The Residue Years (15 page)

We hit the second floor. Stop in the room where Mama Liza and Bubba slept, a room they kept locked during the day and while they were gone. We meander into Uncle Sip's old room next. Uncle Sip's room stayed fragrant with cologne tester bottles he stole from the mall, was stacked with men's fashion mags, stacks that, no matter how tall I got, were taller than me.

The husband asks what it was like growing up in the neighborhood.

What I could tell him about my Sixth Street crew. My homeboy from next door who was the king of all tumblers, who could backflip on command or challenge for a whole block. My other boy who lived in the cluttered house across the street, the one we all envied for his lax curfew. There was my boy, who was less of my boy, with the palsied arm, the last pick no matter what game we played. And there was the big homie Scoop, the most resourceful of us. Scoop was the one who knocked the bottom out a milk basket for a makeshift hoop, who built a go-cart we crashed wheeling down a steep hill.

I could tell him about the old homies, but what I say is, it was great. Lots of friends. Lots of good times.

Upstairs, they've pulled up the carpet in the hall and laid down hardwood. Upstairs, he takes me into the bathroom. The claw-foot tub (it's refinished) that I'd bathe in for school still takes up most of the space, but otherwise the bathroom's revamped: a recessed fan where the old bulb hung, new sink and porcelain toilet. We head into Mom's old room, which is now a shrine of trophies, helmets, mitts, balls, a pair of grubby baseball cleats encased in glass. We roam the rest of the floor and the attic, which ain't an
attic no more, him pointing out this and that, calling out types of woods and metals, the names of manufacturers. Did most of the work myself, he says, and please believe you never seen a man more proud.

There's piano music playing when we get downstairs. It lures both of us into the same nook where Mama Liza would lie on a couch and demand I tweeze stubborn hairs out her chin, where us kids were forced into torturous hours of song, prayer, and Bible verse recitation. The wife fingers a piano that looks like our old one. She asks if we had one when we lived in the house, tells me it was left inside when they bought it.

We did, I say.

Then we owe you thanks, she says. Thank you.

They walk me out together. We hope this was all you hoped it would be, he says. They stand on the porch and watch me leave.

For Mom and my bros, for my girl, for Uncle Sip, for my aunt if ever she needs, even a room or two for my cousins who never reside too far from grief, if I can buy this,
when
I reclaim what by ethic is ours, there will be rooms for the whole battered bunch of us. The owners, yes, they were cool, but they must be told—it takes more than hardwood floors and paint, more than tile and granite, more than a new keyed key; they must know it takes more than a deed and mortgage for a house to become your home.

What you got, some big old plan?
—Grace

There ain't a merciful bone in his body, the way he struts in my job full of himself and some. The way he tarries inside the door looking around, the way he finds a free space for his bigger, swollen self, and, till the front counter clears, plays as if fixing his shirt is what matters most in the world.

Afternoon, Grace, he says, strolling up.

Most of the years we were together, Kenny wore Jheri curls, wore velour tracksuits and tenny shoes, but this newfangled Kenny wears a low fade, tailored suit, and glasses never sold as two-for-one.

Good afternoon, I say. What's up?

How you been? he says.

Blessed, I say.

So this, he says, it what they call blessed.

That a joke? I say.

Came to rap to you a second, he says. Can we? Won't be but a hot second. I promise.

I ask my coworker to watch my till, find an empty booth. You can see that he's losing his hair. So when you start wearing glasses? I say.

It's been a minute, he says. But only to work. When I need whitey to take me serious. He takes off his frames and blows on the lenses. So here's the deal, he says. Christmas, me and Helen taking the boys to Hawaii.

He sweeps straw scraps and shredded cheese off the table.

Taking them for Christmas? I say. You asking or telling?

Which? he says. Would you prefer?

What, you got some big old plan? You taking them to see your brother?

Both, he says.

Taking my boys to see a man who still call himself a pimp? I say.

He's a preacher now, Kenny says. Ordained and all. Matter-fact, he's doing the ceremony.

Ceremony? I say.

Yes, wedding, Kenny says. His smile, it steel. A brotha held out as long as he could, he says. Anyhow, thought I'd give you a heads-up in case you want to do something with the boys before we leave.

