Born at Dawn (26 page)

Cynthia played like she didn't know where she was going to stay to keep Marvin off her back but she knew she could always go home. She sat on the stoop for several minutes contemplating ringing the doorbell.

The thought of having to give her mother an account of how she had spent the last six years living a lavish life in Richmond as an entrepreneur while her son was here in Harlem being shot down kept her from ringing the bell.

“It sure is nice to see you again. Praise the Lord for your safe return,” Ms. Marcus, one of Mildred's neighbors, said, welcoming Cynthia with a warm hug. Ms. Marcus held the door open for Cynthia smiling. Cynthia was hesitant to follow her into the building.

She plodded up the steps, praying Mildred wasn't home. Cynthia wasn't ready for the confrontation. Her thinking was that her presence would somehow expiate Keith's murder; instead Marvin greeted her with sorrow and bitterness. There was no telling what kind of greeting she would receive when she knocked on her mother's door.

Mildred opened the door on the first knock. She was still a plump, round beauty. Her honey-colored skin glowed against the fuchsia boat-neck shirt she was wearing. Some strands of her hair fell loosely around her face. She'd cut it in layers to defer some of the attention from the spider web color her hair had morphed into. Mildred smiled at her only child, opened the door wider, ushering her in with her free hand.

In the foyer, Cynthia found everything else to look at except Mildred's eyes. Cynthia studied the wall adjacent to the dining room. It looked like the view from the cliff side of a Mediterranean island. Next she took note that the tiles needed the grout cleaned.

“What did you come here for, girl, to smile at me? Aren't you going to say hello or something to your mother?”

“Of course, Ma.” She reached out to embrace her. Mildred squeezed her so tightly Cynthia couldn't tell whether it was an angry hug or an affectionate one. Mildred released Cynthia and went right into praising the Lord.

“Thank you, Jesus. Thank you, Jesus,” she shouted at the top of her lungs between jumps. “You brought her back safely. Oh, bless the good Lord.

“Excuse me,” Mildred said, smoothing out her blouse. “It's just so hard for me to contain myself right now. Are you okay? Where are your bags? Where are you staying? How long are you staying?”

“One thing at a time. I don't have anywhere to stay, Ma. Can I stay here?”

Mildred raised her eyebrow and looked around the room. “I suppose I have enough room for you, but let's be clear, the last time you stayed with me, that crazy man you have for a husband came pounding on my door. You're not hiding out from him again, are you?

Mildred's response perplexed Cynthia. Did she not know that her grandson was dead?

“No, ma'am. I don't think he'll be looking for me.”

“All right then. It's settled, you can stay here. Are you hungry or something? I don't have much, but I'll fix something up for you.”

“No, thank you, ma'am.”

“Suit yourself. Are you on a diet or something? Because you look good already, girl. The South has been good to you. Take your coat off, girl. Go wash your hands and sit down and relax.”

“Ma,” Cynthia said unbuttoning her coat, “how did you know I was in the South?”

“Only the Southern sun can get you that golden brown, you keep calling me ma'am—they only do that in the South—and your cousin Rita saw you in Virginia at your restaurant, Sa . . . Sa. Something foreign. I want to say Saki but I know that's not the name of it.” Cynthia was floored by her mother's revelation.

Cynthia tried to speculate how long her mother had known where she was and who else knew. She shrieked at the thought that Mildred might have shared this info with Marvin. Cynthia quickly calmed herself down. Marvin didn't know or he would have dragged her back to New York by her ponytail.
I was there all this time and she never reached out to me.
Covering her mouth with her hand Cynthia wondered what else Mildred knew about.
Does she know about Cheo?

Her mind had put Cheo in the bottom drawer of a file cabinet. She had not thought about him or called him since arriving in New York. The room seemed to shrink. Cynthia excused herself and went into the bathroom. Cynthia took a few sips of water from the tap to rid her mouth of the taste of rosebuds, pulled her hair back into a tighter ponytail, ran her wet hands along the nape of her neck, and washed her hands and face.

Following her little pick-me-up in the bathroom, she found Mildred seated at the table praying over a bowl of rice and baked chicken. Mildred patted the seat closest to her, inviting Cynthia to participate in the dining experience.

