[Reviews - 123]
-
Table of Contents [Report This]
Microsoft Word Chapter or Story |
Printer Chapter or Story |
ePub eBook Chapter or Story |

Has been viewed 2675 times

- Text Size +




Thanksgiving Friday, 12:01AM:

Ororo hugged her knees to her chest and stared at the glaring red display on her clock radio, telling herself off one more time, just for good measure, in case she hadn’t gotten the message yet: She messed up. She rubbed already red-rimmed eyes, even though they burned, and took inventory of the day’s ups and downs. The downs won, hands down.

Her eyes drifted over to her doorframe to the limp, dessicated remains of a rose that she’d taken as a souvenir from the bouquet Logan had sent to her office weeks ago; hours ago, she’d admired how it held its shape. The dark gloom and faint moonlight streaming inside turned its pinkish petals an ashy mauve. If she reached out to hold it, it would crumble.

A couple of hours ago, it became all she had left of him.


Mid-afternoonish, Thanksgiving Day:

“So…how do you pronounce your name again? It’s just…so unusual, I’ve never heard anything like it,” Amelia stammered, smiling fit to split her face in two. Logan sighed under his breath as he searched for the Lenox china and the “pumpkin” placemats and their matching cloth napkins.

“Ororo,” she repeated, smiling brightly. It was a reaction she was used to, and one that frequently made her question her mother’s choice to bless her with a name from her native land. It always went back to the problem of never being able to buy those cute little white shoelaces or ribboned barrettes with her name on them when she was twelve. In hindsight, she was glad; with so many nutjobs snatching children off the street in this day and age, and even back when she was younger, it was better that strangers DIDN’T know her name from her announcing it with her clothes. As she matured, Ororo realized she wasn’t just proud of her name, she was protective of it.

“Come again?”

“Or-OR-o,” she attempted again, trying not to treat Logan’s stepmother as if she were dense or deaf, but not wanting to suffer through mispronunciations all night, either. Amelia seemed like a nice woman, so decided to spare her. “Logan calls me ‘Ro,” she offered.

“Oh. We call him Jamie,” Amelia informed her brightly, squirting up the juices with the turkey baster and drizzling them over the bird as she leaned the pan on the oven rack. Logan’s father strode past the kitchen and paused by the counter, grinning and rubbing his palms together with glee.

“I just can’t stand it, that’s gonna be some bird!”

“SIT! Go watch your game, Jonathan, and quit slavering and licking your chops! Let us women take care of the rest of this. Jamie, sweetie, fetch me that gravy boat, please?” Logan stifled a grumble as he picked up the gold-rimmed container by its handle and set it gently on the kitchen counter while Amelia stirred her giblet stock and added a handful of flour. She squirted in some of the reserved pan drippings from the turkey and turned down the heat. Ororo wanted to laugh at how she’d become part of “us women” so quickly. She felt relieved.

When they’d first knocked on the front door, she’d gotten the reaction she’d been afraid of the whole way over in the car.

“Just a minute, Jonathan, I already pulled out the corn pudding…oh! JAMIE! Oh, come in, COME IN!” The front door was yanked open as a pleasant middle-aged woman who was still relatively attractive and slightly kitschy in her turkey-themed holiday sweater and Dockers khakis practically pulled Logan inside by his face, sideswiping his jaw with a smooch. “Oh…Jamie, who’s your lady friend?” She stepped over the threshold, which Ororo hadn’t quite crossed yet, and craned her neck up for a closer look.

First thing they notice, Ororo mused, bracing herself. Out of habit she straightened her shoulders and smiled with as much warmth as she could muster. Logan’s hand reached for hers and urged her to step inside, pulling her beside him.

“Amelia, this is my mysterious woman you wanted to know about last time I came. She goes by Ororo. Ororo Munroe.” He released her hand long enough for her to shake Amelia’s in a firm, careful grip. Amelia’s hands were slightly cool from repeated washings as she prepared the dinner, but her face held pleased surprise.

“Well, hello there! You know,” she began, looking Ororo over from different angles, “I don’t thing I’ve ever seen hair quite like yours; is that a hair color, or some of those fancy hair extensions?” Monica had redone Ororo’s hair in a sedate mound of microbraids and curled the ends around bone rods so they hung in neat spirals down her back.

“Some of it’s synthetic. All of it’s mine though, since I paid for it,” Ororo clarified, cringing slightly when Amelia hesitated a moment before laughing a little too loud.

“Listen to YOU! That’s priceless! Jamie, why don’t you two go ahead and hang up your coats?” Ororo obeyed, and caught Amelia looking her over again, taking in her flat shoes and confirming for herself, “Good heavens, she really IS that tall!”

That was how it began. Ororo handed Amelia items from the cabinets and fridge as she went a few rounds of Twenty Questions with Logan’s stepmom:

“Where do you work again?” Shelter network. Handling events and publicity. “How did you and Jamie meet again?” He fixed my alternator when it went out. “Have any brothers or sisters?” No, there’s just me. “Do your parents live around here?” My mother lives in Delaware. “Your parents aren’t together?” My father passed away; yes, I do miss him. We were close. “Are those contacts?” No, ma’am. “So, just how tall are you, if you don’t mind my asking?” She didn’t mind it anymore than the last million people who’d asked her over a lifetime…but she didn’t say that out loud.

“Jamie hardly ever brings houseguests over, we’ve gotten so used to him just breezing in and out,” Amelia explained almost accusingly, whisking the gravy in endless whorls before finally giving up, chucking the lumpy mixture into the blender. She bellowed over the pulse of the appliance, “Have you two been together long?”

“Well, not too long…”

“WHAT WAS THAT?”

“NOT TOO…long,” Ororo paused, allowing her voice to drop back to normal volume.

“So you live in the city? Do you enjoy all the hustle and bustle?”

“I’m used to it.” It was her stock answer that she used for all of her relatives when they asked why she didn’t move closer to home. Ororo took a moment while Amelia struggled with a jello mold to look around the kitchen and dining area. It was quaint, clean as a whistle, and every spare inch of space was cluttered with figurines and knick-knacks. The ceramic statuettes and dolls seemed to stare back at her as if they had some questions of their own to lay on her.

