Cyril rushed along a crowded boulevard the afternoon of the dinner party. He passed mom-and-pop stores with goods spilling from stands and impromptu family reunions on the narrow sidewalks. He was a head taller than most and a Black man of good size who could not avoid being noticed and was careful not to jostle. Though his stride was urgent there was also some joy in his step. A giddy updraft, lifting him over his doubts and into the air like he was one of those little blackbirds flying over cornfields of his childhood summers. He reached down and patted a boy on his head of red hair saying excuse me, as he swooped past. He dipped between the plentiful cherry blossom trees showing early spring buds but this time he didn’t lollygag.
She watched him from the fifth-floor apartment window as he emerged from the trees that lined the street’s median. The sun was dropping behind the apartments across the street in a coda of soft orange. In this light, she saw he swung his shopping bag with abandon as if he was seven and on the verge of skipping. That boyishness held Zenia in place for a few seconds then she grabbed up her belongings, yanked her jacket from the closet. She was still clutching the envelope that had just dropped out of the bookcase and landed at her feet.
Cyril opened the door to his apartment that smelled of roasted chicken and felt a jab of hunger that disappeared when he saw Zenia’s face. She was leaving.
“What’s up?” he asked. “ You forget something?” Cyril turned from her to place the bag on a hall table. Turning from her as he fell back to earth. Hadn’t Pops just warned him it may be too late?
She pushed towards him an envelope that he recognized and slowly took the folded paper out and tried to smooth the curled photo. Pops had let him take the picture back when he was seven or eight. It was a summer of documenting life as it was in the rural Georgia town where his grandparents originated. A tight smile flashed across Cyril’s lips. Yeah, they were originals. Pops and Nona were laughing it up during a lunch break, golden cornfields behind them. The corners were singed black.
“I wasn’t going through your stuff,” she said. “This fell out of that bookcase.” Her jacket slipped off her shoulder when she pointed. She stepped back when Cyril went to fix it.
“Look I know it’s a lot, Zenia,” Cyril pulled out a kitchen stool for her. “Let me tell you about them. Please give me a chance.”
She moved the stool away from him and sat down.
“Start talking."
Cyril looked at her then out to the dining room where the table was set around flowers atop a bright tablecloth. Zenia had been stringing lights across the ceiling as a surprise, he guessed, when she was interrupted. The stepladder was still against the wall.
She watched him from the fifth-floor apartment window as he emerged from the trees that lined the street’s median. The sun was dropping behind the apartments across the street in a coda of soft orange. In this light, she saw he swung his shopping bag with abandon as if he was seven and on the verge of skipping. That boyishness held Zenia in place for a few seconds then she grabbed up her belongings, yanked her jacket from the closet. She was still clutching the envelope that had just dropped out of the bookcase and landed at her feet.
Cyril opened the door to his apartment that smelled of roasted chicken and felt a jab of hunger that disappeared when he saw Zenia’s face. She was leaving.
“What’s up?” he asked. “ You forget something?” Cyril turned from her to place the bag on a hall table. Turning from her as he fell back to earth. Hadn’t Pops just warned him it may be too late?
She pushed towards him an envelope that he recognized and slowly took the folded paper out and tried to smooth the curled photo. Pops had let him take the picture back when he was seven or eight. It was a summer of documenting life as it was in the rural Georgia town where his grandparents originated. A tight smile flashed across Cyril’s lips. Yeah, they were originals. Pops and Nona were laughing it up during a lunch break, golden cornfields behind them. The corners were singed black.
“I wasn’t going through your stuff,” she said. “This fell out of that bookcase.” Her jacket slipped off her shoulder when she pointed. She stepped back when Cyril went to fix it.
“Look I know it’s a lot, Zenia,” Cyril pulled out a kitchen stool for her. “Let me tell you about them. Please give me a chance.”
She moved the stool away from him and sat down.
“Start talking."
Cyril looked at her then out to the dining room where the table was set around flowers atop a bright tablecloth. Zenia had been stringing lights across the ceiling as a surprise, he guessed, when she was interrupted. The stepladder was still against the wall.
*
Cyril had dreamed again of the homeland that morning. He was riding south with Pops and Nona in the old Chrysler but in the dream the back seat was as big as a rowboat. He slid from one side to the other. He was so small it seemed before he should be remembering such a trip that began with a waking sun in Queens and into black night with shooting stars and into a new day in Georgia. He felt warm air from Pops’ window, air that carried the stench of manure and next the sharp sweetness of pine trees. Then Pops was tunneling through the black again and in the light of the dashboard Cyril could see him working his toothpick. Now the sun was rising and trees bent down to greet him softly scraping the tips of branches on his window. He turned from the window because he smelled Nona’s gardenia perfume. She put an arm around him and asked a question but it was Zenia’s voice he heard.
"Cyril, you okay?"
He roused from the dream but lay still getting his bearings. He looked over at Zenia who was tangled in the sheet, lightly snoring. She had slipped into his afar place for the first time and he didn’t know what to make of it. He got out of bed so as to not wake her, faced the windows and beginning of a radiant blue day. He had a thought as he turned back to look at her, face planted in the pillow, if he would go afar much longer. He’d been doing so since he was a boy, returning to Freetown when he wanted, in dreams or waking life. There he’d met the people he came from. The souls that orbited inside him and those whose spirits inhabited the pinewoods or the colorful folk houses that stamped the landscape. Now the more time he spent with Zenia the worlds seemed to be crossing into each other. It made him feel less ghostly. He wiggled his dark brown toes against the beige rug.
On the street below, a truck driver laid on a horn and another answered. Zenia stirred. He straightened himself as if his spine was connected to an invisible string just as the yogi directed. He took ten mindful breaths and closed his eyes against the day. He flung out his long arms breathing in and over his head, fingers together and down, breathing out. Yoga was Zenia’s idea. She said he was pent up. He resisted but couldn’t deny a throbbing in his neck and a coiling within that going afar no longer fixed for long. He rolled his shoulders back, lifting his head to fill his space on earth; let his presence be known. Lion, he thought. He liked wolf but rejected it as too much like wolf packs and headlines and thugs. The drug addict fire-starters of the world. He pulled a low growl up from his core and made his hands like angry lion claws ripping through the air but stopped when he thought he heard the high-pitched laughter of his grandfather. He turned half expecting to see him standing in the room.
