First thing I do this morning is check my hands, and guess what? No difference, unless you count that I’m ashier. Okay, my knuckles and elbows might be tough, but the smoother parts like my face and neck? Come on. My glimmer of hope is starting to fade, when I hear Mama on the phone.
“Yeah, we’ll be ready in an hour,” she says, which hints that she’s talking to Dad. But I’m not gon’ believe he’s coming till he’s here. Mama isn’t either, judging by her dry tone.
But an hour later, sure enough, the horn honks. I hurry to the front picture window to see for myself that it’s indeed Dad. And yep, it’s him. Mama scrambles to the bedroom and stuffs bags like the house is on fire. I pack, too, but slower, letting him wait like I had to outside on the couch Thursday. Grandma hovers by Mama like a mosquito, buzzing about Dad not having the decency to knock on the door like a proper gentleman.
“Will you listen to him,” she harps. “Out there waking the neighborhood with his horn.”
Mama hurries to the bathroom and washes her face.
Grandma’s right behind her. “Where to now?”
“Well, he says he’s got us a nice, big house with a big backyard. And a fireplace.”
“He tell you that on the phone?” I ask, surprised. She didn’t tell me.
“Yes, Genesis,” Mama says, short. When Mama answers me like that, it means don’t ask no more about it.
“Where is this nice, big house, anyway?” Grandma huffs.
“Farmington Hills.” Mama squeezes a glob of toothpaste onto her brush.
Grandma says, “Farmington Hills? How did he manage a place out there?”
“Emory says a coworker owns it. We’re renting from him.”
“You plan on riding the bus back and forth to work from way out there?”
Mama stalls for a second. “Suppose we’ll have to work that out.”
I shove my head between the door and Grandma’s body. “What about school? I ain’t so sure about going—”
“How many times I tell you not to say ‘ain’t’?” Grandma says, harsh. Then, “Lord, I hope he doesn’t get y’all evicted in front of all those white Farmington Hills folks.”
White Farmington Hills folks?
Mama brushes quick then spits into the sink. “Because getting put out in front of Black Detroit folks is better? Real nice, Ma.” She moves past Grandma, grabs my bag, thrusts it into my arms, and snatches up her own.
“You know I don’t mean no harm.” Grandma trails after us to the door. When she sees my dad now standing on the sidewalk, she adjusts her shawl like a superhero cape, like she’s going to fly over and beat him with her Bible till he falls to his knees and repents. “After all these years, I see you still haven’t learned the proper way to pick up my daughter,” she spouts instead.
Dad stands tall, straight. His dark skin shines, like he rubbed on a little too much Vaseline. His full lips, wide nose, and thick eyebrows make him look strong. Handsome. A cigarette hangs loosely at the corner of his mouth, threatening to fall any second. Mama’s already at the car when he reaches for her bag, opens the door, and helps her inside. “I didn’t want to disturb you this early, Mrs. Foster,” he says once Mama’s door is closed.
“I see.” Grandma steps out to the porch railing. “You’d rather disturb my neighbors?”
Dad takes a quick puff from his cigarette, drops it to the ground, and stubs it out. Then he finally reaches for my bag. “Hey, Gen-Gen.”
“Hey,” I say, handing it to him. I’m wishing the lemons suddenly did their magic and Dad’ll rave about how pretty I’ve gotten since Thursday.
Grandma calls out, “I hear you’re moving to Farmington Hills.”
“You heard correct.” Dad smiles, showing dark gums. I inherited his gums. I used to rinse my mouth with hydrogen peroxide to try to turn them pink like Mama’s. They’re still dark as plums. “You should see it. Plenty of space, huge backyard, clean neighborhood with lots of working folks.”
“Hope you manage to hold on to this one, for a change,” Grandma snarks.
Dad’s eyes narrow. “Genesis, get in the car.”
But before I can take two steps, Grandma calls out again. “Genesis, aren’t you going to give Grandma a good-bye hug?”
I glance at Dad. I glance at Grandma. Tension creeps in like a shadow. Finally, I drag myself back up the sidewalk, up the stairs, and give Grandma a quick squeeze. Then I drag myself all the way to the car and climb in. I scrunch down in the backseat, done with being the rope in a tug-o’-war game.
“Surprise or no surprise, I can’t take much more of this,” is what Mama says once we’re all in the car. She flicks at his arm, and Dad catches her hand and kisses it.
“This is the last time. I promise.” He kisses her hand again.
The last time was supposed to be the last time. He promised.
Now Dad grins back at me.
I sit up and start to return his smile. Then I quickly sink back down.
“Why you so quiet, Gen-Gen?”