“Like I was saying, your cousin Rita saw you down there. You know, she's a big executive at Bank of America. Don't tell nobody though. With that whole recession thing working at a bank isn't such an honorable thing anymore. Anyhoo, I think she got promoted maybe two or three years ago. They wanted to relocate her. She said she had to check it out first, which is understandable. Now while she was out there, she calls me up all out of breath screaming, ‘Aunt Millie, Aunt Millie, you're not going to believe this, but I just saw Cynthia in the newspaper.' I laughed and told her she had to be mistaken. It was probably someone who looked like you. You sure you're not hungry, not even just a little bit, baby?”

“Maybe, just a little bit, Ma.”

Mildred disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a bowl of corn, the pan of baked chicken, rice, and a Styrofoam plate for Cynthia. Mildred set each dish down on the table and placed the plate in front of Cynthia.

“This is self-service, girlfriend,” Mildred said, snapping her fingers and laughing.

Cynthia's heart was warmed by her mother's rawness. She wasn't rude. She was kind of cute and funny. Cynthia appreciated the honesty, which was in high demand in Richmond. One drawback to running a successful business was finding people who were willing to be honest with you. No one wanted to be on her bad side because they were afraid of what the consequences would be. It felt good to be home and scoop up her own rice.

“Now where was I? Oh yeah. So after Rita saw you in the paper, she decided to do some digging around, either to prove me wrong or just satisfy her own curiosity. She should have been a cop. She stayed behind to check it out. She mailed a copy of the ad for your restaurant to me. She even took photos of you greeting customers and taking pictures with them.”

This little anecdote temporarily released Cynthia from having to deal with Keith's death before she was ready to and gave her something else to be concerned about. It troubled her to know that her mother knew where she was and left her. “If you knew where I was, Ma, why didn't you contact me?”

“Cynthia, you know something I learned about people: when they want to be found, they let someone know where to find them. It seemed to me you didn't want to be found, so I put you in God's hands because I knew He knew what to do with you because I didn't,” Mildred expounded while stuffing huge spoonful of rice and corn into her mouth.

“Who's watching the restaurant for you now?” Mildred asked.

“Susan, my mentor's daughter. I've got an excellent manager, and my sous-chef is always on point. He works well with the apprentice chef I'm training, and Cheo has the keys if anything goes wrong, but I really hadn't given it too much thought before I left.”

“That's a bad habit you've got.” Mildred shook her spoon at Cynthia. “Leaving without thinking things through.”

Cynthia gnawed on her bottom lip, trying to curb her tears. She could see where this conversation was going. She hoped her mother would take it easy on her, but she was pushing her right into the pit. Cynthia struggled to breathe as she choked on the resentment she could hear in Mildred's assertion.

“Just say it. Say what you really want to say, that I'm a bad mother, that my kids should have come first.” The tears sprung from her eyes as she screamed, “I shouldn't have left them. Go on and say that this is my fault. Go ahead, Ma, say it. It's my fault that Keith is dead.”

On cue Mildred rose from her seat, grabbing Cynthia. She tried to use her arms to keep Cynthia from falling apart. “I wasn't going to say that. I mean was I disappointed? No, I was devastated when you left. I had the police looking for you and the whole nine yards, but this is not your fault. None of this. It is promised to man once to die and then the judgment. The boy wasn't going to live forever. He was a hooligan if ever I saw one, just like his father. Maybe if you had stayed, he would have lived a little longer, but sooner or later he would have wound up dead. Look at me.”

Cynthia spun around in her seat to face her mother as she stood over her.

“All he did was run the street. I can only imagine your pain. I was scared to death something terrible happened to you. Since there was no body I was able to hope that you were alive.”

Mildred released her grip on Cynthia and cradled her face. “What you need to do now is sit down for a while, have a little talk with Jesus then with Marvin and figure out what you're going to do for your other son. Burying Keith and building James up should be your main concern.” The intercom sounded, preventing Cynthia from answering the call her mother had just issued on her life.

“I'll be down in a sec,” Mildred said into the intercom. She returned to the table and kissed Cynthia on top of her head. “Don't wait up for me. That's Pastor David. We're having all-night prayer at the church for the young people in Harlem.”

Cynthia just nodded, baffled that in the middle of a crisis her mother was running off. Then she remembered this was her crisis, so she would now have to do what she had forced everyone else to do: cope with it on her own.