“Atta boy,” Zenia said suddenly upright on the bed. She patted his back as she passed to the bathroom.
“Don’t forget the hummus for tonight,” she called from the shower. “You put in the order, right?”
“Of course.”
Cyril glanced at her chestnut image in the shower door. He thought maybe now was the time to clarify some things he told her about himself. Sit down with her before they went their separate shopping ways. He was until lately stumbling through this relationship but now he understood how much she meant to him. He didn’t want to lose her.
“Glad you’re in the moment cause you’ve been distracted lately,” she said.
“Wasn’t last night,” he laughed and decided the talk could wait.
Zenia cracked the shower door to look at him. Her tight curly hair stuffed into a floral shower cap. She wiped water from her eyes.
“Mr. Funnyman this morning. Why you laughing?”
“Don’t know,” he said and kissed her. “Just feels right today.”
"Cyril, you okay?"
He roused from the dream but lay still getting his bearings. He looked over at Zenia who was tangled in the sheet, lightly snoring. She had slipped into his afar place for the first time and he didn’t know what to make of it. He got out of bed so as to not wake her, faced the windows and beginning of a radiant blue day. He had a thought as he turned back to look at her, face planted in the pillow, if he would go afar much longer. He’d been doing so since he was a boy, returning to Freetown when he wanted, in dreams or waking life. There he’d met the people he came from. The souls that orbited inside him and those whose spirits inhabited the pinewoods or the colorful folk houses that stamped the landscape. Now the more time he spent with Zenia the worlds seemed to be crossing into each other. It made him feel less ghostly. He wiggled his dark brown toes against the beige rug.
On the street below, a truck driver laid on a horn and another answered. Zenia stirred. He straightened himself as if his spine was connected to an invisible string just as the yogi directed. He took ten mindful breaths and closed his eyes against the day. He flung out his long arms breathing in and over his head, fingers together and down, breathing out. Yoga was Zenia’s idea. She said he was pent up. He resisted but couldn’t deny a throbbing in his neck and a coiling within that going afar no longer fixed for long. He rolled his shoulders back, lifting his head to fill his space on earth; let his presence be known. Lion, he thought. He liked wolf but rejected it as too much like wolf packs and headlines and thugs. The drug addict fire-starters of the world. He pulled a low growl up from his core and made his hands like angry lion claws ripping through the air but stopped when he thought he heard the high-pitched laughter of his grandfather. He turned half expecting to see him standing in the room.
“Atta boy,” Zenia said suddenly upright on the bed. She patted his back as she passed to the bathroom.
“Don’t forget the hummus for tonight,” she called from the shower. “You put in the order, right?”
“Of course.”
Cyril glanced at her chestnut image in the shower door. He thought maybe now was the time to clarify some things he told her about himself. Sit down with her before they went their separate shopping ways. He was until lately stumbling through this relationship but now he understood how much she meant to him. He didn’t want to lose her.
“Glad you’re in the moment cause you’ve been distracted lately,” she said.
“Wasn’t last night,” he laughed and decided the talk could wait.
Zenia cracked the shower door to look at him. Her tight curly hair stuffed into a floral shower cap. She wiped water from her eyes.
“Mr. Funnyman this morning. Why you laughing?”
“Don’t know,” he said and kissed her. “Just feels right today.”
*
Cyril counted out flatware after he vacuumed and dusted even the window frames. Eight people. He listened to Charlie Parker blow it out his horn and tried to imagine what Zenia’s friends were like. They would Uber in from Harlem. Lyft out of Brooklyn. No one lived in Queens. Probably have never been, he thought pulling down plates and serving bowls. He remembered what a stranger on an upper East Side bus stop called it, Queens or some other God-forsaken place, when she speculated about the destination of an approaching bus. He quietly took offense. He grew up ten miles south of where he stood that morning. It was a large house his grandfather bought on a GI loan and his grandmother transformed into a community gathering place. For Pops and Nona, Queens was the dreamland until they retired back to Freetown. It wasn’t hard-on city back then, giant oaks and pines lined the block. Rabbits in the meadow.
That was the attraction to this peaceable corner of Queens with a water tower that rose in its midst, the Jamaica Water Works. Nona and Pops fell in with the section that through geography and a series of dead-end streets, was its own universe. They joined other migrants and the many tongues saying same-same: better up the future blood. They missed the mark with Cyril’s mother and his father was gone. As a lonesome boy he was accustomed to the block meetings and people coming up from the south in a steady stream to visit or stay on. He never knew who might be in the house when he came home from school, boxes and bags in hallways, the kitchen erupting in crackling pans, the oven belting out cornbread and biscuits. A relative with open arms to grab him, speaking in a strange but familiar way, filling Cyril’s nose with tobacco and road sweat.
At times the house was so full, he navigated extension cords crisscrossing the hallways to climb to his place of solace up the narrow attic steps among his grandparents’ dusty artifacts. Pops’ guitars from his jazz band days, Nona’s mannequins, the many wooden chests brimming with curious things: rusted voting rights buttons, tin water cups, paper bag dress patterns, a water wagon ladle, signs for White people only and colored entrance here, a pair of boots with turned up toes. His favorite seat was a hundred-year-old three leg stool covered in carved roses. The spirits that sometimes hung in the air never bothered him. He was raised to know spirits don’t die and visitations were normal. The stories he heard. Jealous husbands visiting their wives and new lovers. Babies coming back to comfort their mothers one last time, invisible lips sucking at their breasts. As he counted out wine glasses, Cyril saw the slanted attic light and smelled his earthy past and it gave him pleasure and pain. Zenia knew none of this yet because she would have questions and want to see the house. But there was nothing to see after the fire except a void in the middle of a block of three-story brick homes now a community garden named after his grandparents. But he was ready to tell her about this life, share his sense of loss.
He was going to say something the early morning of the party when she came back to bed after looking around because she said she smelled smoke. She asked earlier about the toothpicks she was finding around as if he had a secret habit. He was going to begin by telling her about Pops, what a character he was and guess what? He’s visiting from beyond, like ancestors do. Right? But his resolve was replaced by fear that he would bungle the narrative of his past and she’d be furious and leave him. There in the revelatory light of a new day, he’d never wanted her more and lust replaced his fear. He had a powerful need to taste her body. He was never more aware of his large frame as he crawled on top of her, never more aware of his need. Never more like a lion.
