He opens the car door for me as I let his last words settle in my bones. “My uncle?” I ask when he gets in the car.
“Yeah, Uncle Q. He owns Q over there on West Chicago. That’s his club, practically his block. That’s where he runs his business. And that’s where I first fell in love.” He turned to me and smiled extra wide, showing his teeth.
“Why would he be my uncle, too? I had an uncle. My cousins’ father.”
“Oh, yeah. The legendary Haitian Phil.”
“What?”
“Pri won’t ever let anybody forget her father. She’s always swearing on his grave, right before she gets to stompin’ on some girl’s face. ‘I swear on my father’s grave this, I swear on my father’s grave that.’ And whoever be working for Uncle Q, she won’t ever let them forget that it was her father, Haitian Phil, who went down for Q.”
“What? Went down for Q?” I ask again. This time I’m staring at him with my eyes wide and my ears even wider.
“Damn, Fabulous. Your cousins don’t tell you shit. Good. Stay out of it. West side logic, Detroit politics, as I like to say. I don’t fuck with any of that shit. And neither should you.”
Maybe this is Papa Legba’s doing—making Kasim talk more than he should. Teaching me about Dray and Q and Uncle Phil. Suddenly I feel caught up in something bigger than myself. If he can tell me what I need to know about Dray, maybe Kasim will finally be the key that will help me pull my mother through to this side.
I don’t ask any more questions—instead, right before Kasim pushes the button to start the car, I pull on the sleeve of his coat, lean over, and kiss him on the cheek. He turns to me and I kiss him on the lips. Then he turns his whole body to me, takes my face with both his hands, and kisses me long and deep.
When we drive back to American Street, all the lights look brighter, maybe there are more stars in the sky, and this city is more beautiful than it has ever been.
FIFTEEN
THE LAST FEW nights have been a mix of strange feelings stirring in my belly. I am warm honey when I think of Kasim. And then I become an empty coconut shell without its sweet water and flesh when I think of my mother. Maybe every cell in my body is starting to feel her absence. Even my own hair is longing for her thick fingers in my scalp—the way she would part and grease and braid and hum and tell sad or funny stories. My skin aches for that sizzling midday Port-au-Prince sun when sweat would ease down my forehead and back. Still, there is a sliver of hope now that I am close to the information I need. When my mother comes, she will be the bright midday sun that will warm up these cold days and nights. I can almost feel her presence as morning creeps in through the window and reaches me on the air mattress.
So I stay in bed.
Even as my cousins get ready and tell me over and over again to get up, I stay there.
“Fab, if you don’t feel well, I have to call the school so they don’t think you’re cutting,” Chantal says while standing over me.
“My belly hurts,” I lie. What I want to say is that my heart hurts for Manman.
“Okay. I’ll call the school. But you have to make up the homework. Okay?”
I nod and pull the covers up over my head. I need this day to think and plan.
After my cousins leave for school, I go downstairs to make some tea. This is how Manman and I would plan our next move—over some tea or coffee. All I want is my mother here with me—her voice, her jokes, her cooking, her advice. What would she think of my cousins? What would she and Matant Jo be doing all day together? What would she think of Kasim? What would she say to Donna about her mean boyfriend?
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. My mother and I had been so happy, so excited because all our dreams were coming true. We were supposed to all be together—my aunt, my cousins, my mother, and I. And in just a few hours everything changed. Everything.
Back upstairs, I drop my body down onto Chantal’s bed, press my face against her pillow, and scream. Drops of anger trickle out, little by little, as if every single setback over these past few weeks has exploded. Tiny bombs escape me. I sob and my body shakes trying to get everything out.
I take Chantal’s blanket, wrap it around me, and pretend it’s my mother’s arms. I rock myself until there is nothing left but my small whimpers. I’m like an infant, slowly sliding into sleep.
Hush, little baby
Don’t say a word.
His song travels to the window and gives a gentle knock. I get up and pull the curtain back. His overturned plastic bucket is there. His songs return.
Papa’s gonna release