I wrote a novel, The Greyhound Chronicles, for my creative thesis back in 2003/4. The novel, kinda metafiction, has a short story in it written by the main character (Kensington Webster) called “Remnants of My Father.” These are the “memory” segments from that story–and they are, if we can truly call our memories REAL, “loose” moments from real life.
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1984. August. It’s balmy. We’re in Atlantic City on a day bus trip. The whole fam. My cousins, aunts, uncles, peeps we’ve known for so long we think they our family. At six, I’m too happy to realize that it’s too damn hot to be wearing green polyester pants and a matching vest, with a white, long-sleeved tee beneath it. All I know is that I want to get on the horses that spin around in circles as music drops from speakers above them. As soon as the bus stops at the boardwalk and the white bus driver (who happily said we could call him Carl) announces that we’re in A.C., I jump from my seat and barrel out the bus like that big ole ocean out there is all mine.
The heat stings my brown cheeks, but I’m smiling too hard to care. Sun’s screaming in the sky it’s so bright, and something smells salty. I know it’s the water. Another bus pulls up behind ours and mingling with my family is a bunch of people who don’t appear to be as rowdy as we are. We whooping and hollering and laughing about nothing, really. We just be happy like that. Even when we not happy.
I see Pop Pop with his straw hat on, holding Grandma’s hand. Mom’s taking her good ol’ time getting down the bus’ steps with her beach ball belly. She’s 42 days away from giving me a lil sis or bro. My great aunt Margie waddles off the bus. She bigger than three bus seats—that’s why she sits in the three-seater at the back of the bus, but she prettier than any princess I’ve ever seen in the movies with her red-tinted brown skin and long black hair that hangs past her butt.
My smile starts to drop a little. I walk past Pop Pop and Grandma. Past Mom. Great Aunt Margie. Uncle Herbert. But I can’t see my daddy.
“Smile for me, Sweet Pea.”
I turn, and the sun shoots its rays into my eyes. I throw my hand up over my face and close my eyes to little slits. I don’t smile as Daddy snaps the picture, but it’s not because I’m mad; I was just scared I wouldn’t find him.
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1984. Halloween. Daddy is sitting on the edge of his and Mom’s bed, crying. My hands grip the doorframe, my forehead and eyes the only thing around the corner into the doorway. I didn’t know daddies cried. Mom walks up behind me and strokes my hair.
“Baby,” she says in a dry voice, “go put on your black, patent-leathers, okay?”
I nod, but first I walk into the room and lean into my daddy.
“Hey there, brown sugar baby.”
“Daddy,” I say, “don’t cry. D.J. is coming back.”
Daddy looks at Mom and then back at me.
I walk around the bed to the white wicker bassinet where D.J., my baby brother sleeps, and it’s empty. Still. For the last four days.
I remember the screaming and crying and long moans. The red-blue flashing lights of the police car. The ambulance. My mom weeping into my grandmother’s arms. Pop Pop patting Daddy’s shoulder. Mom’s sisters pacing the living room, faces streaked from tears. They place me and my cuz Dani in the kitchen with ice cream, tell us that everything will be okay. Later, Mom says D.J. went to sleep and never woke up.
“Shake ‘em,” I reply. “Maybe he just really tired.”
Mom cries and leaves the room, and Daddy holds me with shaky arms.
I wear my black dress with the white lacy collar. We ride in a big black car to church and there, I stand between Mom and Daddy as people come up to us, hugging us, telling us they’re sorry.
“God has D.J. now,” one of my aunts whispers to Mom.
It hits me then. D.J. is gone. Twenty-nine days on earth, and he is gone. He is never gonna wake up. My eyes water, and I blink fast. I hold my daddy’s hand as tight as I can. Mom’s too. I straighten up and don’t cry. I push the sadness down into the soles of my patent leathers.
When we take to our seats, in front of me is a tiny white casket with pink roses around the edges. The lid is closed.
“D.J.,” my daddy groans. I pat his thigh with my right hand.
I look straight ahead at the casket, not blinking, not crying, not anything.
After the cemetery, everybody goes to my grandparents’ and eats, drinks, laughs, and talks like the world didn’t just flip over and crush us. My aunt Ann comes to me with a cup of apple juice and some cookies. I knock both from her hands. People stare.
“Why y’all laughing?” I scream. “My baby brother’s dead and y’all laughing?”
Mom makes her way to me, but it’s Daddy who reaches me first, collects me into his arms and takes me upstairs where he holds me, sings to me, and lets me cry myself to sleep. I can hear his weeping in my dreams, and it comforts me.
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1985. Christmas morning. The sun was just breaking up over a frozen Baltimore, and I sat in front of the Christmas tree ripping wrapping from presents. I got a good haul that year. A new bike, a doll that stood as tall as me with gleaming blond hair to comb and plait (though the plaits always unraveled), clothes, a new coat, books, but my favorite toy was Jayson. He was one-month-old and by far the best gift; I mean when you get a gift that can move and drool, you kinda like that one a little bit more. I try to forget that Jayson is one day older than D.J. was when he passed away.
As soon as the last present is unwrapped, I run into my room, change into a sweat suit and slip into my new coat, ready to play in the snow. Mom stays in with Jayson, and Daddy follows me out. I trudge out into the thick snow that comes to my knees. I feel my legs moisten and then freeze. Before I can turn around, something cold smacks the back of my head and I fall face first in the white powder. Fresh snow stings my gums where my two front teeth were just the week before.