Once during a trip to Vegas Kenny and me meandered near the end of the strip. We were steps from a chapel with a bright fluorescent-light sign outside. We saw a groom carrying his bride out across the threshold, and I mentioned to him about how beautiful it was. Kenny screwed his face and crossed his arms. That depend on who's doing the seeing, he said, and neither he nor I broached the subject again.

Oh, I say.

You know it ain't like me to show up at person's place of
employment, he says. But I tried your crib a few times and I couldn't reach you. He taps the table a finger at a time, his nails clipped to slivers of clean white.

Been working, I say.

Say, if you don't mind me asking, how much you making here? he says.

Is that important? I say.

Is it important that I know, or is it important how much you make? he asks.

My take-home is less than my old state checks, but I'd never give him the pleasure.

You might've run out ahead of me, I say. But I'll catch up.

Bet you will, he says.

Yes, I will, I say. God provides.

He puts on his glasses and gets up. Figured you say something of the sort, he says. The boys told me you mentioned to them about going to church, which is a good thing for sure, Grace, a real good thing. And you probably right about the Lord providing, he says. He fixes his tie and sweeps his hand over his slacks and shoulders. But I'll tell you this: Fordamnsure I can't speak for no one else, but for me, he says, for me, I ain't cashed check the first from the Father, the Son, nor the Holy Ghost.

There's new construction at the bowling lanes. Long tarps make temporary walls. The whole place fumes wet paint and paint thinner. The boys break up stairs splattered with dried putty and wait on the floor above the lanes, the arcade floor. They sprint for the games while I exchange bills for quarters from a girl with purple hair and piercings in her lip and nose. When I get down to where
the boys are, I count them out equal sums. When it's gone, it's gone, I say.

Champ is nowhere to be found.

I find a seat and watch them play. This goes on for games and still no sight of my eldest. I tell the boys to keep an eye out while I head for the restroom to fix—I'm always fixing my face. All I have is my face—my eyes and lips. There's a woman in a stall who isn't smelling womanish, so I take less time than I would. When I walk out Champ calls me from the steps.

Did you forget what time we said? I say.

He taps the face of his watch. You know me, he says. I might be late, but I never miss the show.

We mosey to the games and catch the boys standing toe to toe and woofing at one another, a gauzy light glowing from a screen behind them. Cut it, Champ says, and the boys break apart. Damn, can't take ya'll nowhere.

Champ rents shoes and picks a lane and types our names in the machine: CHAMPion, BROLOSS 1, BROLOSS 2, THE MOMS. He points to the board, asks us if we see it, tell us it's prophetic.

Champ must've watched one too many pro bowling tourneys or else my brother Pat in his day at the lanes. He picks a cobalt-blue ball and you should see his ritual. Before every turn he glances back at us, does a shuffle, twists his cap backwards, strolls to the dots, waits a movie pause, and rolls, leaving his wrist cocked till the ball strikes a pin. He don't bowl many strikes, but he rarely misses a spare, but on the occasion he does he falls to his knees. The boy competes at everything, has done it since he was young.
I asked him why once and he said he'd taken enough losses for his life. Who was I to argue?

He leaves pins on his next frame and I ask if it's the best he can do.

If that's the best you can do, I say, you best pray.

We play out the games Champ bought, Canaan pitching gutter after gutter and KJ leaving half his pins. We play out the games and my strikes and spares won't stop. One strike I do a victory dance and ask Champ for a critique.

Funny, Champ says. Real funny. But a little sunshine don't make a summer.

What the boys don't know is there was a time when summers ran forever, when I bowled every week, a time when weekends Dawn and me would meet and pair off and play. Would roll until they called last game. What the boys don't know is there was a time when I carried my own pink ball, years I bowled not a point below 180.

Champ begs a rematch, but I'm too tired, so he bowls alone, tells me he's aiming at my high game. The boys and I eat chili dogs and chips and drink frigid Cokes. They tease Champ with a chant: Mom's the champ, Champ's not the champ.

This is a charm, but these wins will cost. These wins have cost, and I feel the price in my back and feet. Canaan helps me slip out of my rented shoes and I prop my socked feet in an empty chair and wait for Champ to tire of falling short.

