For All Time Page 10

  “Poop head!”

  I twist around in my seat and see the same kid from the food court pointing his pacifier at me. On closer inspection he looks too old to be in a stroller, but who am I to judge?

  “Poopy poop head!” he says again, and the kid’s dad gently puts the boy’s pacifier back in his mouth.

  “It’s rude to point,” he says to his son; then he turns toward me and smiles. “Sorry, he’s a bit… precocious. His grandma says he’s been here before. He’ll just pick someone out of the crowd and start jabbering away at them.”

  “Oh, uh. It’s cool,” I say, and shake the guy’s hand.

  “Flying out with family?” he asks.

  “No, uh my… um… I guess you could call her my girlfriend, but she, uh… broke up with me. It wasn’t anything I did. It was all a misunderstanding.” I blow out a long breath of air. “It’s… uh, complicated.”

  “Always is, kid. Fruit snacks?”

  The guy hands me a small bag of fruit snacks and I rip into it, because why not? No need to tell him I’m not actually flying anywhere, I just need to talk to my girl. That kind of confession is textbook suspect. Instead, I enjoy my complimentary bag of gummies and keep my mouth shut. The entire time, the kid is staring at me like I ran over his dog. The dad pulls out the pacifier so the kid can eat, and the boy takes the opportunity to throw another “poopy head” in my direction. I like to think I’m a pretty level-headed person, but there’s something in this kid’s eyes I don’t like.

  “Hey, Max, that’s not nice!” the dad scolds, and something like recognition scratches at the back of my mind.

  “What’s his name?”

  “Max, short for Maximillian. That was a real battle with his mom, but…,” the dad begins, but I just stare at the kid, meeting his evil eye with a level stare as I try to remember something that keeps escaping me. I could spend hours letting my mind search for the connection, but a plane full of military personnel unloads in the terminal opposite ours and a bunch of people begin to clap, breaking my concentration.

  Through the crowd, I spot Tamar, her back turned to me as she rides on one of those airline golf carts for the injured and elderly. Aabidah’s in the passenger seat, and when our eyes meet, her mouth is twisted in that serious scowl she reserves just for me. The cart stops just ahead of the service desk and I go to meet them.

  “Daaaaamn,” I say, letting the word draw out with a smile.

  “I look that bad, huh?” T asks, a tissue in one hand and her oxygen tank in the other.

  “No, no. You look beautiful. I… uh… I came to…”

  She looks at me, those eyes that seem to see straight through me, what I was and will be, and she waits. She’s thinner than the last time I saw her, like she’s lost not just weight, but hope.

  I can see now: the fear I had, that the disease had come back and that she didn’t want to tell me, is true. She kept it hidden to save me. Maybe.

  “I came to say goodbye.”

  She rests a frail arm on her hip and throws her head to the side, dramatic, mocking me. “And how’d you get past security?”

  Aabidah pretends this is the first time she’s seeing me and gives me a stiff hug.

  “Fay is always full of surprises,” she says, doing a really good job of feigning she’s happy I’m there.

  I just smile and take a chance at a kiss on Tamar’s cheek. She shivers a bit, and I know it isn’t from the cold.

  “Babe, you know I have my ways,” I tease. “The laws of space, time, and the great state of South Carolina don’t apply to me.”

  “Why’s that baby staring at you?” T asks, changing the conversation.

  “Man, I don’t even know,” I whisper, wanting to get as far away from the kid as I can.

  I take their carry-on bags from Aabidah so she doesn’t have to lift them and set them next to one of the empty rows of seats in the terminal.

  “You pissing off babies now, Fay?” Aabidah jokes.

  “If you ain’t got haters, you not really living, right?”

  She rolls her eyes at me and reaches out a hand to help T sit down, but Tamar slaps it away. I catch Aabidah’s eye and nod. T can be hardheaded when she wants to be. She doesn’t like to look like she needs help, even if she’s dragging an oxygen tank behind her.

  “I’m gonna check on our seats and make sure we’ve got priority,” Aabidah says, and heads to the ticket desk.

  “Hey, you,” I say softly, and watch as T tries to settle herself. I don’t know if she’s uncomfortable or trying to make sure she doesn’t look uncomfortable, but I steel my expression anyway. I won’t let a minute of this be spent on mixed emotions or imperfect impressions.

