Kenya
“Told you Tommie and Blue were gonna end up together, Kenya.”
“Happily ever after,” I say.
Terrence closes the Eric Jerome Dickey novel, places it back on the table next to my bed. Over the course of three days he’s read the 269-page paperback to me, cover to cover. It can get lonely in the hospital, even with Mama, Hollywood, Eric and Lark visiting me regularly throughout the days.
Terrence clasps his hands together, rises from a chair, stretches, yawns. “Naughty or Nice. Dickey did a good job with that one.”
“He always does.”
Terrence smiles.
Lark asked me if he was as cute as his namesake on 106 & Park. I said cuter. I meant it, too. My Terrence has his salt-and-pepper cropped short. He wears glasses, sports a bushy mustache and smells like aftershave.
“How long you been married again?” I ask.
“Twenty-seven years this past June.” He looks around, moves over to the footboard of my bed, knocks on it. “Would’ve knocked on your table,” he says when he sees me looking, “but that ain’t wood. They don’t make anything out of wood anymore.”
“Superstitious, are we?”
“When it comes to marriage, you need a cross pendant, rabbit’s foot, horseshoes, four-leaf clovers, Claudine on DVD…”
“Claudine?” I ask.
He sniffs his nose. “Diahann Carroll, Miss Kenya. A nice little dose of fantasy is good for every marriage.”
“I have to get Brown Sugar then. A two-for-one.”
Taye and Boris.
Mmm.
“You a long way off from marriage, Kenya,” Terrence says. “Gotta get your degree first. Settle yourself in a career.”
“True dat.” But love is on my mind. “Any other advice?”
“Trust,” he says, “which comes from honesty. Have to be friends, too. It’s helpful if you and your husband actually enjoy being around each other. And most importantly, you need some of what I call that Rudyard Kipling.”
“Rudyard Kipling?”
Terrence nods. “If you can fill the unforgiving minute/ with sixty seconds worth of distance run/ yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it/ and—which is more—you’ll be a man, my son.” He pauses. “Or daughter.”
“I’ve heard that before,” I say.
“Poem is named ‘If.’ Stick-to-it-iveness, Kenya. That’s the most important thing in a relationship.”
“Never give up,” I whisper.
“Ever,” Terrence says.
“Could you do something for me?” I ask Terrence.
“Long as you don’t ask me to read you War and Peace.”
“What?”
He waves me off. “What you need, Kenya?”
“Need you to dial a couple numbers for me, hold the phone. I have a few calls I need to make.”
This time I don’t fall asleep. I have on a touch of lipstick, a dash of perfume. My hair is neat, pulled back in a tight ponytail. All the clutter is cleared off my table. There’s one bouquet of flowers left in the room—yellow tulips from Hollywood. Yes, Mama’s Hollywood.
I smile as Donnell walks in the room.
It’s funny. Watching Donnell slowly ease into my room, all kinds of images run through my head. Us walking through the park holding hands. Playing virtual reality games over at Dave & Buster’s in Philadelphia.
Dancing in his parents’ basement at one of his parties.
Kissing in the dark of the movie theater.
“You wanted to see me?” Donnell asks.
“Yeah. I did.”
“Wassup, Kenya? I’m here.”
“Why don’t you sit?”
He looks around. For a chair, I guess.
“Sit on the bed,” I say.
“I’m okay standing.”
“Please?”
He frowns. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“I’m not made of glass, Donnell. Sit on the bed.”
He sighs, but slides the table next to my bed out of the way, drops the side rail, eases onto the bed. “Okay. Wassup, Kenya?”
“How’ve you been?”
“Fine. Wassup?”
“You in a rush?”
“Kinda.”
“Got a date?” I ask sweetly.
“Don’t do that, Kenya.”
I nod. He’s right. “Do you hate me?” I ask.
“Why would I hate you?”
“I disturbed a pretty good thing.”
“You did. That a cause for hate, though?”
His honesty is refreshing.
Terrence would give that a thumbs-up.
What did Terrence say?
Honesty, friendship, Rudyard Kipling.
“When you were standing on line to get my book signed, what were you thinking?” I ask.
“I hoped I didn’t have to use the bathroom.”
I giggle. “What else?”
“You’d be surprised, and happy.”
