7 Different Kinds Of Smoke
SEVEN DIFFERENT KINDS OF SMOKE
Kenya Watkins was nervous. It was the seventh time in as many days that she had noticed the same elderly woman staring at her. What was this woman's problem? Was she some kind of freaky, decrepit lesbian? Kenya didn't swing that way. Never did, never would. And even if she did, she wouldn't have been attracted to some senior citizen. Kenya may have at times appeared wise beyond her years, especially considering how much tragedy she had endured in her short life, but the truth was that she was only twenty-nine years old, though some would say it had truly been a long twenty-nine years.
Kenya's mother, Cheryl, had been a crackhead. A fucking crackhead! It pissed her off all over again every time she thought about it, which lately had been pretty often. It bothered her less that she was born a crack baby. What she couldn't get over was the fact that her mother had died during her birth. Her father, Tyrone, had tried to convince her that it was from complications unrelated to her mother's drug use, but he had also admitted that he wasn't even in the hospital at the time that Kenya was born. He was in a fucking drug house over on 79th street, getting high! Getting high while her mother bled out on the operating table. It wasn't until three years later, when he nodded off in a heroin daze and let a smoldering cigarette set the house on fire that he finally saw the error of his ways. The house was a total loss and Kenya suffered second and third degree burns over sixty percent of her body. The doctors hadn't given her much chance of survival, but her father wouldn't listen. He stayed by her side in the hospital 24-7 and refused to leave until the withdrawal effects from lack of drugs caused him so much agony that the doctors forced him to allow them to admit him as a patient. He was on the 6th floor, wading through the fires of hell as he fought to exorcise his substance abuse demons and Kenya was on the 3rd floor battling to survive a different kind of fire. It was nothing short of miraculous that they both survived.
Kenya reached into her pocket and pulled out a bottle of pills. It was the third time she had done so tonight. The small bottle contained exactly twenty-seven sleeping pills, more than enough to get the job done. She looked at her drink and considered whether she should take the pills now or wait until later. Then she felt someone walk up behind her. It was the old woman.
"Excuse me, dear, would you mind if I sit down?"
Oh shit, thought Kenya. Here we go. She shoved the bottle back into her pocket.
"Lady, I don't know what the fuck your problem is but don't think I haven't noticed you following me. Do I know you from somewhere?" she asked, cutting her eyes sideways at the woman.
"Well," said the old woman as she slowly lowered herself into the chair on the other side of the table, "in a manner of speaking, yes. My name is Kenya."
"What did you say?" asked Kenya, starting to get upset. She didn't have the time or the patience for any bullshit. Was this some kind of con game or scam? The woman seemed a little old to be a grifter, but these days you couldn't put anything past anyone.
"I said my name is Kenya," said the old woman. She was totally calm and relaxed and there was love and warmth in her eyes. She didn't at all give off the type of vibe that people up to no good typically tend to exude. Could she possibly be some distant relative? Kenya had never met any of her relatives. Here father had always told her that any of them that were worth meeting were already dead, and that all they had was each other. And so it had been. From that time in the hospital when Kenya was 3, it was like her and her father had been reborn and inextricably tied to each other through the pain and agony of that mutual rebirth. They both ended up spending several months in the hospital, her healing from the external damage the fire had caused and he healing from the internal damage caused by 15 years of the most hardcore type of drug abuse.
"What can I do for you?" asked the younger Kenya, wanting to be finished with the old lady so that she could get back to the business at hand.
"I'm here to save you," said the older woman, smiling warmly and reaching out to touch the younger woman's hand. The young Kenya flinched and jerked her hand back.
"Here to save me? Here to save me from what?" She was starting to get more irritated.
"Here to save you from yourself, child."
Kenya stared at her quizzically for a moment, not sure exactly how to respond to that.
"Lady, what exactly are you after? And how do you know me?" she asked, the frustration clearly apparent in her tone of voice.