See, Dad has a way of making you forget that you’re mad at him and what you’re mad about in the first place. But today I want him to notice that even though I’m glad to see him, I’m still salty. So I turn to the window and simply say, “ ’Cause.”
“ ’Cause?” Dad waits for me to elaborate, but I don’t. “Oh, okay, it’s like that? The silent treatment?” Dad fumbles around the console, when he should be keeping both hands on the wheel, and puts a CD in the player. At the first snare of the drum, my ears tune in. All on their own, my lips curl up, but I tighten them back down into a grimace.
Listen, baby . . . ain’t no mountain high, ain’t no valley low . . .
Dad curls his fingers in Mama’s hair and croons the guy part of the song. His voice is deep and mellow. When the female part comes on, Dad balls one fist into a pretend microphone and holds it to Mama’s mouth. She smacks his hand away.
“You’re not gonna sing? Forget it. Come on, baby girl, let’s show your mama how it’s done.” Dad starts the song all over again.
When I was little, Dad used to sing me old Motown songs to stop my crying. Only Motown. “The old songs have lyrics worth singing,” he’d say. Singing together used to be our thing; but he hasn’t asked me to sing in forever. So now, half of me wants to stay mad. The other . . . loves to sing. And even though I’m salty, it ain’t enough to stop me from singing loud, so Dad can hear how much I miss those times.
“Ain’t no river wide enough, baby. . . .”
Soon, our voices drown out the CD. Before I know it, I’m no longer in an Impala with a dented bumper, but onstage in a short sequined gold dress and spiky heels, a giant fan blowing out my long blond weave like a horizontal halo, just like Beyoncé’s. The crowd shouts, “Genesis, we love you!”
“Damn it!” Dad suddenly swerves around a pothole, but hits another one instead. “Gon’ knock my wheels outta alignment again!”
The roads are so full of holes that it makes me bounce all over the place even with the seat belt on. Every year the mayor promises to clean up Detroit, but the potholes keep getting deeper no matter how much black gunk they fill them up with.
Forty-five minutes later, dead brown grass, overgrown foliage, and litter-lined streets are replaced by perfectly manicured lawns, sun-sheltering trees, and green recycle bins. We’re apparently in Farmington Hills. “And here we are!” Dad says excitedly as we enter a development sectioned off with tall trees that stand like a row of police, guarding the place. A huge white wood sign with carved blue letters reads, WELCOME TO FARMINGTON ACRES.
“Dwight, Mike, and Chico helped me move everything early this morning. We even got the beds set up.” Dad drives slowly down the street. “Nice, ain’t it?”
Mama gasps. “Sure is.” It’s true. There’s not a single boarded-up building, vacant lot, or ditched car in sight.
“And this here”—Dad parks in the driveway of a white brick house—“is ours, what you call a ranch-style house.”
“White bricks?” I say, gunning to get a close-up.
“It’s called ‘white washed.’ Like it?”
Now, I’m not gon’ lie, I’m pretty psyched. . . . You know how you’re watching a TV show and they flash to the outside of the character’s rich-looking house? This house could be one of those flashes, for real.
“Look at that grass!” Mama exclaims, scrambling out of her seat belt. Dad’s out of the car faster than Mama, and I’m not too far behind. “It’s so thick and pretty.”
This is true too. Not a single bald patch to be found.
“And these houses, they’re beautiful,” Mama goes on, noting niceties up and down the road. Shiny cars are parked in driveways, cute mailboxes posted at the curbs, and small lawn flags wave in the wind. It’s fancier than Grandma’s Sherwood Forest neighborhood.
Dad grabs Mama’s hand and pulls her up the front steps. “Wait till you see the inside.” He unlocks the door, swings it open and sings, “Ta-da!”
Mama’s the first in, leading us into the living room. “Wow, it’s a lot of space, Emory,” she says giddily. The floors are hardwood. I can slide on them if I want to, but I’m way too old for that, so I probably won’t. The room is long and wide, with a fireplace, not one of those fake ones that’s bricked over, but a real Ho-Ho-Ho-Here-Comes-Santa kind. The dining room has a high ceiling with a chandelier hanging in the center. A chandelier! A million diamonds dangle from it; I’m not bragging, but if we had company, we could sit under it drinking swanky tea, holding our pinkies in the air.
“Yeah, it is a lot,” I calmly chime in, but inside I’m screaming, Oh my gosh, this is so freakin’ fly!
“That’s not all.” Dad beckons us to the kitchen. It’s big too, with white cabinets and silver knobs, a cabinet that you give a swirl to open—which Dad calls a lazy Susan—both above and below the countertop, and a double sink with a spray faucet.
“Whoa, this is a big closet,” I say, opening two doors.
“That’s a pantry,” Dad corrects. “Nice, huh?”
