“Not too bad, Dad. Not too bad.”
I paused. “That’s all I got for now.”
“Hashtag listening to my dad’s advice. Hashtag getting emotional.”
I smiled. “What are you studying? Which class is the hardest?”
“Theories of Deviance. Have to do a paper tonight. I’m working on a short story too.”
“Short story? Didn’t know you were writing.”
“Runs in the family.”
“Can I read it?”
“Yeah, but you’ll be too harsh.”
“Mom see it?”
“She’s not as critical as you. I get it, Dad. I’m a black kid. You’re harsh with me because you see that as toughening me up, getting me ready for this cruel white world. I get it. Especially when I’m with you.”
“People treat you differently when you’re with Mom?”
“Well, people used to think she was the babysitter or had kidnapped an African American baby.”
“Anyone ever call the cops? They call the cops on black people in a heartbeat.”
“She’s white. She could kidnap Africa, and no one would. Wait, the white half of my bloodline did that. My bad.”
“You got jokes.”
“Self-deprecating humor helps me get through the day.”
I asked, “What do you want to do in life?”
“I don’t want to do what you do. You’re gone months at a time, and Mom hates it.”
“You hate it?”
“Used to. I’m used to it now. We text and stuff, but I’m not used to being face-to-face.” He laughed. “You’re like a plane that’s flying around the world, going city to city, and I’m just an airport layover.”
That joke stung. “You’re used to me not being here.”
“You’re used to not being here. You get home and you get antsy like you need to leave again.”
“Being on the road gets in your blood.”
“It’s like you live in a different city every week. I have to track your show online to know where you are.”
“You’re not used to being around me; is that what you’re saying?”
Fela shrugged. “Like this. It’s odd.”
“Frenchie got a boyfriend?”
“Why?”
“I’m not here, so was wondering if you . . . had another male role model. It’s important. A black child needs a black man to help navigate him though this white world. Would be great if she . . . had a friend like that.”
“She goes on dates, I think.”
“You think?”
“She doesn’t tell me anything except to stay home and study until she gets back.”
“She stays out all night?”
“No later than midnight. She likes to go to bed early.”
“Often?”
Fela shrugged. “Maybe once a month.”
“Okay.”
“Dad. You have a girlfriend?”
“Nobody special. Never in one spot long enough to make anything work.”
“All those women in those pictures you take online?”
“Just random people. Nobody special. They all go away in the end.”
We finished eating and went outside to walk around and browse the shops.
Fela said, “Dad? Why didn’t you marry Mom?”
That jarred me and I was silent for a few seconds. “I don’t know. Just didn’t work out that way.”
“She said that being married to a white woman would’ve been bad for your career, would’ve destroyed your black fan base, made black women hate you, and left you talented but broke, and ostracized.”
“I never said that.”
“She said you were ashamed to be seen with her outside of the tour.”
“There is a lot she didn’t tell you. I’m not the only ingredient in this gumbo.”
“Dad.”
“You know she was married when I met her, right?”
“She said you had a girlfriend.”
“Your mother was married.”
“You cheated on your girlfriend.”
“She cheated on her husband.”
“Chill, Dad. You look like you’re ready to flip a table. I read that the average person falls in love seven times before getting married. Maybe you hadn’t fallen in love with enough people before you met her.”
I took a breath, reeled it in. “The child becomes the teacher.”
“I’m not a child.”
“My bad.”
“No offense, but I’m watching you and Mom to learn what not to do.”
“Are we that bad?”
“I’m sure there are worse.”
“Burn.”
“Some of my friends would be glad to get one text from their dad, let alone see him. For a lot of them the word dad isn’t in their vocabulary. I get to use the word dad every day. For them Father’s Day is some kind of anti-holiday, a day of hate or ridicule or remorse or bitterness. You try, Dad. You’re in my life. I always know where you are. You answer when I call. Plus, you send me bomb presents and the swag is poppin’. Means a lot to me.”
“I’ll do better.”
“Have I really cost you a million dollars so far?”
I sighed. “That wasn’t why I showed you that. You thought I had never paid your mom any money for some reason. She misled you. I just wanted you to know I was being responsible. I’m not a deadbeat dad.”
Fela took a second. “I’m the reason everybody is broke.”
“Stop it.”
“To be clear, you know I’m not paying you back, right?”
Laughter pulled us together, father and son, and my heart felt lighter and hopeful. My laughter was strong, but short-lived. It ended when I saw Frenchie heading our way, resting bitch face in full effect.
CHAPTER 34
DWAYNE
FROM THE MULTITUDE of tourists and locals Frenchie sashayed our way. My child’s mother wore a sheer, crotch-high tunic over a two-piece bathing suit. Heart-shaped lips, the kind many women paid to get installed. Solid legs. Just enough hook to her bottom. Memories stood up, danced, made some decisions seem like regrets.