"Sweetheart, I don't just know you. I am you. I am Kenya Watkins."
The younger Kenya felt the anger welling up inside her, looking for an outlet.
"I don't have time for this crazy shit," she said. She began to push her chair back in preparation to stand up and leave, but the older woman quickly reached out and grabbed her wrist. She tried to jerk her hand away, but the old woman was stronger than she looked. It felt like her arm was locked in a vice.
"Bitch, have you lost your fucking mind!?" she yelled. Several other people in the bar looked over at them, attracted by the commotion.
"Is that how your daddy taught you to respect your elders? Sit down young lady," said the old lady, gently but firmly.
"My daddy? What do you know about my daddy, old lady?"
"I know that Tyrone Watkins would have slapped you silly if he were alive to see you acting like such a fool."
The mention of her father's name shocked her and she sat down heavily. Who was this old woman? For the first time she took a good look at her. She appeared to be about 80 years old. She was about Kenya's height, but twenty or so pounds heavier. She had short, curly hair that was dark brown, closer to the young Kenya's natural color, as opposed to the light golden color she had been dyeing it for the last few years.
As young Kenya continued to look into the elder's face, she began to appear familiar. There was something about her nose and her lips that reminded Kenya of something, but she wasn't exactly sure what. Then she began to wonder. Did her mother have a sister? Could she possibly have been named after said sister? No matter how many times she asked her father questions about their relations, he never seemed to have any answers. But there had been many pictures of her mother around the house, and sometimes Kenya would spend hours just staring at them and wondering what her mother had been like - or, at least, what she had been like when she wasn't high or chasing a high.
Sometimes Kenya would meet people in the street, when she still lived in the old neighborhood, that would stop her and say something along the lines of, "Hey, aren't you Tyrone and Cheryl's kid? You're the spitting image of your momma!" And when Kenya compared what she saw in the mirror to what she saw in the pictures, she had to agree with them. And she had to admit she saw a lot of the same in the face of the old woman that was sitting across from her.
"Are you related to my mother?" she asked.
"In a manner of speaking. As I already said, I'm you. I'm Kenya Watkins," said the old lady, smiling that warm, grandmotherly smile again.
"God damn it!" yelled Kenya as she slammed her hand down on the table. "What the hell are you talking about!?" Several people again looked over at their table.
"What the fuck are you looking at?" she said to the man at the next table. "Mind your fucking business!" He looked like he wanted to say something, but instead he went back to sipping his drink as if he hadn't noticed her at all.
"Listen child," began the old woman, "I know this is difficult to accept, and I really don't have time to answer too many of your questions. I just came here to tell you one thing: Don't give up. Salvation is just around the corner. There's a brighter day on the horizon."
Just then the waitress appeared at the table.
"Is anything wrong?" she asked, looking from the younger woman to the older woman and back again. The elderly lady didn't speak. She just kept staring into the younger woman's eyes, smiling that loving smile.
"No," said the younger Kenya, finally. "Everything's all right. But I think this lady needs a drink."
"What can I get you ma'am?"
 
; "Tea would be fine, thank you. No cream or sugar, just a bit of lemon." The waitress made note on her pad.
"And you miss? Can I get you another martini?"
"Absolutely," said the younger woman. "Make it a double."
After the waitress left, the young Kenya focused her attention back on the face of the older woman.
"So," she said, as she took a deep breath and tried to regain her composure, "Obviously you know me and you're here to tell me something. I don't have all night. I have things to do. So how about we cut to the chase and get on with whatever it is you're trying to get to."
"Very well," began the old lady. "I am you. I am Kenya Watkins. I was born October 25th, 1971 to Cheryl and Tyrone Watkins."
Kenya was mystified that this woman knew her birth date. Why she was claiming to be 29 years old when she clearly looked closer to 79 was the big question. The lady was obviously crazy, but it was also clear that she knew something about Kenya's family, and that at least made her worth listening to for at least a few minutes.