“Jonathan and I just aren’t up for that anymore, but it seems to suit Jamie,” Amelia mentioned, sending Logan a look that was scolding but affectionate. Ororo suddenly wondered how often Logan made it over to visit his own family.

She perused some framed photographs and found some that made her smile. “Logan?”

“Yeah, darlin’?”

“Isn’t that cute, you have little pet names for each other!” Amelia grinned over her shoulder, then went back to wrestling with the jello to slide it onto a serving plate. Logan chuckled under his breath and shook his head.

“You never told me you played any sports,” Ororo observed, nodding to a photo of Logan in a team photo, directly center in the front bottom row, looking boyishly handsome in a blue basketball uniform, lucky number seven.

“Never woulda guessed that he had such a great three point shot by lookin’ at him; everyone always underestimated this guy because he wasn’t ten feet tall,” Jonathan chuckled from his cushy armchair in the den as he turned down the volume on the set. “What about you, kiddo, did you ever play any basketball, as nice and tall as you are?”

“Nope.” Of course she got that a lot, too. Jon’s parents had asked that question, too, when they noticed she was as tall as he was. Never failed, she sighed. But Jonathan Howlett made her feel at ease with his warm humor and striking resemblance to Logan. “Sports weren’t always my thing.” Especially when the cheerleaders always got on her case, even when she was just a spectator.

“Jamie had tons of potential. Elizabeth and I knew he’d make something of himself some day, and that he could do anything he set his mind to. Did he ever tell you he wanted to be an architect?” Logan met her stare with a mute shrug.

“He sure didn’t! Wow. I just figured you always wanted to work on cars.”

“I did. Eventually. Still do.” Logan retrieved some wineglasses from the cupboard. “Sometimes dreams change. Plans change.” His voice sounded odd.

“You never had to change plans on my account, Jamie.” Jonathan turned his Lazy Boy so that he was facing his son and leaned his elbows against his knees. He flicked his eyes at Ororo. “Jamie saved my life, and pretty much picked up where I left off while I was recuperating, took over running the shop and never looked back.”

“I know,” Ororo replied, and Logan suddenly felt her soft, slender hand stroking his back in circles. “He’s very good at it.”

“He took care of me, too. My wife was already long gone by the time I had my heart attack, and she made it clear she wasn’t coming back.” Amelia paused as she poured gravy into the boat, accidentally slopping some over the edge. Logan felt the draft from where Ororo’s hand left him as she crossed the kitchen to hand Amelia a sponge. “It was a difficult time. We have a lot of years together behind us.” He looked fondly at Amelia before saying “Everything happens for a reason.”

Sure. That reason being that she ran off with the gardener. We had the best friggin’ roses on the block, and Mom was making time with the guy who was taking care of ‘em. A lot of years together, behind us. Logan never wanted to have to say those words out loud about himself.

“Dinner’s almost ready!” Amelia sang, bringing the covered dish of turkey dressing to the table and setting it on a trivet. Her cheerfulness didn’t distract Ororo from the fact that tension was rolling off of Logan in waves.

“So, Ororo, where did you go to school?”

“I transferred to NYU after finishing my general ed at a little junior college over in Westchester.”

Jonathan whistled, impressed. “You sound educated, all right, that was my first thought. NYU, eh? Bet your parents are damned proud!” Ororo recovered her smile, even though it was weak.

“My father was happy when I picked that school.” Her mother had always been a little disappointed that she hadn’t chosen Spellman or Howard.

“That’s great. That’s really great. I always wondered what it would be like, having a daughter, but I ended up having two of the best boys in the world.” He settled back into his seat and took a sip of his beer. “I bet beating the boys away from his doorstep was a full-time job for your pop, kiddo. You’re a real looker!” Ororo giggled, and Logan lightly tugged on her braids and kissed her cheek.

After a brief grace where they linked hands in their seats, and Logan’s father gave thanks for “bringing us together with family and new friends,” they dug into the food and continued to chat. Logan continued to duck questions about plans for their future, since it was so soon after they’d determined that they had a “present” together.

“So, young lady, what’re your intentions toward my son?” Jonathan prodded, and Ororo nearly dropped her butter knife.

“Pop!”

“What, I can’t ask? For all I know, she’s keeping you out past your curfew. Pass me the mashed potatoes, Jamie.” Jonathan took another pull off his wine. “Don’t be shy, ‘Ro, tell us the truth. Do ya love him? Gonna make an honest man of him?” His tone was teasing, but Amelia leaned forward as though she were happy that he had fished for the answer so she wouldn’t have to.

“Well…” She was almost saved “ almost “ by Amelia this time, who clapped her hands in delight at another prospect that made Ororo blush to her hairline.

“Just think of the grandchildren we’d have,” Amelia gushed, getting a faraway look in her eye. “We hardly ever get to see John Jr.’s and Sharon’s!”

Ack!

“Quit givin’ her the third degree,” Logan growled at his father, but there was something tender and contemplative in his eye when he turned back to hold Ororo’s hand under the table. They communicated in that not-quite-telepathic way that new couples normally do when put on the spot.

We never really talked about that before…

I know.

So what are your intentions toward me?

To love you silly. Case closed.

Okay. Works for me. Logan winked at Ororo. She squeezed his hand and winked back.

They ate lightly, ducking Amelia’s prodding to have some more stuffing, or how about a slice of pecan pie? Were they sure?

“We’ve gotta jet. We’re takin’ ‘Ro’s cousin and her boyfriend to her folks’ place for dinner.” He was saved from further explanation by a brisk knock on the front door, followed by a jiggling turn of the knob. Two children with their grandfather’s eyes dashed in, yelling “Grandpop! Grandpa Jon-Jon!” They proceeded to climb him like a tree, which clearly thrilled him as he gave them smacking kisses on their cheeks.

“It’s an invasion!” he bellowed. Their parents followed at a sedate pace, looking quizzically at the exotic female seated next to Logan.

