Alonzo didn’t like Amir’s condo in El Cerrito on principle.
It was new construction, and when Amir had first put his deposit down, his neighborhood wasn’t anything more than a bit of turned soil, architect’s plans, a few billboards announcing yet another housing development on questionable land too far from the closest BART station, and a dream.
Alonzo did not believe in suburban living. He’d raised his kids in the middle of the city where there was always something going on and where they were more likely to run into someone who knew their people than not. Amir and Amaya had been raised in a place where they had roots. They did not have roots in El Cerrito, and Alonzo hadn’t ever let Amir forget it.
Amir felt guilty about moving Alonzo out of his comfort zone, but Amir worked in El Cerrito, and his condo was smaller and more manageable for Alonzo as he aged. They’d talked about this as a family, but still…
“How’d you know?” Amir asked his father, just about halfway between Oakland and El Cerrito on I-80 East.
“Know what?” Alonzo was tapping his fingers against his knees. Parliament Funkadelic was on the radio.
“How’d you know Amaya needed those pictures? I mean, how’d you know when to give them to her?” Amir hazarded a glance toward his father and found him looking across the front seat at him.
“I didn’t,” he said matter-of-factly. “Your mama wanted her to have those pictures, and I finally remembered to give them to her. Simple as that.”
Amir didn’t turn toward his father because he didn’t want to show the frustrated furrow of his brow.
But then Alonzo’s left hand covered Amir’s right on the steering wheel. “I’m not made of magic, son. And even though it pains me to say this, neither was your mother. We were just two people always trying to do right by you ‘cause y’all didn’t ask to be here, and we loved you.”
Amir lifted his shoulder to wipe his wet face on it.
Alonzo continued. “Which isn’t to say that y’all didn’t get on our nerves sometimes. Every now and then, we had to go to the garage to smoke a little joint and relax.”
“Oh my God,” Amir groaned, laughing around each word.
“But we still loved you and never wanted you to think we didn’t. Your mama wanted Amaya to have those pictures, and I wanted to make sure she got ‘em before you had to sort through all my stuff after I passed. She fretted about those damn frames,” Alonzo said, the smile evident in his voice. “I kept telling her to just pick a frame or get a gift card or something. Let Maya pick out what she wanted. But you know your mama,” he said.
Amir nodded slowly. “Art ain’t about chance. Art is about that feeling in the pit of your stomach, that shakin’ in your bones,” he said, quoting his mother verbatim.
Alonzo’s laughter was a gentle wheeze, soft and reedy. He patted his son’s hand a few more times. “Art ain’t nothing but love in the making,” he added.
Amir felt strong enough to glance at Alonzo. “Didn’t you used to say that music ain’t nothing but making love on vinyl?”
There was a moment of silence as Amir changed lanes.
Alonzo laughed. “I used to say that to Toonie. Not you,” he said, covering his mouth as he laughed. “You eavesdropping on me, ‘Mir?”
Amir’s laughter was so like his father’s that they harmonized. “I might have once upon a time.”
“Mmmhmm, I bet. But to answer your question, yeah. Music, photography, painting, books. We all take our own roads getting there, but hopefully, the destination is always love.”
Alonzo fell silent. He was looking out of the passenger window. Amir assumed he wasn’t looking at the scenery since on this stretch of the highway, it was just rocky hillsides, with peeks of different small cities at each exit. Nothing Amir thought his father was interested in.
“The destination is always love,” Amir said under his breath.