"That's interesting," she said. "Please continue."
"Well, my mother - your mother - Cheryl Watkins, died minutes after you were born, from internal hemorrhaging. She was a habitual drug abuser. It took 3 years and a life threatening fire to get your father - my father - Tyrone, to finally see the light and get his life together. After that, he proved to be the ideal father, in spite of the many hardships he had to face, being a single parent."
"Ok, all right. So you knew my parents. Enough with the history lesson. Why are you here? What exactly do you want?"
At that moment, the waitress returned with the tea and martini, and the older woman waited until she left before she answered.
"I'm here to save your life, Kenya. Not only do I know all about your life, I know about the pills in your pocket."
"What pills?"
"The sleeping pills."
Kenya froze, the freshly poured martini half way from the table to her lips. How could this old woman know about the pills? Kenya had pulled them out of her pocket a few minutes ago, for just a few seconds. This lady would have needed better than optimum vision to be able to read the label that quickly, even if she had been in the proper position to do so. Kenya's arm started to move again and she took a big swallow of her drink.
"All right," she said as the gin flowed down her throat and warmed up her insides. "I'll play. So you know about the pills. What else do you know?"
"I know everything," said the old woman. "For example, I know about Tyrone and the Seven Different Kinds Of Smoke."
Kenya froze again, once more completely dumbfounded. This lady was something else! How did she know all this? When she was about 15 years old, Kenya's father had taken her to the park one Sunday, something that he had done at least once a month since she was 3. On the way home, like they did every time they went to the park, they stopped at their favorite ice cream parlor for a giant banana split, which they always ordered with two spoons.
"Baby girl," he began as they dug into the ice cream - he always called her 'baby girl' when he had something important to say - "There's something I want to talk to you about. You're old enough now to understand that as a young, black female, there are obstacles you're going to face in this life. I call them the Seven Different Kinds Of Smoke - racial prejudice, gender prejudice, political under-representation, diminished family structure, financial instability, lingering health concerns and poor quality education. Some of these issues are no one's fault - you can't blame anyone for being born black and female. And some of them are my fault. If I had maintained better relations with my family you would have had the benefit of their guidance. If I had been able to earn a better living, we could have afforded to live in a better neighborhood and you could have attended better schools. But there's no use in crying over all that now. The bottom line is that I call these the Seven Different Kinds Of Smoke because they can only hurt you if you allow them to. If you hold your head high and keep your eyes on the horizon, you'll never even notice the smoke as it blows past you. Do you understand what I'm trying to say?"
"Yeah, daddy, I think so," she said. But she really didn't. At least, not at that time. But through the years, as she dealt with heart murmurs, asthma, being overlooked for promotions at work, countless sleepless nights wondering what her grandparents looked like and on and on, she began to get it. And she did like her daddy told her - she held her head high and looked to the horizon. She became a health and fitness nut. She went back to school and eventually got her PHD. She got a high paying job. She met the man of her dreams and had the fairy-tale wedding as her teary-eyed father walked her down the aisle. But then things started to go wrong. And next thing she knew, she's sitting in a bar, with a lethal dose of prescription pills in her pocket, nursing her third martini and listening to the ravings of a mad woman.
“So you did know my father,” she said.
“Yes, child, of course I did. As I said, he was my father, too.”
“All right, old lady,” said Kenya, as she rolled up her left shirtsleeve. “If you’re me, tell me how I got this scar on my elbow.” She thrust the elbow at the old woman, the deep pink scar shining faintly under the bar’s florescent lights.
“You got that scar when you were only 9 years old,” said the old lady. “You were riding your bike on the way home from school when Henry Parker appeared out of nowhere and knocked you into Mrs. Santiago’s sticker bushes.”