“Don’t think we’ve met your friend before, Jamie.” He clapped Logan on the shoulder in acknowledgement before sidestepping him to extend his hand. “I’m Logan’s big brother, John.” She rose to shake it, and his eyes rose in that telltale way, telling her that she’d surprised yet another member of the Howlett clan with her size. “Damn, you two must look like Mutt and Jeff when you’re together! Bet you can use my kid brother as an armrest!” She nearly laughed at his gall. She caught Logan’s muttered “Fuck off” and playfully tweaked his ear.

“John, stop it,” Sharon hissed.

“This lovely lady is my wife,” he explained, and Ororo shook her hand in turn, thankful that her smile was genuine.

“This is the first time in years that we’ve had an even number of men to women in this house!” Amelia scurried off to get plates and asked Logan to bring in more chairs from the garage, until he reminded them that they were on their way out.

“Making your escape already?” John hung up his parka and tugged off his children’s shoes.

“Visiting Ororo’s family,” he explained, deciding that was sufficient. “Gonna meet her mother.”

“Mom asked about you when I spoke to her this week, by the way. Oughta give her a call,” John suggested. That tension leapt into Logan’s back again before he pushed his chair back from the table, not in the mood to be cornered any longer.

“Yeah. Sure.”

“She misses you,” John added.

“Sure she does.” Jonathan’s eyes followed his younger son as he collected his and Ororo’s coats.

“I wish you two didn’t have to leave us so early!” Amelia opined, drawing Ororo into an unexpected and fragrant hug that she found herself returning. “Maybe we can get together again for Christmas! It’s nice when we have the whole family under one roof!” There was that funny twinge again that made her heart stutter: Family.

“Are you Unca Logan’s girlfriend?” John’s son Thomas inquired.

“I like her hair, Unca Logan, she’s pretty,” his niece Eliza informed him. “You look like my brown Barbie that I have at home, but her hair isn’t like yours!” That broke some of the tension, and despite Sharon’s low shush, Ororo laughed and thanked her profusely, admitting that she had a few brown Barbies a long time ago, too, and a Wonder Woman doll with a kung-fu grip and lasso that she could use to fly.

Jonathan stood and hugged his son in that distinctively male back-clapping way and advised him, “Don’t be a stranger.” He released him and told Ororo “That means you, too.” He tugged her coat sleeve, urging her to lean closer to kiss her cheek. Jonathan followed them out the door to the car, and Ororo paused when he tugged her arm again.

“Well, kiddo, come clean, whaddya think of my boy?” His eyes were shining with mischief.

“I think he gets his charm and good looks honest. He’s growing on me,” she grinned. Logan huffed at the exchange, overhearing everything as he unlocked the doors.

“He might grow on ya some more, the longer ya hold onto him. Kinda like roses and ivy. Drive safe, Jamie. Be nice to her mother!” He waved to them as he made his way back to the rest of his family for a slice of pecan pie.

Next stop, Kenyatta’s.

Logan’s CD player was on at low volume, and Ororo’s fingers gently kneaded the knots in his neck as he drove. “That wasn’t too painful. Your father and his fiancée are great folks, Logan. I liked them a lot.”

“Once you get past the nosy questions, Amelia’s a kick in the pants,” he agreed. “She’s picking up where my mom left off, collecting more of those figurines. She’ll run us out of the house with ‘em.” Something about the way he phrased that still her hand from where it was combing through the back of his hair.

“Logan?”

“Yeah, ‘Ro?”

“I love you, you know.”

“I know.” The way she conveyed it when she’d confessed it the first time lingered with him like the aftertaste of a favorite sweet.

“I wanted to tell you again. I wasn’t sure how you felt about your dad asking…”

“That’s what I figured, darlin’. He’s good at that,” Logan laughed. “He gave Sharon a hard time too, back in the day. Asked her if she planned to compromise his virtue, or something crazy like that, and made her turn red as a beet. I think it’s safe to say he liked you.”

“Sure hope so.”

“Doesn’t matter. I like you.” He unwrapped her hand from his nape and kissed it. “He’d be crazy not to like you, but I’m biased.” He nibbled her knuckles wickedly.

“Sssstop! We’re here already. Damn it,” she mock-griped. “Go ahead and park it, c’mon in.”

“Why are they riding with us again?”

“The usual. Kenyatta wanted to save the gas, and she was running late because Leon had to work at the store until noon.” Logan helped her out of the car. “Of course, I’m also guessing she wanted to scope you out before you meet the rest of the family.”

“It’s not like I’ve done time, fer cryin’ out loud,” he groused. Ororo’s shoulders shook with restrained giggles as they pressed the button on Kenyatta’s intercom.

“S’up, cuz!”

“Go ahead and let us in, time’s a-wastin’!” Kenyatta buzzed them in, and they made their way up to the third floor. Kenyatta’s apartment building was old and the hallway carpeting smelled slightly musty. Ororo’s brisk knock brought the running of feet inside and sent a shadow over the other side of the peephole. Kenyatta opened up, took one look at Ororo’s hair, and announced “You’re better let me put some braid oil on that!”

“I already did!”

“That’s the first thing you’re momma’s gonna ask. And ya need some lipstick, bring your face over here…oh, by the way, I’m ‘Ro’s cousin!” She gave him a toothy grin and shook his hand; Logan was tickled that Ororo’s cousin was so flamboyant and bubbly. “C’mon in, sit yourselves down!” Then she escorted Ororo into the bathroom with a terse “Not you. Let me get that lipstick! Let’s put some color in your face, I’ll fix you right up!” Ororo rolled her eyes at the diversion tactic. Kenyatta dug in her vanity for her Clinique transparent lip glaze and painted Ororo’s mouth with the wand. “He’s a cute little thing, ain’t he?”

“Uh-huh,” Ororo murmured through dropped lips, letting her coat them with the makeup and hand her a tissue to blot.

“How was dinner at his daddy’s house?”

“Interesting. Not bad, but I get the feeling there’s a story I’m not getting.” Kenyatta squirted some of the braid oil into her hands and rubbed them together. “Didn’t seem too happy when his brother asked him if he’d called his momma.”

“Maybe they don’t get along,” Kenyatta suggested.

