His First Wife

When we got there, it was clear that Sunday dinner looked a little different in the SWATS than it did in Cascade. First, there were children all over the yard and they were frying fish on the front steps in a metal machine I’d never seen in any store. I could smell fish as soon as we got out of the car. And while my empty stomach made me want to stick my hand in the hot grease to pick out a piece, I knew the entire scene would’ve sent my mother into shock.

When we walked inside, Jamison’s mother was sitting in the kitchen, directly in front of the only fan in what I had to assume was an un-air-conditioned house full of people and screaming children. She was a short, round woman with skin that was surprisingly (because of Jamison’s color) browner than mine. In fact, she was so dark that I wondered if Jamison’s father was white.

She looked me up and down slowly, acknowledging what I already knew—I was overdressed.

“Mama, this is Kerry, the girl from Spelman,” Ja

mison said.

“Hello, I’m Dottie,” she said, flashing a fake smile without lifting her hand to shake mine. “You two came from church?” She was secretly trying to make fun of my outfit. I’d later learn that she was very good at these kinds of indirect insults.

“No,” I said. “Excuse my attire; I just thought that it was Sunday dinner and . . .”

“She brought dessert,” Jamison said, cutting me off. I was glad, because God only knows what I was about to say.

“What’s that?” She finally put out her hand.

“It’s flan,” I said. “My favorite.”

She opened the box and frowned.

“Like a cheese cake?” she asked, still frowning.

“No . . .” I said. “Like flan. It’s Latin.”

She looked to Jamison and slid the cake onto the table like it was uncooked fish they’d have to deep fry before anyone touched it. I’d never see that flan again.

“My baby is home,” she suddenly changed her look and smiled at Jamison. “Home to see his mama.” She wrapped her arms around him and kissed him on the cheek, spying me from the corner of her eye. “You know can’t no woman love you like your mama, right?” she asked, still embracing him. “No woman.”

By the time everyone calmed down due to full stomachs and lots of hot sauce, the crowd was thinning out and I was having a good time. Jamison’s family was a lot of fun, much more fun than mine, and his aunts seemed to have advice for everything under the sun. Including some unsolicited bedroom instructions for me.

“So, Ms. Girl, who are you?” I heard someone say from behind. I was sure they weren’t talking to me, but judging from everyone’s eyes, I knew to turn around.

Jamison’s mother was sitting in a chair with her chubby little hands wrapped around a beer.

“Ma’am?” I responded.

“Don’t play with me,” she said.

“Mama!” Jamison pleaded for her to stop.

“Boy, please, ain’t nobody trying to scare her off. I just want to know who she is,” she slurred, “and what she wants with my boy.”

“I really like your son,” I tried. Jamison nodded. I guessed that was good.

“You really like what about him? The money he’s gonna make? I know your kind. I can smell you. Just looking to cash in.”

“I don’t need to cash in on anything,” I said defensively. “I have—”

Jamison cut me off with his stare.

“Well then, what can you offer him?” she asked. “Can you cook? Clean? What can you do besides spend other people’s money?”

The room became even more quiet. Even the babies seemed to stop cooing and crying. The men fixing the car in the driveway poked their heads in the windows.

“Mama, this isn’t the time or place for this,” Jamison said.

“No, let her answer,” someone said. “Dottie is right.”