  “Hey, back at you. So, you just had to see me, huh?”

  “Don’t do that. I came to your house. I know you were home,” I say, wanting her to admit that she shut me out but I never gave up.

  “Some people would call that stalking, Fay. I said what I had to say when I texted you.”

  “A text? Really? If you’re gonna break up with me, you should at least say it to my face. How do I know your phone didn’t get hacked?”

  She rolls her eyes. “That’s an excuse for celebrities when they get caught with endangered-animal porn or old MAGA paraphenalia.”

  “So, you were just avoiding me, then?”

  She bites her bottom lip and picks at the end of her Carolina sweatshirt. Her nails are painted black with rhinestones on the pinky. They look so small.

  “I can’t lie to you, Fay, but I want to.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means, why couldn’t you make this easy and just find some other girl to…”

  “To love?”

  She pokes me in my ribs, and I fake like it really hurts, rubbing away the phantom pains as she picks something out of my hair.

  “Yeah, that.”

  “I’ll make a deal with you, then. I won’t tell you that I love you and you can keep silent about how much you love me back. Deal?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says quietly, trying to look anywhere but at me.

  “Perfect,” I say, wishing more than anything that we didn’t have to put on this whole front. “Are you going to tell me where you’re running to?”

  “How about you tell me what happened at the dance after I left? I never asked, but I want to know. And don’t leave out the details. I want to smell it, it’s so real.”

  “The Valentine’s dance? Okay. Uh, it smells like cherry lip balm, latex balloons, and cheap vodka mixed with fruit punch. Oh, and vomit, lots of vomit.”

  “Gross. Also, you never told me if you got into Morehouse.”

  “I only applied because you got into Spelman, but that’s all done, isn’t it?”

  “Okay, fine. But I know Morehouse wasn’t your number-one choice. Spill. What about the others. How many?”

  “It’s irrele—”

  “Spill! It’ll make me feel better.”

  “Fine. Eight. Morehouse, Fisk, NYU, University of Florida, Carolina, Clemson, Howard.”

  “That’s seven.”

  “It doesn’t matter. I think I’m going to focus on the YouTube channel. Stay close to Ma.” T cuts her eyes at me like I’ve just sneezed out of my elbow. She knows Ma isn’t really a consideration. She works three jobs. I barely see her, and outside of check-in texts, she’s been more and more of a ghost since Pop-Pop died a year ago. I’m the only family she has left, but most days it feels like she left me already.

  “Seven. What’s eight?”

  I mumble, hoping she drops the issue.

  “What’s that?”

  “Columbia.”

  “I knew you’d go Ivy League! And with your mom’s income, you go for free?”

  “If I go.”

  “There is no if. That’s the beginning of what you’ve always wanted. You’ll be in Harlem, so, like, if you get culture shock, you can always go kick it with the people.” Her eyes are f
ull of excitement.

  “I’d rather kick it with you.”

  “Mm-hmm. Now who’s avoiding?” she says.

  Aabidah comes back from the ticket booth with an even deeper scowl.

  “I’m going to Starbucks before they start to board. Want anything?” she asks. “Fay?”

  T and I both shake our heads.

  “She got into that grad program she applied for in Seattle,” T tells me as soon as Aabidah’s out of earshot. “She doesn’t know I know. You’re both putting your lives on hold. Life’s not something you can just stop and start back up when you want to. You don’t always get all the chances you want when you want them.”

  “Thanks for the sage advice, Obi Wan. Did you just age a thousand years without telling me?”

  “No, I’m dying. It makes me wise.”

  I flinch. It’s the first time she’s said the words out loud. My first instinct is to make a joke, because I can’t allow myself to believe it’s true. But it is. As real as the tube snaking along her cheeks to the oxygen tank, helping her to breathe, like the paper-thin skin of her fingers. I rub my thumb over her wrist and feel her pulse. I count the seconds in time to her beating heart. If this is reality, I don’t want to live it. I want the dream life. The delusion that everything is the way it’s supposed to be. Where we are both whole and happy and so full of possibility that we can fly. We sit there, our hands entwined, quiet for a moment.