“I just don’t wanna see him upset, especially on his holiday.” Ororo didn’t admit that she didn’t want that underlying tension to keep him from enjoying dinner at her mother’s house. It was going to be challenge enough meeting all of her relatives en masse…Lord have mercy.

“Quit frettin’, it’ll be fine.” She smugly added “And at least they aren’t running me through the gauntlet this year! I’m not the one bringing home fresh meat!”

“Rub it in,” Ororo snarled, straightening her eyebrow in the mirror.

“Kenyatta, move it along, girl, finish putting your face on so we can go!” Leon bellowed from the living room.

“I’ve already got my face on, quit rushing me, I’ve just gotta get my hair out of this doo rag and give it a lick and a promise! Do something constructive!” she hollered back. “Like fart on the couch and scratch yourself,” she muttered, going over her hair with the heated curling iron. Ororo snickered.

Logan plopped himself on the couch as Leon turned up the football game from where he was reclined on the chair.

“You fix cars, man?”

“Yep.”

“Cool. That’s cool. You do body work, too?”

“Yep. Even stuff for car shows.”

“Nobody does anything with hydraulics anymore. Never see cars that hop these days.”

“Nah. Not really, huh?”

“Everybody’s got candy paint nowadays, though; you ever watch Pimp My Ride?”

“I saw the one episode when the girl’s car was full of rat poop and turned it off,” he admitted. Leon laughed and slapped his knee.

“That shit was nasty,” he agreed. “They give all those damned cars candy paint.”

“No kidding,” Logan muttered. Ten minutes later, Ororo and Kenyatta breezed out of the bathroom on a cloud of Kenyatta’s perfume and hairspray, both looking good enough to eat.

“It’s on! Let’s bounce.” Leon clicked off the remote and they headed downstairs, bundling themselves into Logan’s Crown Vic. Leon and Kenyatta made envious sounds as they admired the leather interior.

“Not too shabby, cuz,” Kenyatta grinned at Ororo in the rearview mirror. Ororo sighed.

“Can’t wait for some of that cornbread stuffing your momma made the last time,” Leon enthused. “Why don’t you ever cook like that?”

“Need to be grateful that I pay the bills,” Kenyatta grumbled under her breath, cutting her eyes at him. He held up his hands in surrender.

“Just sayin’…” he trailed off.

“Need to quit sayin’ anything.” To that she added a clear “Hmmph!” Logan caught the quirk of Ororo’s lips as she continued to direct him onto the ramp. Logan estimated they’d reach Wilmington shortly after it got dark. Ororo assured him that there would still be food on the table by the time they got there.

To Kenyatta’s credit, she behaved herself toward Logan, but she had a little too much fun teasing Ororo about things they did as kids. “Don’t make me come back there and snatch you baldheaded, cuz!” she warned a few times, looking with evil intent over the seat.

“Hey, don’t tell me I didn’t warn you about those Jody Watley-looking hoop earrings, can’t say those were my fault!” Logan was starting to have a good time now, despite Ororo’s continued murmurs of “Girl, DON’T go there!”

Logan had to circle the neighborhood to look for parking once Ororo had pointed out which house was her mother’s. Cars were laddered up the driveway on both sides and edging the sidewalk out front. He parked the car in the tiny cul-de-sac and got out of the car, taking a deep breath.

“Don’t be nervous,” Ororo assured him.

“I won’t.” It was already too late. He was. She laced her fingers through his and they marched up the street, greeted by the increasing volume of the commotion inside the house.

Kenyatta reached the front door first and was about to ring the bell before it swished open, pulling the knob from her fingers. She almost fell inside from the momentum.

“Land sakes alive, look at this child showing up just before it’s time for the cows to come home! N’Dare, Ruthie, your daughters are here!” Ororo’s aunt Martina yelled over her shoulder, “and they’ve brought company!”

“Good night,” Kenyatta shuddered. She dutifully kissed her aunt’s cheek and dragged Leon by the sleeve through the front foyer.

“Tell the whole neighborhood we’re here, why don’t you,” Ororo chimed in. Ororo’s hand slipped from Logan’s grip as she was yanked into a crushing, rocking hug.

“There’s my baby!” Martina passed her off to her aunt Naomi, a woman roughly as tall as she was with a formidable bosom that she enveloped Ororo into as she hugged her hard enough to make her see stars…

That went on for a while, until someone asked “Oh, who’s this?” Logan found himself meeting a few dozen pairs of curious eyes, and he waved instinctively to everyone present. A few heads ducked around the corner of the kitchen doorway to peer at him, and he realized he was now, officially, under the microscope.

“Happy Thanksgiving,” he told them. Awkwardly Logan heard a male voice asking in the background “Is that Kenyatta’s new man?”

Someone else shushed him, answering back “No, no, no; N’Dare’s girl brought him in, from what I can tell. Leon’s right over there, he came last year!” Ororo was just disengaging herself from her grandmother’s skeletal but firm grip on her hands when she turned back and retrieved Logan from the hallway.

“Sorry about that,” she whispered. “Got carried away for a second.”

More like got dragged away… Logan was still strangely satisfied to see how much her family really enjoyed having her there, if the proud glances they gave her were any indication. Some of Ororo’s nephews darted in and out of the den in a mad tangle, and her aunt Martina fussed at them to quit carrying on like that in the house. One of the smaller, younger boys paused long enough as he ran by to stare at Logan and giggle with gappy teeth before he followed his siblings. A girl who looked about the same age as Eliza stared up at him as he was led into the kitchen, peppering him with questions.

“What’s your name? Mommy, what’s that man’s name? He’s not one of my uncles, we never saw him here before?” Her twisted pigtails were adorned with white plastic hair bobbles and her eyes studied him without blinking.

“My name’s Logan.” He nodded to her baby doll. “I like your baby, what’s her name?”

“Felicia. And my name’s Monique,” and she stuck her chest out proudly, enjoying the attention from this new adult. “Felicia’s not allowed to talk to strangers,” she scolded him.

“That’s probably for the best,” he nodded solemnly.

“Logan’s my friend,” Ororo told her, hooking her arm through his, “so now he’s not a stranger.” She relieved him of his coat and ran off with it, leaving him again at the mercy of the kitchen’s occupants.