“All for food?” I step into it. “We can only put high-quality stuff in here like Grey Poupon and Evian water,” I joke.
Dad raises his chin high. “Oh, yes, ma’am, we must stock Grey Poupon,” he says snootily. We both laugh, taking turns mimicking his bougie interpretation, until Mama calls us silly.
“Stainless steel,” she says, checking out the refrigerator. We’ve never had a silver refrigerator before. And definitely not one with a water and ice maker right on the door!
“Sharon”—Dad is beaming big time—“remember how we used to dream about having a house like this?” Mama remembers, because her eyes get glassy. “This is real marble, feel!” Dad knocks on the counters to prove how hard they are.
“It’s like—from a magazine,” I admit.
“Gen-Gen, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet.” Dad opens the backdoor and steps out onto the deck. “There’s so much we can do with a yard this size. We can finally have a barbecue with all our friends. Whaddaya think about that?”
At the mention of friends, my mind flashes back to Thursday’s beef with Regina and the girls. I’m about to remind Dad that I don’t have any friends, thanks to him, but I decide not to ruin this moment because for one—this house!
“I don’t know,” Mama says. “Let’s just take one step at a time.”
“I’ll be right back.” Dad disappears into the house humming “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough,” leaving Mama and me outside, letting this all settle in. Could this place really be ours? After a few minutes, Dad comes back saying, “Okay, y’all ready to see the rest yet?” Then he shows us the laundry room with a washer and dryer already in it—which Mama goes gaga about—then he takes us to a different door and opens it.
“This is our room, Sharon. The master bedroom. We even have our own bathroom. Check it out.”
“Wow,” I can’t help but say. “It’s . . . it’s as big as our old living room.”
“And see here,” Dad says, going over to the window. “You can even sit on this little ledge, drink coffee, and read the paper. We can throw some cushions on there and make it real nice. What do you say?”
“It is . . . comfy,” says Mama, trying out the ledge, her voice sounding uncertain. “But . . . can we afford this place? Your cut hours and my thirty-two don’t add up.”
Dad hesitates just a beat and then says, “I got it all under control.”
“A place this size . . .” Mom glances around. “The cost of heat alone will eat up my paycheck, and then you add on electricity, water, cable, and groceries. . . .”
“Sharon . . .”
“You forget about the car note and insurance? Then there’re the other expenses—”
“Sharon?”
“I don’t know. . . .” She pauses, then adds carefully, “Plus, the weekly bus fare for catching the bus from out here—”
“Sharon?” Dad places a hand gently on her shoulder. “I’ve got one more surprise. . . . There’s a high position opening up, with more money—” Mama’s face stays worried, but Dad keeps talking. “I’ve got the years and experience; I’m a shoo-in for it.”
Dad’s never discussed a promotion before. A promotion—hey—maybe things could go back to the way they used to be, before the budgeting and the “we’ve got to make do.”
“Dad, you’re getting a new job? Like a real new job?”
“Yep, Gen-Gen.” He laughs. “A real one.” Then Dad lifts Mama’s chin and peers into her eyes. “So stop worrying. Just have my back, like you used to, okay?”
“Yeah, of course.” But not three seconds after Dad plants a sweet kiss on Mama’s cheek, she asks, “But are you sure? Because, it never fails, every month there’s some unforeseen bill—a tire’s blown out, car tax due, insurance deductible for—”
“I said ‘I got it,’ didn’t I?” But Dad rubs his forehead like he does when he’s getting stressed.
I remind Mama that Dad’s a shoo-in. “He’ll be collecting those baller paychecks, right, Dad?”
“Yeah, Gen-Gen! See, that’s what I’m talking about. I got it.” Dad drapes his arm across my shoulders, saying, “Come on, let me show you your room.” That’s when he tells me the best part of this place is that the school’s in walking distance. New school? I gotta be the new kid again? An attitude instantly creeps up my spine. But just as quick, my ’tude vanishes when we get to my room. So big! Huge! My bed, dresser, and bookcase fit with plenty of room to spare. I could turn up my music and give a whole concert, pretend to have a band plus backup dancers, and still have tons of space.
“It’s dope, right? Didn’t I tell you?” Dad hugs Mama. “Get settled. I’ve gotta make a run.”
“Wait, you’re leaving?” All the excitement drains out of me. “We just got here.”
“Where’re you going already?” Mama’s tone gets real serious, real fast.
Dad scratches his head, stalling for an answer. One comes because he says, “Well, this house can’t pay for itself,” and then laughs as if it’s funny.
I don’t laugh. Neither does Mama. She repeats, “Where are you going, Emory?” But before she can launch into a rant, Dad flashes a dazzling smile. “I’ll be back soon, trust me.”