With bony arms, I manage to pull myself up out of the snow and turn to face Daddy. He’s laughing at my cold, hard face. I pat snow off me and quickly build my own ball and wheel it at him as hard as my seven-year-old arm can throw. He moves too slowly and the snowball grazes off his cheek. I’m in attack mode, ready to build another ball, but Daddy takes hold of the Polaroid camera he has around his neck and points it in my direction.
“Smile, Baby,” he coaches me, his eyes not as warm as they used to be.
In my red, white and blue Christmas coat with white fur around the hood, cuffs and hem, I smack my hands together like I’m praying and lay my tilted head upon them. I smile but don’t show teeth.
“You such a beautiful little girl, Kensington,” Daddy says as he takes the picture.
For a minute, I forget how Daddy blindsided me with snow and froze me up.
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1989. October. You couldn’t tell me that it was weird luck how a week after learning about Helen Keller in sixth grade, I came down with scarlet fever. In my parents’ king-sized bed, I slept with four blankets piled atop me though I was running a 102 temperature.
I awoke to loud rumblings outside the door. Mom and Dad were arguing. Again. I could hear Mom telling Jayson to stop trying to come into the room while she told Daddy to keep his voice down.
“Look,” he said. “I got this. Go handle Jay and R.J., and I’ll check in on Kensington.”
For the most part, Daddy was a good doctor. On the days Mom let him take care of me, Daddy took my temperature every hour. Every six hours, I got my medicine. He spoon-fed me Campbell’s chicken noodle soup and practically funneled water and orange juice down my throat.
With Budweiser on his breath, he continued to tell me I was his beautiful brown sugar baby, despite the facts that I sounded like I had been chewing on rocks, and my body was covered in tiny bumps and welts.
Beside me, on the blankets, laid my schoolbooks.
He rubbed the palm of his hand over my forehead before asking, “So what subject do you want to work on—math, science or English?”
“English. I know we have a spelling test next week, so we can go over the words.”
Daddy ran me through the words like a drill sergeant—from A to Z, then Z to A, then K to B to Y. I became the words by the time we finished.
“We’ve raised a brilliant little girl,” Daddy said. He wiped my sweaty brow. “What you wanna be when you grow up?”
I coughed. “I dunno. Doctor, lawyer, writer, and a Baltimore Oriole.”
Daddy laughed. “All that, huh?”
“I can do it.”
He smiled at me, but it was a far away smile.
Tears dropped off his cheeks. I struggled to sit up, to hug him.
“Daddy,” I said, “I’m gonna be okay. I’m not gonna die like D.J. Don’t cry.”
With the softest grip, Daddy took me into his arms and held me.
“I know you’re going to be okay,” he whispered.
I remember falling asleep in Daddy’s arms, not sure if it was the comfort or his increasingly tight hold that eventually put me under.
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1991. March. It’s a rainy Saturday morning, and Mom is at Cash-n-Carry with Grandma. Jayson, 6, and R.J., 4, are in the living room watching cartoons while I make cereal and toast for breakfast. Daddy sits in the dining room, a pony Miller in his hand. Every time he coughs or groans, I pause, count to five, and continue my breakfast duty.
I make sure not a crumb of toast falls on the floor or counter. When I waste sugar on the counter, I quickly wipe it up before pouring milk for three bowls of cereal.
“Jay and R.J.,” I call. “Come and eat.”
We sit in the kitchen, chomping on toasts and slurping milk from our bowls.
“Y’all need to clean up something around here,” Daddy says from the dining room.
I put my finger to my lips and look at Jayson, then R.J.
“Y’all hear me in there?”
“Daddy,” I say, “we trying to eat breakfast.”
“I don’t give a shit. Get up and do something.”
R.J.’s lip trembles. I brush her hair from her face and whisper, “Don’t cry.”
Daddy pushes his chair back and marches straight into the kitchen and stands behind me.
“I know y’all heard me in here,” he yells. “Get your asses up and do something. Now.”
“Daddy,” I say, trying hard not to cry, “just let us finish eating.”
“No.”
“Daddy.”
“Get up.”
I slam my spoon on the table and get up.
“Don’t be catching no attitude, either,” he spat.
R.J.’s and Jayson’s sniffles sound in my ear, and I face Daddy and ask, “Why you so mean? We just trying to eat breakfast.” He hits me. Right on the mouth. Hard. My back slams against my chair.
I won’t cry. I feel something wet in my mouth, and I know it’s not spit. Tastes like metal.
Jayson and R.J. are screaming, but I can’t stop staring at my Daddy. He looks so mad, and I can’t think of one thing I’ve done to make him this mad at me.
“I thought you loved me, Daddy,” I say.
I take Jayson and R.J. by the hands and leave the kitchen. On our way through the dining room, Jayson picks up a dish rag and hands it to me.
Crying, he says, “For your mouth, Kennsy.”
In my bedroom, I watch my bro and sis sit still and quiet on the floor as they watch cartoons. I lay on the bed, a dish rag smelling of Palmolive pressed against my mouth.
Later, I will tell Mom that I fell in my room and hit my mouth. Jayson and R.J. are sworn to secrecy.
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