Frenchie asked Fela, “You eat?”
I said, “You’re not talking to me?”
Sarcasm on one hundred, she replied, “Scared if I speak, your punk ass might call the cops.”
“I did what I had to do.”
“That was fucked-up.”
“Mom. Language.”
I said, “So is having a starving child. If I didn’t care, I would have done nothing.”
Fela said, “I’m not starving, Dad.”
“Should I show your mother the text messages you sent?”
Frenchie said, “You called the cops. Be glad I feel like being nice today.”
Fela snapped, “Everybody chill.”
I told Frenchie, “I want to show my son Bruce’s Beach.”
Frenchie added more resistance and attitude. “I’m sorry. Did I hear the word please in that sentence? You make requests, cleared by me, and don’t you dare show up making demands. I’m the full-time parent.”
“Sure. Please, may I show my son the historic Bruce’s Beach?”
“What’s that, where is that, and why does he need to see it with you?”
“Used to be a black beach until . . . until the KKK . . . until it wasn’t. Do I have your permission?”
“Can’t you just spend time with your son instead of making it a field trip about racism? A day like today, a day this beautiful, and that’s what you want to do with your son? A son you haven’t seen since—”
“Ma.”
“Racism will be here tomorrow, Dwayne. Enjoy your son and the weather today. Because we both know another storm is coming soon. If you’ve fo
rgotten, have your attorney ask my attorney for details.”
“Ma. Dad. How about I cut myself in half and you both get a piece?”
That shut it down for now. Family court would resurrect ghosts and open old wounds.
Frenchie asked, “Where is that beach located?”
“Walking distance. Highland and Twenty-Seventh. Want to show him the overlooked marker that looks like a dead culture’s tombstone and teach him about the racial history of black people down here in Manhattan Beach.”
Frenchie said, “You can go with your dad if you want to go, Fela. That’s all I was saying. If you want to. Don’t be afraid to tell me or Dwayne that you want to do something, or don’t want to do something.”
Frenchie smiled at Fela, and he nodded a nod that said that he wanted to come with me because that was what I wanted to do with him. His expression begged his mom not to continue an argument in public. Cops a few feet away slowed and watched us, evaluated the bad-tempered situation. Black man. White woman. Arguing over a teenager, his hue somewhere in between, his hair radical. Hashtag moment. Frenchie waved. The cops nodded, then moved on. Her tribe. Her privilege was being used to protect and serve the black life in her life that mattered.
She told Fela, “Two hours. Meet me over there. You have your phone?”
“In my pocket.”
“Two hours, Dwayne. Respect my wishes. Two hours or it’s my turn to call the cops.”
CHAPTER 35
DWAYNE
AFTER GOING BY Bruce’s Beach, we ran back toward the pier, passed the skaters, bicyclists, joggers, and walkers on the paved trail, hiked the sand, laughed and jested, until we found Frenchie. One hour and fifty-nine minutes had passed. My son’s mother saw us coming. I nodded at Frenchie. She went back to focusing on her workout. She was on a low concrete wall. Frenchie stood like a gymnast and did a backflip, hit the desert’s warm sand, and did thirteen more backflips, half of them handless. Performed like it was no big deal. She wore her bikini top and thong bottom, everything Speedo tight, like every female volleyball player. Her body was show-business ready.
She used to do those across the stage during rehearsal, effortlessly, for kicks, for attention. That was how she had caught my eye. She had done a set and grinned at me. She was married back then, showing off, flirting. Her enormous talent had me as in awe of her as she was of me. We’d given each other that attention and praise that all entertainers needed. We had fed each other praises until our bellies were filled and we both needed to be burped.
Frenchie did handstands, cartwheels. When some music came on, when “Level Up” jammed from a nearby speaker, she danced like Ciara. Fela ran over and joined in. They tried to outdance each other. Fela didn’t stand a chance. Frenchie had been performing since she could walk, and it showed. I watched the former pop star and thespian show off, watched her be a peahen and garner applause. Mother and son were like brother and sister.
Their bond was strong, unbreakable. I felt my absence in Fela’s life, and it hurt like hell. I’d worked hard, provided, worked in shows I hated to keep the cash coming in, and I had still managed to fall short.
I wanted a do-over, but there were only do-overs in theater, where each night you got to repeat the same show, you got to fix any mistakes, to rewrite dialogue, to change entrances and exits.
Life wasn’t that way.
Frenchie looked better now than fifteen years ago.
It disturbed me, the sensuous way her legs moved, their rhythm.
My million-dollar kid came to me, hugged me, said he had to go. I wanted to hold him there. I grasped for a conversation that would make me worthy of being his dad, something that acknowledged he was no longer a child.
“Do I need to talk to you about being mixed race?”
“I abhor being called mixed. Makes me feel like a science experiment.”
“Any problems?”
