  I walked toward the bedroom. “Hi, Pooquie.”

  “Hay, Baby. How you be?”

  “Jood. How are things with you?”

  “They a’ight.”

  I closed the door. “Where are you?”

  “On tha set. Clemmy let me use her cell phone.”

  I stretched out on the bed, leaning up on my left elbow. “Ah. That was nice of her. So, how is it going on the set?”

  “We been doin’ tha same scene over and over tha past half hour.”

  “Which s
cene?”

  “That club scene.”

  “The one where your character gets into a fight?”

  “Yeah. They say my choreography is off. It’s gotta be precise and it ain’t. It’s hard tryin’ ta fake it and make it real at tha same time.”

  “I can understand how you could have a hard time fakin’ it. You never have that problem with me.” I giggled.

  He sighed. “I hit tha other brotha a coupla times.”

  “You did?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You didn’t hurt him, did you?”

  “Nah. I jabbed him in tha neck when I was s’pose ta be shadow-punchin’ his jaw.”

  “He didn’t hit you back, did he?”

  “Nah. Ha, he better not had, cuz then we woulda been fightin’ fuh real. They ready ta bring in a stunt double.”

  “Well, it’s a standard thing in the industry. It’s no big deal.”

  “It is ta me,” he snapped. “I want this role ta be all me, Baby.”

  “It will be.”

  “Not if somebody else is fightin’ my battles.”

  “Who will know the difference?”

  “I will.”

  “Pooquie, it’s not like you’re Jennifer Beals in Flashdance having all your dance sequences performed by others. Or, better yet, in an action flick with Jean-Claude and havin’ a hard time with the karate kicks. This thirty-second scene does not define who your character is.”

  “But it’s still an important scene.”

  “Yes, it is. Every scene you’re in is important. But it’s not the most important scene.”

  “But, Baby, I feel like … like I ain’t pullin’ my own weight.”

  “Pooquie, don’t torture yourself. So what if you don’t get everything. There are others who don’t get everything. Didn’t you say that one of those actors is always fumbling his lines?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Now, that’s a major problem. But this is a minor thing, so don’t turn it into something major. You’ll get so focused on not being able to do this one thing and won’t give your all for the rest of the shoot.”

  I felt him come down. “Uh … you right, Baby. Clemmy already told me all of this. But I guess I just needed ta hear it from you.”

  “I won’t be any less proud of you if you can’t do the scene. And the world won’t know it’s someone else; they do a jood job of covering that up. Besides, I would prefer they did bring in the stunt double.”

  “Why?”

  “ ’Cause, if the other actor hurt you, I’d have to hurt him.”

  He chuckled. “Baby, he taller and bigger than me. How you gonna hurt him?”

  “Ha, the bigger they are, the harder they fall, Pooquie. That’s what that scene is all about. And when you mess with my man, you better be prepared to be messed with back.”

  He giggled. “You cray-zee, Baby.”

  “About you? Most definitely.”

  “So, how you doin’?”

  “Jood. I’d be doin’ better than jood if you were here. But Junior’s doing a jood job of keeping me company.”

  “Befo’ ya know it I’ll be Black.”

  “I know.” I looked at the calendar on the back of the bedroom door. “I’m countin’ the days.”

  “Oh, Baby, I gotta go. They callin’ fuh me.”

  “Okay. Don’t sweat this. And if you need to talk again, just call.”

  “You know I will. Thanks, Little Bit. I love you.”

  “I love you, too, Pooquie.”

  I WAS DRIFTING OFF TO SLEEP WHEN THERE WAS AN ERRATIC KNOCK ON THE BEDROOM DOOR.

  “Yes?”

  “Mitch-hull, may I come in?” Junior asked in a hurried voice.

  I sat up. “Yes, you may.”

  He bolted in. “Oh, I’m scared, I’m scared!”

  “Why?”

  Just then, a flash of lightning illuminated the dark room.

  He jumped. He covered his eyes with his hands and then aimed for and buried his face in my chest. “That! That!”

  “The lightning?”

  “Uh-huh,” he sobbed with urgency. He was trembling.

  I cuddled him. “You’re afraid of lightning?”

  “Uh-huh,” he repeated.

  I reached for and turned on the lamp. “You can look up now. The light is on.”

  He wouldn’t budge.

  “Junior, it’s okay.”

  He inched his hands away from his eyes to peek. Seeing it was safe, he lifted his head.

  Now, I could’ve given him the spiel about how he shouldn’t be afraid, that we’re inside and it won’t hurt you, that it’s only God blinking His eyes, and that it’s one of those natural wonders that we have no control over but can be rather spectacular, even beautiful. I remember hearing all of those things when I was his age and also being frightened—and none of it made any sense, nor did it make me feel better. Instead of providing me with comfort, these explanations just made it more mysterious and made the anxiety grow. So, at this moment, the last thing Junior needed was a lecture (especially since I’m sure he’s already heard it, more than once). It would be equivalent to convincing him the bogeyman isn’t in his closet. I think it’s important to help children overcome their fears, but there is indeed a time and place for everything, and trying to rationalize something so frightening when they are so young and want to be protected, not preached to, doesn’t help.

