Back in the Day

2010

Hey, pop. Pop. Amir sat back on his haunches and turned to look toward the bedroom door behind him. He waited a few seconds, listening to the silence. The muffled sound of music from across the hall had been like white noise while he’d been working. Now he strained his ears, waiting to hear some sign of life from the other bedroom. Dad, he called again, louder this time.

Boy, if you don’t stop yelling in my house! Amir’s father, Alonzo, yelled back. As usual, he didn’t see any contradiction in yelling at him about not yelling. Amir knew trying to point out the contradiction wouldn’t get him anywhere but a replay of the same lecture he’d been hearing for nearly all his life that ended with, Do as I say, not as I do, and he didn’t have the energy or time for that.

He stood and brushed the thin layer of dust from his hands, the particles seeming almost beautiful in the light streaming in through the window. He had to pick his way through the half-packed boxes littering the floor in the room that had been his mother’s studio, a guest bedroom, his father’s office, and a nursery for a cousin’s daughter for a few months while his cousin was getting on her feet in Amir’s lifetime. Often, it had been two or more of those things at once. In recent years, it had become the dumping ground for the memorabilia of their past — Amir and his sister’s trophies, his mom’s spare cameras, old floppy disks with drafts of his dad’s work — all the things they wanted to save, but not sure yet for whom.

When Amir stepped into the hall, he could hear the music much more clearly, although it still sounded staticky because Alonzo was playing it on a radio that was probably older than Amir. It was tuned to KBLX, the only station his father recognized these days; the only station that played real music, Alonzo sometimes said with a laugh, not so much as a judgment but just a professional observation.

But even through that ancient speaker, the plucking sound of an electric guitar cut through the distortion and filled the hallway, loud and melodic, as if even the ancient technology couldn’t stop a hit from hitting.

Love’ll make you do right…

The music grew louder as Alonzo turned the volume up, always ready to help a great song shine.

There was a smile on Amir’s face as he moved across the hall. We playin’ Reverend Al? Amir called down the hallway. Is that the mood today?

Mmmhmm, his father hummed, maybe in answer or maybe just in tune.

Amir walked the last few steps and stopped in the doorway of his parents’ bedroom. He leaned against the doorjamb, looking into a room that hadn’t changed in as long as he could remember, not in significant ways, at least. He hovered just over the threshold, as he so often did. He used to reach inside the room for a glass in his mother’s hand and then run downstairs to fill it with water so she could take her hypertension medication before bed. Sometimes, he’d stand on this threshold craning his neck to read over his dad’s shoulder as the older man’s eyes scanned over a sheaf of type-written pages, a ballpoint pen behind his ear, and a pencil between his lips.

But in the five years since his mother’s death, Amir felt as if he was in this room more times than ever before. Helping Alonzo pack up his mother’s clothing when he was ready, going through the medication on Alonzo’s bedside table to make sure the prescriptions were up to date and filled. Or on those few days in the past couple of years when he’d had to sit at his father’s bedside, listening to his raspy, even breaths, grasping for a sense of calm in the reminder that he was here.

His father was still here.

The last five years of reminders that he had one parent left were bittersweet. There would never be enough time, he knew now. There hadn’t been enough time with his mother, and one day, no matter how much longer Alonzo lived, Amir knew that he would confront the premature loss, and he wouldn’t be ready.

There was also the pain of seeing his father, as he was in this moment, in an unnatural state. That’s what Alonzo called it — as if every day without his late wife was some alternate reality he was desperately trying to escape. Hell, knowing Alonzo, maybe it was. He accepted Ada’s death only because he planned to follow her as soon as possible, as soon as nature would allow. And in the meantime, he went about life with the mission to preserve his wife’s memory. He lived each day as a reminder that he had walked through the world with someone else and every day without her hurt.

Amir looked around at the room that had become a shrine. Alonzo still slept on his side of the bed. While they’d donated most of his mom’s clothes to the shelter at their church, Second Temple Baptist, her half of the closet was still full of pieces Alonzo hadn’t been ready to let go of just yet. Her Bible and a family picture from sometime around Amir’s sixth birthday were still arranged neatly on his mother’s bedside table. Her reading glasses used to complete that tableau, but a few years ago, Alonzo had donated them during a drive at his optometrist’s office to provide lenses for homeless people. It had taken him weeks to make the decision to give those glasses up, but he’d rationalized it as he so often did these days.

"Your mama woulda liked that," he’d said with tears in his eyes on the drive to the optometrist. The weight of Alonzo’s grief seemed to slow time, stretching out every day, every hour, so Alonzo could inspect these moments without his wife in excruciating detail.

Everyone worried that Alonzo wasn’t moving past his grief, but Amir knew for a fact that he wasn’t. How could he? Who could move past a loss that great?