“Same thing as most kids who are like me. We get picked on more. Mostly by blacks. Whites are afraid to call me names to my face because they’ll be called racists. But black people. Mutt. Half-breed. Corny stuff.”
“It’s fucked that we even need to have that conversation. This isn’t anything new.”
“Girl I like, she was telling me about all the racism her parents went through.”
“Who is this girl?”
“She’s biracial. Her last name is Greene but we call her Chavers. She has red hair. Her mom is a famous artist, and her dad is a big-time engineer or something, like Uncle Brick. She’s older, but I really like her.”
“What you like about her?”
“She is woke af. She vibes to Badu and twerks to Boosie.”
“How much older is this intellectual-yet-twerking woke girl?”
“One year. She goes to the Ramón C. Cortines School of Visual and Performing Arts.”
“You having sex with this freckle-faced redheaded biracial girl who looks like Ella Mai?”
“Dad, I’m still a virgin.”
“Really?”
“I’m not smashing. Don’t do the stereotypical thing and think that since I’m a black kid over five years old I’m having sex. Virgin. For real. Girls know I’m pure and are coming at me. They made a bet who can hit this first. They be coming by the house trying to get in my window all through the night, especially on Saturdays.”
“Be coming?”
“I’m half-black. Let me be all black af and wreck verbs for fun when I’m in that state of mind.”
“What I just tell you about saying af?”
“Let me be black af like Chavers. I’ll speak the queen’s English and use af on the way home.”
We laughed. I remembered him the day he was born. I remembered him in diapers. He was a young man now and needed me as much now as he ever would. I gave him a hundred dollars.
He asked, “You sure?”
“Take it before I change my mind.”
He hugged me like he loved me just as much as he loved his mother. I didn’t want to let him go, but Frenchie came to rain on the end of the celebration. She took his hand and stole him away from me.
I walked behind them, in the horde of faceless people, like I was a goddamn stranger. As we stood at the light to cross the street, Frenchie gazed over at me. Sighed. Considered me. It was her first time looking me in my eyes since New Jersey. She regarded me, and the hard edges softened up, but her lips turned downward.
Fela broke in. “Mom, stop scowling. You’re being twitchy af and weird af all of a sudden.”
She rehabilitated her expression like she recalled New Jersey again.
I cleared my throat, adjusted my mind, did the same.
CHAPTER 36
BRICK
THE NEXT DAY as I slept, someone used a key; then my front door opened and closed hard.
A pained voice called out, “Briiiiiick?”
I ended my nap and opened my eyes.
That pained voice called out again, “Briiiiiick?”
“Coming.”
She groaned. “Don’t yell.”
“I’m not yelling.”
I was home, in my bed, early afternoon. I followed the distressed voice to my kitchen.
Mocha Latte had on dark running shorts, dark bra, and a dark wifebeater. She was sitting in a kitchen chair, bent over, elbows on the old wooden table, holding her head, leg bouncing like a jackhammer. She raised her head when I came near her and made a face like someone had dropped an anvil on her foot.
I grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge. “What’s wrong?”
She took a breath. “Migraine. I told you I get stupid-bad migraines.”
“How stupid-bad is this one?”
“Don’t drink the water so loud.”
“Loudly.”
“Go to hell.”
“Sorry.”
“I was trying to masturbate to self-medicate and make my head stop aching. Can’t focus.”
“You just masturbated?”
“Tried.”
“Oh. Did you need my bed?”
“Was about to ask you for a favor.”
“This is a joke, right?”
Her face showed me the intensity of her pain. “Orgasm turns off the migraine pain. I need the endorphin rush or I’ll go crazy. I would pay you. It would be a professional service. Don’t get it twisted.”
“Are you serious?”
“I decided that wasn’t the right move.”
“Great. Now I have a migraine in my balls.”
“Was up all night. I messed around and didn’t take medicine in time. I should take medicine every day, but it messes with my digestive system. So, I try to fight my way through. But this time, it’s really bad.”
I asked, “Where are Penny and Christiana?”
It was hard for her to speak. “They’re at Venice Beach. Rollerblading.”
I asked, “Should I call them to come back and help?”
She shook her head. “They can’t do anything for me.”
“You sure?”
“Look in my purse. Tell me which medicines I have inside the green bag in there.”
“Where is it?”
She struggled, pointed to the kitchen counter, then went back to bouncing her leg with the pain.
I said, “Found it. “Co-codamol?”
She made affirmative sounds. “And get the Tylenol.”
“How many?”
“I don’t know. Just . . . just . . . just give me two of each.”
“That will be about two thousand milligrams of mixed medicine.”
“When it’s this bad, it only works for me if I make a cocktail.”
Mocha Latte took her cocktail, then grabbed a pillow and crashed on the oversize classic sofa.
I got back into bed, stared at the ceiling until sleep found me.
Mocha Latte made a pained sound from the living room and woke me up.
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