Tutored (9 page)

“You’re kind of sweeping through history, aren’t you?”

“If I had to live in the ghetto, I’d move.”

“Dad, if you had to live in the ghetto, you couldn’t move. That’s the idea of a ghetto.”

He shook his head. “I did move. I grew up on Fifty-first and Kingsessing, and it was a dump back then. I can’t imagine what it looks like now. You grew up in the lap of luxury, but I grew up in a fire, Wendy. A fire. I was lucky to make it out of there unscathed. Those mean and nasty people. You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into.”

“Dad, I just talked to Hakiam on the phone. It’s not the end of the world.”

“Hakiam? What is a Hakiam, anyway? It sounds like a disease. What’s the matter with John or Matthew or Thomas?”

“Your name is Thomas.”

“Exactly. That’s a nice American name.”

“Any name can be an American name, Dad.”

“Hakiam sounds utterly ridiculous.”

“What do you think of Malikia, Dad?” She had to ask.

“That sounds like a disease too. A terminal disease.”

“Oh, for God’s sake.”

“Who’s Malikia, anyway? Is that his baby mama?” her father asked.

“He doesn’t have any children.”

“He doesn’t have any children
yet
.”

“Well, neither do I.”

Her father’s eyes became as round as pancakes. “Did you sleep with him?”

“W
hat you looking at all those white people for?” Leesa asked, standing squarely in front of the TV with her hands firmly planted on her hips.

He was on the sofa with Malikia underneath his armpit. Hakiam did his best to look around Leesa.

“If it’s one thing I hate, it’s an old black-and-white movie with nothing but white people in it,” Leesa said. “Why are you watching this?”

“Wendy suggested it.”

Leesa gave an exaggerated “Ohhhhhhhhhhh,” waved her hands in the air in mock fanfare, and went back to blocking his view.

“Will you get out the way? You ain’t made of glass,” he told her.

She stepped aside for a few moments and asked, “What’s it called?”

Hakiam told her he was watching
Twelve Angry Men
.

“What do they got to be so angry about?”

Hakiam didn’t answer her.

“What’s it about?” she asked.

He sighed. “A jury.”

“A jury, huh?” She watched the screen for a few minutes. “Why ain’t there any women?”

“I don’t know.”

“Boy, I hate black-and-white movies with white people. And angry white people, please. That sounds like some bullshit.”

“I heard you,” Hakiam said, motioning for her to get out of the way.

She held out her hand and said, “I’ll get out of the way. You better not have used none of my Netflix.”

With his view now unhindered, he got back into the movie. It was at about the twenty-minute mark, and it was really starting to boil. Having been to court a few dozen times, Hakiam was interested to see how things worked on the other end. He always wondered just how those deciders decided. He’d seen them emerge from their back room looking either severe or carefree, but what was the process? Was their debate intense like this movie would have him believe? Or was this all some Hollywood version of reality, and most jurors didn’t give a rat’s rear? Hakiam guessed the latter but was sucked in all the same.

The movie also played fast and loose with one indisputable fact: courts were never about guilt or innocence; courts were about guilty or not guilty: There was a big difference. That was the fantasy angle of the film, right up there with
X-Men
. Hakiam thought of all the times
he’d been taken in for things but couldn’t prove he was innocent, versus the times when the charges had been dropped because they didn’t have enough evidence to prosecute. In light of that, it was almost comical to see the main character in the movie bring up what-ifs, how-abouts, and suppose-thats left and right just to try to save the poor kid’s sorry ass. Real life wasn’t like that. People got off on technicalities. People got convicted by momentum.

Leesa came back into the room carrying a bag of potato chips, and Hakiam perked up. “Did you go shopping?” he asked.

Since her mouth was full, she just shook her head no.

“When you do, remember the baby’s running low on formula.”

“Just water it down, Hakiam. Jesus Christ, what do you want me to do, hold your hand?”

“The can says to use two full scoops.”

“You ain’t got to listen to the can. Make up your own damn mind. What do I got up in here, one baby or two?”

“Preemies need all the nutrition they can get.”

She waved him away.