It seemed like Mildred floated out of the door. Cynthia envied that light and airy way her mom was able to conduct herself, even at the worst of times. Cynthia used a napkin to wipe away her tears and what felt like some of the shame that came with the death of her firstborn son.

She searched through her purse for her cell phone. The first call she made was to Sabor. Susan had everything under control. Next she sifted through her voicemail. Cynthia tapped her foot on the table leg, impatiently waiting for Cheo's voice to improve her current state of mind.

“
Mi amor,
the end is only the beginning. Call me when you can.”

She exhaled when she heard that rich voice full of optimism and love.

Her heart sped up as the reality of the situation set in.
I can never call you, Cheo.
In one day the past and present had collided and blown up in her face. Cynthia folded her arms and used them as a pillow. Her tears ran out of her eyes forming a small pool in the crease of her bent arms. She wished she had a lasso to wrangle her thoughts together as they bounced from man to man in her life. She tried to figure out how she would handle James, manage Marvin, and face Cheo.

First she would have to deal with herself.
Why are you here?
Cynthia asked herself.

Grabbing a napkin from the table she scribbled her objective. Healing. Could everyone be healed without anyone else getting hurt?

James's hard pound on his father's bedroom door announced his arrival to Marvin. The team bus had just arrived this morning. The blinds were drawn despite the brightness of the Monday morning. Flecks of dust floated in the beams of sunlight that snuck in through the blinds.

“Come in,” Marvin croaked.

The hinges on the door squeaked as James opened the door. Marvin stared at James hovering in the doorway. James stared back at his father. Marvin hoped the dry patches that covered his face would not reveal he'd been crying. Marvin scratched his throat contemplating how he was supposed to begin this conversation; announcing Keith's death would be a break from their scripted one-way conversation they shared every morning.

Marvin coughed then got out of the bed and stood in the doorway with his son. “There are some things that we need to talk about, Jimmy.”

James laughed a curt, dry laugh, indicating he recognized Marvin's little ploy. Jimmy was his childhood nickname, and Marvin only used it when he wanted no resistance from James or needed to smooth things over.

“I wish I was a bit more eloquent, I wish I knew how to say things in a gentle way, but I only know how to be raw. This is going to cut you to the bone when you hear it.” Marvin locked eyes with his younger son. He could see impatience brooding in his eyes. Marvin put both of his hands on James's shoulders before the words maneuvered themselves out of his mouth.

“Keith is dead.”

James flinched a little then raised his eyebrows to form a question.

“He is, James. I'm sorry but he was shot on Fri—”

James bolted out the door before Marvin could deliver all the details of Keith's death.

Pulling on a pair of gray sweatpants that were lying in the middle of the floor, Marvin tried to craft a list of all the places James would go seeking comfort, but he didn't know where James would go. He hoped someone on the block had seen him and could tell him where he went. Luckily, Marvin didn't have to go far. As soon as he stepped outside, he found James on his knees weeping in front of Keith's memorial. He knelt down as if he was at the altar. His teardrops fell into the melting candles. He rocked back and forth with his hands folded in front of him. James's lips moved rapidly, yet Marvin could not make out one syllable.

Marvin bent down and put his hand on James's shoulder. “Get off the ground,” he whispered in his ear.

“Wh . . . wh . . . where were you?” James rolled his shoulder, shaking Marvin's hand off him. He let go of the silence and hollered, “Were you with that whore? Were you in bed with her when this happened to him?”

Marvin looked James up and down. The sound of his son's voice jolted him; not even the accusation, just the sound. Marvin had never seen James so sad. Tears streaked his brown face. His whole body rocked with sadness. Marvin extended his arm to help his son off the ground. Marvin's hand quivered while reaching out to him. James used the building for support as he hoisted himself up off the ground. He swatted away Marvin's hand that still hung in the air so hard Marvin lost his balance and fell trying not to step on the shrine erected in honor of his son.

With his eyes closed Marvin tried to summon the strength to stand. “When will this get better?”

Cynthia stood over Marvin as he lay on the glittery concrete. Marvin opened his eyes and smiled at the sight of the burnished glow of her skin. What he had to smile about was a mystery to her after watching James knock him to the ground and walk away from the corner. Nevertheless, Cynthia smiled back, extending her hand to help him up. Marvin brushed her off with a wave, stood on his own, and dusted off his clothes. Cynthia shook her head at him. He cut his eyes at her, clearly designating the blame for what seemed to be a never-ending train wreck.

