Saturday morning, I arrive at my childhood home out in Alpharetta, a suburb of Atlanta, dressed in pink shorts and a matching spaghetti-strap top. Frankly, I think I’m looking kind of cute. I use my key to enter the house. “Mom! Are you ready?”
“Here I come.”
I glance up toward the top of the stairs just as my mom appears in an outfit better suited for church. “We’re going to a barbeque, not a revival.”
She glances down. “What? You don’t like this?”
I can’t help but shrug. “It’s … a bit much. Don’t you have like a pair of capris or something?” When my mother frowns, I just rush to the top of the stairs. “Here. I’ll help find you something to wear.”
“I don’t know,” she complains. “Maybe I should just stay home. I really don’t feel like going anywhere anyway.”
“You’re not going to stay home and mope around the house feeling sorry for yourself.”
“But what if George calls?”
“When was the last time he called?” I ask gently.
She doesn’t answer.
I turn around and see her sad face. I immediately go to her and wrap her into my arms. It’s strange to see my mother this vulnerable. She has always been so strong. I like to think that I inherited my strength from her.
“Okay. I’m okay,” she says, sniffing and pulling out of my embrace.
“You sure?”
“Yeah.” She nods and flashes me a smile. “Let’s find me something to wear and get on over to your friend’s barbeque. I think it’s sweet of them to invite your mother. Are you sure I don’t need to bring something? We can run to the store and pick something up in the deli.”
“No, no. That won’t be necessary,” I say, suddenly trying to avoid her gaze. No way am I about to tell her that I am taking her to my father’s barbeque. She would flat out refuse to go. But if I can just get her there, then who knows?
“No, Mom. It’s just a come-as-you-are kind of thing,” I say, and then rush to find her something to wear. In the end, I hook her up in some nice white capris and a blue top. At least it’s something that will show Dad that she’s maintained her nice curves over the years. When we make it to Dad’s crib in the heart of Atlanta, she’s already frowning suspiciously.
“Who’s giving this barbeque?” she asks.
“Huh?” I park the car and quickly jump out of the vehicle. The smell of barbeque has saturated the air, and George Clinton and Parliament Funkadelic’s “Knee Deep” is on serious blast. People are milling about out front of the apartments dancing or bobbing their heads to the music.
Mom climbs out of the passenger side and has to jog just to catch up with me. “Jordan, hold up. What’s your big hurry?”
“Oh, nothing. I’m just ready to eat me some good barbeque.” I ring Dad’s doorbell and then turn to face her. “Now, I want you to be nice,” I tell her.
“Nice? Why do I—”
Dad jerks open the door.
“Jonathan?” Her eyes nearly bug out.
Dad’s face splits into a big-ass smile. “Sandra. You came!” He steps out and sweeps my mother into his arms. “I was afraid that you wouldn’t come.”
Mom’s gaze cuts over to me, and I give her a guilty shrug. “Surprise?”
“Robyn.” Dad turns and then sweeps me into his arms as well. “I got my two favorite girls back. Life is good.” His smile is wide, and his eyes are so bright I’m praying that Mom will just be on her best behavior.
“It’s … um … good to see you again,” she says stiffly, pushing out of his arms and cutting me with another look that promises an ass chewing later on.
“Well, y’all come on in.” He steps back and allows us to come inside. The music is still bumping as we push our way inside. The place is crammed with wall-to-wall visitors. Frankly, I didn’t know my father had so many friends.
“GUESS WHO’S HERE?” my father shouts over the music as it changes to “Flashlight.”
“ROBYN!” they all shout.
My mom cuts me another hard look. “Sorry. Dad just insists.”
“Soooo … can I get you two ladies something to drink?” Dad asks, still grinning. “Sandra, I know you don’t drink, so I made a batch of sweet tea.”
“No. I think I’m good. Jordan and I aren’t staying long. We—”
“Mom.” I elbow her.
“What?”
Be nice, I mouth to her. She clamps her jaw together for a minute and then returns Dad’s smile. “I guess one glass won’t hurt.”
“I’m on it.” He winks and takes off toward the kitchen.
Suddenly, I’m aware of the floor moving, and for an insane moment I’m thinking we’re having an earthquake until I see Uncle Rawlo in the middle of the living room getting his groove thang going with Ms. Davis from next door. Watching him bump and shake his four-hundred-pound body all around her ninety-five-pound one has everyone else in the room pointing and laughing. Ms. Davis seems to be having the time of her life until she gets too close to a hip swing and is sent flying across the room.
That shit cracks me the hell up. I turn to see Momma smirking as well, and I feel a little better about bringing her to the party. “Having a good time?”
She wipes the smile off her face but not from her eyes. “We’ll talk about this later.”
In the dining room, there’s a poker game going, of course I can tell by the way Uncle Tremaine is focused on his cards and not the argument going on around him that he has his hearing aid turned off. He’s kind of cute like that.
“I see the gang is all here,” Momma says, pulling a deep breath.
“Not everyone. I don’t see Uncle Mishawn.”
“Oh, Jordan. These criminals are not your uncles,” she hisses.
“I know.” I shrug my shoulders. “But I kind of think of them that way.”
I get another eye roll for that one.
“Here you go.” Dad returns. “One sweet tea and one root beer,” he says, handing me a brown bottle.
I laugh. “Dad, I drink the real stuff now.”
“Not at my house you don’t,” he answers sternly.
No matter how hard I try, I’m never going to be more than just his little girl. So I drop the subject and pull a long chug of my icy-cold root beer. “Ahhh. Thanks, Dad. Where’s Uncle Mishawn?”
“Where else? Out on the grill. Every barbeque he just takes over my shit.”
“Well, he got it smelling good up in here,” I tell him.
“That’s because he got his son out there helping him. Otherwise he would’ve probably burned the place down by now. Don’t tell him, but his eyes aren’t what they used to be.”
“His son?” I frown while I search through my memory Rolodex. “Since when did Uncle Mishawn have a son?”
“Since thirty years ago when his baby momma kept it to herself and married some other dude with health benefits and a retirement plan.”
“There’s nothing wrong with a woman wanting to settle down with someone with a little more security.”
“There is if she doesn’t love the man,” Dad challenges.
Seeing that they are gearing up to rehash an old argument, I decide to exit stage left. “I’m just going to say hi to Uncle Mishawn,” I tell them, but I might as well have been talking to a brick wall for all the attention they paid me.
I melt into the crowd and dance to half of Rick James’s “Bustin’ Out” before I make it out onto the balcony. “Hey, Uncle Mishawn, I—” I stop cold when my eyes zero in on the man standing over the grill next to Uncle Mishawn. “You. What are you doing here?”
Keston blinks at me with the same look of surprise on his face, but before he can answer, his father cuts in.
“Hey, Robyn!” Mishawn lights up behind his large glasses and quickly rushes over to give me a hug. “Glad you could make it.” He steps back. “I hope you brought your appetite, because me and my boy are putting a hurting on these ribs.”
My tongue nearly falls out of my head. “You’re Uncle Mishawn’s son?”
“You’re Robyn Banks?”