“Leesa, Wendy said—”

That made Leesa sneer. “Hold up, now I got to take instructions from that skinny thing on nutrition? How many kids she got? What the hell does she know?”

“You’re in front of the set again.”

“You ain’t the least bit into boring shit like that.” She grabbed the remote and flicked off the set.

“I am too watching it. Quit being so evil,” he said,
grabbing hold of Malikia as he stood up, snatched back the remote, and flicked the set back on.

“I don’t know how many times I have to tell you, this is my place and my TV and—”

At that part, Hakiam had heard enough. It was going to drive him mental if he hung around and listened to her anymore. He handed his cousin both the remote control and her daughter.

“Where are you going?” she asked him as she took reluctant hold of Malikia.

“I need air. Bye,” he said, and headed out the door to no place in particular.

On his way outside, he passed an open door. The air reeked with drugs. A small, squirrelly-looking guy dressed in a red hoodie and carpenter pants stepped into the hallway and tried to deal Hakiam.

Hakiam kept walking.

Outdoors in the cold night air, he scanned the open sky. He wondered what she was up to right now. Wendy. He was sure whatever she was doing, she didn’t have to put up with this kind of crap. He was certain that the only conflict she encountered came from watching actors emote on the screen.

W
endy walked cautiously past her father’s door. She decided to peek in, and then curiosity got the best of her.

“What’s the name of that film, Dad?”

“Quiet” was the answer he first gave her. Then he said, “It’s called
Gentleman’s Agreement
. It won Best Picture in 1947.”

Wendy paused by the doorway, mulling over whether she really wanted to enter the room. She hadn’t done that for a while, actually watched a movie with her father.

She eased her way in and sat down by the far wall. Wrapped up in the movie, her dad was at first startled by Wendy. Next, he glanced at her with narrowed eyes; then he went back to watching the TV.

“I bet you’ve seen this a thousand times,” Wendy said.

“Shhh!” he told her.

The premise of the movie was intriguing. A newspaper reporter pretended to be a Jew for eight weeks in order to expose anti-Semitism. Unfortunately, it was during the time period that he was engaged to be married, which gave the movie a compelling subplot. His fiancée was embarrassed to have people think that she was going to marry a Jew. There was also a sophisticated fashion editor who worked at the paper. She wasn’t in on the ruse, but she accepted the hero regardless of his supposed religion. Wendy was sure the story would end with the main character leaving his namby-pamby wife-to-be and taking up with the more open-minded, forward-thinking woman. But as the film went on, scene after scene showed the fiancée feeling really, really, really bad about anti-Semitism, but not enough to, you know, stop it. It came to a head when she was at a dinner party and someone told a “kike” joke.

This led to the climax of the film, when the wishy-washy woman had her hand held by a long-suffering Jewish acquaintance. At that point, she was told quite tenderly by this way-too-patient man that she didn’t have to go along with bigotry. She could speak up and speak out; she could go against it.

“Can I?” the fiancée said in a warbling voice and with a well-placed tear escaping her eye. “Can I?” she repeated, this time breaking the fourth wall by looking directly into the camera.

“Lame!” Wendy shouted at the TV.

“Will you be quiet?” her father scolded her.

Having lost all hope for the ending, Wendy left the room and went down to the kitchen to get a glass of juice.

Within a few minutes, her father also came downstairs to refresh his teacup.

“That movie was as subtle as a sledgehammer,” Wendy told her dad.

“It was made two years after the end of World War Two. People needed a sledgehammer to wake up and see just how wrong prejudice is.”

Wendy’s chin dropped to the linoleum floor. “Did you just say what I thought you said?”

“I’m not in favor of prejudice, Wendy. I never have been.”

Wendy shook her head in almost violent denial. “Dad, hundreds of times I have heard you—”

“You have never heard me speak against Jews. I would never do that. They’ve been put upon and abused everywhere they go in this world.”

“So are
we
.”

“We were never rounded up and put in concentration camps, Wendy.”

“No, we were rounded up and put on slave ships.”

“Still, we were allowed to live.”

“So now you’re defending slavery, Dad?”