  Weak light spills onto the walkway from the windows while a busker sets up his station at the restaurant right next to us. I scan the other seats for someplace she and I can sit where we won’t have to talk over the music, but as soon as his fingers glide across his guitar, I stop. His first song is an acoustic version of “He Loves Me (Lyzel in E Flat)” by Jill Scott. Tamar’s eyes close and her hand grips mine tighter. I wrap my arm around her for what may be the last time and close my eyes, too, wanting to sink into this peace, this feeling of being right and whole. There’s a pop in the speakers, some tinny break that doesn’t sit well in my ears. I hold T tighter, trying to parse the good from the bad, and failing.

  21 Just Outside Richmond, Virginia, 1924

  FAYARD

  THE SLIDING DOOR TO THE car snaps closed with a pop. I bite my tongue and taste blood behind gritted teeth. Uncle Max’s arms are locked around me tighter than a jailhouse straitjacket.

  “Ain’t none of our business!” Uncle Max hisses into my ear.

  “Like hell!” I spit, and try harder to get loose, but he’s older and he’s got that strength and strategy. I’m not the first man he’s had to restrain.

  “He’s beating on her. We can’t let that stand,” I roar back.

  “That’s family business. We’ll check on her in a bit. Let them calm down.”

  “She could be dead by then. Beat to hell by then,” I say, losing steam at the thought.

  “He won’t. He’s got too much to lose. Man like that loves his reputation. He’ll do right,” Uncle Max says solemnly.

  “You can’t be sure, Uncle Max.” His thumb slips, and I’m able to pull my hand free, then my arm.

  “She ain’t yours!” he shouts over the din of the train.

  My chest is heaving from the tussle, but I still got fight in me. My blood rushes past my ears and my teeth set on edge like a dog ready to bite.

  “She ain’t yours and she never will be. You always want what you can’t have. Been like that since you could crawl.” He draws in a deep breath, gathering himself. “It’s not your business,” he says with finality.

  I know that. I never wanted to keep any girl. They were just girls. Fun to talk to, fun to touch and sneak around with. I ain’t never wanted to call any girl my own, never wanted to fight for any of them, except this one. I want to kill her father. I could pull his head from his body with my bare hands, and I can’t say why. I’m not even sure if she likes me, given how she acted earlier. But she looked at me. She looked at me, not with hope in her eyes, but relief, like I’d already saved her, like she knew I was gonna be there.

  “Think, boy!” He’s pleading with me.

  I turn my back on him. Uncle Max can pick his own battles. I’ve already picked mine. I pull open the door with a clash and rush in, expecting a fight, but the car is empty. I walk down the hall slowly, straining to hear any sound. Nothing. I press my ear against Tamar’s closed door. I don’t hear anything, but something tells me to check the room I slept in at the end of the car. That’s where I catch the faintest sniffle. I’m about to knock when I let my hand fall.

  I clean up the mess of overturned tea glasses and ruined stationery—newspapers, too. I get a bowl of ice and a clean cloth and take a seat outside. Maybe Uncle Max is right. This ain’t my business. But I wait. I wait so long I fall asleep.

  “Don’t you have somewhere else to be?” she says quietly, softly waking me from a fitful sleep.

  “You’re in the room I sleep in,” I joke.

  She snorts. I can’t tell if it’s a laugh or a puff of irritation.

  Light spills out into the hallway from the room. Her back is pressed against the wall and she’s sitting on the floor just across from me on the other side of the door. She’s holding a cube of ice wrapped in cloth up to her eye. Her voice is ragged and raw like she’s been crying, but there’s no anger. She sounds like a sad little girl.

  “Do you want me to leave?” I ask. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

  “No,” she says softly.

  The silence rocks between us, and the rhythm of the track starts to feel like music: somber, but welcoming.

  “He do that a lot?” I ask. I don’t know where her daddy is, if he walked over me in my sleep or if he’s listening at the door. I don’t much care for my sake, but if he shows his face to get to her, I may not be responsible for what I do.

  She shakes her head.

  “No, not often. But…”

  She stops and turns her head like she’s trying to catch a memory.

