After school that day, Rosie sipped a restorative cup of tea and ruminated about her day. Hansom, the boy from McDonald’s, the one with the terrible acne, was in her last class. She made a point of approaching him during discussions, but he didn’t engage. When she greeted him by name during lunch or passing period, he pretended not to see her. His body language told her that he was anxious, maybe even depressed. She made a mental note to talk to Kala.
She gazed out her kitchen window at the street and the church beyond. The houses looked worn and poorly kept: weedy yards, junked cars, cracked driveways. Rosie felt self-doubt rising in her chest. Is this why she left Birmingham? Only Mo’s house and the church across the street still had green lawns.
A few children a little older than Langston were outside tossing a football. Another was riding his bike up and down the block. They’d now been in Brent for months, and Langston had yet to find friends in the neighborhood.
“Why don’t you go across the street and play? Those boys are about your age,” Rosie suggested.
Langston glanced out the window and sized up the prospects. He shrugged off her advice. “I don’t want to.”
Rosie didn’t give up. “You walk over there and stick out your hand and say, ‘My name is Langston, what’s yours?’ You remember how to shake hands the way we practiced? Firm grip, look people in the eye, and say your name.”
“Kids don’t shake hands, Mom. And the big kid on the bike looks mean.”
Uncle Mo came over to see what Langston was talking about. “He’s not mean. That’s Tyler. He’s got a cat named Bouncer, a fat old thing who used to come over here all the time—uninvited, I might add.”
Langston lit up.
“When Bouncer spies me on the porch, he strolls over, kinda sideways and a little zigzag, like he’s tryin’ to pretend that he’s not on his way. Then when he gets here he wraps himself around my legs until I scratch him behind the ear—has to be his left ear. That cat has me trained, I tell you.” Mo winked at Rosie.
Rosie heard herself sigh in relief.
“Why don’t we go sit on the porch and see what happens?” he continued. Langston was out the door before Mo could take one step.
Rosie could hear Mo’s booming voice as he followed the boy outside, “Hey there, Tyler. I want you to meet my nephew. Is your cat around?”
Uncle Mo was a better father than Langston’s own father could ever be, Rosie reflected sadly. She hadn’t imagined her life going so wrong when she married Robert. He had been a pre-law student and president of Alpha Phi Alpha at Morehouse College. Robert was the magnetic center of a cluster of cool guys. He was a natural leader with a mischievous sense of humor and a generous wallet.
Rosie spent her undergraduate years at Spelman, a historically Black women’s college. She was quiet, content with a few close girlfriends and her books. Rosie was the one classmates turned to for lecture notes. Her color-coordinated loose-leaf binder, perfectly organized and totally complete, had proved many a friend’s savior during finals.
All the girls in her sorority had a crush on Robert. So when he began lavishing attention on Rosie, she was flattered and willing. For the first time in her life she knew what it felt like to be attracted to someone. She couldn’t wait to be alone with Robert. She took pleasure in their drawn out, nothing-to-do-today lovemaking.
Rosie took Robert home to meet her Uncle Mo in Brent. Since her mother died, Mo had been living in her parents’ house across the street from the church where Rosie’s late father had been pastor for twenty-seven years. Although Robert was a city boy, he knew how to crank up the down-home charm. He complimented Mo’s cooking and dutifully lost to him in chess.
Mo pulled Rosie aside as they were leaving, making sure Robert was out of earshot. “Robert is a great guy, honey, but be careful. He’s a tomcat.”
Mo’s opposition was all Rosie needed to cement her feelings. Couldn’t Mo see the truth? Robert read like a philanderer because he was a sexual person. Even though she adored Uncle Mo, Rosie rejected his tomcat warning as self-interest. She knew Mo wanted her to come back to Brent after graduation, and being married to Robert would make that unlikely.
By senior year, Rosie and Robert were spending all their free time together. Robert was president of his fraternity, and Rosie was treated like royalty. Rosie graduated summa cum laude with a double major in English and education. Robert squeaked through a pre-law major. Somehow, between studying for exams and attending fraternity events, Robert proposed.
