Chapter 8
Miriam
“I’d kick Mitchell Slate square in the dick if it wouldn’t land me in jail.”
On a good day, Marcela grits her teeth dealing with Buffalo’s mayor. Meditation. A Bible app. Boxing. Whatever it takes to keep her out of the Erie County Holding Center.
Today, she’s out for blood, contemplating ways to put her years of soccer to use. It’s my first time witnessing her fire up close and not on the other end of the phone.
The mayor should fear for his life. And his penis.
Marcela’s black blouse slides against my retro dining chair. Her legs are planted wide in black vegan leather pants, and her matching stilettos scrape over the speckled linoleum floor. She flexes her fingers next to a glass of water she hasn’t touched since storming into my house from City Hall.
The flattened line in her plump lips matches the slash of her threaded brows.
“Is there anything I can do, minus bodily injury?” Her large brown eyes meet mine from across the tiny white table. The soft pairing with the seafoam green dining chairs is a contrast to the red seeping into my sister’s mocha complexion.
Her “No” comes with a tired smile, accompanied by a long exhale. She rubs the back of her neck below a high bun of Marley twists. The mask eldest daughters wear to prove they can handle the weight of the world slips.
Marcela is the strong one, overprotective and intrusive, but my hero nonetheless. Her stubbornness and inability to ask for help make it hard for me to show up for her in the ways she shows up for me. I’m here for her, but I won’t survive jail.
“I’ll handle him,” she says in a promise to herself.
“I take it your meeting with the mayor didn’t go well?”
She snorts. “The prick pretended he wasn’t in his office, like I didn’t see him peek out of the door when he thought I was gone.” Her lips spread into a grin. “You’ll see me on the news.”
“Please tell me you left Knuck and Buck at home.” It’s rare for Marcela to leave her house without her brass knuckles.
“Am I calling you for bail money? I simply vented my frustrations to news cameras that were covering a rally about Buffalo’s budget deficit. Can you believe one was happening at the same time I had a scheduled meeting with scary-ass Slate? Talk about timing.”
“Right,” I chuckle. “Always with a backup plan.”
“Don’t leave home without one. Anyway,” she laughs, her tone back to its usual playfulness reserved for the people she doesn’t want to kick in the penis. “What’s going on with you and the job search?”
“Don’t start. It will take more than a week to sort out my life.” My clothes are still in boxes. “I don’t know who’s worse, you or our father. Acting like I’m a baby,” I sigh.
“You are the baby.”
“I’m thirty-four with a whole doctorate!”
“Dr. Baby.” The clementine I toss at her head misses its mark. She pulls the bowl from the middle of the table to her chest. “Age-wise, you’re grown and smart as hell.”
“But?” Because there is always a but, and it’s fat and intrusive in my family.
“But,” Marcela says gently, “your life experience could fit on a report card. Let our father help.”
“You tell me all I do is spend time in a classroom, and now you want me to go back inside one?”
“How do you plan to use the doctorate that took five years of your life?”
“I—” Don’t know.
I want to pop the smug smile off of Marcela’s face, but I know better.
I’m not a fighter, and she’ll have me cowering behind a locked door like she did the mayor.
She and my father mean well, but, goodness, would it be nice to have a little time to figure out who I want to be now that I’ve finished school.
Do you know how diverse the field of mechanical engineering is? I could create technologies to address world hunger, the climate crisis, transportation needs, and fix every McDonald’s ice cream machine in the country.
I just parted ways with my lab wigs, and my family expects me to decide if I want to spend the rest of my days in academia, industry, or the public sector.
Hell if I know!
The minute you hit thirty, every piece of who you are and what your purpose is needs to click into place. God forbid you’re in your mid-thirties and still trying to figure it out. Apparently, the world will end if you don’t have it together.
Marcela pats my hand. “No need to talk to yourself, Miri. You’re turning red.” Dang it. “Your savings is a good cushion. Sooner or later, though, you need to find something that will keep the lights on. Our father is a lifeline if it comes to that. Just expect strings.”
