The next time he kissed me, he put his hand to my breast. I pushed him off, but then he began to cry. He was sorry, he sobbed. He loved me. He’d never put his hands on me again, and I let him touch me.
Reunion
I’d never brought either of my roommates to the family reunion. Keisha would have fit right in, but I couldn’t invite her and snub Roz, and I didn’t know how Roz would respond to the barbecue in the field in front of my granny’s house. To Uncle Norman laughing and drinking beer out of the can and calling our male relatives and friends “boy” and “son.” Every once in a while, shouting, “What you talking ’bout!” and “Watch out there now!” The women of my family and community calling to me and tugging on my clothes and hair. Ordering me into the house to get some petroleum jelly, because I had an ashy patch on my knee.
But that summer, I decided to bring Abdul to meet my family. I didn’t want him to think I was ashamed of him. For the family reunion, I wore my new lavender linen dress and my strappy sandals. Abdul was looking good, too; I’d called him the previous week and reminded him, be sure to get a haircut. I didn’t want a scene like the summer before, when a cousin had brought her boyfriend down from Cleveland, where they’d had a revival of the pimp-inspired, Black male press-n-curl. As a joke, Uncle Norman had brought his electric clippers to my cousin’s picnic table. The clippers had hummed and buzzed throughout the meal, like a Greek chorus.
My granny’s brother decided to play his banjo. Uncle Huck sat in a chair on the porch, picking and singing the blues in a baritone. Down in the yard, there were cheers, folks shouting, play that thing, Huck! Play it! Mr. Luke looked on smiling and clapping, and everyone pretended they didn’t know the two men were more than friends.
I leaned into Abdul’s side, whispering I knew my family was ’bama, but he kissed my forehead. Don’t worry. He was happy to be here. In the field, we sat with the old man and my mother. When I headed to the food table, she followed me.
“That’s a lot of food for a second helping, Ailey. Aren’t you full? You had a big plate.”
“It’s not for me. It’s for my man. He’s hungry.”
“He can’t fix his own plate? I thought you were a feminist.”
“I am. I’m just being polite to a guest.”
“I hope you know what you’re doing, dating that boy. He’s definitely no Chris Tate.”
“Chris wasn’t as nice as he seemed.”
“At least he had some breeding.”
“Careful, Mama. Your classism is showing.”
“I had a dream about that boy Abdul. I saw his face and everything, but I didn’t even know he existed until you brought him here. Don’t you find that strange?”
“I’m supposed to choose my lovers according to your dreams?”
“Oh, you got lovers now? Excuse me, missy.” She began spooning large portions of greens onto the plate I was fixing. “You want that boy to be constipated? If you going to serve somebody, do it right.”
Along the road, the sound of tires, as a car parked far up the road, parking in front of the long line of others: it was David’s Eldorado. I watched as he walked across the field and embraced my granny. He kissed her cheek several times as she fixed a plate for him. He greeted folks, making the rounds of the tables. Loudly told everyone, yes, he was starting his senior year at Morehouse in August, but then there’d be law school, too. That would take another three years.
When he set his plate at our table, my mother asked him, why hadn’t he brought his girlfriend? She was surely welcome.
“Carla had to work,” David said. “But I couldn’t miss a chance at seeing you, Mrs. Garfield. Gosh, you’re so beautiful. Do you even age?”
She snorted. “Boy, you’re full of something, but I won’t say what.”
I ignored him and moved closer to Abdul, kissing his cheek. I fussed with the paper napkin tucked into his shirt, until he patted my hands, saying, all right, that was enough.
David began eating, but the old man wouldn’t let him finish. He began their usual debate: Washington versus Du Bois. Who was the best leader for our people? Uncle Root cited the great scholar’s founding of the social work program at Atlanta University, proof positive that he was the most devoted to our people. David countered with Washington’s publication of Up from Slavery. It provided history about the peculiar institution and a personal blueprint for success. Definitely an important book.