Love the One You're With (18 page)

I
smiled
back at her. “Hello, Ms. Rivers. It's jood to see you.”

“It's jood to see you, too.”

“I see we're all ready to go, huh?” I observed.

“Yes,” he chirped.

“He's been ready to go since last weekend—that's when he started packing,” she added.

“Oh, really?”

“Uh-huh,” he grinned.

“And it's all he's been talking about. Before you know it, you could soon have a permanent houseguest.”

I shrugged. “I wouldn't mind. He's the perfect kind of guest: a
jood
one.” I pinched that nose. He giggled.

“Junior, go to your daddy's room for a moment. I want to talk to Mitchell about something.”

He gazed at us. “Oh … it's grown-up talk?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Okay. Let me know when you ready, Mitch-hull.” And off he ran.

“Please, take off your jacket. Would you like something to drink or eat?” she offered.

“No, thank you. I'm okay.”

“All right. Please, have a seat.” She pointed toward her dining-room set. I obeyed her, wrapping my brown leather jacket around the chair.

She sat across from me. “I … I wanted to ask you about something …”

Uh-oh …

“It … it's been heavy on my mind for some time …”

… ooh-ooh …

“I know I should be talking to Raheim about this …”

… look out …

“… but I figured you might have some … insight on it. Might even be able to tell me how to approach it and … well … approach him about it …”

… here it comes …

“Uh … I'm not sure how I should say this … uh …”

Just say it already! The suspense is killing me!

“I know how close you two are …”

And?

“… and that he values your opinion, as I do …”

AND???

“… and, I just have to know the truth …”

I'm gonna faint, right here, right now. I shoulda had that beverage!

“Do you know if he is …”

INHALE …

“… in a position to spend all that money?”

HUH???

My head was spinning from the false shock. “I'm, I'm sorry?”

“You know, on this co-op he wants to buy. Do you think he can really afford it?”

Yeesh. What was she trying to do, give me a heart attack?

“Uh, uh, yes, yes, uh, he can, Ms. Rivers,” I stammered. “He's been very practical with his money.” I chuckled. “And he knows how much you want to see him off that high-riser and out of that bedroom.”

She nodded. “Well, I do want to see him out on his own, but I don't want him to feel that he has to rush into something because he thinks I want him out. It's just that his being in the business he is in … he needs his own space, where he can entertain and take care of his business. But I don't want him spending his whole life savings on a piece of property just to make that move. I'd let him set up a business line and convert that little sewing room at the end of the hall into his office first.”

I caressed her left hand with my right. “Don't worry about him, Ms. Rivers. Not only is he financially ready to make this move, he's emotionally ready, too. And why wouldn't he be? Look who raised him.”

She gushed. “Oh, Mitchell.”

“It's true. And given who raised him, I'm sure he wouldn't want to leave the comfort of this home. But he knows it's time for him to make his own home, and he won't be in the doghouse when he does.”

She breathed a big sigh of relief; the worry was gone from her face. “Well, thank you. I appreciate that. I guess … knowing he's actually going to do it … I'm happy for him but sad at the same time, you know?”

“I do.”

“I'd appreciate it if you just kept this between me and you. He's a grown man—hard to believe, but he is—and I wouldn't want him to know that we were talking about something like this.”

“I think he'd be flattered that you wanted to discuss it with me.” The word I wanted to use was
flabbergasted
. If this doesn't prove that she knows, I don't know what further proof he would need. She's actually treating me like his significant other.

“I know how proud he can be—just like his father—and I also know that if something was or did go down, I'd be the very last person to hear about it.”

“I won't say a thing.”

“Thank you.” She palmed my hand into hers. “My son is very lucky to have a relationship with a friend like you.”

Well …
a relationship with a friend like you?

Junior reappeared. “Excuse me, Grammy. Are you and Mitch-hull finished?” He was wearing his black leather coat and cap.

“Young man, you have some timing, you know that?” She winked at me. She rose.

I did, too. “Yes, you do.”

“You're so anxious you just couldn't wait for one of us to call you, huh?” she asked.

“Anxious?” he questioned.

“Yes. That's when you can't wait for something to happen,” she explained.

“Oh, yes, that's what I feel!” he declared.

We laughed.

“Well, you have a jood half a weekend, okay?” She zipped him up and fixed his scarf.

“I will.”

She hugged him. “And you be a jood boy.”

“I will.”

“I love you.” She pinched his cheek.

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
D
s: 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 scene?”

“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.”