It was getting onto midday and Cyril decided on a bright tablecloth he bought in Mexico then zipped on a jacket and hustled down the steps into a crisp spring day.
That was the attraction to this peaceable corner of Queens with a water tower that rose in its midst, the Jamaica Water Works. Nona and Pops fell in with the section that through geography and a series of dead-end streets, was its own universe. They joined other migrants and the many tongues saying same-same: better up the future blood. They missed the mark with Cyril’s mother and his father was gone. As a lonesome boy he was accustomed to the block meetings and people coming up from the south in a steady stream to visit or stay on. He never knew who might be in the house when he came home from school, boxes and bags in hallways, the kitchen erupting in crackling pans, the oven belting out cornbread and biscuits. A relative with open arms to grab him, speaking in a strange but familiar way, filling Cyril’s nose with tobacco and road sweat.
At times the house was so full, he navigated extension cords crisscrossing the hallways to climb to his place of solace up the narrow attic steps among his grandparents’ dusty artifacts. Pops’ guitars from his jazz band days, Nona’s mannequins, the many wooden chests brimming with curious things: rusted voting rights buttons, tin water cups, paper bag dress patterns, a water wagon ladle, signs for White people only and colored entrance here, a pair of boots with turned up toes. His favorite seat was a hundred-year-old three leg stool covered in carved roses. The spirits that sometimes hung in the air never bothered him. He was raised to know spirits don’t die and visitations were normal. The stories he heard. Jealous husbands visiting their wives and new lovers. Babies coming back to comfort their mothers one last time, invisible lips sucking at their breasts. As he counted out wine glasses, Cyril saw the slanted attic light and smelled his earthy past and it gave him pleasure and pain. Zenia knew none of this yet because she would have questions and want to see the house. But there was nothing to see after the fire except a void in the middle of a block of three-story brick homes now a community garden named after his grandparents. But he was ready to tell her about this life, share his sense of loss.
He was going to say something the early morning of the party when she came back to bed after looking around because she said she smelled smoke. She asked earlier about the toothpicks she was finding around as if he had a secret habit. He was going to begin by telling her about Pops, what a character he was and guess what? He’s visiting from beyond, like ancestors do. Right? But his resolve was replaced by fear that he would bungle the narrative of his past and she’d be furious and leave him. There in the revelatory light of a new day, he’d never wanted her more and lust replaced his fear. He had a powerful need to taste her body. He was never more aware of his large frame as he crawled on top of her, never more aware of his need. Never more like a lion.
It was getting onto midday and Cyril decided on a bright tablecloth he bought in Mexico then zipped on a jacket and hustled down the steps into a crisp spring day.
*
The party was her idea. He thought it was too soon. They were dating four months after not seeing each other for years after graduate school. There they joined the same social justice committees and were once together on a panel where Cyril talked about Freetown, an all-Black town born out of the land to which his ancestors were enslaved. It was fiercely defended by man, woman and child against all manner of natural disaster and White terror.
“A reconstruction of their own doing,” Cyril put a hand over his heart and tapped. The audience cheered.
He’d forgotten that moment until he was uptown on business and spied a familiar looking woman turning into a Harlem coffeehouse. When he thought it was Zenia, his body warmed. He ducked into a men’s clothing store and waited in a corner by the shop window. The woman emerged with a large cup, paused a few feet from him and set off walking in a smooth, confident sway. Oh, hell yeah. That’s her. On the outside she hadn’t changed much since school in Philadelphia when they flirted but were always involved with other people. He ignored the salesman at his back and nearly tipped over a mannequin watching her disappear. He was filled with finger-snapping delight and then melancholy. Five years was a long time ago. He was a different man.
“Sir, may I be of service?” Cyril looked down on a compact young man with a tape measure around his neck.
“Sure you can. Reset my life to five years ago.”
The man smiled, lighting up his brown face.
“Well, as much as the past is who we are, I like to be in the here-and-now,” said the man. “Call me Coop. Wanna start with a suit?”
Cyril couldn’t manage his urge to watch her. He traveled well over an hour from Queens to the men’s store buying more ties, shirts and underwear than he’d need in a year. Coop, who by self-description was a ladies man, kept Cyril in pep talk and Zenia sightings. As she passed the window each time, Cyril’s courage slowly built. Coop cheered him on but it still took him some time to walk into the café behind her.
“No,” Zenia said, drawing back.
“Yes. In the flesh,” he said trying to be whimsical. He wanted to suggest a table for them but was flustered now that it was performance time.
“You have a minute?” She looked around. “Over there. You lead big guy.”
He folded himself behind a table and tried to sip his coffee as he imagined a cool dude would. A drop fell on his tie. He dabbed it. Her eyes had not left him but he had a hard time looking back. She was still curvy with toffee-colored skin, full lips that flashed a wide smile.
“Cyril Octave,” she drew his name out like taffy. “Have you gotten taller?”
“No but wider,” he patted his stomach. “Thirties been rough on a brother.”
“Not at all,” she leaned forward. He remembered her mounds of black hair now cornrowed into a bun. He remembered those penetrating dark eyes that liked to see him squirm. “I like the beard and locs. You have never been more...noteworthy.”
Worked out they weren’t dating anyone special and started seeing each other. She’d given up the corporate life for a pre-school she opened in the basement of her family’s home. But he was different. So much happened that had knocked him down and you don’t get up the same person, he wanted to say. The equanimity that got him through his days resisted explanation. So in her presence sometimes he felt shame for concocting a story about not having people. He’d catch her sometimes looking at him as if she was wondering who is this imposter and what happened to the college guy she knew?
But he thought he was getting better. Yoga helped and maybe a party would too.
“A reconstruction of their own doing,” Cyril put a hand over his heart and tapped. The audience cheered.
He’d forgotten that moment until he was uptown on business and spied a familiar looking woman turning into a Harlem coffeehouse. When he thought it was Zenia, his body warmed. He ducked into a men’s clothing store and waited in a corner by the shop window. The woman emerged with a large cup, paused a few feet from him and set off walking in a smooth, confident sway. Oh, hell yeah. That’s her. On the outside she hadn’t changed much since school in Philadelphia when they flirted but were always involved with other people. He ignored the salesman at his back and nearly tipped over a mannequin watching her disappear. He was filled with finger-snapping delight and then melancholy. Five years was a long time ago. He was a different man.
