four words are as close to prayer as he gets.
Luggage in hand, he wanders past green granite countertops, a sleek stainless steel refrigerator, and a three hundred dollar
toaster to hallway to living room to sunroom to his office. Once there, he rifles through his mail and grabs the latest issue
of
Audiophile Quarterly.
Less than a minute later, he raps on Kendrick’s door and hugs him when the door swings wide open.
“Looking good, Junior.”
“What’s with the Junior, Senior? That stopped in eighth grade. Not getting that over-the-hill disease are you?”
There it is. Lena pauses on the stairs to listen—the sound of harmony. Family. Home.
They prop themselves against the doorframe, father to the left, son to the right. Kendrick’s smooth face echoes Randall’s.
They are similar in many ways: their legs cross left over right, the intensity in their eyes and language, words emphasized
with their hands.
“Not much to report, Dad. Therapy. Looking for part-time work. Ready to go back to school. Still not driving—boring.”
Randall fakes a cuff to Kendrick’s chin and motions to him to follow down the hall. “I think we may be able to do something
about that.”
“Camille!” Kimchee meows as if Randall is calling him; a loud salutation, Lena knows, to its second master. Forever and a
day she will despise cats. If Kimchee were human, Lena would tell the cat not to take it personally. Camille skips down the
hall, Kimchee cuddled in her arms. The open door behind her releases the smell of the sour litterbox.
“Hello, kitty,” Randall smoothes the scruff of Kimchee’s neck. “Hey, Camille, how’s my big girl?”
“Starless, Dad, Starless. And I’ve been a ‘big girl’ for a long time.”
“Two things: one, I named you Camille, and that’s what I’ll call you.” Randall busses Camille’s cheek. “And two, I’m sad to
report that I know you’re a big girl—the reminder’s for me, not you, Miz Smart-aleck.”
“Then I guess I can make an exception. This time.” Like the little girl she once was, Camille leans into her father’s open
arms and thrusts an oversized envelope into his hands. “Columbia, Dad! The letter came yesterday.” Her hands punctuate her
words, too, and Randall embraces her again.
Lena halts mid-step on the staircase’s last step. “Congratulations, honey!” She shouts the only response she can. This news
is new to her. Though she should have known weeks ago that Camille would keep her acceptance to herself when, nervous to hear
from colleges, she demanded her right to pick up the daily mail without having to compete with Lena. She was tired of Lena’s
over-mothering, her nagging to wear practical clothes, to stick to deadlines, to help with the mountain of essays and paperwork
throughout the whole college application process. She wanted to get the acceptance—or rejection—letters first.
“And what about your brother here?” Randall asks. “Is it time to give him back the keys to his car? Have you kept an eye on
him?”
“Kendrick’s doing really great, Dad! He’s ready.” Camille slaps Kendrick high five. “And what little goodies did you bring
your wonderful offspring this time, hmmmm?” The two follow their father down the hallway past Lena’s framed photos of the
family in various stages of life—baptism, kindergarten, chicken pox—their faces as full of anticipation as they were when
he first began to travel. A younger Kendrick and Camille fought to carry Randall’s suitcase, fought to open it. Now they stroll
behind their father with the presumption of gifts in their stride.
“Didn’t have time to shop. Too busy closing my deal.” Randall turns both thumbs upward. “Your old man kicked ass, if I do
say so myself.” Kendrick extends a fist to give his dad the secret handshake they invented when he was nine—Randall’s salute
to the good old days, Kendrick’s to a newly found discovery of
Luggage in hand, he wanders past green granite countertops, a sleek stainless steel refrigerator, and a three hundred dollar
toaster to hallway to living room to sunroom to his office. Once there, he rifles through his mail and grabs the latest issue
of
Audiophile Quarterly.
Less than a minute later, he raps on Kendrick’s door and hugs him when the door swings wide open.
“Looking good, Junior.”
“What’s with the Junior, Senior? That stopped in eighth grade. Not getting that over-the-hill disease are you?”
There it is. Lena pauses on the stairs to listen—the sound of harmony. Family. Home.
They prop themselves against the doorframe, father to the left, son to the right. Kendrick’s smooth face echoes Randall’s.
They are similar in many ways: their legs cross left over right, the intensity in their eyes and language, words emphasized
with their hands.
“Not much to report, Dad. Therapy. Looking for part-time work. Ready to go back to school. Still not driving—boring.”
Randall fakes a cuff to Kendrick’s chin and motions to him to follow down the hall. “I think we may be able to do something
about that.”
“Camille!” Kimchee meows as if Randall is calling him; a loud salutation, Lena knows, to its second master. Forever and a
day she will despise cats. If Kimchee were human, Lena would tell the cat not to take it personally. Camille skips down the
hall, Kimchee cuddled in her arms. The open door behind her releases the smell of the sour litterbox.
“Hello, kitty,” Randall smoothes the scruff of Kimchee’s neck. “Hey, Camille, how’s my big girl?”
“Starless, Dad, Starless. And I’ve been a ‘big girl’ for a long time.”
“Two things: one, I named you Camille, and that’s what I’ll call you.” Randall busses Camille’s cheek. “And two, I’m sad to
report that I know you’re a big girl—the reminder’s for me, not you, Miz Smart-aleck.”
“Then I guess I can make an exception. This time.” Like the little girl she once was, Camille leans into her father’s open
arms and thrusts an oversized envelope into his hands. “Columbia, Dad! The letter came yesterday.” Her hands punctuate her
words, too, and Randall embraces her again.
Lena halts mid-step on the staircase’s last step. “Congratulations, honey!” She shouts the only response she can. This news
is new to her. Though she should have known weeks ago that Camille would keep her acceptance to herself when, nervous to hear
from colleges, she demanded her right to pick up the daily mail without having to compete with Lena. She was tired of Lena’s
over-mothering, her nagging to wear practical clothes, to stick to deadlines, to help with the mountain of essays and paperwork
throughout the whole college application process. She wanted to get the acceptance—or rejection—letters first.
“And what about your brother here?” Randall asks. “Is it time to give him back the keys to his car? Have you kept an eye on
him?”
“Kendrick’s doing really great, Dad! He’s ready.” Camille slaps Kendrick high five. “And what little goodies did you bring
your wonderful offspring this time, hmmmm?” The two follow their father down the hallway past Lena’s framed photos of the
family in various stages of life—baptism, kindergarten, chicken pox—their faces as full of anticipation as they were when
he first began to travel. A younger Kendrick and Camille fought to carry Randall’s suitcase, fought to open it. Now they stroll
behind their father with the presumption of gifts in their stride.
“Didn’t have time to shop. Too busy closing my deal.” Randall turns both thumbs upward. “Your old man kicked ass, if I do
say so myself.” Kendrick extends a fist to give his dad the secret handshake they invented when he was nine—Randall’s salute
to the good old days, Kendrick’s to a newly found discovery of
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