shopping bag. Tino saw us and waved first. I was glad to see him. Tino owned Lafayette’s most exclusive salon, but at thirty-three had yet to come out to his mother. Still, he was the sanest member of the family. I liked him.
“Hey, y’all,” he called. “Well, well. New York comes out to welcome the Boudreaux. I swear they were checkin’ our bags for alligator skins. Oh my god, Jason, who are you letting cut your hair? I am going to do something about that while I’m here.”
Tino was wearing white linen pants and a lavender guayabera shirt. No socks and woven loafers. While his sister was blond, blue-eyed, and fair-skinned, Tino looked almost Latin with his dark eyes and hair. He turned almost as many heads as his sister—from both sides of the aisle.
Mamma saw me and squealed. “Ooohhh, Jason! Come here, young man, and let me see you.” She jumped up from the wheelchair like a cured penitent at a Pentecostal tent church, raising a few eyebrows from the otherwise jaded New Yorkers waiting for their bags. I let her hug me and gave a short squeeze in return.
The alarm sounded and the belt began to move. Tino and the driver went over to recover the bags. Angie had the Dillard’s bag and was rifling through it, seeking the Kid’s present, I imagined.
Mamma still had my elbow in her grip. She pulled me to her and whispered in my ear, “My little girl has been so excited to see you. I just know you two will find a way to patch things up now she’s done with that
coullion
.” She released me and patted my cheek fondly.
I got that cold, liquid feeling in my gut, the one you get just after swallowing a bad oyster. Things were going to get a lot worse before they got better. And there was nothing to be done about it.
• • •
HOW DO YOU TELL a mother not to hug her child?
We had left Mamma and Tino to settle in at the rented apartment. Three bedrooms, three baths, sunken living room, newly renovated kitchen, designer furnishings, and a tenth-floor view of the park. “Not too shabby,” my father would have said. Angie and I took the Town Car up to Seventy-third Street to greet the Kid. On the way, I tried to describe some of the differences, or near-unique characteristics, of our child.
“The school is doing wonders, Angie. He knows his letters. He’s good at numbers. He doesn’t really read yet. He recognizes symbols, though, and they think he’ll get it eventually.”
“Mamma says I was a slow reader.”
“For instance, he knows the letters
F
,
O
,
R
, and
D
, and when he sees the Ford logo he knows what it means. But show him the word ‘ford,’ like a ford in a stream, and he has no idea. He can’t get it.”
“Well, that’s a hard word.”
He could also “read” the words Chevrolet, Maserati, and Lamborghini, but he couldn’t figure out “dog.”
“But he is beginning to talk about things other than cars. He understands the concept of conversation, but he’s still not good at it.” And sometimes he simply refused to partake.
“He gets that from his father’s side,” she teased.
That was fair. I was in college before anyone suggested to me that constantly asking questions wasn’t really conversation and that it could be annoying, or even rude. I barely spoke to anyone for a year after that.
“He still doesn’t like to be touched. He’s going through a bad patch right now. Not a big deal. Things get worse before they get better. That’s what Heather says.”
“Heather?” Angie managed to make the single word conjure up visions of vampires, serial killers, and afternoon talk-show hosts all in one. “Heather is a color.”
“Heather is his shadow,” I said.
“Your new fuckbuddy?”
There went the sympathy and forgiveness. I stared out the window, counting the things I would rather be doing than escorting my ex around town. When I was well into the double digits, I risked answering her. “Heather is more than a nanny, less than a doctor. Neither the
“Hey, y’all,” he called. “Well, well. New York comes out to welcome the Boudreaux. I swear they were checkin’ our bags for alligator skins. Oh my god, Jason, who are you letting cut your hair? I am going to do something about that while I’m here.”
Tino was wearing white linen pants and a lavender guayabera shirt. No socks and woven loafers. While his sister was blond, blue-eyed, and fair-skinned, Tino looked almost Latin with his dark eyes and hair. He turned almost as many heads as his sister—from both sides of the aisle.
Mamma saw me and squealed. “Ooohhh, Jason! Come here, young man, and let me see you.” She jumped up from the wheelchair like a cured penitent at a Pentecostal tent church, raising a few eyebrows from the otherwise jaded New Yorkers waiting for their bags. I let her hug me and gave a short squeeze in return.
The alarm sounded and the belt began to move. Tino and the driver went over to recover the bags. Angie had the Dillard’s bag and was rifling through it, seeking the Kid’s present, I imagined.
Mamma still had my elbow in her grip. She pulled me to her and whispered in my ear, “My little girl has been so excited to see you. I just know you two will find a way to patch things up now she’s done with that
coullion
.” She released me and patted my cheek fondly.
I got that cold, liquid feeling in my gut, the one you get just after swallowing a bad oyster. Things were going to get a lot worse before they got better. And there was nothing to be done about it.
• • •
HOW DO YOU TELL a mother not to hug her child?
We had left Mamma and Tino to settle in at the rented apartment. Three bedrooms, three baths, sunken living room, newly renovated kitchen, designer furnishings, and a tenth-floor view of the park. “Not too shabby,” my father would have said. Angie and I took the Town Car up to Seventy-third Street to greet the Kid. On the way, I tried to describe some of the differences, or near-unique characteristics, of our child.
“The school is doing wonders, Angie. He knows his letters. He’s good at numbers. He doesn’t really read yet. He recognizes symbols, though, and they think he’ll get it eventually.”
“Mamma says I was a slow reader.”
“For instance, he knows the letters
F
,
O
,
R
, and
D
, and when he sees the Ford logo he knows what it means. But show him the word ‘ford,’ like a ford in a stream, and he has no idea. He can’t get it.”
“Well, that’s a hard word.”
He could also “read” the words Chevrolet, Maserati, and Lamborghini, but he couldn’t figure out “dog.”
“But he is beginning to talk about things other than cars. He understands the concept of conversation, but he’s still not good at it.” And sometimes he simply refused to partake.
“He gets that from his father’s side,” she teased.
That was fair. I was in college before anyone suggested to me that constantly asking questions wasn’t really conversation and that it could be annoying, or even rude. I barely spoke to anyone for a year after that.
“He still doesn’t like to be touched. He’s going through a bad patch right now. Not a big deal. Things get worse before they get better. That’s what Heather says.”
“Heather?” Angie managed to make the single word conjure up visions of vampires, serial killers, and afternoon talk-show hosts all in one. “Heather is a color.”
“Heather is his shadow,” I said.
“Your new fuckbuddy?”
There went the sympathy and forgiveness. I stared out the window, counting the things I would rather be doing than escorting my ex around town. When I was well into the double digits, I risked answering her. “Heather is more than a nanny, less than a doctor. Neither the
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