“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.
“This Mr. Petrov accusation, is this something widely known on campus, or is this something only the two of you believe?” I dig, looking directly at Xandra.
“I believe I’m hungry,” Dash declares, opening the car door. In addition to the baked ziti I smell, I also smell fierce allegiance to a friend mixed with waning personal conviction.
“Let’s hustle, ladies, I’m starving too. We can rake Mr. Petrov’s White privilege over the coals once we dig in to our lasagna.” Graham hops out of the car. “I’ll meet you all in there,” he says over his shoulder, jogging to the door of the restaurant to beat out the two other groups heading that way.
“I know you don’t believe me, Mom, but I heard what I heard in that class. And what I heard is Mr. Petrov does not like people of color.” Xandra huffs as she exits the car.
I wind my way around the few parties that are separating me and the girls from Graham. I want to find out how long the wait is to be seated. Typical Graham, he’s already chatting up a couple who seem to be waiting for a table as well. The din of the restaurant is loud, so Graham’s leaning over to catch what an attractive petite woman is saying. She looks South Asian, her skin almost as dark as mine. I would have guessed Graham is hitting on her, but then I see the woman’s holding hands with a man I think I know but can’t quite place. His back’s slightly turned to me, so I don’t have a full view. A bored looking boy about eight or nine is wedged between them. I can’t help but stare at the child. In a month’s time, my baby could come out a similar hue.
“There you are, Graham.” I pull gently on his jacket sleeve. Even though we’ve been divorced for years, I can still read all Graham’s faces. The look he’s wearing screams, Get a load of this!
“Nina, this is Dave Petrov, Xandra’s theater arts teacher. I was just saying how much we enjoyed tonight’s performance.” Graham rolls his lips together, indicating he’s waiting for me to make the next conversational move.
That’s where I know him from: the stage forty-five minutes ago. I size him up and down. He’s an inch shorter than me, and I’m in a low wedge. His hair’s graying at the temples, and his wireless glasses could use a serious clean. Nothing about this dad dressed in Gap gives off a racist vibe. “Nice to meet you, Dave. Well done this evening.” I give Dave a strong handshake to ensure my compliment is sincere. It’s not his fault my daughter has no theater chops nor regard for time.
“Thank y—”
“Mom. Mom,” Xandra calls.
I release Dave’s hand and wave Xandra and Dash over. I’m looking forward to us all being in one big uncomfortable cluster.
“Hello, girls. Glad to see you out celebrating your first Pemberley performance.”
“Hi, Mr. Petrov,” Dash and Xandra mumble in unison, barely making eye contact.
Mr. Petrov continues addressing the group. “The three of us had a rocky start establishing a mutual understanding of rules and protocols for the theater, but I think we eventually got there. I hope to see you two again for the spring one-acts. Each grade has their own act, so you two have a real shot at a lead role. Quick turnaround, though, auditions are the end of next week.” Wow, that’s extremely generous of Dave given the performance Xandra put out there.