“Slavery isn’t genocide, Wendy.”

“It may not be genocide, but it’s no walk in the park. And what about the Jim Crow laws?”

“Wendy. Wendy. It’s ten o’clock at night. This is no time for—”

“I just can’t
believe
you, Dad. You have such empathy for one group’s struggle and none for our own.”

“Jewish people have proven their worth to society. They are intelligent and orderly. They are very well organized.”

“What are we, Dad? Chopped liver?”

“It’s ten o’clock. I’m going to bed.”

Her father added cream to his tea, pouring the last of the carton into his cup, then discarding it.

“Dad, would you object if I applied to Brandeis or Yeshiva?”

“Good night, Wendy.”

I
f Hakiam could corner God for twenty seconds, he’d ask him this:
Why are white people always so damn happy?
It didn’t seem to matter the day or time: every single moment Hakiam saw a white person, he or she was smiling. His GED teacher was no exception. He stood now at the head of the class, dressed in a V-neck sweater and brown slacks, with a standard-issue grin on his peaches-and-cream face.

His expression didn’t match the drabness of the gray room or the lackluster subject matter.

He listed celebrities who never finished high school (Chris Rock, Tom Cruise, and Christina Aguilera, to name a few). He went on to speak with the same optimistic fervor of political figures who were dropouts.

“Former governor Ruth Ann Minner of Delaware left school to support her family, and former senator Ben Nighthorse Campbell dropped out of high school at
sixteen to join the air force during the Korean War,” he said with a bright grin.

Hakiam stared at the wall to avoid being blinded by the teacher’s pearly whites.

Next, the instructor told them that the GED test was split into five parts: reading, writing, mathematics, science, and social studies. Most of it was multiple choice. You could use a calculator but not a dictionary. In the state of Pennsylvania, you could take it over a few days or all at once.

Then the teacher smiled again.

“This is roughly a seven-hour test,” he warned, “so pace yourself.”

Some students nodded.

Some were lost in space.

Many find school difficult; others find it just plain boring. For Hakiam, GED classes managed to be both at the same time.

Then the teacher talked about how they needed a number 2 pencil and an energy bar for the big day.

“This test is administered every Wednesday at nine a.m. You can take it in English or Spanish. I don’t want to give this the hard sell, but you might as well take it now rather than later. You only have eight weeks in this program. Who wants to see where he or she stands? Who would like to sign up for next week?”

Hakiam nodded, absorbing the information, but couldn’t bring himself to sign up for the slot. So this whole thing would be over when he just took that test—what was he waiting for? What were any of them waiting for?

He watched as three hands out of thirty went up. One belonged to a dark-complexioned fortyish woman wearing a man’s coat and a ski cap. Another was a Hispanic girl who looked young enough to be in high school. The final person was a white girl with a dyed-orange ponytail. She looked to be in her twenties.

Besides that trio, there wasn’t a gesture of “sign me up” out of anyone else. The majority of people were as lost in the sauce as he was.

Hakiam felt comforted by this.

T
heir meetings at Wendy’s house were clandestine, perfectly synchronized to last until the time that her father came home.

On his first visit, Hakiam gave her house a good once-over. He examined the front porch with its ornamental fretwork. He peered at the three-car garage, which housed only two cars.

Inside, Wendy watched his eyes dart around.

“What, are you casing the joint?” she asked.

He didn’t answer at all; he just continued to survey.

“Would you like iced tea, hot tea, soda, juice, water?” Wendy asked him, then smiled slyly. “Or coffee?”

He twisted around to her. “I don’t want nothing,” he said.

“You must be a camel. They go for days and days without anything to drink.”

She led him upstairs to her room, and he ambled
into the walk-in closet to examine himself in the mirror.

“You sure do got everything,” he said.

She sat on her bed.

He stretched out beside her.

“The springs on your bed squeak,” he announced, as if he were happy to find a flaw.

“I better change the oil,” she quipped.

His eyes went back to combing the room.

“This is a real nice setup,” he said.

“Thanks,” she said, a little embarrassed by the girliness of it, all the stuffed animals and posters that she should have been over already.