  I took his silence and that very panicked look on his face to mean one thing. I knew what he needed and wanted to hear right then.

  I cupped his chin. “Do you want to sleep in here tonight?”

  Those small eyes grew so wide I thought they were going to pop out of his head. “Can I, pleeze?”

  “Of course. Come on.”

  He hopped in the bed, scooting under the covers and settling on his back.

  I did the same. “I’ll leave the light on, okay?”

  “Okay. Thank you.” He smiled.

  “You’re welcome.”

  He grabbed my hand and squeezed it tight. “I love you, Mitch-hull.”

  I squeezed back. “I love you, too.” I kissed him on the forehead. “Jood night.”

  “Jood night.”

  A POLITE RUB TO MY SHOULDER WOKE ME UP. I opened my eyes to see Junior’s smile.

  “Jood morn­ing, ­Mitch-hull.” He was already dressed.

  I sat up. “Jood morn­ing. How did you sleep last night?”

  “I slept okay.” He grabbed my right hand, pulling me out of bed. “Come on. Wash your face and brush your teeth so you can eat your breakfast.”

  “Eat my breakfast?”

  “Yes.”

  Junior knew better than to mess with the stove, or work any other electrical appliance. I had to see what “breakfast” for him would entail.

  He had set a place for each of us at the ­dining-room table. ­There was a box of Wheaties, a glass of chocolate milk (for him), a glass of orange juice (for me), a banana for each of us, a stick of butter in a dish, and a jar of jam.

  “I didn’t want our toast to get cold,” he explained. “All I have to do is pull down the button and it will be done.”

  I walked into the kitchen. ­There ­were four slices of bread in the toaster. I smiled at him. “Well, isn’t this nice. I’ll scrub up and be right back.”

  “Okay.”

  We ate and then we watched an episode of the Jackson 5’s cartoon series (it’s on my special Michael Jackson compilation tape, along with his famous moonwalk on Motown 25, clips from their variety specials, and appearances they made on Soul Train, American Bandstand, and Midnight Special). We were out of the house just before noon and trekked on down to downtown Brooklyn’s Fulton Street Mall and Strip.

  Like Gene, Junior likes to shop-till-u-drop. Pooquie was outdone when we all went Christmas shopping last year; after two hours, he decided to wait (more like sleep) in the car while Junior and I finished (we legged it for another two). As I soon discovered, Junior had been paying close attention to wha
t I purchased for myself. He’d been able to read me so well that he figured out my taste. And he managed to not only choose the right item but the right store to go into; he’s never fooled by those “Going Out of Business” and “Everything Must Go” signs, which are just ruses to entice you inside and get you to buy shit you don’t want or need (half the time the store isn’t folding; they’re just trying to unload all the merchandise that hasn’t sold).

  So I let him take the lead. Because they were having a blowout on summer wear, he decided we should venture into Dr. Jay’s, a spot for those looking for the latest designer urban gear at somewhat reasonable prices. We weren’t in there thirty seconds when …

  “Ooh, Mitch-hull! Look at this!”

  It was a brown-and-gold tropical short-sleeved shirt. I took it off the rack.

  “I think you would look jood in that!” he exclaimed.

  “Do you?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Let me see …”

  I turned to a mirror mounted on a wall behind the clothing rack. I held it up to my chin and admired the way it complemented my own skin color. “I believe you’re right, Junior.” I raised my eyebrows. “Do you think your daddy will like this?” I already knew the answer would be a definitive …

  “No.” He pointed to another shirt. “Daddy would like that one.” It was a very bright orange.

  “Hmm, I think you’re right.” I checked the tag on the collar. “And it’s the right size.”

  “A double extra-large?” he asked.

  “Yes.” He knows his daddy, all right …

  After getting a sweater and a pair of overalls for himself (he grows so fast that it’s best not to buy him summer clothes in the winter), we found a cashier. He was more like an assistant manager—at least that’s what his name tag said. It was pinned to a turquoise turtleneck above his right nipple, which, like his left, was very visible and very hard. He had skin the color of butterscotch, a short natty ’fro (I assume he was locking his hair; I could smell beeswax and Indian hemp), ­soda-bottle-cap-sized eyes, a silver hoop through his left earlobe, and lines shaved through his eyebrows (the “jagged” style that would become very pop­u­lar a few years later).

  “Good mornin’,” he said, flashing those pearly whites (and a gold crown) at the both of us.

  “Good morn­ing to you, too,” I replied.

  He took the items. “Looks like y’all got some good bargains ­here.”

  “Yes, we did.”