“Take this,” Leon mumbled to him, nudging his arm with a cold bottle of beer. Logan nodded at him, grateful. He appreciated the mellow, false sense of calm that the beer gave him as more questions began flying at him. He still hadn’t even met Ororo’s mother, that he could tell.

“So what do you do again?”

“Wait a minute, did you say your name was Jon?” That question chafed him, but he just corrected Ororo’s elderly uncle with “Logan.”

“So who was Jon?” He asked one of the nearby women for clarification, and she whispered something in his ear that made a look of comprehension dawn on his face. Logan recognized it for what it was: Jon was the “old” boyfriend. Ahhhhhh…

More voices chattered around him in the commotion. He thought he heard “Tiny little thing, ain’t he?” a couple more times, making him rub his hand over his face. He was ushered into a chair and a plate of food was nudged under his nose.

“Here, let me get you some of my sherbet punch,” Ruthie flipped over her shoulder, and she was off like a shot, getting him a fresh glass.

“Don’t forget to give him some of that ambrosia salad,” Martina reminded her.

PLOP! A hearty spoonful of stuffing was ladled onto his plate, which was looking crowded. “You gotta be starved after that long drive. Someone grab ‘Ro and get her in here to eat. Where is that child?”

“Helping N’Dare round up the kids for pie,” her uncle Lucius called from the den, never taking his eyes from the set.

“What kind of program did you have to finish in school to fix cars?”

“I learned everything I know from my father,” he answered easily enough. He took a sip of the punch, watching the swirls of lime green and orange sherbet blend together on the surface.

“So you didn’t go to school?” The question was asked in a tone that suggested that the very idea was a sacrilege.

“No. I went to school. I just didn’t finish.” Ororo heard the tail end of the conversation and homed in, taking up the chair next to Logan and dropping herself into it.

“Logan decided to head back home to take care of some family business back then.” She tweaked a piece of his dinner roll and popped it into her mouth.

“Still, it’s nice to finish school?”

“Sometimes life gets in the way,” he said thoughtfully. He poked his fork into the small mound of ambrosia salad, studying the chunks of mandarin orange and pineapple.

“Why did y’all get here so LATE?” Ruthie complained.

“We wanted to stop at Logan’s father’s first.”

“Leon had to work,” Kenyatta called from her perch against the refrigerator.

“You missed the family blessing. Your uncle John gave a nice speech this year.”

“We probably would have just ended up at the kiddie table,” Ororo retorted. “Couldn’t have been too much different from his speech last year.” Ororo turned to Logan to fill him in. “Every year, Uncle John says the blessing and gives a speech about new additions to the family, and all the usual hoopla. Every year, Uncle Marty complains about why doesn’t he get to make the speech. It’s a running argument.”

“Speaking of running arguments, who’s got The Book this year?” Ororo’s cousin Anita demanded.

“The Book?” Logan quirked an eyebrow.

“You don’t wanna know,” she replied, rolling her eyes skyward.

“I already gave it back to Momma,” Kenyatta pleaded her innocence.

“I gave it back to Martina,” Ruthie bellowed from the dining room table where she was cutting the pies into neat triangles. “Never even got to finish it.” More accusations flew around the room, even through the house about the whereabouts and who-had-it-last of the mysterious book.

“Dare I ask, what book?” Logan repeated.

“An original hardcover edition of ‘Sally Hemings’ by this lady named Barbara Chase-Riboud. Kenyatta brought it home from the book store one day and left it here, my mom read it and loved it, and it’s made its way from house to house. No one ever knows where it is until someone finds it again and passes it along. It’s a family tradition to argue about where it ended up last every year, when we’re together.” Ororo took a generous bite of cornbread stuffing. “Get enough of us under one roof long enough, and we argue. What could be better?” Before Logan could question that, a woman roughly his height with bone structure like Ororo’s and salt-and-pepper hair in shoulder-length braids came up beside her daughter, eyeing him with curiosity.

“Happy Thanksgiving, Momma.” Ororo dutifully rose and kissed her mother and turned back to Logan. “This is Logan.”

“So I’ve heard. Call me N’Dare”

“Happy Thanksgiving,” he offered. He shook her hand for a fraction of a second before she tore herself away, tugging Ororo along with her.

“Help me serve the pie.” Logan sank back into his seat, the sentiment “what the flamin’ fuck?” plain on his face. Kenyatta peeked over at him, her sympathy plain.

“What took you so long to get here tonight?”

“We stopped at Logan’s,” she explained for what seemed like the umpteenth time. Her mother handed her a can of Redi-Whip and told her to shake it up. “I met his family.”

“They hadn’t met you before?”

“Not until today.”

“What’s the verdict?”

“Excuse me, Momma?”

“Did they give you the runaround? How did they treat you when you walked into their home?”

“I had a nice time,” she admitted, reflecting that yes, she had. Awkward questions notwithstanding…

“That’s nice,” N’Dare mused. There was an edgy hint of vinegar in her voice. “Now when were you going to tell me he wasn’t Black?”

“When I thought for so much as a second that it mattered worth shit.”

“Watch your language, girl! You won’t disrespect me in my house!” N’Dare’s voice was a hushed whisper when a couple of Ororo’s aunts turned to peek at the scuffle. Ororo resumed squirting squiggles of whipped cream on the slices of sweet potato and pecan pie.

“I didn’t think it was all that important; I didn’t get around to it,” Ororo said dismissively. “So?”

“Why couldn’t you have brought home someone like your father? He treated me like a queen from the jump. You grew up with an excellent example of how a Black man treats his wife and daughter, Ororo, so I guess I’m confused as to why a White man’s sitting in my kitchen, with you out here calling him your boyfriend.”

“It’s my life. It’s my choice. He’s a good man. Why should that even matter?” N’Dare sighed and shook her head, loading the banquette by the wall with the serving plates. Ororo’s uncle Marty conveniently overheard and added his two cents.

“There’s still a few of us good ones left, too, baby girl,” he reminded her, swiping a slice of sweet potato pie and the fork she handed him.