She knew about Henry Parker? Well, that should have been no big surprise. Everyone knew about Henry Parker. He was the epitome of the black American success story. Henry had fought his way out of the ghetto and built one of the most successful black-owned entertainment companies in history. And their wedding had been the social event of the decade. Everybody who was anybody was there, and the rest of the population couldn’t wait to read all about it in the style section of every major newspaper from L.A. to London. Of course, the divorce three months ago was almost as widely reported.
“Ok, ummm…” the young Kenya said, trying to figure out a good way to trip the older lady up and prove her a phony. “If you’re so good, tell me what brought me to this bar tonight.”
“Well,” the elderly woman began, “there are many things. Some people would guess that it might have something to do with your husband recently leaving you for his 19-year-old personal assistant, and the prenuptial agreement that in effect rendered you penniless. But we know there’s much more to it than that. There’s the hysterectomy that you had 6 months ago, for example.”
At the mention of the “H” word, Kenya found herself staring off into space, thinking about the time in the doctor’s office 2 years ago when she had been diagnosed with terminal ovarian cancer. All the strength had gone out of her legs, and like the swooning female character in some old southern novel, she had collapsed right there on the spot. It would have been funny if it hadn’t been so serious.
From the beginning, Henry had been completely supportive. He was a fighter by nature, having succeeded against monumental odds that said that a black male like him would never reach the age of 25, let alone become a financial success of iconic proportions. He was also a businessman with a natural affinity for accomplishing what others said was impossible. So he attacked her cancer like he would have attacked a business problem – thoroughly and with unrelenting vigor. He hired a nutritionist, two full-time cooks, an acupuncturist, a personal trainer and a live-in therapeutic masseuse that specialized in cancer patients. Kenya took a leave of absence from teaching at the university and her full-time job became getting healthy. Environmental specialists came out to the house every couple of weeks to test the water, air and soil, making sure that the atmosphere was as pure as possible. Henry even had feng shui consultants redesign the layout of the house to make sure the ‘energy’ was as positive as possible.
The doctors had told Kenya that she only had four months to live and recommended she get her affairs in order. Henry said fuck the doctors. He had made thi
s his personal fight and he wasn’t used to losing. Turns out he was right. Within 9 months Kenya was in complete remission. All the medical personnel called it a miracle. Henry said it was simply the power of a “nigga with too much money, attitude and ego to take ‘no’ for an answer.” He didn’t give a bit of credit for the recovery to the doctors. Or to Kenya. Or even to God. In Henry’s mind this had been his fight and it was his victory.
Kenya hadn’t been in remission for a month before Henry told her it was time for her to get her ovaries removed. He had done the research and knew that the surest way to guarantee that the cancer didn’t return was simply to remove the offending organs. The doctors agreed that the logic made sense, although they felt it was a bit premature for such a drastic action, considering she was only 27 at the time and had yet to have any children. But Henry was adamant. He had beat cancer, and he didn’t want to chance having the victory reversed. No matter how much she cried and pleaded, he held firm. She begged him to let her at least delay it long enough for them to try to have a child, but he wouldn’t budge. Maybe if she had known that he had been fucking his assistant – the 19-year-old – since the day she was diagnosed, she would have found the courage to defy him. Or maybe not. Henry Parker always got what Henry Parker wanted, and God help those that got in his way.
“Is everything all right, dear?”
The voice of the old woman brought her back to the present.
“Yes, I’m sorry. I’m fine. I was just…” she trailed off, then slightly shook her head before returning her full attention to the moment at hand.
“How do you know all this stuff about me? Huh? Are you some kind of crazy stalker? Is that it?” Her brow furrowed as she felt herself becoming angry all over again.
“I told you, dear, I’m –”
“I know, I know, you’re me! Alright “me”. Give me a second. I’m going to think of something that no one else but “me” could possibly know, and see just how fucking smart you really are.” The old lady just smiled and gently nodded her head. Kenya took another sip of her drink and started mining her brain for something to trip the old lady up on, so that she could get on with her night. Naturally, the next thing that popped into her mind was the sexual misconduct lawsuit. But of course, that wouldn’t prove anything. Those headlines had been bigger than both the wedding and the divorce.
