Sunlight slowly replaced the dark, lighting up my bedroom brightly. Jazz melodies were playing at a low volume. I couldn’t sleep any longer. So I rolled over, and just laid there, listening, looking up. Thinking? "Man, he's an effing moron." That was how I felt about him, my father. My opinion of him was below low and I had come to accept that he didn't want to have anything to do with me. I finally sat up, pissed, but ready to get this day over and done with.

I breathed deep and often. The aroma of perking coffee and food cooking had pricked my nose, causing hunger groans. I stood upright and headed toward the kitchen, letting out bombastic yawns followed by feats of contortion. My morning stretch brought about sharp eyes which hinted it was too early for such nonsense. So I did.

“My bad. Good morning," I said, sliding back a kitchen chair. Hattie Mae was sitting there, looking tired, still in her Caftan robe, fitfully sipping coffee. She replied, then adjusted herself. As soon as I heard that horn, I had intuitively shut my eyes and began dancing mentally, because a string of improvisational notes filled the room with stunningly hip-hop like beats.

"Jaybird," she said, my head bouncing. "Not at the table."

"Sorry. Say, who’s that playing,” I inquired?

“That’s Miles playing,” Grandpa said, gloating with hometown reverence. “He made being angry cool.”

“Really?" I replied, "How did he do that?"

"Let's just say racism motivated him," Douglas explained. "It produced a superior musician."

"But not a better man," Grandma countered.

"True that. He bullied women. Did drugs. Misplaced his anger. He was wrong in what he did. But there's a lesson in him. So Jaybird listen up. Anger is like energy. It must be released and redirected constructively. If not, the soul gets overwhelmed by pain and hate. And people will choose a host of remedies to relieve themselves of it, oftentimes with dire results. You get what I'm saying."

"Yessir," I affirmed.

"Now there are other outlets. Less artistic and brutal even, but they do the trick. Take your uncle. Every now and then he takes that sledgehammer of his and goes to Mr. Williams' junkyard to pound wreck cars. People think he needs to be fitted, but I rather him bash metal than people."

"Ain't that the truth," she two-cented.

Douglas just left it there and returned to cooking. I knew what he meant and where it was heading. He looked up at the wall clock and began hurrying. Suddenly, he put two large platters of egg foo young, banana pancakes, bacon, and maple syrup down on the table, along with plates, utensils, and a couple of pint glasses. Then came a pitcher of refrigerated hibiscus tea. “Enjoy! I have to go before I'm late,” then he snagged his black metal lunch box, kissed Grandma, elbow nudged me, and was out.

The door then slammed. I looked at the food and forked what I wanted. He made the omeletes and cakes of similar size, which made layering them easier, and for a better eating experience. Hattie Mae just shook her head, believing my eyes had grown larger than my belly. My plate was full. I prayed then ate. Then it got real candid.

“So who is this Brazilian girl?”

I nearly choked.

“So what is she?" She continued, "Is she a girlfriend or friend-girl?”

I sat there chewing, talking with food my mouth full. “Her name is Marta, if that's not known already. And yes, she's my girlfriend and not a friend-girl.”

"Okay. So how did you two meet?"

"We live next door to each other."

"That’s convenient. Is she a nice looking girl?"

"She's alright," I corrected.

"Alright?" Hattie Mae poked. "That's not nice."

“It suits her.” I told her. "She's not ugly. I don't do ugly."

“Really now?" She kidded, "There's nothing wrong with kissing ugly?"

“Hold up!” I blurted, releasing my fork, as I straightened up in the chair. “Grandpa talks too much. You know what, I'm just following what I was told to do. That I should let the girl decide the relationship and its direction, so whatever happens happen. And yes, we kissed but she kissed me first. And that's all we do, okay. Nothing more. Happy now!” Grandma look fixated mine, so I immediately apologized for being flippant.

“I just wanted to know which head was doing the thinking," she opined. "That’s all. Your grandfather hinted at how many girls hang around you and by his account their a multiracial lot. I didn’t realize how cosmopolitan my grandson was becoming."

“I guess? I can't help that most of my friends and neighbors are immigrants," I informed. “They're from all over. My hood is like that. Anyhow, that shouldn't matter. Their color, how they talk, or look. For me, it’s pretty simple. You like me. I like you. And we're good.” 

