Читать книгу The Book Keeper - Julia McKenzie Munemo - Страница 21

11

“IF WE NAME him Augustine,” I said one snowy night in early December 2002, nine months after returning from Zimbabwe, “we could call him ‘Gus!’” I hoped this would be what convinced Ngoni. Gus! What a great name. “Sekuru is Julius Augustine, after all.”

“I hate ‘Gus.’”

“Okay,” I said. We sat on the worn red couch my mother gave us in our small New York City apartment. The red couch from the living room on State Street. It was so old by then that it had shrunk—or maybe they made couches lower to the ground in the seventies—and when friends came to visit they’d fall the last few inches, expecting the cushion to meet them earlier. We were huddled there with plates of chicken curry and brown rice and salads on our laps. Well, my plate was on my knees because I didn’t have a lap by then. NY1 told us what happened that day in the city outside our windows, but I wasn’t watching. I was worried about naming our baby after someone still alive and if that would doom Sekuru to an untimely death. I was worried about giving our baby a name that would make the school bully think he was named after his mother. I was worried about what it means to become parents and if we were capable. I was worried about whether our boy would inherit his grandfathers’ mental illnesses. I was worried what it would look like, how we’d know.

“We could name him Julius, but give him a different middle name and call him by that one,” I said after a while.

There was a patient pause before Ngoni spoke, and for a moment I thought I’d convinced him. “Since I was a little boy and Sekuru took me in, I have wanted to name a son after him,” Ngoni said, enunciating every syllable. “It’s the best way I know to honor him for taking care of me when no one else would.”

This wasn’t the first time he’d said this to me, but I finally saw how much more it mattered to Ngoni than Jewish traditions I wasn’t raised with and didn’t understand mattered to me. It was the first time I saw that my worries about potential playground taunts years away were manifestations of my anxiety about becoming a mother. It wasn’t the first time I surrendered to a plan of Ngoni’s before it had become my own, but it was the first time I felt my body shift into it. He’d thought about this more than I had, with a clarity I lacked. He could see the potential positives and the potential negatives and had weighed them. His vision was crisp, and I glanced out the window and watched the snow collecting on the fire escape for a moment before deciding to trust him.

You’re Julius, I said silently in my head to my baby. I’m sorry if kids think you’re named after me.

“Let’s go get a Christmas tree,” Ngoni said as he gathered our plates and headed into the kitchen. I stood up with a grunt and pulled on the thick wool sweater that was the only thing that fit around me by then. Ngoni put on the gray peacoat Sekuru had given him when he moved here and we walked hand in hand to the corner of 113th Street and Broadway to find a tree. We passed the aging white man with greasy gray hair, packing up his table of used books before the snow got too heavy. He glanced from side to side as he did so, expecting someone to run up and grab something from him. I smiled and waved as I always did when I passed. His eyes twitched nervously behind thick glasses, and he almost smiled back. I stopped at his table most nights on my way home from work, looked through his offerings, picked up a title I didn’t have. He seemed to always be taking the temperature of our block, and I thought I recognized something in the way he wrung his hands, in the speed and cadence of his voice. As we passed him that night I realized my dad would be about his age and it occurred to me I might have tethered myself to his book table not because I loved to read but because he connected me to a past I didn’t understand.

The tree salesman, a tall black man with a Jamaican accent, was set up a few feet beyond the book table. He stopped talking to the other customer at his kiosk when he saw my belly. It’d been big enough since August to attract attention.

“Oh, let’s get you a tree quick before the baby comes!” he laughed. When we chose one and paid for it, he asked if we needed help getting it home.

“Nope,” Ngoni and I said at the same moment, and he took the thick end and I took the tip and we walked back home with our tree, a little slower than we had the year before, but with a sweet snow dusting our shoulders and heads.

That night I had a dream I used to have when I was little. There was a pen filled with alligators in the front yard of our house on State Street. Usually in this dream the dark green animals slithered in the stark white of the pool as I stood behind a glass wall with my mother and sister and brother. Dad was always lurking in the shadows, and it was my job to find him and tell him to take this thing away—it’s here because he isn’t. But on this night my pregnancy changed the dream and Dad was nowhere and the beasts wouldn’t stay behind the wall and I was alone with no one to help me and I couldn’t move, couldn’t run.

When I woke up I was sweaty and thirsty and had to pee. I tiptoed out of the room, then stopped by the closet on the way back. Opened the door and found my old bear, Edward Tedward, on the top shelf. Lay him in the middle of the crib we’d spent the weekend putting together, covered him with a baby blanket, and stood there with my hand on his back like he was alive until Ngoni woke up and saw me and told me to come back to bed.

It was a magic trick he performed, my husband. Without words, he reminded me of this life we were building, that it wasn’t my father’s life, that the baby in my belly wasn’t me. I fell asleep curled around that belly, holding onto Ngoni’s arm like a life raft.