Overdue

Abstract

Overdue Gwen Mullins (bio) You were conceived on the floor of the public library. I never told you that, did I? I know children don't like to think of their parents having relations, much less grabbing at each other on shoe-streaked floors, books in thick plastic bindings smelling like dust and promise stacked all around, their momma's yellow cotton panties circling one ankle and their daddy's blue jeans snagged on his work boots while he pumps away. Not exactly a story you tell your kids, is it, Ladybug? But you're twenty-five, older than I was when you came into the world, and I guess the truth can't do you any harm, given where we are. When you wake up, you can tell me if you remember. I expect where you are right now is like a dream, like when you were little and you'd fall asleep while I read you a story. You'd wake up and tell me you dreamed about a goat crossing a bridge, or girl who sold matches, or a boy who colored the world purple, just like if the story and the dream got all mixed up together while you slept. You understand when I say your daddy I mean Jamal, not Gerald, don't you? I know Gerald's your real daddy—he's the one who helped raise you, the one who took on extra work so you could have pretty yellow dresses and go to that cute college where the trees were covered in all that drippy Spanish moss. But sometimes I think about your other daddy, your first daddy, the one who I always knew would disappear as soon as he figured out what it meant to be a man who stayed, a man who stuck it out. Honey, let me tell you what I shoulda known, before Jamal turned my head so far I thought it would spin plumb around, what I tried to explain to you about that boy you thought you loved. There are stick-it-out men and there are turn-your-head men. I never heard of a man who was both, unless he was in one of those Tyler Perry movies, or maybe in one of those Nicholas Sparks's books the white ladies are always crying over. Jamal never was a stick-it-out sort of man, but he sure turned heads. My head—you're proof enough of that. I think your Auntie Patrice's head got turned too, even though she never admitted it. From what I heard, he even caught the attention a' some of those white girls, and not just the thick ones, either. Skinny yellow-haired things, showing him off like he was their dark-skinned trophy. Probably trying to piss off they daddies, but maybe not. I guess I sound jealous. I'm not, don't you worry. Not for a long time now. Your daddy Jamal used to come in after his shift at the microwave plant to check out books on engineering and aviation. He never turned his books back in on time, but he would always smile and linger at my desk until I let him check out another one, then one more, even though I knew his overdue fees kept adding up. He said he needed those books because he wanted to be a pilot, wanted to fly through the clear blue sky above all of the BS on the ground. When I said most pilots I'd heard of learned to fly in the military, he just laughed. Oh, when he laughed you couldn't help but laugh with him. He had one tooth with a tiny chip missing—he looked like a wolf howling at the moon. I'm not the military type, he said. And he wasn't, I could see that. He hated when people told him what to do, even his boss. Or me. I shoulda known better than to let him get away with some [End Page 57] of the things he'd do. I shoulda seen the signs, but then I wouldn't have you, now would I? I...