Naughty or Nice by Eric Jerome Dickey Page B

Shaggy to give him a Scooby snack.
    He grumbles, “I told her a hundred times to clean up her mess.”
    â€œShe’s four. Let her be four.”
    â€œShe has to learn responsibility now.”
    â€œAnd she’s still four.”
    Pictures of Blue, his daughter, and her mom are in the living room on the wall, greeting people as they come in the door, as if he were waiting for her to come back. Even in a photograph, her energy is negative. Her eyes follow me. I look back at her. I think that picture should be in the bedroom, in a space as private as his thoughts.
    His laptop is on his small kitchen table. He powers it down, moves it to the counter, then turns his small CD-radio onto KJLH. Nat King Cole’s classic holiday offering goes off as En Vogue comes on singing a funkdafied version of “Silent Night.”
    I ask, “How’s the screenplay coming along?”
    He shakes his head. “Slow. Not a lot of free time to write.”
    â€œStill no bites on the one you sent out?”
    â€œMy wannabe agent thinks I should change the characters.”
    â€œIn what way?”
    â€œFrom black to white. Impossible to sell a black drama to Hollywood.”
    â€œYou know what they say about selling a black film, ‘No money if ain’t funny.’ ”
    I go to use his bathroom, then stop by the bedroom and peep in. Monica is sleeping wild and twisted, a tiny lump on a twin-size futon resting under white sheets and green covers. An old maple dresser rests against another wall. The dresser is forty years old. Used to belong to Blue’s old man. His dad was a postal carrier and his mom worked food service at a high school.
    On the way back to the kitchen I step on Scooby-Doo. He talks to Velma this time.
    Blue’s putting lemon cookies on a plate and making our ginger-peppermint tea.
    I ask, “What happened this time?”
    He shrugs. “Her mother was supposed to pick her up at noon.”
    â€œWhat did she say?”
    â€œNo-call, no-show.”
    â€œYou have to work and she left you hanging again.”
    â€œI know. She lacks selflessness and emotional maturity.”
    â€œWhy don’t you say something?”
    â€œThrowing gas on a fire never helps.”
    I sit down at his kitchen table. Sticky rings from where someone has put a glass or a cup on the table are on the side with the booster seat and the Blue’s Clues place mats. I get up and get paper towels and glass cleaner, maneuver around Blue, wipe down his table, then open his refrigerator to get out a lemon. Three-and four-letter kiddie words are on the refrigerator—one of my gifts to his daughter—along with preschool art projects, most unrecognizable.
    Blue continues talking. “She’s not mother material. Never has been maternal.”
    â€œNot every woman is.”
    He puts a cup of tea in front of me, sits the honey on the side. We sit. We season our tea with honey and lemon. We stir. We sip. We eat lemon cookies.
    â€œWould be easier if I had a son.”
    â€œDon’t say that.”
    â€œI love Mo. Wouldn’t trade her for a sixty-four-and-a-half Mustang.”
    â€œThat’s good to know.”
    â€œBut she’s a girl. Girls need to be around girls. And women. I just think I’d do better with a boy. I understand football and basketball better than Barbie and SpongeBob.”
    â€œShe needs her daddy too. We all need our daddies.”
    â€œI’m doing my best.”
    â€œYou stay strong and at least she won’t have the same men issues.”
    â€œI know.” He shakes his head, rattling his memories. “Can’t count the number of women I’ve dated who hate their daddies. They have deep wounds that won’t heal, so it’s like no man will ever live up to their unreal expectations.”
    â€œSame goes for the brothers who didn’t have a daddy. They end up treating . . . more like mistreating