“Sir, may I be of service?” Cyril looked down on a compact young man with a tape measure around his neck.
“Sure you can. Reset my life to five years ago.”
The man smiled, lighting up his brown face.
“Well, as much as the past is who we are, I like to be in the here-and-now,” said the man. “Call me Coop. Wanna start with a suit?”
Cyril couldn’t manage his urge to watch her. He traveled well over an hour from Queens to the men’s store buying more ties, shirts and underwear than he’d need in a year. Coop, who by self-description was a ladies man, kept Cyril in pep talk and Zenia sightings. As she passed the window each time, Cyril’s courage slowly built. Coop cheered him on but it still took him some time to walk into the café behind her.
“No,” Zenia said, drawing back.
“Yes. In the flesh,” he said trying to be whimsical. He wanted to suggest a table for them but was flustered now that it was performance time.
“You have a minute?” She looked around. “Over there. You lead big guy.”
He folded himself behind a table and tried to sip his coffee as he imagined a cool dude would. A drop fell on his tie. He dabbed it. Her eyes had not left him but he had a hard time looking back. She was still curvy with toffee-colored skin, full lips that flashed a wide smile.
“Cyril Octave,” she drew his name out like taffy. “Have you gotten taller?”
“No but wider,” he patted his stomach. “Thirties been rough on a brother.”
“Not at all,” she leaned forward. He remembered her mounds of black hair now cornrowed into a bun. He remembered those penetrating dark eyes that liked to see him squirm. “I like the beard and locs. You have never been more...noteworthy.”
Worked out they weren’t dating anyone special and started seeing each other. She’d given up the corporate life for a pre-school she opened in the basement of her family’s home. But he was different. So much happened that had knocked him down and you don’t get up the same person, he wanted to say. The equanimity that got him through his days resisted explanation. So in her presence sometimes he felt shame for concocting a story about not having people. He’d catch her sometimes looking at him as if she was wondering who is this imposter and what happened to the college guy she knew?
But he thought he was getting better. Yoga helped and maybe a party would too.
*
The Ahmed Cafe appeared one evening before Cyril’s eyes like a mirage. One side was the chicken joint and the other a bagel store with a picture of Trump in the window. He’d had a bad day at the office trying to fill sales positions for the tech company where he was vice president of sales. The wrong types kept showing up including a pair of Ivy League White boys in hoodies. In what world, he wondered as he invited them into his office, do you not dress for an interview. But he knew the answer. The session stung for another reason he’d not allowed air until he stepped off the subway. Those boys kept looking at his White assistant in the next office waiting to talk to the real boss.
He walked by stores on his boycott list like the bagel shop and the Dollar Emporium. But now there was an open door and an inviting aroma that seized him by the nostrils, overpowering his experience and he went in. He took small steps aware his size could be imposing. Still he hit his head against the bell on the door. It jangled. The people inside looked at him. He took a moment to adjust to the low light of the place crammed with shelves of can products with labels in Arabic and sacks of goods. A large dining table to one side and a grill in the back. He heard the familiar quiet that often accompanied his entrances along the street. He felt his size expand though he tried to tuck in some. A man came from behind the counter as Cyril read the menu overhead.
“What can we do for you?” His English was lightly accented but pointed.
Cyril took a deep breath. He turned to leave but felt a hand on his arm.
“Not yet,” said a light-brown woman with eyes that matched her green hijab.
“You look like you can eat,” Mrs. Ahmed said. “Smells good, right?” She laughed so merrily that Cyril grinned. She explained the menu and hooked him on fresh pita and hummus.
He walked by stores on his boycott list like the bagel shop and the Dollar Emporium. But now there was an open door and an inviting aroma that seized him by the nostrils, overpowering his experience and he went in. He took small steps aware his size could be imposing. Still he hit his head against the bell on the door. It jangled. The people inside looked at him. He took a moment to adjust to the low light of the place crammed with shelves of can products with labels in Arabic and sacks of goods. A large dining table to one side and a grill in the back. He heard the familiar quiet that often accompanied his entrances along the street. He felt his size expand though he tried to tuck in some. A man came from behind the counter as Cyril read the menu overhead.
“What can we do for you?” His English was lightly accented but pointed.
Cyril took a deep breath. He turned to leave but felt a hand on his arm.
“Not yet,” said a light-brown woman with eyes that matched her green hijab.
“You look like you can eat,” Mrs. Ahmed said. “Smells good, right?” She laughed so merrily that Cyril grinned. She explained the menu and hooked him on fresh pita and hummus.
*
He was in the school cafe when he got the call that divided his life into before and after. It was a woman who identified herself as a New York City police detective. She was blunt and Cyril felt the café floor slipping under his feet. He caught the back of a chair. Fatal fire...Kitty Octave dead...Maximillian Octave hanging on...But I’d hurry if I was you.
After the funerals and Freetown internment came the sentencing of the two neighborhood crackheads who pleaded guilty to breaking and entering and involuntary manslaughter. One, who was sobbing, said they were looking for a rumored safe in the basement and accidentally dropped a candle they were using for light. He turned to Cyril to apologize and said his grandmother used to tutor him when he was young. After all that, Cyril lost himself in the world.
But came the day he woke up in Istanbul, the morning call to prayer wafting through the windows and a visceral need for home drove him from bed. He headed back to Queens like one of those lost pups you see traveling all those miles on the scent of the familiar. He stood on the old block in front of the void not yet a garden and neighbors came to stand with him and took him in when he collapsed. Later, Pops’ card partner and best friend gave Cyril a photo that landed in his backyard. The heat had dulled the finish and fire had eaten the corners but it was one of the few material things he had left. He moved a few miles north to be close by and for the big, cheap apartment and sense of cross-cultural embrace away from his White corporate life. To be among a congregation of color. But as he explored the run of stores offering goods and food from around the world he found the same wariness towards him. Clerks followed him around their shops or hustled to serve White customers before him. Like at the Dollar Emporium.
A young Asian woman boldly followed him down the aisles. He couldn’t remember what he yelled at the young woman and was still furious telling Zenia the story. The look in the woman’s eyes was one of annoyance as if she wanted to take a broom to him. He walked out the door in a display of pride but inside his navy-blue Tom Ford suit he was ablaze.
“Holding that stuff in will kill you,” Zenia had said. “I’m proud you confronted.”