We leave out together, Canaan and KJ—my babies—flitting up ahead and Champ slugging behind me with an honest frown. The garage is bright and empty, a car here, a truck there, the Honda. We stop outside of my car.

That was luck, Champ says. You know that was luck. Next time.

You still salty? I say. Look, if I win, you win, I say. If one wins, we all win. Besides, that was a blast.

Kaboom, he says.

He waits while I find my key, while the boys and I climb in, while I start the engine. I give it gas and it growls.

My son says he's suffered a life's worth of losses, but how many losses have I?

Here's my wish—let the world see me now, a conqueror, high above my sorrows, a flagpole pushed through the pile.

Around these parts, it ain't but three types of men.
—Champ

Do you want to know what kind of guy I am? Do you really want to know what kind of guy I am? I'm the type of dude who takes hellafied relational risks in hopes the fallout (often a result that features acute physical pain) coerces me to some decisive act. Take my girl: She's a good woman, one of the best I've been with (and we know we're not talking no short list neither), but sometimes, no lie, I wish instead of always accusing me, always threatening me, instead of doing that, I wish sometimes that she'd just leave. I mean, how many times does she have to discover a random number or an empty condom wrapper in my pocket, how many times does she have to suffer an acidic message from some scallywag (she breaks my codes like a federal agent!), how many 9/10 true rumors of me banging some chick with an ass that's a small planet does she have to endure before she splits? Not threatens to bounce, but sashays right out of my life for good, those lustrous tresses waving good-bye, so long; have a cursed life. But since it don't, as I said, seem like she's making no definitive plans to break, I revert to my assbackwards tactic of inviting atomic consequence. Only here's the thing, it hasn't worked; matterfact, the most it's done is flame already tense situations—e.g., she won't leave and I can't leave a woman
who loves this hard and hurts this true, so I figured I'd go raw a few times in hopes I'd knock her up and she'd stay for good or, postconception, she'd realize I was not the one, visit the clinic, and flee for all time, though all the while, in the deep recesses where my purest sense exists, hoping my little spermatozoa would swim right past the target, cause truth be told, I'm about as ready for fatherhood as any old young punk you see on these streets with his pants hung low and a permanent sneer. In fact, in most of the ways that matter, I might be the paragon, the one who's aborted (admitted wrong word choice here) by logic at the most inopportune times, then left to feel ambivalent about decisions that affect not only my well-being, but somebody else's baseline joy. Real talk, if making tough decisions is part of being a man, then I might wind up a Geritol-popping juvenile, which is fait accompli for guys like me who screw up our lives one lousy judgment at a time.

But wait, the retrograde choices, they just might be in my genes. Case in point, my biological pops. Dude had three babies in less than a year by women who lived on the same block. One year, same block! Who could or would concoct such a tale? My mom was the last of the threesome, claims she didn't know about the others until right after her grand old valedictorian speech (besides birth, the proudest moment of her life), the one she made the night after she found out about tiny fetus me. And talk about timing, this was a few years after the first Supreme Court abortion ruling, a couple years after
Roe v. Wade
, and, and, and, if you add to that my pop's apparent predilection for barebacking, to the assured detriment of Mom's nursing school dream, you can see how I could have easily ended up a coat hanger victim or the refuse of some clinic. To her credit, though, Moms wasn't having
it. She traded in plan A for plan B and set about becoming the best single mother she could.

At moments, the best single mother there is.

If we all could be so selfless.

It's cold as an Eskimo's nuts outside, colder, but the weather hasn't thinned the crowd. We (the
we
being me and Kim) check in and luck out on seats beside an über-pregnant woman that's putting a whole lot of pressure on the seams of her long dress. The lady has two tykes with her, neither of them old enough to tie their shoes. Old enough to tear up some shit, though, and they're working at it with toddler flair: tugging things off the tables, pushing the cold button on the water cooler, ripping jagged pages out of pamphlets. On a break from a reign of infant terror, one of them wobbles over by me and yanks at my pants. Are you okay? he says, craning up and flashing a jagged-spaced grin. Yes, I'm okay, I say. Mommy say we get grocery, he says. You take us get grocery? Before I can answer, his mother approaches shouting his name (something multisyllabic a linguist would have a tough time pronouncing) and draws the little man backwards. These boys, she says, and shakes her head. Oh my gosh, my boys.