“That simple, huh. Just like that.”

"Yep," then I returned to eating. Still, I sat there afraid. Wondering, had Grandpa told it all? Particularly, our discussions about fistfights with gangster wannabes and bullies. So I braced myself. Thankfully, when she spoke it centered only on my bad table manners, poor eating posture, and gluttony.

Soon she pushed back from the table to refill her cup of coffee and my glass. While up, she raised the window, which let in a rush of fresh air. The breeze felt pleasant as it circulated throughout the kitchen. Hattie Mae sat back down to finish her coffee and breakfast.

"Oh yeah, one last thing: Why her?”

“Well, she's cool. Somewhat tomboyish, honest, and smart. I really like that, the smart part. Plus, she exposes my weaknesses which makes me a better person.”

“Interesting? None of the boys do that."

"They do but not like her."

"I see."

“Marta is fiesty. Guys think losing to a girl makes them weak. I think they just can’t handle a girl being better than them at anything,” I suggested. “I find it all kind of funny.”

“Now I do like that outlook," she complimented.

“She competes and plays hard. Plays softball, soccer, and basketball. Stuff like that. Nothing really physical, like sandlot football.”

“If you say so?” she looked, scratching her head. “We’ll talk more later."

“Must we?”

She nodded then got up to place her dishes into the sink. “I have to ready,” she told. “Now you know the rule. Last one at the table cleans up. And don't eat it all, because you might want some for later. Also, take out the trash and make sure everything is locked up. After that, get dressed. Don't forget where we're going."

"Yes ma'am."

Prior summer visits I would have been out and about. Not this time. I had to go over there, over to his house. Only because Doug had to work late and wouldn't arrive home until dark and Hattie Mae's three menial part-time jobs all collided today. Cashier at the local grocery store. Then as a housekeeper at both a hotel and St. Mary’s Hospital. So I knew once I got dropped off, the chance of having fun was small. I only wondered what the clown would look like this year. Two years ago he was a panther, before that a hippie. Today, who knows. But I would find out.

Thirty minutes later both of us were dressed, ready to go. The record player was turned off and I was told to quit profiling in front of a stand-up mirror and gather up her uniforms laying out across her bed. I politely teased her to double-check herself by make sure she had everything and that I would be standing outside.

There in front of the house I stood, holding her belongings, when I decided to walk to the car. The sky was powder blue as cotton candy clouds crossed the sun's bright glow. Maybe I would get to enjoy such a beautiful day. She finally appeared, locking the door shut then hesitated. Her momentary inaction was telling. She doubled-back, fisting something upon her return.

We met each other halfway. Then I was told to turn around, having a key necklace placed around my neck, and given instructions just in case things went sour. Minutes later we left. Typically, music boomed when we drove. It would spark sing-alongs and more questions about what I had been up.

Not this time. Instead, it was all about my father which turned me off. So I stared at the passing scenery, it being Bond Avenue, the drag strip, but it offered only blight which was quite deflating. I could've used some lively music. Anything was better than that idiot. I was nearly on the verge of ratting myself out and talk about all the fighting I had done, when I felt a pinch.

“Hey, watch it,” I turned, defensively, rubbing my ear. “I’m listening! Honest!”

Grandma enunciated my full name, “So what’d I say?”

“You kept talking about whatchamacallum.”

Unamused by my description, Hattie Mae reiterated her point. “That’s not funny, alright. It’s not. I’m serious. Your father has done it again.”

“It doesn't matter?” I quipped. “What does he do? Too bad I can't call him what I think. So what do you suggest? How about what you call him?”

Hattie just stared. “Jaybird, don't play. I’m not in the mood. Really I’m not.” The gas pedal hit the floor after she glimpsed at her watch. While the car raced I learnt about his name change, him finding Allah, getting remarried, and becoming a big brother. He had gone from being a deadbeat to a sweetback to deadbeat sweetback. I wasn't shocked, for it fit him, at how easily he fed his own wants. It further confirmed my outlook of him.

“I should’ve seen it coming. Spoiling him like I did. Not even three years in the Air Force helped. Look at what came back. A more immature man. I figured wrongly that the government could fix how I raised him,” she continued talking. ”Now he’s truly broken, disbelieving his ancestry, that black men must be blacker than blackest African and not a polybody being. Just utter nonsense.”

