Should Have Known Better

To this, I smiled and lifted the bread basket again. “Anyone need more bread?” I asked.

This sort of conversation was what I wanted to avoid. Reginald’s distaste for what he called “you people” the other day was actually a pure disdain for upper-class blacks who enjoyed being . . . upper-class blacks. A self-proclaimed country boy, who exalted the simple life his war-veteran father had provided for his family, Reginald found this sort pompous and ridiculous. He said they were blinded by their desires to be white and measure up in the eyes of the white American dream.

They all refused the bread and passed the basket around quickly.

When it landed back in front of me, I jumped up just as Reginald was about to say something.

“OK, dinner’s done,” I said. “Let’s clear the table.”

The plates were half empty and no one had touched the bowl of carrots I’d roasted, but I grabbed the bowl of spaghetti from the center of the table.

“We’re done?” R. J. asked.

“Yes, baby,” I said. “Now, clear your plate and go and wash your hands. We’re getting ready for bed.”

I smiled pleasantly and walked swiftly into the kitchen, snagging Reginald’s shoulder to signal for him to follow me.

“Be nice,” I said once we were in the kitchen. “Just be nice to her. Please!”

“I’m trying, but she’s a—”

A curse was interrupted when Cheyenne handed him the bowl of carrots and disappeared back into the dining room.

“She’s just different,” I said. “She has different views than yours. And that’s OK.”

“I’m not a child,” Reginald said. “I know people see things differently, but that woman is just a—”

“Here, Daddy.” R. J. stopped his father this time, handing him the basket of bread.

Reginald took it and handed it to me.

“Look, I just need you to make it through dessert,” I said once R. J. left.

“Dessert? You just said dinner was over!”

“For the kids. I got some tiramisu and dessert wine for us,” I said. “I thought it would be nice.”

“Tira—what? And you don’t even drink. Can’t you two do that without me?”

“That will be odd,” I tried. “Come on. It’ll just be like fifteen minutes. Have one little bit and then you can go to bed.”

Reginald looked at me.

“Please. Just be nice. Only a little while longer.”

“OK,” he said firmly. “But if she starts acting crazy again, I’m going to let her have it. I hate people like that. You know it.”

“I know, babe,” I said, handing him the marbled tiramisu I’d stashed in the back of the refrigerator so the kids couldn’t see it.

As I expected, Reginald was much better after he’d had something sweet to eat. While he scoffed at our sweet dessert wine, his third beer had him at ease and I actually saw him smiling at Sasha.

“So, how are the men in Atlanta?” I asked Sasha as she was in the middle of a speech about how hard it was being a single woman working in entertainment. Her red lipstick had faded a little and her hair was pulled back into a ponytail. “I know they’re all falling madly in love with you.”

“Love? Hardly,” Sasha answered. “The ones who aren’t homosexual are self-sexual—”

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Self-obsessed. You know, the ones who work out seven times a week, get mani-pedis, and only date women who look good in pictures with them?”