Kenya could have suffered through all the tragedies that life saw fit to throw at her, if only they weren’t all so public. The “Case Of The Fondling Professor”, as it had been dubbed by the press, was actually never supposed to have been public at all. One of her second year students, a good-looking boy named Maxwell Voss, had been unhappy with his final grade – and the fact that Kenya had been ignoring his advances all semester. In retaliation he had filed a report with school officials claiming that one afternoon she had asked him to stay after class to talk about “improving his final grade”, then tried to seduce him and started massaging his crotch before he was able to push her off.
She wished that he had been in the room when they showed her the report. She would have beat his ass like a rented mule until he confessed that he’d made it all up. As it was, she just threw the dean’s phone through his office window and his flat screen computer monitor across the room. Security had been called. By the time all was said and done, she was asked to quietly ‘resign’, and the school promised to keep the entire affair out of the public record. So did Maxwell, for the princely sum of $25,000 in damages. In exchange for him signing a non-disclosure agreement, she wrote him a check. The divorce had already been in the works and Henry had already emptied all the joint accounts. That $25,000 check amounted to half of her entire savings, savings that she was now going to have to live off of until she could find a new job. Writing that check to that lying, trifling-ass, good for nothing motherfucker was the most difficult thing she had ever had to do, even more difficult than battling cancer, because she saw it as an admission of guilt for something that she was innocent of. Two weeks later, when she saw the headline while reading the L.A. Times in a local Starbucks, she became so sick she instantly vomited her vanilla cappuccino and blueberry muffin all over her favorite Jimmy Choo shoes. The story was complete with Maxwell’s picture and personal quotes. Her lawyers told her that she could sue him not only for the 25 grand but for everything else he’d ever earn. But she just didn’t have the strength for another battle. She was done. That was it. The final straw. Her back was finally broken.
That was a month ago. Since then, she’d spent night after night locked in the tiny confines of her new studio apartment, ignoring emails, voicemails and letters from well-meaning friends and wondering what she was going to do next. The answer was contained in the 27 little white pills that were currently residing safely in her pocket.
“Ok,” she said, finally remembering something, “If you’re “me”, there’s something that no one but I know, and so you should know it as well. There was a very significant incident that took place exactly six years, to the day, before my wedding to Henry. What was it?”
“Well,” said the old lady, as she paused to take a sip of her tea and then look around the room, “Are you sure you want to talk about that here, where some random ear might catch it and report it to the tabloids?”
“There’s not much more that the press can do to me, so at this point I’m not too worried about it. Now can you answer my question or not?”
“Yes, I can,” said the old woman solemnly. “The incident you’re speaking of is your abortion.”
Kenya almost dropped her glass. Her head started spinning and it wasn’t from the martinis. How in the world could this lady possibly know about the abortion? It had happened a couple of years before she was even engaged to Henry. They had been dating off and on since jr. high school. By the time Henry was 15 he had already begun producing some local music acts and a couple had gone on to hit it big. His reputation as a hot producer was growing like wildfire. He would spend hours laying with Kenya in the dark, talking about the successful company he would one day create. And she would talk about her own dreams of becoming a researcher and college professor.
When she discovered she was pregnant, she didn’t know what to do. She knew that neither she nor Henry were ready to be parents. They both had too much to accomplish in their lives before they brought a baby into this world. Besides, she figured Henry would probably leave her if she told him. And her father! She couldn’t even bring herself to think about how disappointed in her he would be. So she had gotten a friend to hook her up with a fake I.D., with a fake name, which stated that she was 21 instead of 16. It was a little bit of a stretch, but when she did her hair and make-up just right she was able to pull it off. The fact that she was already almost 5’11” probably helped. So she took her new fake driver’s license, drove to the next county and had the abortion. She had never told anyone, not even her best friend. She had also never forgotten what she did, nor had she ever gotten over the feelings of guilt. Now that she was without ovaries and physically incapable of ever bearing children, the regret had become more than she could bear. It only made it worse that there was no one that she was ever able to talk to about it. No one, other than that people at the clinic, ever knew about it. That is, until now.
