perform a humiliating dance on May Day), songs that made no sense (like Here’s my chance to dance my way, out of my constrictions ). She was trying to sing a solo fugue when the door whipped open and she fell backward.
“Kenya!” her mother yelped, and then abruptly leaned down, pulling Kenya up into her arms. Her eyes were ringed with black. Kenya hadn’t known she wore eye makeup. It made her cry. “Shhhhh,” Sheila said. “Shhhhhhhh. It’s okay. I’m going to make dinner.”
“Hi, Monkey,” her father said. He still stood in the room, amid ruins.
“Are you going to get a divorce?” Kenya mumbled into her mother’s chest. She couldn’t believe she was asking this, that this was happening. She remembered how confident she’d been the year before when she’d comforted Charlena, how sure she’d been that Charlena’s family would fall apart, and that hers would stay together.
“I’m sorry you heard all of that, Kenya. We’re all going to sit down and have dinner and talk,” said Sheila.
Johnbrown and Sheila moved stiffly about the downstairs as if there was some danger of their touching. Kenya stood staring out of the window like TV characters did when they were thinking about something weighty. But all she could see were the boards on the windows. Sheila had gone from suggesting dinner in a calm voice to slamming pots in the kitchen, as if she’d just remembered reality. Johnbrown came over to Kenya and smoothed her cornrows.
“You’re my life,” he said.
But apparently she wasn’t.
It seemed that Johnbrown Curtis and Cindalou Matthews had fallen in love, and that Cindalou Matthews was carrying Johnbrown Curtis’s baby, Kenya’s brother or sister. At that Sheila snorted, “Half,” as they sat at the table, picking over spaghetti.
“Don’t be like that, Sheila,” said Johnbrown. “We’re not like that. We’re not like my mother.” It seemed crazy to Kenya that Johnbrown was still talking. She nearly emptied the canister of powdery Parmesan cheese onto her plate, stopping only when her mother said her name sharply.
“So are you going to get a divorce?” Kenya asked again.
Her parents looked at each other. Johnbrown cleared his throat.
“Well, now is as good a time as any to speak to you both about something I wanted to ask.”
If Kenya had been older, she would have seen her mother’s eyes fill with anticipation and the hope that whatever Johnbrown offered would save them all. As it was, all Kenya saw was a withering glare. Not that it mattered, given what her father said next.
“With your permission, Sheila and Kenya, I’d like for Cindalou and the baby to move in here. I’d like for us all to be a family.”
“What did you say?” Sheila asked. She dabbed at her mouth with a napkin and looked genuinely as if she hadn’t heard, as if she was asking for a small clarification: Did you say “cream or sugar”? Lemonade? You want me to pass the lemonade?
“Well, Cindalou and I have been going to some events at the Yoruba temple and—”
“Oh, you actually go out ? Of the house? Glad to hear that. ”
“And I don’t think the temple is for me. I mean, organized religion is organized religion, but some of the families, in the traditional African—”
“Get back to the point. So you want to move that bitch and her bastard up in here? Where I pay the mortgage? I’m not understanding what this has to do with the temple. Because from what I know about traditional West African polygamy (Lord Jesus have mercy!), the man supports the family. No, brother. I make the money.” And here she laughed. “What you proposing is pimping and—”
“Sheila,” Johnbrown said.
“—I AM NOT A WHORE!”
Kenya was tired of crying. Her head hurt. She was thirsty but the thought of apple juice on her tongue made her nearly hysterical. Her mother looked at her across the table, her purple skin and wide brown eyes in a gorgeous blaze.
“No, Kenya,” she said, lowering the
“Kenya!” her mother yelped, and then abruptly leaned down, pulling Kenya up into her arms. Her eyes were ringed with black. Kenya hadn’t known she wore eye makeup. It made her cry. “Shhhhh,” Sheila said. “Shhhhhhhh. It’s okay. I’m going to make dinner.”
“Hi, Monkey,” her father said. He still stood in the room, amid ruins.
“Are you going to get a divorce?” Kenya mumbled into her mother’s chest. She couldn’t believe she was asking this, that this was happening. She remembered how confident she’d been the year before when she’d comforted Charlena, how sure she’d been that Charlena’s family would fall apart, and that hers would stay together.
“I’m sorry you heard all of that, Kenya. We’re all going to sit down and have dinner and talk,” said Sheila.
Johnbrown and Sheila moved stiffly about the downstairs as if there was some danger of their touching. Kenya stood staring out of the window like TV characters did when they were thinking about something weighty. But all she could see were the boards on the windows. Sheila had gone from suggesting dinner in a calm voice to slamming pots in the kitchen, as if she’d just remembered reality. Johnbrown came over to Kenya and smoothed her cornrows.
“You’re my life,” he said.
But apparently she wasn’t.
It seemed that Johnbrown Curtis and Cindalou Matthews had fallen in love, and that Cindalou Matthews was carrying Johnbrown Curtis’s baby, Kenya’s brother or sister. At that Sheila snorted, “Half,” as they sat at the table, picking over spaghetti.
“Don’t be like that, Sheila,” said Johnbrown. “We’re not like that. We’re not like my mother.” It seemed crazy to Kenya that Johnbrown was still talking. She nearly emptied the canister of powdery Parmesan cheese onto her plate, stopping only when her mother said her name sharply.
“So are you going to get a divorce?” Kenya asked again.
Her parents looked at each other. Johnbrown cleared his throat.
“Well, now is as good a time as any to speak to you both about something I wanted to ask.”
If Kenya had been older, she would have seen her mother’s eyes fill with anticipation and the hope that whatever Johnbrown offered would save them all. As it was, all Kenya saw was a withering glare. Not that it mattered, given what her father said next.
“With your permission, Sheila and Kenya, I’d like for Cindalou and the baby to move in here. I’d like for us all to be a family.”
“What did you say?” Sheila asked. She dabbed at her mouth with a napkin and looked genuinely as if she hadn’t heard, as if she was asking for a small clarification: Did you say “cream or sugar”? Lemonade? You want me to pass the lemonade?
“Well, Cindalou and I have been going to some events at the Yoruba temple and—”
“Oh, you actually go out ? Of the house? Glad to hear that. ”
“And I don’t think the temple is for me. I mean, organized religion is organized religion, but some of the families, in the traditional African—”
“Get back to the point. So you want to move that bitch and her bastard up in here? Where I pay the mortgage? I’m not understanding what this has to do with the temple. Because from what I know about traditional West African polygamy (Lord Jesus have mercy!), the man supports the family. No, brother. I make the money.” And here she laughed. “What you proposing is pimping and—”
“Sheila,” Johnbrown said.
“—I AM NOT A WHORE!”
Kenya was tired of crying. Her head hurt. She was thirsty but the thought of apple juice on her tongue made her nearly hysterical. Her mother looked at her across the table, her purple skin and wide brown eyes in a gorgeous blaze.
“No, Kenya,” she said, lowering the
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