He’s a loan shark with a heart. Minus the extortion.
Excellence is in our DNA, a reminder he sends in my annual birthday card. Years of his sacrifice working for the State Department came with long hours, divorce, and an understanding that the next generation of Beckfords will carve out their own pathways to success.
Engineering is honorable so long as I don’t act like Lynn from Girlfriends, earning degree after degree with only student debt, a band, and “the Lynn Spin” to show for it. I can’t carry a tune or twirl on a ding-a-ling to make anyone proud.
“Hey, it’s Friday,” Marcela says to lighten the mood and the pressure to solve the equation of my life. “You’re out of wine, and I need something stronger than filtered water. A few sorors are meeting at The Pine Room. Get dressed. We’ll leave in twenty.”
I glance at my leggings tucked into knitted socks. The Sunnydale sweatshirt hanging off my shoulder doesn’t constitute “going-out attire.” Not that I planned to leave the house.
“I’m staying in.”
Marcela’s brows knit. “Are you not the one who told me you wanted to do stuff outside the house besides grocery shopping? This is stuff.”
“I do, but tonight isn’t good for me.”
“Why not?”
The doorbell rings.
“Because I already have plans,” I say.
The heavy lashes shadowing Marcela’s cheeks fly up. “Plans? Who is making house calls?” She hops up from the table, the determination to sniff out my business set in her smirk.
“Nobody.”
The doorbell rings again.
“That doesn’t sound like nobody,” she teases.
My sock catches on the kitchen threshold. “A friend!” I hop after her with a throbbing baby toe.
“You have no friends here—ouch!” She rubs the arm I punch.
“I’m working on that!” I whisper-yell, now feet from the front door. “There’s a meetup next week for people over thirty who are looking for new friends.”
“You’re going to a group event with strangers willingly?”
“Don’t laugh.” It’s embarrassing enough trying to make friends at this age.
To her credit, she lifts her hands and zips her lips. “Good for you. Want me to come for moral support?”
“I don’t need a chaperone. I’m capable of interacting with people at a function alone.” I might vomit a little in my mouth, but I’ll manage.
She forces a smile to keep from calling my bluff and tilts her head toward the door. “So who’s that?” A glint of humor sparks in her eyes when it clicks—I only have one friend here.
I don’t ask God for much, but I’m silently praying in King James English that Marcela does not embarrass me.
“Antonio.” There’s no point in glancing up to catch the grin that’s ruffling her mouth.
“We’re friends.”
Friends can do lots of things. Have dinner. Watch the news. We’ve been platonic since life knocked us upside the head on that New Year’s Eve we’ve never discussed nor attempted again. Antonio doesn’t think of me like that anyway.
The doorbell rings again, followed by a knock.
I’m an awful host. The man is probably frozen whole on my porch by now.
I shoo Marcela away. “Please don’t act a mess.”
She frowns. “What kind of big sister would I be if I didn’t?”
“Nice and decent,” I shoot over my shoulder. Whatever rebuttal I have for her snappy comeback dies on a squeak. It’s more of a gasp that becomes a cough.
Sweet muscles and thigh meat!
“Hi.” Antonio’s voice is a silky rumble with no signs of hypothermia. It’s gentle, a far cry from his athletic form, which is suffocating the life out of my doorway.
His weatherproof pants shouldn’t tempt any fantasies about the hard muscles beneath the fabric.
How they exert energy when provoked. The planes of his legs are carved from hours in the gym and on the field.
His chest is no exception. Broad lines molded over thick pecs lead to the protective arms I’ve seen cradle a rugby ball and fling other men his size.
I’m eyeing him like a Cyber Monday sale. How do I expect to make more friends if I can’t stop ogling the only one I have?
This isn’t a date. Friends pay house visits all the time. Even friends with penises.
“You okay, Doe?”