“But you can’t go around popping off all the time,” he said, dryly. “It happens a hundred times a day.”
So with the help of deep breathing, meditation and trips afar, he quietly practiced avoidance. But the feeling of being pinned between invisibility and threat like an insect in a display was hard to shake.
He would tell Zenia that, too.
After the funerals and Freetown internment came the sentencing of the two neighborhood crackheads who pleaded guilty to breaking and entering and involuntary manslaughter. One, who was sobbing, said they were looking for a rumored safe in the basement and accidentally dropped a candle they were using for light. He turned to Cyril to apologize and said his grandmother used to tutor him when he was young. After all that, Cyril lost himself in the world.
But came the day he woke up in Istanbul, the morning call to prayer wafting through the windows and a visceral need for home drove him from bed. He headed back to Queens like one of those lost pups you see traveling all those miles on the scent of the familiar. He stood on the old block in front of the void not yet a garden and neighbors came to stand with him and took him in when he collapsed. Later, Pops’ card partner and best friend gave Cyril a photo that landed in his backyard. The heat had dulled the finish and fire had eaten the corners but it was one of the few material things he had left. He moved a few miles north to be close by and for the big, cheap apartment and sense of cross-cultural embrace away from his White corporate life. To be among a congregation of color. But as he explored the run of stores offering goods and food from around the world he found the same wariness towards him. Clerks followed him around their shops or hustled to serve White customers before him. Like at the Dollar Emporium.
A young Asian woman boldly followed him down the aisles. He couldn’t remember what he yelled at the young woman and was still furious telling Zenia the story. The look in the woman’s eyes was one of annoyance as if she wanted to take a broom to him. He walked out the door in a display of pride but inside his navy-blue Tom Ford suit he was ablaze.
“Holding that stuff in will kill you,” Zenia had said. “I’m proud you confronted.”
“But you can’t go around popping off all the time,” he said, dryly. “It happens a hundred times a day.”
So with the help of deep breathing, meditation and trips afar, he quietly practiced avoidance. But the feeling of being pinned between invisibility and threat like an insect in a display was hard to shake.
He would tell Zenia that, too.
*
Maximillian Octave didn’t need no lion to remind him he was king. He had a square-shouldered, head up bearing and wore a hat pushed back on his head. He was never without a toothpick he rolled around his mouth. On Sundays he wore a vest and a pocket watch. Pops left Freetown with the smartest girl in the county to find work and see more of the world but Freetown never left him. Cyril looked forward to summer trips south. He looked forward to city Sunday drives in the silver New Yorker just the two of them and not even when cops stopped them for driving in White communities did Pops slip on his dignity or try to tuck in. No dueling selves.
“Those good ol’ boys down south teach you a thing or two about survival,” Pops said pulling back onto the road. “Eye contact and be the better man because you are the better man.”
“You ain’t never scared?” little Cyril asked.
“Not with my boy by my side,” he smiled, tapped Cyril on the chest.
Now he craved that feeling. Deep in him, at the core of his internal workings, in the blood that circulated through those belts and gears, he knew why Pops entered this world. He knew why he kept going afar back to Freetown. Blood don’t lie, Pops used to say. But he never told him blood rebelled. He knew something was coming. For the week of the party, Freetown kept drawing him back at an urgent frequency. He was in the cemetery with his grandmother clearing it of fall debris, oak leaves scraping the granite stones. He and his grandfather holding hands floating on the creek, looking up at a summer half-moon until a man on the subway sat hard in the seat next to him. It wasn’t until he got home that night and found a toothpick on the kitchen counter that he knew his grandfather was here.
Cyril put his earbuds in as he walked to the cafe. Tapped them to begin playing an audiobook but instead heard static like someone tuning a dial on an old radio looking for a connection.
“Pops?” he whispered. “Is this you?” He remembered hearing voices for months after the fire, feeling the presence of his grandparents on his skin. The sense they were lying next to him in bed as he wept in a black room.
He looked for a private space and found a bench in a schoolyard. He encouraged Pops to speak up. Cyril felt water gathering in his eye and dabbed it.
“The boys in hoodies,” he heard Pops’ voice but it was far off.
The janitor moved towards the benches slowly sweeping. The men nodded to each other.
“Those boys you interviewed. What you said about Black men.”
Cyril remembered the hooded applicants with the loose fitting jeans. He remembered how they were relaxed and casual with him. So down. They told a story about a Black professor they knew who was arrested for entering his own home while dressed in a hoodie and shorts.
“I didn’t mean it like that Pops.”
“You said, ‘Black men have to learn not to dress as predators.’”
“I was being sarcastic, Pops. It went over their heads.”
“This upset your...” Cyril thought he said “Nona” but he lost the voice.
He pulled himself up from bench and moved on, pausing under one of the cherry blossom trees that lined the street. There he noticed the buds seemed to be testing the spring air with little green tongues of cautious optimism.
“We’re kindred souls,” he said, gently cupping one in his large hand.
“Those good ol’ boys down south teach you a thing or two about survival,” Pops said pulling back onto the road. “Eye contact and be the better man because you are the better man.”
“You ain’t never scared?” little Cyril asked.
“Not with my boy by my side,” he smiled, tapped Cyril on the chest.
Now he craved that feeling. Deep in him, at the core of his internal workings, in the blood that circulated through those belts and gears, he knew why Pops entered this world. He knew why he kept going afar back to Freetown. Blood don’t lie, Pops used to say. But he never told him blood rebelled. He knew something was coming. For the week of the party, Freetown kept drawing him back at an urgent frequency. He was in the cemetery with his grandmother clearing it of fall debris, oak leaves scraping the granite stones. He and his grandfather holding hands floating on the creek, looking up at a summer half-moon until a man on the subway sat hard in the seat next to him. It wasn’t until he got home that night and found a toothpick on the kitchen counter that he knew his grandfather was here.
Cyril put his earbuds in as he walked to the cafe. Tapped them to begin playing an audiobook but instead heard static like someone tuning a dial on an old radio looking for a connection.
“Pops?” he whispered. “Is this you?” He remembered hearing voices for months after the fire, feeling the presence of his grandparents on his skin. The sense they were lying next to him in bed as he wept in a black room.
He looked for a private space and found a bench in a schoolyard. He encouraged Pops to speak up. Cyril felt water gathering in his eye and dabbed it.
“The boys in hoodies,” he heard Pops’ voice but it was far off.
