degree. Violet agreed to let my mother stay with her rent-free on the condition that she also enroll in a pharmacy program. She did so.
By age twenty-five she had her pharmacy degree and was employed at a pharmacy in Brooklyn. Shortly after she began there, one of her customers took a liking to her and asked her out. They hit it off. She moved out of Violet’s apartment and into his. He was a rising Big Name in racial matters in Manhattan.
Her father, alerted by Violet, came to New York to dissuade her from the relationship. She would not, she told him, because she was pregnant by the man and he had promised to marry her.
I was born on December 26, 1987. He gave me my name, Kwanzaa, the African-American celebration that begins on the 26th. My father by then supervised the local office of a congressman from New York City. Two weeks after my birth he was promoted to a staff position in Washington and left my mother with no marriage and no support. He claimed that she had had affairs with other men, one of whom was the actual father. She countered his claim, stating that he was the only man in her life.
Unfortunately there was no such thing as DNA testing in those days. Nevertheless, an understanding administrator ruled that she was eligible for child support. My father protested but, to avoid controversy harmful to his career, he paid up.
I have attempted several times to be in touch with my father. My letters were never answered. On a high school tour to Washington, I went to the congressman’s office where he was employed. The receptionist told me he was not available. When I said I was his son and would wait, she gave me a hard look and repeated that he was not available.
I wish to retain a tie to the man who fathered me. But I will not use the name he gave me.
That is why I go by “Mr. K.”
My mother subsequently never married. She returned to her work in the pharmacy, found day care for me, and insisted from my youngest years that I would follow in her steps.
In high school I took French because she wanted me to learn “better French” than the conversations we had in her Guianese version.
In many ways I was a disappointment to my mother. My grades were okay but not as outstanding as she had hoped. In my college years I was involved in a rap group as lead singer. That pretty much led nowhere, though we still do occasional gigs in the older establishments in DUMBO. (That may be an unknown term to you: Downtown Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass.) My mother pressured me to follow the family path toward a professional pharmacy degree, and she knew the right people to make it happen for me. She also found a job for me as an assistant at the CVS pharmacy where you have your prescriptions.
My mother died of breast cancer two years ago. I took care of her until the end. When she died, one of her brothers insisted that she be buried in the family plot. I accompanied the coffin to her hometown, Cayenne. It was my first visit. I found the people friendly, especially my Uncle Christophe, who received a doctorate from MIT and is involved back home as senior staff at ESA, the European Space Agency. You may have heard of their Ariane launches. ESA is a commercial rival to American launches, though I hear NASA and others are considering the same kind of thing.
My uncle wanted me to stay on, but I am too American to want to live somewhere else.
I continue to wish to be known as Mr. K, and I know you will respect this.
Several months ago, I tired of living in my mother’s apartment. Too many memories. Also, I wished to find a place nearer my work and also near subway connections to my degree program.
During my search, Carlos Morales came in the drug store one day. He was a classmate of mine at Tech. I recognized him and we fell into a conversation. He knew of a one-bedroom vacancy here at The Russell House, and here I am.
On another subject, please know that I very much would like to be involved in the weekend supplemental food program for needy students at the elementary school nearby. I think you said Thursday evenings are when the group meets in your apartment to do this.
Encore, mes remerciements, [Again, my thanks.]
Mr. K
2
As a rule I sleep in on my birthdays and my 85th was no exception. It was a bit of pampering Big Jim always had insisted on.
I had a muffin and a cup of decaf in bed and enjoyed a lovely long soak in the tub with extra bubble bath and aromatic candles. I was just finishing with my makeup when I heard the murmur of a man’s voice through the closed door in the hallway that leads to the kitchen.
The voice rose and fell. I recognized it as Jim Junior’s voice. Odd. He has a key, but he usually called before dropping by.
Throwing on my bathrobe, I walked out of the bedroom and listened intently behind the door to the kitchen. He was speaking to someone, but the only voice I heard was his. It was his Angry Voice. I call him Mr. Boom-Boom when he uses it on me.
Quietly I opened the door.
My son stood by the kitchen table, his back to me, speaking on his cell phone. I realized he was speaking to his sister Sophie. He had pushed aside the dozen or so birthday cards that were propped up on the table to make room for his briefcase. As he spoke, his free hand periodically drummed on the top of the fine leather briefcase that lay on the table. He obviously was irritated.
“Sis, I’m over at her place now. Stopped by after the mayor’s Business Council meeting to wish Mom a Happy Birthday. Looks like she hasn’t washed her dishes for a couple of days. We’ve got to do something. Mom needs help. She can’t live alone.” He paused.
“I know you have involvements!”
An audible sputter from the other side.
“I don’t care who you sleep with; it’s Mom who’s home alone. It’s clear we’ve got to do something. You have your life; I have mine. I can’t spend mine running over to Brooklyn to make sure she’s okay. Winter is coming and Mom’s not safe alone.”
A longer pause. I could hear irritation in Sophie’s voice but I could not make out the words.
“You’re living together now and your partner’s name is Pru? And her daughter also will be living with you! What about the woman who calls you her daughter? You ought to visit more often, Sis. She’s going downhill. Each time I visit her she’s taking more pills. I’m gonna guess her best days are through.”
I entered the conversation. “Je vais très bien, merci beaucoup!”
He turned his angry face my way and waved me silent.
“The French teacher just got up. Look, I’ve got to go.”
More sputtering on the other end.
“Sis, you’re the counselor, the one who has the tact. And you’re the one to do this. All those fancy degrees! Make ‘em useful!”
An explosion of anger on the other end of the phone. He responded in kind.
“No, no. Don’t make it my duty! My duty was Dad! I know it was fifteen