“Huh? Yes.” I push up my glasses and blink at the team logo that’s stitched on the black hoodie stretched over his torso. The ox-like animal taunts me over “Buffalo Steel” written in white letters wrapped in black. “Hi.”
“Is this a bad time?” His eyes shift to Marcela. “Hey.” The word lacks its usual vigor.
Is he nervous?
“It’s nice to see you again,” she offers.
“You too, ma—”
“Don’t ‘ma’am’ me. I’m only six years older than Miriam, and I’m no one’s elder or auntie.”
Antonio nods, his gaze sweeping over me. The casual perusal activates butterflies in the pit of my stomach. “N-Nice couch,” he stutters. “You picked a good color.”
“It’s limestone,” I confirm. “Not exactly beige or gray but has a warmer undertone. There’s a bifold memory foam mattress. I heard they’re good for pressure relief and spinal alignment.”
I’m rambling.
“That’s good.” He nods again. “I need to run home for a quick shower, but I wanted to drop these off. I stopped by the store.” He squints with an expression that’s hard to decipher.
Did I say too much about my new sleeper sofa?
Oh, he’s holding a reusable grocery bag. Right, his trip to the store.
You’re staring.
Antonio clears his throat. “Fridays were your no-study nights with sushi, wine, and Buffy, if I remember.” He glances at my sweatshirt.
“Yes—right! I figured we’d order in, but this is very thoughtful.” I bite my lip. “Thank you.”
“No problem.”
The night air crackles with the faint scent of firewood in the distance. It mixes with the lingering threads of Antonio’s cologne. The below-freezing temperature frosting the cars parked in the street is no match for the heat that’s painting our breaths.
Marcela cuts through the silence with a bark of laughter. “Let me go.” She reaches for her coat on the hook next to the door and aims a defiant smile at me. “Enjoy dinner with your friend.”
Don’t start, I mouth. Her stilettos put her a few inches taller than Antonio, blocking his view.
So finish, she mouths back, faking a shiver. “It’s cold out. Be a good host and invite Antonio in. I’ll text you about Sunday’s brunch.”
He shuffles out the way. “Need help to your car?” He motions to the six-inch contraptions attached to her feet.
“And he has manners? I got it. Thanks, though. Bye, you two. Don’t forget to wrap it up!”
I groan at her deep grin, tempted to take her out with my snow boot, which is within reach.
“The food, I mean,” she adds. “In case you want seconds later. Gotta keep it fresh.”
“Get out before I yell that you’re voting to raise taxes. Drive safe.” I stick my tongue out, pull Antonio inside, and slam the door shut. Her chuckle vibrates from the other side.
“I have towels and washcloths here if you want to shower,” I tell him.
Now wait a minute.
His eyes widen below his Buffalo Steel winter hat. The cute kind, with a tiny ball on top. “Nah. I don’t want to put you out.”
“Oh, stop.” I smack the brick that is his chest. “You need to shower, and I have one. We can eat faster this way.”
A brow rises. “Are you sure?”
“Do you not trust my soap?”
“Not if it’s a bar. Those collect pubes. I’m joking!” He lifts his arms with a laugh and thumbs at the front door. “My gear is in my trunk. I always keep a change of clothes with me.”
“Okay,” I say.
“Okay.” He hands me the grocery bag with our dinner and sets off in high-tops to his car.
“This is silly,” I tell myself from the front window. There is no justifiable reason to peek out the blinds. Antonio doesn’t need a lookout or a witness should he bust his tail on a patch of ice.
Simple, box-shaped homes with overhanging eaves and sash windows—like the one I’m pressed against—frame the quiet street, which is painted in quilts of snow.
“A shower isn’t salacious,” I confirm to my half-unpacked, half-boxed-up living room. “It’s hygienic, and it conserves gas by saving him an extra trip.”
I jump when he looks back at the house. Then I make a run for it to the kitchen, where I search for the common sense I must have lost in the junk drawer.
Friends can eat raw fish without it being weird.