The janitor moved towards the benches slowly sweeping. The men nodded to each other.
“Those boys you interviewed. What you said about Black men.”
Cyril remembered the hooded applicants with the loose fitting jeans. He remembered how they were relaxed and casual with him. So down. They told a story about a Black professor they knew who was arrested for entering his own home while dressed in a hoodie and shorts.
“I didn’t mean it like that Pops.”
“You said, ‘Black men have to learn not to dress as predators.’”
“I was being sarcastic, Pops. It went over their heads.”
“This upset your...” Cyril thought he said “Nona” but he lost the voice.
He pulled himself up from bench and moved on, pausing under one of the cherry blossom trees that lined the street. There he noticed the buds seemed to be testing the spring air with little green tongues of cautious optimism.
“We’re kindred souls,” he said, gently cupping one in his large hand.
*
Alia Ahmed was sitting in front of the café when Cyril approached with his mind elsewhere. She folded her paper and clapped when she saw him.
“Come in my friend,” she said. “You look like you can use some tea.”
Her eyes sparked when he told her of the small dinner party but scolded him for waiting until the last minute to order.
“I wasn’t sure there’d be a party,” he said. “I was still feeling my way around Zenia. Not sure I can be that guy she knew before.”
“We’re never what we used to be,” Alia Ahmed motioned for him to sit at the table next to her husband. “With some luck and blessings we grow, yes?”
“Well,” Cyril hesitated, “we change.”
“We’re friends,” she said. “I know you pretty well.”
“You do,” he smiled.
“I think everything will be fine. Whatever.”
“Sure. I just wouldn’t blame Zenia if she left me.”
“Nonsense,” Alia shooed her husband from the table. “She’s having a party with you.”
It was the first time they were alone in the café. The air in the room was tinted orange from the sun shades like Alia had described the air in her family’s Yemen fruit grove. Like the peculiar orange of the Freetown cornfields in summer.
“I know you said there was a fire,” she began. “Your family house. Full of treasures and your grandparents. But you haven't said any more. Did you tell Zenia?”
He was surprised Alia remembered her name. They had not met.
“No. Not yet. maybe later today? Telling is re-living.”
“I know,” Alia leaned in closer, her breath smelled of fennel. “Fire is a terror. But did you know as horrifying and destructive as forest fires can be, they leave behind life.”
“That doesn’t seem possible. Scorched earth and all.”
“Fires in the forest leave behind seedlings that crack open in the heat and next thing you know, little trees,” she slapped her thigh. “Little trees struggling, reaching for the skies. They want sun. They want air. They want water. Little trees that want life. And life is renewed.”
Cyril sat back in an infrequent city silence, shifted in his chair.
“I don’t know about any little trees. The fire took everything. Killed my grandparents with its smoke. Pops was laying out in the backyard next to one of the people who started the fire. Crack addicts looking for a safe that didn’t exist. Nona was inside. I got there soon as I could from school. Pops was hanging on in the hospital but let go when he found out Nona had gone on.”
“Go on, habibi,” Alia encouraged.
“Can’t.”
Cyril clasped his hands and Alia put hers over them.
“Go on. Tell me.”
The first words out, pulling the rest like a chain into the light. He heard himself say:
The wall of family portraits in the dining room that I studied growing up. Gone, gone. The stern countenance of my great grandfather, Cyril, who looked at me, his namesake and knew all my transgressions. The uncles and aunts and cousins spread across the wall in a human archipelago. All that. I used to climb the cherrywood sideboard to stare into their faces. The chests of mysteries in the attic. That, too. The remains of the house, a hill of weeping charcoal. Nona’s foot-pedal sewing machine a wood and metal twist at the top like a grave marker. Nothing, nobody saved.
When he came back to the orange air, Alia had set a cup of tea for him and was in the kitchen making his order.
“Come in my friend,” she said. “You look like you can use some tea.”
Her eyes sparked when he told her of the small dinner party but scolded him for waiting until the last minute to order.
“I wasn’t sure there’d be a party,” he said. “I was still feeling my way around Zenia. Not sure I can be that guy she knew before.”
“We’re never what we used to be,” Alia Ahmed motioned for him to sit at the table next to her husband. “With some luck and blessings we grow, yes?”
“Well,” Cyril hesitated, “we change.”
“We’re friends,” she said. “I know you pretty well.”
“You do,” he smiled.
“I think everything will be fine. Whatever.”
“Sure. I just wouldn’t blame Zenia if she left me.”
“Nonsense,” Alia shooed her husband from the table. “She’s having a party with you.”
It was the first time they were alone in the café. The air in the room was tinted orange from the sun shades like Alia had described the air in her family’s Yemen fruit grove. Like the peculiar orange of the Freetown cornfields in summer.
“I know you said there was a fire,” she began. “Your family house. Full of treasures and your grandparents. But you haven't said any more. Did you tell Zenia?”
He was surprised Alia remembered her name. They had not met.
“No. Not yet. maybe later today? Telling is re-living.”
“I know,” Alia leaned in closer, her breath smelled of fennel. “Fire is a terror. But did you know as horrifying and destructive as forest fires can be, they leave behind life.”
“That doesn’t seem possible. Scorched earth and all.”
“Fires in the forest leave behind seedlings that crack open in the heat and next thing you know, little trees,” she slapped her thigh. “Little trees struggling, reaching for the skies. They want sun. They want air. They want water. Little trees that want life. And life is renewed.”
Cyril sat back in an infrequent city silence, shifted in his chair.
“I don’t know about any little trees. The fire took everything. Killed my grandparents with its smoke. Pops was laying out in the backyard next to one of the people who started the fire. Crack addicts looking for a safe that didn’t exist. Nona was inside. I got there soon as I could from school. Pops was hanging on in the hospital but let go when he found out Nona had gone on.”
“Go on, habibi,” Alia encouraged.
“Can’t.”
Cyril clasped his hands and Alia put hers over them.
“Go on. Tell me.”
The first words out, pulling the rest like a chain into the light. He heard himself say:
The wall of family portraits in the dining room that I studied growing up. Gone, gone. The stern countenance of my great grandfather, Cyril, who looked at me, his namesake and knew all my transgressions. The uncles and aunts and cousins spread across the wall in a human archipelago. All that. I used to climb the cherrywood sideboard to stare into their faces. The chests of mysteries in the attic. That, too. The remains of the house, a hill of weeping charcoal. Nona’s foot-pedal sewing machine a wood and metal twist at the top like a grave marker. Nothing, nobody saved.