For a long time neither of the women spoke. The younger woman starred at her hands, the table, the walls, anything except the older woman sitting across from her. The older woman sipped her tea and patiently waited until the younger one was ready to continue the conversation.
“So,” said the younger Kenya, finally breaking the heavy silence, “Let’s say I’m crazy enough to believe you – to believe that you are ‘me’. I would have to assume that means you’re from the future. How did you get here? Do you have a time machine or something?”
“I’m sorry baby,” said the elder lady, “but I really can’t talk about that. It’s far too complicated. What I’m here to tell is that as bad as your life might look right now – with the divorce, the work pr
oblems, the hysterectomy, the money shortage and all the other issues that you have going on – and I know there are many – it’s all temporary. You have a fantastic life ahead of you. You just have to hang on.”
“A fantastic life? How fantastic? Because let me tell you, as shitty as my life has been so far, the future life would have to be ‘extremely fantastic’ to make it all worth the ride.”
“Well, we both know that you’re not a very complicated woman. And neither are your needs, contrary to how some people – including the press – might paint you,” said the old lady as she took another sip of her tea, then dabbed her lips with her napkin. “All you really need to be happy is a satisfying job that allows you to make a decent living, good health and a good, honest man that can give you unconditional love.”
“I can’t really argue with that,” said the younger Kenya, smiling faintly. “But for someone who has lived as much of ‘my’ life as you say you have, you aren’t telling me very much about my future.”
The old lady looked at her watch and then began to rise. “I’m sorry, but I’ve already said as much as I can. It’s time for me to leave.”
“Wait a minute!” said the younger woman. “You can’t just come in here after following me for damn near a week, tell me not to kill myself because life is going to get better and then run off into the night! You’ve got to tell me something more substantial that that! I need details!”
The older woman stopped putting on her coat and sat back down.
“You’re right,” said the older Kenya, exhaling deeply. “It’s not a very fair situation. I’ve already said as much as I’m supposed to, but I’ll break the rules and tell you this: Within two years you will be married to your soul mate and together you will raise a son who will grow into an outstanding young man that will make both of you very proud.”
“That’s it? That’s all you’ve got? You can’t even tell me a name!?”
The old woman looked embarrassed.
“Ok,” said the old woman as she nervously wringed her hands together. She paused for a moment, as if trying to decide if she was really going to do it, then she blurted, “Your son’s name is Robert and your husband’s name is James. That’s really all I can say. Now I have to go.” She began rising again, and in her hurry brushed against the teacup, knocking it over. Tea splashed across the table.
“Oh, I’m so clumsy,” said the older Kenya.
“It’s ok,” said the younger Kenya, grabbing some napkins and laying them over the spill. “No harm done.” She leaned back and looked at the old lady again.
“Listen,” she said, “I don’t really understand exactly what’s happening here but I do get the feeling you’re honestly here to help me. Thank you for whatever it is you’re trying to do.”
“You’re very welcome, child,” said the old lady as she reached across the table, careful to avoid the spilt tea, and gave Kenya’s hand a warm squeeze before rising again. “Now I really must be going.”
“Well, at least let me walk you to your car. It’s too late to be walking these streets by yourself at your age.”
“That’s not necessary. Besides, I don’t have a car.”
“No car? How did you get here? Never mind. I’m giving you a ride to where ever you’re going and I won’t take no for an answer.”
The older woman took another deep breath and then sat down again.
“Thank you sweetheart,” she said, “That’s very kind of you.”
“Just let me take care of the bill and we’ll get going. Excuse me, waitress?” she said, signaling the hostess. “Can I have the check, please?”
