The Better Half(82)
“I give you serious points traveling across the country for Xandra’s seven minutes on stage,” Graham says to me as we stand in the foyer of the Pemberley theater waiting on Xandra and Dash to change. Graham and I are taking the girls out for a late celebratory dinner at an Italian bistro nearby. “And they weren’t even a good seven minutes.”
“They really weren’t, were they?” I deadpan. We both double over in hysterics. Graham has always had a contagious laugh, and once we get started, it’s hard for us to stop. “Let’s keep pushing soccer.”
“Deal,” Graham agrees, getting control of his breath, wiping the sides of his eyes. “No Leo, huh?”
“He ended up having a case out of town,” I lie.
“That’s too bad,” Graham says, matching a lie with a lie.
“Yeah. You’re really broken up about it,” I shoot back.
“Well, no. I’m not broken up about it. No dude wants to meet his replacement. But I am curious to meet the guy who will be in my daughter’s life. And in yours.” Where are Xandra and Dash? Graham suddenly caring about my welfare is making me uncomfortable.
“What, no smart comeback?” Graham eggs me on, elbowing my side. “The Nina I know would have a line ready about how Leo is every bit the partner I wasn’t. I bet Fitzroy even loves him.”
That’s a bet he would win. Graham is acutely aware of Fitzroy’s fathering philosophy: any fool can plant his seed, but a dad is someone who provides for and is present for his wife and child.
“Fitzroy does love him,” I profess, looking Graham squarely in the eye, “but I don’t think we’re together anymore. Well, we’re ‘together’ for the baby, but not really for us.” That’s the best way I can explain it.
“Ah. I’d think you’d want to do it differently a second time around. Not all by yourself.”
I’m stunned by Graham’s reflection. Or confession. In Xandra’s lifetime Graham’s never once acknowledged that I carried the bulk of the parenting on top of my professional load. It was how he expected it to be. Graham would occasionally wash the dishes and then pout around the house until I praised him for his contribution. A call to pick up eggs and dry cleaning on his way home inevitably resulted in a rant during dinner about how our lives would be so much easier if I would just stay home with Xandra and take care of our family. Knowing I would never give up my career, after a few years the beatdown from asking for support wasn’t worth the meager help. It was less exhausting to just shut up and parent on my own rather than drag along an unsatisfied partner.
“Let’s just hope you have a girl. No White dude can raise a Black son in America.”
I nod along with Graham, but for the first time I’m not sure I agree. Raising a child in this country takes more than food and a roof, something Graham never understood. Leo’s working hard to grasp what it takes to partner and parent earnestly if not perfectly. Xandra and I are the strong, principled women we are today in spite of Graham, not because of him. I’m starting to believe that my second child will be who they are because of me but also because of their father.
Oh good, here are the girls.
“You sure you girls want Italian? We can go anywhere you want after that Oscar-worthy performance,” Graham says, catching my eye in the front seat. We both stifle a giggle.
“Nah. Italian’s good, Mr. Clarke. Thanks for inviting me, I’m starving.” Dash’s manners are spot on. I’ll have to remember to tell my father. I turn around to the back seat.
Being a longtime educator, I know my opinion of their performance is less important than hearing from the girls how they feel about their brief time on stage. As Graham’s hunting for a parking spot, I find my best casual voice, so the girls don’t pick up my “teachable moment” tone. “Dash, this was your first play at Pemberley, too, wasn’t it?”
“Yep, Ms. Clarke. Xandra talked me into it. I wasn’t too sure about the whole theater crowd at first, you know, if they were my people, but it was actually kind of fun.” I catch Xandra giving Dash the side-eye on the word fun. “Ummm, not sure I’d do another play, though.”
In the dark of night, this car ride is providing clarity. I’m now thinking it wasn’t Dash leading Xandra down a contentious road last fall. “What about you, Xandra? How do you think the play went? Or I guess, really, what’d you think of your performance?” Dash and Xandra look at each other knowingly. Busted.
“Dash and I killed it.” This time I shoot Graham a surprised look. “But I don’t think I’ll be doing another play either. You saw it with your own eyes, Mom, it was all White kids up front. Like I told you, Mr. Petrov’s a total racist. Dash and I are just able to see what others can’t.” Not this again. Xandra’s selective memory is choosing not to remember that only upperclassmen get lead roles. Information she would have embraced from the get-go if she had shown up at auditions on time and heard the full story directly from Mr. Petrov’s mouth. I don’t want my child latching on to the convenience of playing victim to any circumstance.
“So, no. I don’t think Dash and I will be doing another play.” Dash and Xandra fingertip high-five each other, absolute in their assessment of the theater faculty at Pemberley. It’s like watching a replay of Marisol and myself twenty-five years ago. Hard-core TLC fans, Marisol assured me we looked good running around Queens, me dressed like a Jamaican T-Boz to Marisol’s Lisa “Left Eye” Lopes. It was years before I realized Marisol let us spend far too much time in sports bras baring our bellies. I don’t like Xandra dragging Dash into her obstinate thinking.