African Voices Lift Your Voices Award Winner
Cookies and Ice Cream
by Rosa L. Clipper Fleming
Dada was his first word. And right now he is running, pitter-patter-pitter-patter, through the halls screaming "Dada" at the top of his lungs. I hear him running, the sound hollow and echoing on the wood flooring, soundless when he reaches the carpeted family room. I have counted thirteen laps. "Momma, he’s looking for Kenneth. What do I do?"
My mother, wise and old tells me that, "he’ll figure out soon enough that Kenneth’s gone. Then you’ll hold him; hug him and raise him into a man. That’s bout all you can do, darling." She sips her coffee. Room temperature and sugarless.
I want to slap her. Always she is right. But always she doles out her wisdom dry and loveless. Life is matter-of-fact. Things happen and they can’t be changed and you just live with them. I know the rules. She’d drilled them into me. Right now I want her to hug me. Take me in her arms like a baby. Kiss my forehead and make it all better. But that isn’t going to happen.
Dada. Dada. Dada.
I know what he is waiting for. Aaron. That’s the word he’s waiting for. Since he first said, "Dada," Kenneth would yell out at the top of his lungs, "Aaron." And they would laugh, together. It was like one of those church moments, call and response. And it was private. I never knew how private, until lap six when I screamed out "Aaron" and there was only a momentary pause until lap seven.
I wipe my eyes. They are dry. I couldn’t cry anymore if I tried. Six long months. Cancer taking big chunks out of the man I married, until he was gone. The worst part was knowing he was dying and not having the nerve to tell him. The doctor asked me, "Do you want him to know?" What a question.
Of Course, I had to ask Momma. Came right home and dialed long distance. Her answer was blunt, "Tell a man he’s dying and he’s dead tomorrow. Let him love his son in peace. He’s smart, he’ll figure it out all on his own."
And he did. Four months into the process. He was quiet when I got home. He’d lain on the couch all day. His new job: recanting "Young and the Restless" in stereo as I cooked healthy vegetable-laden meals.
I remember I was stir-frying broccoli and chicken in a wok we had seasoned together right after our wedding. And he asked me, "Am I dying?" Always honest, always truthful, I said, "Yes, baby, you are." I was my mother reincarnated and she wasn’t even dead.
He said, "Okay. Well, let’s deal with it."
So we did. We planned the funeral. He picked the person to read the eulogy. An old college buddy, once a best friend, long since distanced. He’d pledged him, A-Phi-A. they talked on the phone way into the night and Kenneth put his number on Outlook.
"Just dial him up when the time comes."
Then he spent time with his brothers. I was never in the room. They wanted time. To say things they’d never said. relive things.
"It’s okay," he told me, "they’ll teach Aaron everything I wanted to. We worked it out." He was solemn, but not sad.
We picked out a casket together and he made sure the accounts looked good. Four evenings we spent going over Quicken, looking through our stocks. "So you’ll know," he said. We’d spent time before, when his uncle died, talking about how little his aunt knew of their household finances. He didn’t want anyone talking about me behind my back. Then we sat. Mostly in silence. There was little to say. Quiet evenings in the backyard, watching the sun rise. I remember sometimes the house was so quiet that I could hear the clock ticking. So I took out the batteries. EverReady I think. I threw them in the trash.
Dada. Dada. Dada.
The sound was plaintive now. Distressed.
"If you’re going in the kitchen, get me some more coffee," my mother said as I rose from the couch.
"It will be a little bit, Momma. I’m gonna distract Aaron."
My Momma was quiet. Somebody, meaning well, had put batteries back in the clocks and I felt them ticking.
"Want some help?" Her face, normally stoic, softened when she saw my surprise. "Cookies and ice cream. Tonight cookies and ice cream might work just fine."
