I want to learn the new shape of her.
Unlike me, Noah is not an introvert. He inherited his openness, his “never meets a stranger-ness” from Aiko. He’s only known Kimba for a short time, but he has no problem grabbing her hand and laughing, dancing with her. They look free and unfettered. Kimba kicks off her shoes, and her bare, pretty feet shuffle through the grass as easily as I’ve seen her walk red carpets on television. I didn’t know what to call what I used to feel for Kimba—the desire to have her with me all the time; to know her better than everyone else did. It was an innocent possessiveness that she reflected back to me even then. She wanted that from me. It was earnest and pure. But the first time I saw her on CNN, talking easily, debating someone from the other side of the aisle, systematically picking apart his argument with surgical, intelligent precision, no sign of the stutter that plagued her before, I felt immeasurably proud.
But also jealous. Possessive. I’d discovered this beautiful butterfly when she was a caterpillar and she had been completely mine. Now the whole world marveled at the spread of her wings, basked in her vibrant color. Now everyone knew how fantastic she was and she’d never be just mine again.
“Dad!” Noah shouts over the music. “Get up!”
Still on beat, he dances over, dragging Kimba by the hand.
“You know better than that,” I tell him with a laugh, flicking a glance at Kimba. She’s glowing. It’s not just the lights Mona strung through the trees, or even the fine sheen of perspiration misting her smooth skin. It’s from inside.
She’s home.
Somehow I knew she needed to come back. Does she realize how free she seems? I secretly worried about her from afar, watching her manage one of the most successful political campaigns in our nation’s history. Watching her guide and ride Maxim Cade’s presidential bid to political fame. It had to be exhausting. I wanted rest for her, and she seems to be getting it.
“Baaak baaak bak bak,” Noah crows, doing his chicken dance. “Dad’s scared to dance.”
“Peer pressure,” I deadpan. “Real original, son. And highly ineffective on someone like me. Know your opponent.”
“Come on.” Kimba joins Noah’s cajoling, the two of them dancing in front of me as I sit stubbornly in place on the wall.
The classic Gaye tune finally ends, and something newer comes on. Something I hear the kids play at school. Cardi B.? Megan Thee Stallion? Some empowered, guns-blazing woman showing the boys how it’s done. My students barely know the great hip-hop that tutored me in so much understanding of a culture I didn’t have enough exposure to when I was young. Nas. Biggie. Pac. Those artists are ideas to them, icons whose music represents a distant greatness that doesn’t actually shape them. Not the way they helped form me even when I lived in Italy.
“The song changed,” I tell them with a shrug. “Oh, well. Maybe next time.”
“If you’re not gonna dance,” Noah says, “I’m gonna go get dessert.”
“One,” I remind him. “One dessert. Choose wisely.”
“Banana pudding,” he tells me. “Want to come, Kimba?”
I reach out and take her wrist, pulling her closer to the wall. Everyone else has had her. I’m taking my time.
“Why don’t you bring us something back,” I say, tugging her to sit on the wall beside me. “Any red velvet cake? Is that still your favorite, Tru?”
She looks at me, bites her lip, and nods. “Yeah. If they have any. Thanks, Noah.”
“Why do you call her Tru?” Noah asks.
Kimba and I look at each other, a smile growing between us. We lift our brows at the same time, a “you wanna tell him or should I” gesture.
“My middle name is Truth,” she says. “So Tru for short, but only my family calls me that.”
“But you’re not her family, are you, Dad?” Noah asks.
&n
bsp; “No, but we used to live across the street from each other, and we’ve known each other all our lives.” I smile at him. “Some people feel closer than family sometimes.”
“Like Aunt Mona?” His face brightens, his snaggle-toothed grin reappearing.
“Exactly,” I say. “I think I saw German chocolate cake. Bring that back for your old man, okay?”
“Okay!” He dashes off and is swallowed by the still-not-thinning crowd squeezed into Mona’s cozy backyard.
“He’ll be back in about…oh, thirty minutes,” I say. “He’ll get stopped and pulled into a card game, a conversation, something, and forget all about us. That kid’s like the mayor. I don’t even know how he’s mine.”
Kimba shifts on the wall, crossing one long leg over the other. “I see a lot of you in him.”