“Maybe Kenyatta got the last one,” Ororo shot back, curling her lip. Leon, true to form, was regaling all of her male cousins of a woman that walked into the supermarket while he was on the shift wearing a too-small skirt stretched over a too-large behind. The men crowed like roosters from the den in approval. “I thought I did a pretty good job of finding a man who met all the other important criteria such as employed, caring, strong, and loves me, but I guess I missed something, after all. He’s not Black.”

“Why make things harder on yourself and any children you might have in the future? Do you see how much attention women with mixed children get when they walk down the street?”

“It probably wouldn’t have been any more attention than people gave you when you walked me down the street,” Ororo murmured. “Or when Daddy did. But he always seemed proud of me, anyway.” Ororo laid down the pile of forks, unaware that she had an audience.

“You were his greatest joy, don’t get me started, child. I think he would agree with me when I say that I think you’ve stopped trying to find a Black man to share your future with.”

“I’ve stopped trying? Hold up. Run that by me again? You see me as giving up? Since when is being with someone who cares about me and treats me well and who makes my TOES CURL” “ her voice rose as she made her point “ “considered giving up? I’m just throwing in the towel?” Her mother’s nostrils flared with frustration as she threw up one hand, waving away her daughter’s impatience and the unwelcome knowledge of her “physical” activities.

“N’Dare, did you use that recipe that I gave you this year for this pie? Looks good, girl!” Martina snagged a piece and patted her sister-in-law’s shoulder, shooting Ororo a “just calm down” look before she turned away.

“What does he think of you? Your color? Your history? How do people react to you two being together when you go out?”

“So far, it hasn’t been much of a problem,” Logan rumbled by Ororo’s elbow. Her head whipped around to stare into his eyes. “The consensus so far is that she could use me for an armrest, bein’ that I’m not that tall. As for what I think of her, I don’t mind answering that. She’s bright, fun, sweet, gorgeous, and I can’t wait to rush home every night to see her smiling face.” He turned back to Ororo. “Except yer not smiling right now, ‘Ro. You okay?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Okay.” He kissed Ororo’s cheek, still not convinced, and suggested “Why don’t I get you a drink?” She nodded, still dazed that he’d heard it, all of it. She watched his retreating back, ramrod-straight, as he strolled back to the kitchen. Ororo finished dressing the pie slices and moved to take the whipped cream cans back to the kitchen after him, but her mother stopped her. “Just leave those here. Let him come on back.” Ororo gave her a troubled look, but she sat down on one of the dining room chairs as her relatives milled about, retrieving plates of dessert and watching the children tumble through the house, still high on all the sweets from dinner like the corn pudding, candied yams, and ambrosia salad. Ororo heard the echo of the dishes clinking together in the kitchen as her aunts began the clean-up. Logan came back a moment later with a cup of punch and his half-finished beer. N’Dare rested in a chair opposite them and folded her hands on the table.

“Did Ororo tell you I used to be a school teacher?” Ororo fiddled with a discarded napkin. “Her education was very important to me, not only because I was a teacher, but because an education was almost denied me while I was still living with my family. My own father wanted to marry me off instead of continuing my education. I met my husband David before that could happen, and he brought me to America. While David worked, I cleaned houses, trying to afford to go to school myself. It was rough, and we wanted to give Ororo a better life than that which wouldn’t involve such a struggle.” Logan wet his lips with another sip of beer as he listened. N’Dare’s eyes seemed to bore right through him, as though watching him was triggering something, maybe an unhappy memory. “When you are not a citizen of the land where you live, people can be cruel. They can make assumptions. They can give you a hard time. I dealt with narrow minds and difficulties regarding my color, the way that I spoke all the time, when I attended my classes, when I went off to work, and when I eventually taught classes myself. David took it in stride. What made it worth it in the long run was how well he treated me, and that he was always proud of having me for his wife.”

“Okay.” Logan set his beer down on the place mat and scratched the back of his neck. “So do ya think I won’t be proud of Ororo if we get married? We haven’t really talked marriage yet, but I’m pretty proud of her now. She’s special and she means a lot to me.”

“She means a lot to me, too. She’s all I have. I want to see her happy. But I also want my grandchildren not to worry about who they are.”

“Momma, don’t count your grandchildren before they’ve hatched.” It sounded more harsh than she’d intended, but she was straining at the seams, fighting not to come unraveled. There it was: Now her mother was dropping the grandchildren card. Logan cleared his throat, and Ororo saw hurt in his eyes when she glanced over at him, cursing herself.

“So, Logan, have you had any education? You fix cars?”

“I own an auto shop, yes. I have some education,” he clarified.

“Some?”

“I dropped out of college after my father had his heart attack.” N’Dare’s face finally softened a bit. “After I’d been out for a semester or two, working in his shop, going back to school didn’t seem as important.”

“Wouldn’t you want your own children to consider an education important?”

“Sure. But my own circumstances were different. My mother had already left, because she wasn’t happy with what she and my father had together, not the way you and ‘Ro’s father were happy. They stayed together long enough for my brother and I to have a home with both of our parents under the same roof. But even when you’re grown up, and your mother takes off, claiming she was never really happy where she was, it still hurts. I had to watch my dad cope with almost dying, not only from the heart attack, but from a broken heart.” The words tumbled out before he could stop them. He hadn’t even had a discussion like this with Ororo up until now, but it was hard to escape the pull of her mother’s expression, of her frustration and seeming insistence that they were making a mistake. Ororo’s hand covered his, but his frame was still taut and unyielding.

“Going back to school wasn’t as important once I spent some time out in the real world.” Logan screwed the cap back onto his beer. “That same real world that you’re afraid won’t accept a relationship like what I have with your daughter. The whole world didn’t come grinding to a stop the first day that I asked her out to lunch.” He wanted to go on, maybe even explain that if anything, time stood still for him the moment they met, but Ororo’s mother still wore a slightly mulish look. Something stubborn inside him decided he didn’t want to justify something that they shouldn’t have to explain. Ororo loves me? Yup. I love Ororo? Yup. Then we’re good. It should be that easy.

Yet in the space of a couple of family get-togethers, all of the sudden it wasn’t. What the hell?