Sometimes, Amir walked into his parents’ house, and his mother’s presence was so strong that for a few minutes, he let himself believe that she was just about to push through the front door, her arms full of Safeway bags or humming a hymn the church choir had been practicing or even with her friend Deidre who lived down the street hot on her heels. Used to live down the street, he had to remind himself more than once. Deidre died last year. Sometimes, he walked into a room in this house, and he thought he could almost hear the faint echoes of his mother’s laughter from another room, upstairs, outside, always just at the edge of his vision.

How Alonzo lived with the ghost of her was incomprehensible, but he did, and Amir’s terrified obsession was that living in that grief was leeching all the energy he had left. He worried that whatever time he had left with his father was slipping away faster than it should, spurred on by Alonzo’s desire to be reunited with his wife.

Amir’s eyes moved around the room before settling on his father’s back. Alonzo was sitting at the foot of the bed with his head bent over a box at his feet. To Amir’s eyes, Alonzo Reid looked just a bit smaller, thinner, and stooped each time he saw him. He couldn’t be certain if his perception was reality or just a manifestation of his fear and impending grief.

Probably both. Either way, there was an ache in Amir’s chest that refused to go away.

Alonzo was Amir’s role model. To his child eyes, no one on television or in his books could compare to his father. When Amir was a boy, Alonzo had seemed larger than life, and not just because he was nearly six-foot-five with big hands that felt heavy and reassuring on Amir’s shoulders. Or because Alonzo had the kind of laugh that boomed through the house, and his wife used to fuss at him about waking the kids. He sometimes did, but his apologies were always just as loud. And not because Alonzo could make anything out of wood. Or the fact that he was a great dancer but a terrible singer. And definitely not because Alonzo used to serenade his wife in the softest terrible voice that made her laugh and smile and cringe with nothing but love in her eyes.

It was all of those things and more. Alonzo was Amir’s blueprint. Hero worship wasn’t a strong enough phrase to describe the way Amir felt about his father. And sadness wasn’t a strong enough emotion for what he felt having to watch his hero waste away. Losing his wife dragged Alonzo out of the realm of the fantastic into reality. It made Alonzo mortal. And it made Amir’s world seem more dangerous and darker each day.

Hey, pop, Amir said in a gentle voice, trying to hide the well of emotion swelling in his breast.

Mmmhmm? his father hummed again, the question clear in the light lifting of his voice and the tilt of his head in the direction of his son. But he kept his gaze on the box in front of him.

What do you wanna do with that box of dolls?

That made Alonzo freeze for a second before he turned slowly toward the door, his eyebrows lifted in confusion. Box of dolls?

Yeah, those creepy porcelain ones in those weird dresses.

It took a few seconds for his father’s face to lift from confusion into understanding. When it did, his jackhammer of a laugh made Amir’s heart jump in surprise. It didn’t boom as loud as Amir remembered, but it rumbled through his chest and seemed to harmonize with Reverend Al, deep and crackly just the same. Those are for your sister. Your mama said so.

Does Amaya know that? Amir knew for a fact that Amaya did not know that, and she would object fiercely. She hated those dolls. They used to sit on a shelf above her bed. Amaya said they sometimes kept her up at night. She thought they were cursed.

There was an earthquake the year she turned twelve, nothing major, barely even noticeable. But in a stroke of pre-teen genius, Amaya had taken the opportunity to knock a few of those scary ass dolls from off that shelf. Their mom had been devastated, cradling the fragile dolls with smashed faces carefully in her hands. Their dad had immediately gotten his tool belt and begun dismantling the shelf, grumbling about it being a safety hazard, even though he’d put it up himself and it had been quite secure.

Amaya said that first night of sleep without those creepy dolls was the best of her young life.

Alonzo’s shoulders shook with a gentle chuckle. I suspect she’s been hoping they all broke by now, but they’re hers nonetheless. He locked eyes with Amir, his smile flattening into seriousness. Tell her she can get rid of them when I’m gone but not before. Your mama had me driving all over town to find those damn dolls when she was pregnant with her. Mahogany Misses.

Mahogany what?

Mahogany Misses, his father repeated a little bit louder. That’s what they’re called. Soon as your mother found out we were havin’ a girl, the first thing she said was that she wanted those little porcelain dolls but in brown.

That sounds like mama, Amir chuckled.

His father nodded slowly. His eyes shifted just to the left and grew glassy with tears — an uncomfortably common occurrence these days. Alonzo moved a shaking hand to his face to wipe those tears away, still nodding wistfully.

I’ll tell Maya, Amir said softly. You need any help in here?

Nah, I think I got it, his father said, turning back to the box between his feet.

Amir looked around the room, surprised to see the number of boxes with actual things inside them. This move had been a long time coming, this inevitable moment coming at a snail’s pace. It hadn’t been easy, but Amir had thought it would be harder.

Almost as soon as their mother had passed, Amir and his older sister Amaya had begun to worry about their father living in