The Kindest Lie(75)

Dumb presents didn’t matter to Midnight, and right now all he wanted was for them to shut up. Every few weeks, they had this same argument, and admittedly he sometimes enjoyed it because he liked being talked about and fought over, but tonight he was tired.

He walked up and stood next to his father. “I want to go with Daddy,” he said.

Daddy smiled, and Midnight knew it was aimed more toward Granny, rubbing it in that she’d lost this round. Being with his father at Christmas wouldn’t be so bad, and it might make it easier to remember holidays with Mom and the normal life they used to have. He could taste the fear from earlier that night, and his legs trembled, Bo and L-Boogie’s laughter still taunting him. The last time he’d felt truly safe had been with Mom, and he needed that feeling again now more than ever.





Twenty-Five

Ruth




Ruth clapped and slapped hands with Natasha as they sat cross-legged on her friend’s bed.

Mama’s in the kitchen burnin’ that rice,

Daddy’s on the corner shootin’ that dice.



They sang their old schoolyard rhyme to the tune of “Rockin’ Robin” over and over, as if they could blast themselves back to the little girls they were growing up in Grundy.

Natasha’s three-year-old daughter, Camila, bounced at the foot of the bed waving her Princess Jasmine doll. The little girl with the wavy hair like her mother’s shouted tweet tweet along with them.

“Oh my God, girl, I don’t think we’ve done that since eighth grade,” Ruth said, falling on her back trying to catch her breath.

“But wait,” Natasha said. “Was it your mama stink or your breath stink? There was more to the song. How did the rest of it go?”

“I don’t know, but it’s pitiful when we just start humming because we can’t remember the words. We are getting old.” Ruth sighed.

“Speak for yourself. I am still fly,” Natasha said, tossing her hair from her right shoulder to her left.

Camila bounced on the bed screaming, “Again, sing it again!”

It had been a surprise to learn Natasha was a mother, too. She’d married Luis Irizarry, the boy they’d known from shop class in high school. He had stood out as being exotic, like any Puerto Ricans in Ganton, since most people in town were either Black or white. Ruth hadn’t realized how diverse the world was until Yale, where she roomed with the granddaughter of a Korean war bride her junior year and briefly dated a young man from Mumbai who led a climate change initiative on campus.

Ruth put a hand on Camila’s shoulder. “She’s a beauty, just like you.”

“Yes, she is. Now you know I love the brothas, but I wanted my babies to have some hair I could get a comb through. That’s why I married a Puerto Rican man.”

Ruth laughed awkwardly, but her friend’s words stung. She hadn’t detected any hint of self-hatred when they were growing up, but maybe she’d been too na?ve to notice.

“You are wrong for that.” Ruth ran her fingers through her own kinky twists and had to admit there were days she wished for a smoother texture, for hair that didn’t break a thin-toothed comb the first day she used it. But she said, “I’m happy nappy, thank you very much.”

“Your hair looks fine. I would like to trim those ends for you, though.” Natasha pulled one of the corkscrew tips of Ruth’s hair.

“You better keep your scissors away from me.”

Natasha laughed and said, “What I do want is to see this husband of yours. Come on now. You been holding out on me.”

Smiling shyly, Ruth pulled up a photo on her phone of Xavier at an Urban League gala in downtown Chicago. That night, he’d rocked a black fitted Tom Ford tuxedo.

Natasha’s eyes bucked. “Well, yes, we can.”

“Stop, you are so silly.”

“What? I’m just saying you out here making Obama-level marital moves.”

When their laughter settled, Ruth tried to achieve cool nonchalance, not wanting her voice to betray her giddiness. “Do you know a boy named Corey?”

“Of course. Corey Cunningham. His friend Sebastian’s got people that know some of Luis’s people. They may even be kin. You know how that goes. Why?”

Ruth took a breath, but Natasha caught on quickly.

“Wait, you’re not telling me . . . ?”

Ruth hesitated, knowing that when she said it aloud, it would feel real. Softly, she said, “I think Corey could be my son. My baby.”

Not to be left out, Camila put her hands on her pajama-clad hips and repeated my baby while strutting across the bedroom floor.

Natasha gripped Ruth’s hand. “For real?”

“I think so.” She told her friend about her conversation with Midnight and relayed how Eli had stood up publicly for Corey, even going so far as to get arrested.

Natasha sat up straight in the bed. “Okay, you took Patrick Boyd out for ice cream? I don’t get it.”

From the outside, Ruth could see how strange that might seem, and she suddenly felt the need to defend herself. “First of all, he likes to be called Midnight. And you know my family and Lena’s have been tight for years, so I guess we just got thrown together a few times since I’ve been back in town. The real news is about Corey, not Midnight.”