Part 16 (1/2)

You can tell a lot about a person from their furniture. Mama said that. Who could argue with a thirty-year-old living room set? I'd reupholstered our living room set, but it was all still there, even the three-leaf table everyone used to crowd around on Sunday afternoons after church, when the real service started. When people cried into their coleslaw and huddled in clumps of prayer over ribs and potato salad. It was our living room where secrets were whispered, babies announced, trouble exposed.

The way our pastor led the morning service, Daddy had once served as our dinnertime priest. It was during these hours of the week that he had s.h.i.+ned-cooking hush puppies crispy and sweet, fried fish and cheese grits, his tribute to the Georgia he'd left behind at age fifteen. Mama would sit beside him and peel potatoes, her bitterness draining away with each slice. Then somehow, as if by magic, a laugh would ring out of her mouth, followed by the low rumbling of Daddy's trash-talking voice.

”Don't make me have to stop cooking and come over there and get some sugar from you.” When he talked like that it was better than hummingbird cake. Sweet. Airy. And Mama ate it right up, all the while playing hard-to-get.

”Don't you come over here. You're burning that food as it is....”

I would stop just short of the kitchen, soaking in their once-a-week love ritual of bartered kisses and flirty words. ”Honey,” he'd call her. ”Baby,” she'd answered. ”Sweetheart.” Daddy usually whispered that one. All those nicknames choked out by everyday life. For me, it tasted better than the food, their love talk. And considering the offered fare, that was saying a lot.

The doorbell would start singing then, each note filling our home with friends and family. Even my father's sister, Aunt Cheryl, and her horrid daughters would come, though they'd never speak to us on the street during the week. Stuck-up though they were, n.o.body with good sense could turn down Daddy's fish. And those ribs? I get dizzy just thinking about them.

Right before we'd line up with our plates, there would come a knock at the door. Adrian's mother. She said only strangers rang the bell. She always tumbled in like a bouquet of daisies, laughing and swaying with those spidery lashes spilling onto her cheeks. When we were small, Jordan swore they were fake. I dared him to prove it. He tried to pull them off and almost blinded the woman. Took him months to look her way again.

I always gawked at her when she came in, knowing I'd get a licking for it later. I couldn't help myself though. Her face called to me and so I went, looking over every inch of it, memorizing every pore, wondering how someone so perfect-looking could walk around like normal people and let barbeque sauce drip on her dress. Even after I realized she wasn't perfect, I couldn't stop looking at her. Her smile was like a slow song after a long day. It just hit the spot.

Adrian didn't mind me looking at his mother. He was used to people staring. She wasn't. She'd always turn to me and say, ”Baby, is my slip showing?” Adrian was proud of her beauty because it meant so much to me.

I was proud, too. Of Daddy, who never stared at Adrian's mother like all the other men. It would have been easy and n.o.body would have thought bad of him for it-Mama stared at her, too-but he kept his eyes glued on Mama until the last dish was washed and the last chair emptied. Only when we took the middle leaf out of the table and shoved it back to its normal size, did his heart scamper away from us.

I sometimes wondered if Daddy didn't stick around because of those Sundays, if he didn't swallow each Sabbath evening like a pill, gulping every second, hoping that some morsel of that love would protect him from the war to be fought in the same kitchen over the next week. If Jordan hadn't left, the Sundays may have kept things going. Tided us all over with a little hope.

But Jordan did leave, and when he did, Mama took the middle leaf out of the table and covered it with a white plastic cloth and stuffed letters under it. Letters marked ”Return to Sender.” I'd tied them all up and set them in a box in case Jericho ever wanted them. Until today, the table had graced my foyer, cherry wood gleaming under a burgundy linen cloth and mats of forest green. I never found the middle leaf. That Daddy had known where it was all along had never occurred to me.

Until now.

The scent of hot fish caught me on the stairs. I'd stopped at first, my heart galloping, trying to make sure I wasn't hallucinating. The coconut oil Daddy used to cook it-his secret ingredient-floated into the hall and lingered around my head. I stepped cautiously to my door. Laughter and music greeted me from the other side.

He didn't. Surely not.

Before I could turn the k.n.o.b, the door swung open. Jordan's girlfriend, whatever her name was, opened the door. ”It's her!” she squealed, her makeup bunching up into a blur of beiges, greens and blues.

”Yes, it's me. At my own house. What a surprise,” I mumbled.

Licking his fingers, Jordan appeared behind MissTammy Faye. ”Surprise!” he shouted as I stumbled into the foyer. The spot where the leaf table used to be, waiting quietly, burdened with flowers, too afraid to remember what wonders it had once beheld, was now bare. The old table, bold and full of memories adorned the living room. All twelve original chairs circled the oval of cherry wood.