She made up in her mind then what she would do after the funeral.
We're burying Keith, and I'm on a plane back to Richmond.

“Can a mother forget a child?” she heard in her head. She rolled her eyes, questioning where that voice came from. “Can a mother forget her child?” The second time she heard the voice, she recognized it as one she hadn't heard in a long time.
What do you want me to do, Lord? What can I do, Lord? James is lost already. If I stay here, I'll disrupt the flow of his life, and I can't just uproot him from here just to satisfy some maternal urge,
she reasoned.

The sound of Marvin clearing his throat disrupted Cynthia's internal dialogue. She stared at Marvin. His stomach hung slightly over his pants, his white T-shirt was yellowing, and his lips were dry and cracked. She searched his eyes for the man she once loved. All that met her was the bleak emptiness that filled him. An emptiness that she'd created. She walked to the door and leaned on it while Marvin searched his pocket for keys.

When they entered the apartment, James was sitting on the couch. He didn't speak to either one of them.

Cynthia immediately tore into Marvin and asked, “Why didn't you tell him right away?”

“I couldn't, Cynthia. It was the weekend of the Super Six high school tournament. College scouts come. It's televised. His team needed him focused on the game.”

“What about what he needed, Marvin? Did you have money riding on that game or something?”

“You ain't got no right to waltz in here questioning my decisions. It doesn't matter whether I had money riding on the game. I did what I did because he's got something special. You've never seen him on the court, so you wouldn't understand, but it's the only moment of clarity in his life. It's the only time when I can understand what he's trying to say. Do you think it would have made a difference whether I told him on Friday night or he found out today that his brother was shot to death and that's the only reason his mother came home?”

Cynthia waved her arms and pointed her finger at Mar-vin. “That's really low, Marvin.” She was so involved in quarreling with Marvin she'd forgotten James was sitting in the living room shrouded in the darkness threatening to consume the entire family until he began laughing. He was hysterical. His loud, strident laugh filled the apartment. Cynthia and Marvin stared at him quizzically. Marvin's mouth flapped open in astonishment. Cynthia searched for words to console her son. She had none.

“That little bum,” James said, smiling. “Too bad he can't see this.” He slapped his knee. “He always said you'd come back, and now here you are.” He continued laughing. “Someone Greek should have written this story.”

Cynthia shrank. His voice had changed from the soft and timid one she'd once heard. Now it was barren and rough, and the tears he was holding back caused his voice to crack like a match being lit.

“I didn't think you were coming back, but he believed in you for some reason.” He stood up and stared into her eyes. Until now, she hadn't realized he had her eyes. Cynthia could feel the hurt radiating out of his eyes. It pushed her into the ottoman.

She watched him as he paced. She'd murdered him, both of them. Cynthia thought she had dealt with the guilt of Keith's death last night and was ready to work on healing, and then the guilt came back, barreling through her like hot lava out of a volcano. She abandoned them to pursue the life she felt she deserved.
I was selfish. Look at what I've done to two innocent boys.
Cynthia grabbed James's hand as he walked past her. He stopped his pacing, one of his long fingers rested in her palm. His eyes wandered past her. Cynthia kissed his hand. A wave of deep and heavy tears took over. The shoulder-shaking, lip-cringing tears rocked her. She dropped her head in her hands.

In the past, she had tried to excuse herself. There were evenings when she rested her head against Cheo's hard chest, wrapped in his arms, and pardoned herself. She deserved to be loved; she deserved to have some semblance of happiness in her life.

When Sabor hosted birthdays, she watched the mothers clapping, singing, and celebrating the milestones in their children's lives. Cynthia would pinch herself and say she should be there for Keith and James, but whenever she walked to her Camry in the parking lot and found a couple hollering at each other, she eased away and smiled, glad to have found her way out of that. Now as she stood there looking at her glassy-eyed son, she realized he had paid the price for her freedom.

James withdrew his hand from his mother's grasp and fell back down on the sofa. “Don't cry, Mom. He may have missed you, yet he hated you for leaving us here. He hated you; he hated God because of you.” James began to laugh again. “Now he's gone and you're here.”

Cynthia didn't know how to respond to that. She wondered if James carried that same hatred for her and God, but she dared not ask. She'd come here seeking atonement, and only James could help her out with that. If he hated her, then this trip was null and void. James walked to the bedroom, slamming the door shut behind him.

