Chapter 11 Prime #2
Meech ignored him, still glaring at me. “Tell her I need to talk to her. It’s about—”
“Last warning,” the guard said. “Sit down, or your visit ends now.”
Yusef was shrinking in his seat, looking mortified. I put a hand on his shoulder, trying to reassure him.
Meech finally sat, but his body was coiled with tension. “This ain’t over,” he muttered.
“Your son is waiting,” I reminded him.
Meech turned back to Yusef, attempting what I guess he thought was a fatherly tone. “So, chess, huh? You must be smart.”
“I guess,” Yusef mumbled, still looking uncomfortable.
“That’s good. Real good, I guess. You keep that up.” Meech nodded like he’d just imparted some profound wisdom. “But you also need to learn how to handle yourself. Can’t be walking around getting jumped and shit.”
“I’mma teaching him boxing,” I said.
Meech’s head snapped toward me. “You’re what?”
“Boxing. Self-defense.”
“Nobody asked you to do that.”
“Your son did. And his mother agreed.”
“His mother.” Meech’s jaw worked. “Zahara always did like bringing random niggas around my kid.”
I felt my temperature rise. “Watch yourself.”
“Or what? You gonna do something in here?” Meech smirked, looking around at the guards. “Go ahead. Try it.”
“I don’t need to do anything. You’re already doing a great job of showing your son exactly who you are.”
“Man, fuck you. You don’t know me.”
“I know enough. I know you’ve been locked up for ten years for distribution and robbery.
I know you’re in here, worried about Zahara instead of getting to know your son.
I know you’re calling chess and piano ‘soft shit’ when your kid is gifted.
And where did all that hard shit land you? Right here.”
“Gifted,” Meech scoffed. “He needs to be gifted at throwing hands, not playing no damn piano.”
“Dad,” Yusef said quietly, and something about hearing that word from him—Dad—directed at this clown made my blood boil.
“What, son?” Meech turned to him, his voice softening slightly.
“I like piano. And chess. I’m good at them.”
“I’m sure you are, but—”
“And Mom works really hard. She’s at her job all day and then she bakes at night for her business. She’s trying.”
Meech waved his hand dismissively. “Your mama always been good at hustling. I’ll give her that. But she should’ve brought you to see me before now. I’ve been asking for years.”
“You’ve been asking?” I interjected. “Or demanding through intermediaries?”
“Man, who even are you?” Meech leaned forward. “Seriously. Are you fucking Zahara or something? Is that why you all in your feelings right now?”
Yusef’s eyes went wide.
“Watch your mouth,” I said, my voice dropping to a dangerous level. “There’s a child present. Your child.”
“Answer the question. You hitting that?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“It is if you’re around my son. I don’t need some random nigga playing daddy to my kid.”
“You mean like you’ve been doing for the past decade?” I smiled, but there was no humor in it. “Oh wait. You haven’t been doing that at all.”
Meech stood up again, and this time two guards started moving toward us.
“You got a real smart mouth for a nigga who in here while I’m chained up. See me outside when I get released.” Meech said.
“And you got a real short memory for somebody who asked to see his son and is wasting the whole visit talking about everything except getting to know him. And as soon as you get out, I’ll handle you. Shit is light work.”
The guards reached our table. “Gentleman,” one of them said firmly. “This is your final warning. One more outburst and this visit is terminated.”
“I’m good on this. Just make sure Zahara is there at my parole hearing. I’mma make sure my uncle knows to see to it,” Meech said as he stood up and walked away.
We went through the exit process in silence. Collected our belongings. Walked through the buzzing doors. Yusef didn’t say a word, just kept his eyes down, his shoulders hunched.
When we finally stepped outside into the fresh air, he stopped and took a deep breath.
“You okay?” I asked.
He nodded, but I could see the lie in his face.
“That was…” I searched for words. “That wasn’t how I hoped it would go.”
“He wasn’t what I expected,” Yusef said quietly.
“What did you expect?”
“I don’t know. Someone who… cared, maybe?” He looked up at me, and damn if those eyes didn’t remind me of myself at that age. “He didn’t even ask about my music. Not really. He just wanted to know about my mother.”
“Some people don’t know how to be fathers,” I said. “It’s not your fault.”
“I know.” But he didn’t sound convinced.
We walked to the car in silence. I could see Zahara sitting in the passenger seat, her phone in her hands, her posture tense. She looked up as we approached, her eyes immediately scanning Yusef’s face, looking for damage.
I unlocked the doors and Yusef climbed in the back without a word.
Zahara turned in her seat. “What happened? You okay?”
“I’m fine.” But his voice cracked slightly. “Can we just go home?”
“Of course.” She looked at me, questions in her eyes.
I started the car, pulling out of the parking lot. In the rearview mirror, I could see Yusef staring out the window, his jaw tight, fighting tears he didn’t want to shed.
And I could feel Zahara’s eyes on me, waiting for an explanation.
“Well?” she asked quietly once we were on the highway.
“Later,” I said, glancing meaningfully at the backseat.
She followed my gaze, saw Yusef’s fragile state, and nodded.
But I could see the worry in her face. The fear.
Something happened between her and Meech and I needed to figure out what.