When he came back to the orange air, Alia had set a cup of tea for him and was in the kitchen making his order.
*
He left the café’s mellow air for the bright light of the day, promising to return for the food. In his melancholy, he headed to the bay by Citi Field. He did this frequently and it was a pleasant unmooring from his anxieties. He took a water bottle from the ice bucket at Mama Lupe’s. Pops had not reached out again and Cyril wanted to feel him. He walked down the boulevard past the Langston Hughes library and turned down tilting narrow streets past the old AME church, a reminder that it was once a neighborhood as Black as it was Brown. Past the Louie Armstrong house jammed against new squat brick apartment buildings, balconies crammed with kids’ bikes and laundry carts. He dodged between cars at the corner and along the old promenade towards their old hangout.
Pops never took anyone else to the games with them and he remembered holding tight his grandfather’s calloused hands as they climbed into their seats where the ballplayers looked small as Cyril’s action figures. He remembered hot dogs and the smell of beer. After the game they’d sit on benches by the bay eating ice cream, watching the late sun play on the water. Pops showed him how to make a tiny ship out of the wooden popsicle sticks and they sent it off.
Back to Africa, Cyril the man cried and pumped his arm in the air.
Pops never took anyone else to the games with them and he remembered holding tight his grandfather’s calloused hands as they climbed into their seats where the ballplayers looked small as Cyril’s action figures. He remembered hot dogs and the smell of beer. After the game they’d sit on benches by the bay eating ice cream, watching the late sun play on the water. Pops showed him how to make a tiny ship out of the wooden popsicle sticks and they sent it off.
Back to Africa, Cyril the man cried and pumped his arm in the air.
*
He was most at peace on the floor at Little Power People, Zenia’s pre-school. There he laughed and took directions from three- and four-year-old architects with building blocks. There he watched Zenia moving in her world with the confidence of a woman secure in her beauty and ambition. In this space her eyes always approved of him.
“I’ve had a lot of bust relationships,” she said on one of their early dates. “I want this to be different. Open and honest. I admit to wearing some protective armor, though. It’s comforting, you know? Real cool on the inside.”
Cyril didn’t know whether to confess he had only intermittent one-night stands. He went with humor.
“Zenia,” he took her hand. “I’m serious about putting some chinks in that armor.”
They laughed loud and long at his corniness.
“Look at you trying to be cool,” Zenia said as their waiter approached the table. He asked them to keep it down, a patron had complained.
“Okay,” Cyril said as a raucous group of White women were seated near them. He and Zenia exchanged glances.
“I guess you’ll be scurrying over there to tell them to be quiet,” Zenia said.
The older White man shut his eyes briefly as if summoning strength and turned to greet the new group. When they looked around, they were now the only Black people in the restaurant.
“We should complain to the manager,” Zenia pushed her plate away but downed her cocktail.
“No,” Cyril said standing, tossing bills on the table, his neck throbbing. “We’ll just pay and leave.”
Outside the Harlem streets were packed and Zenia pulled Cyril into the doorway of a closed store.
“What was that?” she asked. “That old man waiter singled us out. Called us for noise because we’re Black.”
“And we’ll never go there again. Write a bad review,” he said looking over her head at passing people. She looked at him with those interrogating eyes.
“Really? Mr. Social Justice. Mr. Freetown. Walk away?”
This was before yoga and his insides were coiling.
“Zenia,” he pleaded. “Can we just go?”
She sighed and they walked to her house but she didn’t let him take her hand.
“I’ve had a lot of bust relationships,” she said on one of their early dates. “I want this to be different. Open and honest. I admit to wearing some protective armor, though. It’s comforting, you know? Real cool on the inside.”
Cyril didn’t know whether to confess he had only intermittent one-night stands. He went with humor.
“Zenia,” he took her hand. “I’m serious about putting some chinks in that armor.”
They laughed loud and long at his corniness.
“Look at you trying to be cool,” Zenia said as their waiter approached the table. He asked them to keep it down, a patron had complained.
“Okay,” Cyril said as a raucous group of White women were seated near them. He and Zenia exchanged glances.
“I guess you’ll be scurrying over there to tell them to be quiet,” Zenia said.
The older White man shut his eyes briefly as if summoning strength and turned to greet the new group. When they looked around, they were now the only Black people in the restaurant.
“We should complain to the manager,” Zenia pushed her plate away but downed her cocktail.
“No,” Cyril said standing, tossing bills on the table, his neck throbbing. “We’ll just pay and leave.”
Outside the Harlem streets were packed and Zenia pulled Cyril into the doorway of a closed store.
“What was that?” she asked. “That old man waiter singled us out. Called us for noise because we’re Black.”
“And we’ll never go there again. Write a bad review,” he said looking over her head at passing people. She looked at him with those interrogating eyes.
“Really? Mr. Social Justice. Mr. Freetown. Walk away?”
This was before yoga and his insides were coiling.
“Zenia,” he pleaded. “Can we just go?”
She sighed and they walked to her house but she didn’t let him take her hand.
*
Early morning the day of the party, Zenia wandered about. When she came back to the bedroom she looked confused.
“Something wrong?” Cyril had asked.
“Yeah. No. Guess not,” she said. “Thought I smelled smoke. It was strong for a moment then nothing.”
Cyril rose to his elbows but said nothing. This was the opening to tell her he lied and the truth is this tragedy, about Freetown and visits. Come clean before the party and let her decide if they would cancel. He’d be unburdened and she’d have it all, all she wanted to know. All the honesty. He reached out, took her hand, pulled her to him and opened his mouth to speak. She put a finger to his lips. He pulled her to him and was on top of her moving between her thighs. Moving above her and through her. Light fell across the bed and so illuminated he was without a mask. And she seemed to recognize him.
“Yes, yes girl,” he whispered. “It’s me.”
“Something wrong?” Cyril had asked.
“Yeah. No. Guess not,” she said. “Thought I smelled smoke. It was strong for a moment then nothing.”