“Right away,” said the waitress.
“I’m going to run to the rest room real quick. Can you please watch my purse?” said the younger woman to the older one.
“Of course, dear.”
The younger Kenya went to the ladies room, but when she came out the older woman was no where to be found.
“What the hell?” She ran to the table, grabbed her purse and began frantically looking through it for her wallet.
“Kenya, what the hell were you thinking!” she mumbled to herself as she searched, “Leaving some stranger here with your purse. You’re slippin’ girl!”
She found her wallet and quickly looked through it. All her money and credit cards appeared to still be there.
“Thank God,” she said to herself as the waitress came by and placed the bill on the table. Kenya picked it up and quickly reviewed it. Three martinis. Nine dollars each. Total: Twenty-seven dollars.
“Ah, excuse me,” she said to the waitress as she was walking away. “I think you forgot to include the tea on my tab.” The waitress returned to the table.
“I’m sorry, tea?” she said. Kenya looked at her questioningly. Her empty martini glass was on the table, but the teacup, along with the spilt tea and the wet napkins, was gone.
“Uh, never mind,” she said. She pulled three tens and a five from her wallet, dropped them on the table and walked out of the bar.
As she sat in her car at the stoplight, she wondered whether or not she was truly losing her mind. It was not like her to be so distracted that she started seeing people that weren’t even there.
Suddenly she heard tires screeching behind her and heard the sickening crunch of metal on metal as her body was flung against the steering wheel and her head whipped back against the headrest. She slowly opened the door and got out of the car. Nothing seemed to hurt, but she was cautious and moved carefully. A handsome black man, about 6’2” with a rugged, athletic build and short wavy hair ran up to her.
“Miss, I’m really sorry. I took my eyes off the road for just a second to look at my son and next thing I knew, there you were. It was totally my fault. Are you all right?”
“Yeah, I think so,” she said as she rubbed her neck. She seemed to be unscathed. “What about you? Are you all right?”
“Yes, I’m fine.”
“Did you say you had a son in the car? How is he?”
“I think he’s ok, too”
The man quickly began walking back to his car and Kenya followed him. Sitting in the back seat was a boy of about six. Kenya thought he was probably the cutest kid she had ever seen, even with tears still drying on his face.
“You doing all right, Bobby?”
“Yes daddy,” said the boy. Kenya looked at the man.
“He doesn’t look all right,” she said with concern. “Are you sure he isn’t hurt?”
The man walked a couple of paces from his car and motioned with a tilt of his head for Kenya to join him.
“You see, the thing is, his mother died in a car accident a couple of years ago. Bobby was in the car at the time and it left him pretty traumatized. I’m usually the most careful of drivers, really I am. Tonight we were driving home from the Lakers game and he was sleeping in the back seat and yelled out from a nightmare. That startled me and I looked back so check on him and before I know it I’m slamming into your back end. Again, I’m really sorry. But don’t worry, my insurance will take care of all the damage.”
“It’s ok,” she said. “As they say, accidents happen. Let me get a pen out of my purse and we can exchange info.” They began walking back to her car.
“By the way, my name is Jim,” said the man.
“Nice to meet you Jim. I’m Kenya.” They reached her car and she pulled a pen and notepad out of her purse. He passed her his license and insurance card. It read ‘James Watanabe’. She began jotting the information down. James. Jim. James. Jim. What was it about his name that struck her as so interesting? Suddenly she stopped writing and looked at the man standing before her.
“What did you say your son’s name was?” she asked.
“Bobby,” he said.
“Bobby,” she said slowly, feeling her heart start to beat faster. “Is that by any chance short for ‘Robert’?”
“Actually, yes, it is,” said Jim.
Kenya looked back at the car behind her. The littl
e boy was apprehensively staring at her from the back seat. When he saw her looking at him he shyly smiled and quickly looked away.
Kenya returned her gaze to the man named James and her eyes began to fill with tears.