“Logan does very well for himself, Momma.” Ororo’s voice was firm, but it felt like too little, too late. Something had just changed the workings of their relationship, and it worried her. A lot.

The rest of the evening drifted by in a blur. Logan managed to meet all of Ororo’s relatives and chat briefly about mundane enough things while Ororo helped her aunts put away the good silver and load the cloth napkins into the wash. Slowly, the house began to empty car doors could be heard slamming outside. Ororo was tired and anxious to get back on the road. First, though, she had to find Logan. She peered around the kitchen, asking Leon “Have you seen Logan?”

“Check in the den. Keisha’s kids are still up and playing, they were gonna watch a movie before they went to bed.” Ororo had wondered why it was suddenly so quiet without her nephews and nieces wreaking havoc. She craned her ears for the sound of Logan’s voice, and was grateful when she found it.

“Do the wolf noise again!” Monique squealed at him, giggling behind her hand.

“GRRRRRR!” Monique and a couple of Ororo’s nephews ran for cover behind the couch, peeking out at him with delight. Monique raised her baby doll up first to see if it was safe. Logan pretended to pounce at the doll, and she snatched it back behind the couch. Logan stepped back and chuckled at the resulting shrieks.

“Ready to pack it in?” Logan faced her and took in the weary look and limp droop of her shoulders as she hugged herself. He half-guessed that she could use a hug right about then.

“Sure. Ask your cousin if she’s ready to go.”

“Kenyatta’s staying with Aunt Ruthie tonight, so she and Leon won’t be going back with us. They can catch the Amtrak back.” He heard the note of relief and agreed that it would be better if they had some time to talk.

“I’ll get our coats.” Ororo began making her goodbyes, exchanging more hugs and kisses and agreeing not to wait so long to visit the next time. She returned to the kitchen and approached her mother while she was tucking the leftover turkey in Ziploc bags. “Momma, we’re going home now.” She dropped a perfunctory kiss onto her mother’s soft cheek, but felt the stiffness in her body before she pulled away.

“Ororo?” The sound of her name brought her to a stop just as she was halfway out of the kitchen.

“Yes, Momma?”

“Let me tell your young man goodnight.” N’Dare gathered up some of the leftover food, already packed into disposable Tupperware, and filled a shopping bag full for Ororo to take home, claiming “We’ll never eat all of this.” It felt like a way of delaying the goodbye. The wrongness of it thrummed through Ororo, wondering what it was that her mother felt she hadn’t already said, or what she should be saying herself. Her mother eventually followed her to the foyer, where Logan held her coat open for her to step into.

“Happy Thanksgiving, N’Dare. Thank you for having me to dinner.” His faint smile didn’t hide the solemn look in his eyes.

“Good night. Drive safely. Keep my baby safe.” She stood out on the front stoop in her house slippers and cardigan, hugging herself against the chill as she watched them make their way to the car. She didn’t wave.

Ororo silently berated herself getting into the car, pulling out of the cul-de-sac, and all the way onto the off-ramp. For the next forty miles she contemplated what to say. For the next hundred miles she stared at the landscape whizzing by until she grew dizzy and drowsy, until Logan’s voice disturbed her thoughts. Since her thoughts weren’t the greatest place to be at the time, she almost welcomed the save.

“The view ain’t gonna get any more interesting if ya keep staring at it. It’s dark out. You could tilt the seat back and take a snooze,” he offered.

“I’m not quite tired enough to sleep yet.”

“Okay.” He opened his CD holder and handed it to her. “Feel like listening to anything?”

“Maybe in a while.”

“It’d help me stay awake on the drive home if we could have something else besides deafening silence,” he reasoned. That caught her attention. “I’m not good at awkward silences, especially when you’re looking like someone ran over your dog.”

“Right. Sure. Awkward. Got it.” Ororo plowed her hand through her braids and kicked off her shoes, which had begun to chafe the balls of her feet. She tucked her legs up under her and faced him. “It’s not you.”

“It’s not me. What’s not me?”

“That…whole…thing at the table. My mom. What she was saying.”

“You mean the part that I’m White, the part that I’m not educated, or the part where she wants you to marry someone Black? Or the part where you omitted that little piece of information that I was White?” His voice wasn’t angry. His words flowed out calmly as he kept his eyes on the road. He was still uncomfortable and radiating frustration, and Ororo’s was pushing and clawing its way out. She wanted to touch him, but his muscles were still tightly knotted, and he flinched when she reached for him.

“It almost sounds like you and my mother are on the same page, thinking that I omitted it. Telling her that you’re White. I think I kind of made my feelings clear that it didn’t matter to me.” Ororo played with the end of one of her braids, peering at the curled tip as though it were fascinating. “Does it really bother you that I didn’t say anything about it ahead of time?”

“She seemed awfully shocked.”

“She would have grilled any man that I brought home. Education speech and all. You could have had a master’s, PhD, and a Nobel Prize, and I guarantee she still would have given you some semblance of a nobody’s-good-enough-for-my-baby speech. She’s my mother. She’d a proud, stubborn Black woman who used to teach for a living, Logan, she’s pretty used to telling people what to do, and how they should do it.”

“So is that it? Do I need a Nobel Prize?” He smiled without humor on his side of the car.

“Sure, if you wanna use it as a doorstop. Don’t get one on my account.”

“What do you want me to do on your account? It wasn’t just your mom that got the drop on us tonight and caught us napping.” His knuckles whitened on the steering wheel, and Ororo felt as though they had made a mistake of not just playing a CD to fill the silence. Anything to stop the storm that was brewing…

“Were we supposed to exchange notes and bone up first before we headed out? Cram for the test?” Logan shrugged and let out an exasperated sigh.

“I love you.”

“I love you too, Logan.”

“We’re in a relationship.”

“Yeah.”

“People communicate in relationships. Talk about what they expect.”

“Yeah.” Her jaw clenched and she ground her teeth against the urge to cry out “Get on with it, already!”

“What do you expect out of this? Where do you see us going with this, Ororo?”

“Logan…I guess the only way I can answer that is to say that I want there to be an “us” and not just a ‘you and me.’ When I was put on the spot like that, all of the sudden, no matter what I said was going to come out wrong.”