I swallowed hard and forced my feet toward the smell of hush puppies rolling in a vat of olive oil, taken from my soap supplies, no doubt. He'd probably borrowed the coconut oil, too. I ignored Trevor and Dahlia, intertwined on the couch. My couch.

It's her house, too. Let it go.

Sure she'd grown up here, but I'd redone the place, helped Mom buy it from the co-op. And here Daddy had gone and done this? Just as I was about to melt down, my niece bounded out of the bathroom with those antenna pigtails and Trevor's chocolate-drop eyes. She was beautiful, like Adrian's mother. I could hardly take my eyes off her.

The little girl matched my steps and took my hand. ”Hey,” is all she said, as if she'd been waiting for me.

”Hey yourself.” I saddled her on my hip-though I hadn't planned on it-and considered how I'd fix her hair so that gravity could do its work. We shuffled past Roch.e.l.le and her driver friend. I tried to smile, but I'm sure it came out more like one of those Gary Payton smirks from the NBA finals. You know, the ”How you doing? Well, I hope you're well because I'm about to kick your behind” look? That one.

Sierra clung to my neck. ”You have a pretty house,” she said. ”It's happy.”

Happy? My house? What kind of life was this child living? ”Thank you. You have pretty hair. Will you let me do it for you?”

We'd reached the kitchen now and were leaning up against the door frame, watching as Adrian dropped the b.a.l.l.s of cornmeal into the oil and my father fished them out. At the sight of them together, I took a sharp breath.

If my niece noticed my alarm, she didn't show it.

”Would you do my hair?” she whispered. ”Mommy makes it scary. I want happy hair. Like this house.”

A tear trailed my cheek and wet her braid, standing on end like a curly exclamation point. She felt my tears. I knew because she squeezed me tighter, but she didn't say a word. I cried harder, sorry that someone so young was so accustomed to being cried on. ”I'll make your hair as happy as I can,” I said in a creaking voice.

She nodded and the hush puppy team turned at the sound of my voice. Adrian smiled. Daddy turned away.

”So what's all this about?” I reached for a hush puppy and blew on it before handing it to Sierra. From another heaping plate of fried fish fillets, catfish from the looks of it, I pinched off a piece.

Daddy shoved the mustard down the counter. ”This is about family. About the family we were and the family we can still be. It ain't nothing easy, but good food can make it go down a whole lot better.”

”Yum-mo,” Sierra said, her face bright as the sun. ”Does it have twansfat? I can't eat that.”

All three of us paused and stared at the little girl. Dahlia surely hadn't changed. ”No transfats, baby. Here.” I blew off another and turned back to Daddy. ”But did you have to do it here? Bring them...here?”

Adrian straightened, rolling a grainy ball between his palms. Another smile. ”Chill,” he mouthed without making a sound.

He'd been away far too long. For me, this was chill, as chill as I could be on a day I'd come home and found the whole block partying in my living room. I stared at the layout-paper plates, cups, condiments, food. At least they hadn't used any of my stuff.

Watching my expression, Daddy let out a hearty laugh. ”No, I didn't use nothing of yours besides the oil. Wasn't nothing to use. No wonder you so evil, living on old cereal.”

More like the drive-thru. The cereal was just for Monday mornings when I started my ”program” for the nth time only to quit by the end of the day. I decided not to explain.

”As for the 'them,' where else could I bring 'em? You ain't paid my rent.” He tasted a hush puppy and licked his lips.

The heel of my free hand smacked my forehead. Dad's rent. Hadn't I paid that? I'd called.... ”I'm so sorry, Dad.”

Daddy shrugged. ”Sorry? Don't be. I'm a grown man. It's about time I started acting like one again.”

Wow. ”Where are you staying?”

His eyes bore into me. ”With my son.”

Jordan? Talk about two who deserved each other. How long would that arrangement last? I clamped my mouth shut.

He frowned and motioned to Adrian. ”Put another egg in that, son.” He took another bite. ”And a splash of milk.” Nodding as if agreeing with himself, he turned back to me. ”What was I saying?”

Sierra looked up from licking every finger. ”Had to bring 'em here.”

Daddy wiped his hands on his ap.r.o.n and kissed her chubby cheek. ”That's right, baby. Thank you.”

She smiled at me and whispered, ”He's nice. My gwanpa.” I nodded in agreement. No sense confusing her by explaining that he was my Daddy, too. When I'd finally figured out that my grandmother was my mother's mother, I had a headache for days. I was four, but they told the story forever. I hoped Daddy wouldn't make the connection and recite the tale now.

He opened the oven and checked something delicious-smelling but blocked my view so I couldn't see. I closed my eyes. I didn't need to see. I could smell. Carrots, raisins, b.u.t.ter, eggs...Hummingbird cake. My favorite.