Cynthia waited for a couple of minutes before she rose to her feet.

“Where do you think you're going, Cynthia Ann Barclay? Since you're some big-shot caterer, why don't you fix us something to eat?” Marvin asked holding up her business card.

“Caterer, ha,” she scoffed. “I'm no caterer. I'm a restaurateur.”

“What does that mean?”

“I own a restaurant, Marvin.”

“Humph, same difference,” he said, folding his arms. “I'm hungry, so why don't you cook something? It's the least you can do.”

Cynthia took off her trench coat. Smiling, she stood in front of him with her hands on her hips. All she could do was smile to mask the confusion she felt when it came to Marvin.

Throughout their relationship he had caused her nothing but pain, both physically and mentally. The pain was linked to the joy in their relationship—her struggle to tame him. He was like a lion going through every lioness in the pride. She worked hard to be the one to calm him. As he barked at her to feed him, she remembered how much she delighted in satisfying him. She stepped closer to him, offering herself to him. He put his hand on her shoulder and rubbed her arm. “Are you going to cook or what?” he inquired again with a sly and subtly sexy look in his eyes.

It was the look she couldn't say no to. It was the look he had in his eyes during their first dance, on their first date, and when he proposed. It was the look that sent chills throughout her body.

Beguiled by his eyes and a small ounce of pride that told her to show him who she'd become, she entered the kitchen and looked in the refrigerator, then the cabinets. “What do you want me to make, dirt? There's nothing in here,” she said, dismissing the instant macaroni and cheese, chicken wings, and broccoli florets. “Are you sure Keith was shot and didn't die from starvation?” She laughed.

Marvin came near her and laughed beside her. It felt strange to be laughing, and it felt so good. He put his arm around Cynthia and massaged her shoulders. She grabbed the magnetic notepad from the refrigerator and scribbled wildly on it before passing it to Marvin.

“Whole wheat tortillas, tomato, basil, eggs, salmon, feta cheese, asparagus, wild rice, and olive oil. This stuff is going to be expensive, Cyn.”

“What happened, Big Marv? You ain't got it?” she asked, sliding her hands into her pockets.

“Oh, I got it all right.” Marvin threw on a black hooded sweatshirt and left. Cynthia seized the moment she had alone to talk to James. Several minutes passed before he responded to her continuous knocking on his door.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Would you like to talk, Jimmy?” she offered.

“No.”

“Well, I certainly would like to talk to you.”

The room went cold and James retreated into his shell of silence. This would be more of a monologue than a dialogue she realized once he pursed his lips together tightly. “Never mind, Jimmy. We'll have this discussion some other time,” Cynthia said, backing away from his bedroom door.

Cynthia walked through the apartment raising the venetian blinds in the dining room, parting the curtains in the living room, and opening the window to welcome the light back into the Barclay residence. Without hesitation, she returned to what seemed like a never-ending mess. She dumped ashtrays, scrubbed the toilet, and mopped the floor. Then she dusted the armoire, the trophies, and Marvin's most prized possession, his record player, while James slipped out the door.

She felt confident in her ability to get rid of the physical mess and hoped that somehow her efforts would translate into the emotional mess only she'd made.

 

 

Marvin walked in on Cynthia doing her best Aretha impression over the running water as she filled a pot with water and placed it on the burner to boil. The scent of pine wiggled its way up his nose. He looked around at his home. He barely recognized it. The coating of dust and mire that loomed had been removed like a sweeping wind had blown in the apartment through the dining room window. Cynthia didn't hear Marvin come in. She continued scrubbing and shaking as he stood in the dining room watching her slight hips shimmy from left to right.

He thought about getting behind her and squeezing her in his arms. He wanted to lean over, kiss her neck, and whisper in her ear, “My God, how I have missed you, woman. Don't you ever go anywhere. Don't you do that to me again,” and cradle her in his arms before pulling her so tight into him they could have a third baby. He crept toward her with his arms open, hoping she would be willing to fill them.

“Did you get everything I asked for?”

“Yeah.” He sighed pleased she had stopped him. He set the bags at her feet, withdrawing a Heineken from one and making his way into the dining room. Cynthia busied herself lining the counter with the things she needed to make salmon basil burritos.