“Come out wrong?” His voice was still too soft. “How? Come out wrong for who?”

“My mother.” A pause. “You.” She stared at him, willing him to look at her.

“Ororo, do ya want marriage? I’m not just askin’ with me, I’m askin’ as a general question. Do ya want kids?” Then he asked the nagging question that had buzzed in the back of his skull for most of the night since he’d mentioned that his mother had left his father. “And if ya were to get married, would it be for keeps? No returns, with a fifty-plus year warranty?”

“Marriage isn’t something I take lightly. I don’t know if I said anything to give you that impression.” Another thought occurred to her. “Unless you think that by mother telling me I wasn’t trying hard enough to have what she did with my father, that I didn’t want that kind of commitment? I hope you didn’t think that.”

“I didn’t say that. I say what I think.”

“I want a happy marriage one day with someone who loves what I am.” Uppity relatives and all.

“That’s funny. I want the same thing with someone who’s proud of me and what I do. I want a relationship where I don’t feel like the woman I love is defending me from things that the other people in her life that she loves have to say about me.” Visions of his father being lifted into the ambulance, asking him to tell his brother what happened, but not to trouble his mother haunted him, making him taste metal. “I don’t want to go into this knowing there’s an ‘expiration date’ because I didn’t meet some mark or some goal for you to be happy with me.”

“Wow.” Ororo settled back into her seat and leaned her forehead against the window. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I just sat there trying to defend you, I guess. I thought I was defending us. You weren’t the only one under attack, when you think about it, Logan. I was the one she was accusing of making a mistake and of ‘giving up’ the hunt for Mr. Tall, Black, Handsome and Eligible.”

“Tall, huh?” A snort escaped him, fueling the bad mojo.

“I like ‘em short,” she snarled, “all the better when I tell a guy to kiss my ass.” Yep. Before they were just dancing close to the edge of an argument. Now they waltzed, twirled and dipped right into it, cha-cha-cha.

“From what I saw tonight, I need a degree in it to do that.”

“The fuck you do!” She was glaring at him openly now. “You don’t need a degree for anything concerning what you do with me. That’s not a condition that I ever set for what’s between us.”

“But there’re conditions.” Traffic stalled at a toll bridge as Logan dug into his pocket for change. She pondered that as they edged along in the tide of cars, wishing they were already home but unsure of what would happen next. She didn’t want to get out of that car without resolution. Peace. Some promise that something this ridiculous wasn’t going harm what they built, or end it.

Logan dropped the change into the metal net and they were waved through the gate.

“There aren’t any conditions,” she told him. Her voice sounded disembodied and sad, coming at him from the dark, partly muffled by her knuckles pressed against her mouth. “I’m the one who loves you. I’m the one you’re in this relationship with, Logan, not my mother. What I want and what she wants for me are two different things. I want you. If she loves me, and she does love me, then she can accept that.”

Logan brooded over that. Accept it. Defending him. Conditions.

Ororo.

“What happens if she doesn’t?”

“What?” Her eyes gleamed slate blue in the passing glare of another’s car’s high beams.

“What happens if she doesn’t accept it.” He had to ask, even though he didn’t want the answer. “I ain’t gonna come between you and yer family, darlin’, because that’s yer mom. Ya only get one in this lifetime.” His words sounded hypocritical and hollow to his own ears. He hadn’t spoken to his mother except for a terse confrontation when she had come back to the house to collect her clothes and drop off the housekey. He’d shied away when she tried to hug him goodbye. Her eyes were swimming with tears, but she just straightened up and climbed into Thomas’s old Cadillac and rode off without looking back.

He didn’t wish that lot on anyone. Not for ‘Ro. No regrets for the woman he loved. Even if it meant stepping aside.

“And what if we wanted to have a family?” He felt her eyes on him even as he faced the road. “What if we wanted to have some of those grandchildren that everyone was asking about? That your stepmom wants to have to round out the family, and who my momma was convinced would have the whole world against them, pointing the finger for what they are?” The memories of Logan with the Hudsons’ daughter, his niece and nephew and the children running around her momma’s den nagged at her and sent a rush of yearning through her stomach. That feeling was at war with the stress twisting her insides. “Momma did have a hard time, sometimes, when people would approach us, or just stare at us when we walked down the street. Can’t really help it when you look different like I do.”

“Those people were stupid,” he growled.

“But I looked different. Oh, well. That was that. Somewhere in her heart, she worried about me not being Black enough, not blending in, you name it. She wanted me to sing at our Black church, wear my hair like Black women do, which wasn’t a stretch, go to a Black school, and eventually marry a Black man. It was what I was supposed to do. To her, it was safe.” Ororo sniffled miserably, and Logan realized she was crying.

Damn it.

“That was her…idea…of how to fix the problem.” Her words came out in halting gasps at first, but she eventually mastered it, just letting the tears stream down her face. “I love my momma, Logan. But I won’t be her problem to fix. And right now, I don’t know how to fix this, either!” She bowed her face, cradling her forehead in her palm, and more high beams whizzed by, throwing their stark, eerie light over her hair as it fell forward and hid her from him. Her braids shook as her shoulders rose and fell.

A warm hand drifted across the seat and landed on her knee, stroking her, trying to soothe her. Logan’s jaw worked as he searched for something to say that would put things right. He was coming up empty.

“You don’t need fixing.” The frustration still hung thickly in the air, but Logan forced himself to relax and to concentrate on getting through to her before she closed him out. She didn’t fight him when he pulled her over closer and lifted the shoulder strap of her seat belt aside so she could lean against his shoulder.

…and that was how she ended up here. Alone in her room, staring at one withered pink rose.

When Ororo picked up the bag of leftover food and collected her coat from the back seat, things were still to raw and thrumming with awkwardness, and the things unsaid between them just hung in the air like a dark cloud. He didn’t follow her upstairs, and she didn’t ask him in. She just fled up the stairs, unlocked her door, and collapsed against the other side of it in a bawling heap. She missed the tight clench of his fist against the steering wheel as he sat and watched her hair wink out of the glowing streetlight when she hurried inside.





You must login () to review.