How Sweet It Is - Alice J. Wisler [19]
Miriam smiles. “He’s a cutie,” she says.
I assume she means the man, although the young boy with the red shoes is cute, too. He turns so that his face is visible, and I notice his large, brown eyes under straight, black hair.
The curly-haired guy’s face breaks into a smile as the boy pulls the ball from behind him and dribbles it down the paved court. The man’s smile doesn’t go to Tennessee like Jonas’s, but it looks confident, secure, self-assured—if all those things can be displayed in a smile, and seeing his, I’m certain that they can. He has all the characteristics I no longer possess. He and I may be at the same church, but we are not on the same planet.
Suddenly, into the kitchen comes a woman with hair the color of a pumpkin, skin darker than Miriam’s, and a glare that shouts of hatred. As her voice bellows across the counters, I cower behind Miriam. My fingers are knotted balls.
“Felicia, you are not to be here,” Miriam says boldly. “I will call the cops.”
“Zack told me I can see my boy.”
“Only when you have an appointment.”
“He’s my son. I can see him whenever I please.”
“That is not what the terms are.” Miriam’s eyes are cold; no sparkle from earlier remains.
“I’m not in jail anymore. I’m free. I can do whatever I want to now.”
“You will land back in jail with that attitude.”
“Where is Darren?”
“Felicia, you need to leave now.”
“Make me!”
“I’m calling the cops.” Miriam pulls a cell phone from her pocket and flips it open. She punches numbers.
But it is not a cop who steps into the kitchen right then. It is the tall basketball player, dripping with perspiration. “Felicia,” he says with strength and calmness, “you know the rules.”
“I want my boy. I just want to see my boy. Please, Zack.” The woman’s voice cracks with each word. I think she is on the verge of tears.
Zack glances at Miriam, who shrugs her shoulders. Turning to the distraught woman, he says, “Come with me,” and gently ushers her out of the kitchen as Miriam follows with halting steps.
I stand alone next to the industrial stove. The sink drips twice, pauses, and then lets out four more droplets, all of which end up in a blurry mass.
ten
Back at my grandfather’s cabin, I make a dinner of fried potatoes and onions—one of the quick-and-easy recipes I’ve grown to love and will probably still be making when I’m ninety. As I smell the comforting aroma of onions sizzling in butter, I think to myself that I should have told her. While Miriam and I stood there at the church kitchen window watching Zack play basketball with the children, before Felicia’s unexpected arrival, I should have said, “Well, guys aren’t important to me now. Cute or otherwise.”
But what if she had asked why not? Would I have been able to tell her about Lucas? I still don’t want to talk about him.
I use one of my grandfather’s stainless-steel spatulas to flip over a slice of potato. I study it to see how brown it’s become. “Never tell people too much about yourself at first,” my mother always told my sister, Andrea, and me growing up. “Leave room for them to ask about you. Besides, no one really cares.” Another mixed message from my mother; those little pieces of wisdom have become part of the woven fabric of my childhood. Do this, but don’t. Mom’s advice on dating was, “Be coy around men, but don’t play games.”
If you’re not supposed to talk about yourself and you are supposed to wait for people to ask about you, and yet people don’t really care to hear about you, then how will you ever get a chance to share about yourself?
When Andrea and