Robert reluctantly agreed to a wedding in Brent. He would have preferred something upscale, an elegant hotel reception. But Rosie insisted on a small wedding at First Baptist. She wanted to honor tradition, right down to jumping the broom, a custom of African origin that was created during slavery. Because slaves could not legally marry, they created their own rituals to honor their unions. Jumping the broom legitimized marriage and the coming together of two families.
Uncle Mo gave the bride away. Rosie and Robert held hands and laughed as they jumped. They looked like the model of success—stylishly dressed, well educated, and filled with love and potential. The church ladies had clucked and cooked for weeks. The spread in the social hall reception was relaxed and sophisticated all at the same time.
The young couple found a spacious apartment in a modern building in Birmingham and set up house. Rosie began teaching at one of the finest high schools in a diverse suburb. The principal recognized a gem when he saw one—a highly qualified, dedicated young teacher was a feather in his cap. Robert worked part-time while he applied to law schools.
Robert struggled through law school. He was a slow reader, and the professors’ expectations for several hundred pages a week overwhelmed him. He became short-tempered and withdrawn. Rosie thought that when he finished school, he’d return to his old self. But Robert, who’d always loved to party, began to drink more. He came home late, alcohol on his breath. She never knew which Robert would appear—the sensitive, fun-loving guy she fell in love with or this bitter, belligerent drunk. Soon enough, the bad days overshadowed the good.
Rosie stared out the window. She saw nothing but her past. Mo came into the kitchen, interrupting her thoughts.
“Trees have grown wild since the last time you were here, especially the ones next to the church. Trying my damnedest to keep ’em trimmed. Not enough time to do it all.”
“First Baptist looks great,” Rosie offered. “I know how hard you work.”
Rosie took a long, hard look at Mo and acknowledged the signs of his nearly seventy years. His gray hair had become sparse and unruly. He moved deliberately, seeming to calculate the amount of energy required for each step or task.
“If you want the house to yourself, Rosie, it’s yours. I can move back to the church basement.”
“No, Uncle Mo, this is your house. Besides, Langston needs to have a cranky old man in his life. Makes things exciting.”
Rosie took stock of the house. Other than a flat-screen television that she had brought, nothing had changed. Langston had taken over her childhood bedroom, pinning his superhero posters to the walls and finding a special place in the closet for his Legos.
The day of the move, Langston had asked, “Will Daddy know how to find us?”
Rosie was confounded. No matter how many times she explained the move, no matter how much love she gave her son, and no matter how many times his father had disappointed him, Langston still craved Robert’s attention.
“Of course—he knows where we are,” she assured. “You want to call him?”
Langston ignored her.
She remembered being in the house when she was a child, interrupting her father when he was composing a sermon, reading on her bed for hours. She had loved watching her mother apply cherry-red lipstick, check her image in the mirror, then fasten her broad-brimmed Sunday hat to cross the street for church. Just the other day, she caught herself looking at that same mirror.
During her marriage, Rosie hadn’t joined a congregation. She’d forgotten how much she loved to be in church. Returning to First Baptist had renewed her spirituality.
On Tuesday nights, she crossed the street for choir rehearsal. As a girl, she’d joined her mother in the First Baptist Choir. In high school, she was a regular soloist. Since her return to Brent, she hadn’t missed a rehearsal or a Sunday service. The rhythms, the lyrics, and the moving melodies all came back to her. The choir director, Mr. Day, was thrilled to have Rosie’s voice and enthusiasm.
As promised, Edmond the math teacher showed up at rehearsal. He acknowledged her with momentary eye contact and a nod of his head. She took this as a sign of his interest, but she wasn’t sure. He didn’t look at her again, keeping his eyes on his sheet music or Mr. Day instead. She thought momentarily of inviting him over for coffee after rehearsal but changed her mind. She sent up a silent wish that Edmond would ask her for a date. That’s all she wanted—a date.