“What made you buy me the Chrisette Michele CD?”
“You wanted it.”
“The dolphin key chain?”
“You wanted it.”
“The yogurt bars?”
“You love those.”
“You’ve been a good friend,” I say.
“I’ve tried my best, Kenya.” He takes a deep breath. “Most of the time.”
“Even before we were going out.”
Donnell warned me about my ex. Ricky. He didn’t want to see me get hurt. He picked me up when I did.
“Yes,” Donnell says. “Even before we were going together.”
“Hand me that cup of ice chips,” I say. “My mouth is dry.”
Donnell gets the cup, puts it to my lips. I open my mouth, tilt my head back. I crunch on a mouthful of ice shavings. My tongue dislodges itself from the roof of my mouth. Much better.
“More?” Donnell asks.
“I’m good.”
He puts the cup back on the table.
“There was a party down in Georgia, at school. One of the sororities. The Deltas.”
I smile at the memory.
Not the party per se.
Carolina. Tammy.
My sistergirlfriends.
“Okay,” Donnell says.
“I ended up having to sing.”
“Sorry I missed that. You have a beautiful voice. I never get tired of hearing you sing.”
“After the party, this guy came up to me, complimented me. Chatted me up some. I ain’t gonna lie…he was fly. Six-four. Ran track, so his body was right.”
Donnell’s jaw muscles tense.
He smiles.
But his eyes don’t match the smile.
“He made a heavy play for me.”
“JaMarcus,” Donnell says.
I nod. “Yup.”
“Okay.”
“I was feeling him. I won’t lie to you.”
Donnell swallows.
“I understand what you said about Melyssa,” I say. “How sometimes things just happen. It’s crazy, but true.”
Donnell closes his eyes and sighs long and hard.
“But nothing happened like that between me and JaMarcus,” I say.
Donnell’s eyes open. He searches me for the truth.
“Nothing,” I repeat.
“Okay.”
“You ever heard the poem ‘If.’ By Rudyard Kipling?”
“Yeah. Think so.”
I repeat the line Terrence recited to me.
“Yeah,” Donnell says.
“Stick-to-it-iveness.”
“What’s that?’
“I’ve got that,” I say. “We’ve got that.”
“Okay.”
“I’m gonna need you to help me with my papers.”
“What?”
“I still can’t hold any heavy books, so I’m gonna need you to spot for me.”
“What are you talking about, Kenya?”
“I could use a computer, but in the meantime we’ll have to share your laptop.”
“Kenya, slow down. You’ve lost me.”
“Almost,” I say. “But I smarted up.”
“What?”
“Terrence made some calls for me. Well, he dialed. I spoke.”
“Who is Terrence? What calls?”
Terrence dialed Donnell’s number, of course.
And a few others.
I’d thought of several after Terrence agreed to make a couple calls for me. Lark. Had to call my homegirl. Mama. Had to let her know what was happening. A few others.
“Kenya?”
“I’ll explain some other time,” I say.
“I don’t understand anything you’ve told me.”
“It doesn’t matter at the moment.”
“Easy for you to say.”
“I’m not going to school in Georgia, Donnell.”
He frowns. “You haven’t…? You’re gonna be okay, aren’t you?”
I smile. “Has nothing to do with my accident.”
The frown is still on his face. “You’re giving up on college.”
“Oh, no. Never that.”
I say never that the way I spell it in text messages.
Neva dat.
Donnell shakes his head. “I. Am. Lost.”
I reach forward, take his hand in mine.
I don’t mention Melyssa Bryan, or her visit, but she looms large in the room.
“We’re going to school together,” I say.
“What?”
“I’m staying in Jersey. Going to Rutgers with you.”
His eyes widen, mouth falls open.
“Close your mouth, Donnell.”
He does.
“Say something, Donnell.”
“I…I don’t know what to say, Kenya.”
I loved when he called me YaYa.
It was cute.
But I’m Kenya.
And Donnell loves himself some Kenya.
What more could I ask for?
“Don’t say anything.” I squeeze his hand. “Kiss your girlfriend.”
All we’ve been through the past few weeks, all the turmoil, confusion, pain and suffering, all of it disappears with Donnell’s smile. He shakes his head, snickers, then leans forward.
And kisses his girlfriend.