Cyril rose to his elbows but said nothing. This was the opening to tell her he lied and the truth is this tragedy, about Freetown and visits. Come clean before the party and let her decide if they would cancel. He’d be unburdened and she’d have it all, all she wanted to know. All the honesty. He reached out, took her hand, pulled her to him and opened his mouth to speak. She put a finger to his lips. He pulled her to him and was on top of her moving between her thighs. Moving above her and through her. Light fell across the bed and so illuminated he was without a mask. And she seemed to recognize him.
“Yes, yes girl,” he whispered. “It’s me.”
*
Zenia was back first with the main course. She laughed when she saw the carefully laid out bright table with fresh flowers. Her girls were going to freak. She unrolled small white lantern lights that she would hang from the ceiling. She was on the stepladder when she had to go to the bathroom. As she passed the tall oak bookcase, via some unknown current, an envelope fell from high, landing at her feet. The contents spilled across the floor. A photo of a man and woman in an embracing glee, and a crime report about a fire that caused the death of Maximillian and Kitty Octave. Her hand trembled. A husband calling out to his wife to get out. An attempt to put out the flames with a fire extinguisher. Death. Death. The last lines: “Mr. Octave died a week later from smoke and a massive heart attack upon learning his wife died. Cyril Octave, grandson, present. Fire ruled suspicious.”
She held onto the envelope a little unsteady on her feet but she crossed the room to windows facing the avenue. Her eyes filled, blurring the budding blossoms. What the hell? When was he going to tell her this is what happened to him? Four whole months too soon?
She held onto the envelope a little unsteady on her feet but she crossed the room to windows facing the avenue. Her eyes filled, blurring the budding blossoms. What the hell? When was he going to tell her this is what happened to him? Four whole months too soon?
*
Cyril settled on the bench, spreading himself out. A few ships were toy-size on the horizon. He hoped Pops would hit him up again. He sat up straight when he heard a scratchy sound again. He concentrated.
“Hey, sorry. I lost you.”
Cyril turned up the volume on his headset.
“You alright, Pops. Apology accepted,” he said. The more they talked the clearer the conversation and it was soon as if Pops was sitting next to him. Cyril pulled his long legs from the pathway to let bikers past. He turned to better feel his grandfather’s presence. He laughed then cried.
“Oh, man don’t cry,” Pops said. “You know, I been around.”
“Yeah. Toothpicks and Freetown,” Cyril said.
“Look I got to make this fast. Cause Nona is expecting me back.”
“Can I talk to her, too?”
“No. She’s on another mission.”
The ships hadn’t moved an inch.
“First up. Forget about those boys that caused the fire. They gonna be away a long time. They are not you. You are not them.”
“Pops, how can you say that?” Cyril shouted. A couple on a bench nearby looked at him. “Most people think we’re interchangeable. Even one of the homicide detectives was interrogating me like I was the suspect in the death of my own grandparents because I’m standing around a crime scene while Black.”
“You know I have some experience in this,” Pops went silent for a moment. “There used to be a saying when I was coming up. You can run no faster than the slowest Negro walks.”
“Never heard that one before.”
“Know why? That’s some White man bullshit. Look, son. You don’t think my heart was beating fast? A White man leaning in my window and he has a badge and a gun? My little one right there absorbing. You don’t let on you’re the better man but you are. You out here honest, making a way for your family. Respecting your ancestors.”
“You always looked so calm. That’s how I learned traffic stops.”
“Good,” Pops voice was fading. “We can take that up another time...One other thing before I got to go. Your Nona, well she’s been meddling some. She’s crazy about Zenia, you know.”
“The smoke?”
“Yeah. And Zenia’s about to read all about it.”
“No,” Cyril sat up. “Me. I’m the one to tell her.”
“Just saying she might already know. You denying your family, your past, your pain. You’re hiding and now you may have been revealed.” He stopped. “Oh, and we don’t like that tucking in shit. Dignity, man. Head up.”
Cyril looked at his phone and thought if he hurried he could beat Zenia back to the apartment. Or maybe he should call her?
A group of kids on skateboards zipped by.
“Help me Pops,” Cyril said but his grandfather didn’t respond.
The ships were now moving on, too. Cyril felt the words snapping together again as they did at the café. He scrambled out the park towards whatever awaited him at home.
“Hey, sorry. I lost you.”
Cyril turned up the volume on his headset.
“You alright, Pops. Apology accepted,” he said. The more they talked the clearer the conversation and it was soon as if Pops was sitting next to him. Cyril pulled his long legs from the pathway to let bikers past. He turned to better feel his grandfather’s presence. He laughed then cried.
“Oh, man don’t cry,” Pops said. “You know, I been around.”
“Yeah. Toothpicks and Freetown,” Cyril said.
“Look I got to make this fast. Cause Nona is expecting me back.”
“Can I talk to her, too?”
“No. She’s on another mission.”
The ships hadn’t moved an inch.
“First up. Forget about those boys that caused the fire. They gonna be away a long time. They are not you. You are not them.”
“Pops, how can you say that?” Cyril shouted. A couple on a bench nearby looked at him. “Most people think we’re interchangeable. Even one of the homicide detectives was interrogating me like I was the suspect in the death of my own grandparents because I’m standing around a crime scene while Black.”
“You know I have some experience in this,” Pops went silent for a moment. “There used to be a saying when I was coming up. You can run no faster than the slowest Negro walks.”
“Never heard that one before.”
“Know why? That’s some White man bullshit. Look, son. You don’t think my heart was beating fast? A White man leaning in my window and he has a badge and a gun? My little one right there absorbing. You don’t let on you’re the better man but you are. You out here honest, making a way for your family. Respecting your ancestors.”
“You always looked so calm. That’s how I learned traffic stops.”
“Good,” Pops voice was fading. “We can take that up another time...One other thing before I got to go. Your Nona, well she’s been meddling some. She’s crazy about Zenia, you know.”
“The smoke?”
“Yeah. And Zenia’s about to read all about it.”
“No,” Cyril sat up. “Me. I’m the one to tell her.”
“Just saying she might already know. You denying your family, your past, your pain. You’re hiding and now you may have been revealed.” He stopped. “Oh, and we don’t like that tucking in shit. Dignity, man. Head up.”
Cyril looked at his phone and thought if he hurried he could beat Zenia back to the apartment. Or maybe he should call her?
A group of kids on skateboards zipped by.
“Help me Pops,” Cyril said but his grandfather didn’t respond.
The ships were now moving on, too. Cyril felt the words snapping together again as they did at the café. He scrambled out the park towards whatever awaited him at home.