  “For as long as I can remember, on Sundays when I was a little girl, I’d get up, brush my teeth, thank God for the morning, and make my way to Sunday school at Mother Bethel AME. There’s a candy shop on Sixth Street. They make lollipops, taffy, and caramel chews, and sometimes on special days they’d have these sweet buns. They’d bake them right in the store, and the entire street would smell like sugar and fresh bread and… oh! There wasn’t anything in this world that I wanted more than one of those sweet buns, but Mama wouldn’t hear of it. One day one of the church mothers gave me a dime because I’d played so well at the church picnic the Saturday before. I… I had to be eight, no, no I was nine, and it was the first time I had my own money. We were walking back from church, and Mama stopped to talk to someone. I don’t know where my sister was, but it was just me and her. I knew this was my chance, you know?”

  I nod. I’m right there with her. I know that candy store. It was one of Fats’s operations, a candy shop in front and, for the right price, a speakeasy and numbers spot in back. Everybody knew what went on there. I can see why her mama wouldn’t set foot inside.

  “I broke away from Mama and I ran as fast as my legs would take me. I got pretty far, too. But she caught me as soon as my hand met the door handle. She said, ‘Tamar, it doesn’t matter how bad you want it. Some things you are never gonna get.’ What kinda thing is that to tell your baby girl? I could see the buns; I could smell them; I even had the money. All that separated me from my heart’s desire was just a tiny pane of glass, and I couldn’t get there.” She sighs. “All my life, I’ve felt like the future I want is on the other side of that glass, and no matter how bad I want it, I’ll never get it.”

  She looks at me, eyes shining, and my palms itch to touch her. “You’re going to tell me to have faith, aren’t you?” Her gaze shifts to the floor.

  “No. I don’t have much faith to speak of, so I’d be the last person to say that. After my mam died, I felt like I didn’t have control of anything. I just moved day to day, drinkin’, s
hootin’ dice, kissin’ girls.”

  She laughs. “Sounds fun.”

  “Not as much as you think. My mama used to say that whenever you make a choice, there’s another you somewhere making the opposite decision.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” she asks.

  “I guess it means that someplace, somewhere, you are getting what you want, or maybe this life is the best scenario. I’m not really sure.”

  She hums deep in her throat and then bites her lip. A few tears slide down her cheek, and I can’t help but inch closer. I hand her another cloth from my apron and fit myself into the doorframe, my good knee up and my bad one lying straight just outside the door. I wince a little at the effort. Sleeping crouched on the floor didn’t do my knee any favors.

  “What happened to you?” Her eyes travel to my leg and I shrug.

  “You ain’t the prizewinner of terrible fathers. It’s a sad story. I don’t want to make you any sadder than you already are,” I say.

  “Tell me, please. I need to not think about myself for a second.” She places a warm hand on mine and I forget how to say no.

  “I told you I ran numbers, but there’s only one person still alive who knows why. King Fats is the biggest banker in Philadelphia. Sure, there are other big-time numbers suppliers in the city, but he’s the biggest, and from the time I was six years old he was like a father to me. He took me to Hilldale Club ball games—you know, the ones with the Negro baseball league? He bought me clothes, introduced me to people, everything. He was sweet on my mother, so he did it to please her. He might have even done it because he liked me. I can’t say either way now.” I pause. “You sure you want to hear this?”

  She nods, eyes wet and searching, an inscrutable expression on her face before she turns and leans her head against the wall, closing her eyes.

  “He would take Mama out, buy her flowers, cover the rent, all of that, but he wouldn’t marry her. I was twelve when she got sick, thirteen when she stopped walking. She couldn’t get around on her own, so I took care of her. Fats stopped coming around. As a favor, or for nostalgia’s sake, he brought me onto his team. I needed the money, and I was the best runner he had. One of his soldiers told me he really was my daddy, but he’d never admit it ’cause the competition might kill me. I don’t know if I ever believed that, but I was still too stupid to see I was just an employee. Mama got real bad, and the money I’d been making helped make ends meet, but it wouldn’t pay for all Mama’s treatments, so I went to Fats. I told him that he owed her, that he owed me. You think I’m cocky now, you shoulda seen me before my leg got busted up.”