Her frustrations soon slowed and so too did the car. “I’m sorry about that. About yelling at you, okay. I’m just disappointed, that’s all. At him and myself." Still the car whizzed pass a city bus, slower moving cars, hurdling railroad tracks, before it veered hard right onto a street. I soon recognized the neighborhood. Dunbar Elementary and its schoolyard would be coming up shortly.

It wasn't full of kids yet, it being morning. I did have hope of meeting a few former classmates and rivals. Five blocks later, I saw Grandma's old station wagon parked on the street, in front of this large two-story, picket fenced, white brick house. She rolled up and honked before we got out and began walking toward the house. She joked but warned that I shouldn't prod him. That his skin hadn't calloused yet. “So what’re you going call to him?”

“Not what you called him, that’s for sure,” I replied. A door banged shut and out walked a lanky, chocolate colored man, looking fresh, and clean shaven, with a haircut that visibly showed his face, in a dark navy suit, sporting a bowtie, and shined black shoes, looking quite serious. He resembled them brothers I had seen in the hood, selling newspapers. I was throwed but  unimpressed.

“Asalamalakim,” he greeted.

“Hello Junior,” Hattie Mae demurred. His face tightened instantly, then he began talking out the side of his neck. “How many times have I told you? That’s not my name. That’s the slave master’s name. Yours, not mine. I’m a black man now, having a new faith, with a future where I am free and the protagonist. So get used it. Recognize that and I will do likewise.” Suddenly, his mouth shut. She walked up on him, looking him up and down. “Such a mouthy boy," she said. "I shouldn’t’ve spared that switch. But it’s too late now, so I have to deal with what I have here. What’s more I’ll call you by the one I fabricated. Your family name.”

He just stood there, looking smugly silent. She followed up her point by asking him a question. “So tell me Junior, have you figured it out yet? Whether you’re a myth or a man?” His face turned in resentment at this riddle. Why? Who knows? Maybe, he knew the answer but I doubt it. Just watching him flail brought joy. So much so I couldn't hold back my emotions, because laughter soon bellowed.

“Jaybird!” Hattie Mae called, “Control yourself.”

“Yes ma’am,” I replied, still glowing. My father disliked that. “Look at him. He hadn't gotten better. He acts just like his mother, unwilling to show respect and difference.”

“Well, he got it honestly, didn't he?” Hattie replied, beckoning. “Jaybird, please greet your father.”

“What's up,” I said reluctantly, asking him to tell me his new name. Which he did. My father disliked my response, in asking him its meaning. So he targeted my hairstyle, clothing, and exotic look as being unacceptable. Believing I was an affront to him. That I couldn't be seen publicly with him now, because I would underscore the lighter-to-the-whiter side of the family. His church didn't go for that, believing black men shouldn't have freckled face, hazel-eyed, bright-skinned kids.

“Popycock,” I shouted, knowing it sounded offensive, "I'm blacker than you are!" Hattie Mae stood akimbo, debating whether I should be scolded. He had no doubts. “What was that?” He barked! “Watch it boy. Just because we have the same blood don't make it so." Hattie Mae admonished him real fast.  “Watch it Junior, I have to go to work. I brought him here hoping you two could work things out. So take care of my only grandson, okay. And none of that racist shit you practice.” 

She spun and softly kissed my cheek and whispered before walking to the car. The door slammed, engine reved, and she blurted out the open window: “Jaybird, remember what I told you.” The car whipped out backwards, launched forward, and raced down the street like it entered. I watched the car speed away until it vanished at the turn. He did too. Then I looked at him, shaking my head, thinking let's see where this goes. He thought differently. Already, I was directed to get into his car. I knew right then we wouldn't find common ground, nothing son and fatherly. I figured I should be home in an hour. Dropped off like always. Because, according to him, he had better things to do. And so did I.

Wayne McCray was born in East St. Louis, Illinois, in 1965, and later grew up in Chicago until 1984. He is a graduate of Southern University A and M in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. He resides in Itta Bena, Mississippi. Recent publications include Afro Literary Magazine, Bandit Fiction, The Bookends Review, Chitro Magazine, Roi Faineant, The Ocotillo Review, Ogma Magazine, Pigeon Review, The Rush Magazine, Swim Press, and Wingless Dreamer.