TIMOTHY BEAUJOLAIS

Timothy looked out the front window of Number Five. He swayed back and forth, singing the Zulu lullaby Winda had taught him, hoping Imani would consent to nap in the Bjorn since her crib wasn’t assembled yet. “Thula thul, thula baba, thula sana.” He sang softly, so Winda wouldn’t make fun of his pronunciation.

“I hear you,” Winda called from the kitchen, where she was unpacking the boxes labeled KITCHEN ESSENTIALS. “Nice singing!”

His luck at finding Winda, and her loving him, never ceased to amaze him. Before Winda, all his friends had been white, even though he and his twin brother were biracial. It had been pure luck, his being randomly paired with Winda for a project in their global economy graduate course. Especially lucky since Winda wasn’t interested in economics. She claimed she signed up for the class to round out her knowledge of the experience of African immigrants. But once she and Timothy were assigned to work together, Winda understood that she was sent by her ancestors to get him in touch with his roots. He figured he owed her ancestors big time.

He still didn’t totally get what Winda meant by the “ancestors.” They weren’t really ghosts, she explained, but they spoke to her and she listened. Ghosts or not, Winda and Imani were the best part of his life, almost making up for his crazy-ass childhood and lonely college years. He still found it hard to believe that Winda gave up her plan to return to Nairobi so she could stay in the US with him, despite all the immigration hoops and hassles.

He watched as the woman next door at Number Four slammed her car door and rushed into her house. Then he admired the green area circle with benches and flowers. He wondered if they ever had barbecues or potlucks and whether or not this odd little enclave would welcome his family.

“Thula thula thula baba,” he ended the song with a whisper. “Thula thula thula sana.” Imani was asleep. He wandered into the kitchen, proud of his papa expertise, and stood next to Winda. She paused in her unwrapping of coffee mugs, and they looked down at their daughter.

The doorbell rang. Imani startled and whimpered.

“You keep singing,” Winda said. “I’ll get the door.”

He started the song again and followed Winda to the doorway to see their first visitor, a person wearing a long denim skirt and hooded sweatshirt which covered her head and shadowed her face.

The person at the door stared at Winda and didn’t speak for a few long seconds. Then she said, “I’m Aggie. I live at Number Six. Next door.” She hesitated and swallowed hard. “I babysit and heard you have a child, and I wondered if you needed a sitter.”

Winda smiled. “I don’t know yet. We just got here. But come in. I’m Winda, and that’s my husband Timothy and our daughter Imani.” She turned to Timothy, who waved, still swaying with the baby. Imani’s eyes were open and she stared at their guest.

Aggie stared back at the baby. She swallowed hard, then blurted, “I’ve never babysat for a—Sorry.” She turned away and fled down the porch stairs, across the brown grass and into her house.

Winda took Timothy’s hand.