“Nina, before you keep going on the agenda, I want to throw out there that I’d like twenty minutes to share with the board my thoughts on the Royal-Hawkins athletic program.”
I look right at Winn. I don’t think I even blink, I’m so stunned by his bravado. First, he takes one of my teachers out of the classroom to relive their childhood aspirations, and then he wants to replay their fun back in my board room? I don’t think so.
“I want to share my thoughts tonight while my thinking is still fresh after three inspirational days with the Lakers.” Winn finishes his demand, smiling at me and then the rest of the board to seal the deal.
“No, Winn, you cannot.” And with those four words, I’ve done what no Royal-Hawkins head of school has ever done before. I said no to a Hawkins descendant. How’s that for sealing my legacy?
THIRTEEN
With Xandra in her sophomore year at Pemberley and my intense year of weekend classes at UCLA over, I have taken to staying in bed late on Saturday mornings. Under my snuggly goose down duvet, I sip coffee and catch up on nonemergency school issues that could wait until now. After five days of nonstop talking and decision-making, I cherish the quiet and comfort this new weekend routine promises me. Or I would cherish it if not for my father’s meticulous morning habits set to Jimmy Cliff’s “I Can See Clearly Now,” the Jamaican version of reveille. My whole life, Fitzroy has been the early bird pushing his family to get out there and catch the worm.
“You know, Nina,” Dad says, sidling up to my open bedroom door like a geriatric hit man, “my father used to have a saying he’d wake us kids up with on a Saturday morning, ‘If you’re up in my house then you’re UP in my house.’ And we knew that meant out of bed, wipe the crust from our eyes, and get to work.” Dad’s posture reads disappointment having to wait on me like a princess even though he’s a guest in MY house.
“Wait a minute. Why aren’t you at the Y? Shouldn’t you have left an hour ago?” I ask, startled by the change in plans by a man who NEVER changes his plans. “Won’t the boys send out a search party if you’re not there to claim your locker?” For forty-five years my dad drove the MTA bus route from Queens to midtown Manhattan. His ten-hour shift started at 6:00 a.m., by choice. Every morning, on the way out the door, Dad would leave a handwritten list of chores on the kitchen table for Clive and me to finish before school started. He would double-check that the alarm in our shared room was set for 5:30 a.m. and then be on his way. Fitzroy believes the most important work in life is accomplished before the sun comes up.
While Mom got Clive and me off to school and herself to the St. Regis Hotel for a 9:00 a.m. start, Dad chose the early shift so he could be home to supervise us after school. Not helpful with our intense academic load, he did ensure our bottoms were planted at the kitchen table, books out, snacks ready, study on. There was no such thing as “free time” in the Morgan house. There was only chores, homework, music practice, and church attendance. Even the importance of sleep ranked low on the family to-do list because it was not considered productive. I’m still catching up on my z’s from childhood.
For all his efficiency, Fitzroy is no busybody, so being all up in my Saturday morning business is out of character. “This is what I do on Saturday mornings when Xandra’s at school and you’re at the gym, I catch up on work from the week, in bed.”
“Eh, so this is what people your age call ‘working from home’？” Fitzroy accuses and rubs his hands together before getting to work making my bed with me in it. “Some friends from the Y are coming over this morning. We’re switching it up today. Gonna play dominoes in the morning and get our exercise in this afternoon. By the time they get here you better be up and properly dressed.” I roll my lower lip out in a pout. “And swipe some lipstick on those lips. Pretend like you got a smile on your face.” Since Mom died, Dad’s been playing both parents for me and Clive. He was clearly paying attention to Mom for decades, because believe it or not, his beauty tips are often spot on. Or maybe he’s actually been listening to Chaco Taco’s self-care talk all these years.
“Oh, Dad, your buddies don’t care a lick what I look like. Half of them can’t even see. I’ll just stay back here, and no one has to know I’m home.”
“No, you will not!” Dad says sharply and swipes at me to get me out of bed so he can fold my sheets into hospital corners.
“All right, all right, I’m moving. I’ll get dressed and head out to a coffee shop to work while your game’s going on. You’re wound tight this morning. Did you get up on the wrong side of the bed?” I accuse and head toward the bathroom.
“You’ll do no such thing. I’ve worked hard to arrange this morning, and the good Lord willing my prayers will be heard. I know you’ve met Earvin and Billy, but they haven’t seen you in quite some time.”
When Mom died, Clive and I worried that Dad would be lonely, the two of them spent every night together their half century of marriage. And during Fitzroy’s first couple of solo visits to come see me and Xandra, I thought we were going to have to entertain him every waking moment. But with his gym membership in hand, Dad’s bus driver sociability kicked in as a survival skill, and now his friend group in Pasadena is bigger than mine. His effort to keep me close by is piquing my interest.
“I don’t know what’s gotten into you, Dad, but you’re acting all kinds of crazy. Are you crushing on someone?” I tease like we’re elementary school besties.
“Ah, get on out of here,” Dad says. Then to the sky directs, “Celia, darling, what do you think of this nonsense your daughter’s stirring up?”
“Dad, it’s early in heaven too. Mom’s probably still sleeping.”
“Either way, Nina, if you believe in love, then you better stick around.”
I follow Dad’s request without further fuss and put on the robin’s-egg blue dress he bought me for my fortieth birthday. Dad likes the dress because the neckline is high, and I like it because the hemline is also high. It has a kind of Black Jackie O. vibe and highlights my legs, which are the only feature of my pregnancy bod holding steady. I put on my fresh hoops to add a modern hint to the dress’s vintage vibe. It actually feels good to be put together and ready to take on the day.
“Now that’s what I like to see, Nina, a woman dressed as a woman should be dressed to greet gentlemen in her home. There’s no need to parade around in that second skin with your business hanging out.”
“For the hundredth time, Dad, they’re called yoga pants.” We have this conversation about once a month and always near Xandra’s birthday when she wants a new pair of Lululemons.
“I’ve never seen you do yoga. I like this much better.” Dad grabs my left shoulder and spins me around for final approval. “You look pretty, Nina. Would you mind heading into the kitchen and putting together a few snacks for the boys? Nothing fancy. Oh, I think I hear someone coming up the front steps.” Couldn’t Dad have asked me to do his catering when I was still in my comfy pj’s? And what kind of snacks do you serve a couple of old men at nine in the morning anyway? They don’t seem like a sliced fruit kind of bunch.