“Too bad they blocked off Columbus.”

  “Yeah, just take Michigan Avenue. I should’ve ridden the El.”

  “Yeah, especially on a day like today.”

  “I just want you to drop me off in front of the Art Institute. I’m meeting my friend in front of the north lion. We’re planning to walk to the park from there. If I’d known it was going to be this bad, I would’ve met her back on Wacker, in front of the Hyatt.”

  “No, like you said before, if you really wanted to avoid all this madness, you should’ve taken the El.”

  “That’s true.”

  “Today is my birthday,” the cabbie announced. “I have to contend with all of this traffic on my birthday.”

  “Happy birthday. I just had a birthday, recently. It was on Father’s Day.”

  “Happy birthday to you, too.”

  “Thanks,” I said and drifted back to my thoughts. Father’s Day was always hard for me. My biological father died from a fall he suffered at the mill where he worked. He was only thirty years old. I was almost four and my brother was six. I don’t remember much about my father except that he used to swing me in his arms and once he let me taste beer. Anyway, by the time they could find a hospital near Crackville, Alabama, that would treat a colored person, it was too late. My father slipped into a coma and never regained consciousness.

  After the funeral, Mama packed our bags. She spat on the red Alabama clay and we boarded a Greyhound bus for Chicago. Back then, she didn’t know how racist the white folks in Chicago were. She just knew that she wanted something better for her children than the back doors and “Colored” signs that the South had to offer. We had to ride Jim Crow until we crossed the Mason-Dixon line. But Mama woke my brother and me up in the middle of the night and told us, “Hallelujah, we’re out of the South!” I’ll never forgot Mama dragging us to the front of the bus in the wee hours of that April morning, like we were soldiers on a march.

  That summer, my mother met my stepfather at the Bud Billiken Parade. The relatives we were staying with told Mama that the parade would cheer everybody up. It was to honor a black newspaperman named Bud Billiken. It was black folks’ parade as much as the St. Patrick’s Day Parade was for the Irish. Our relatives said it would make us feel proud to be Negroes. Black Chicagoans turned out in force. The South Side practically came to a halt. Negroes like us came all the way from the West Side just to see it

  I have vague memories of a tall, maple-syrup-colored man offering to hoist me on his shoulders to get a better view of a marching band. My mother accepted the stranger’s offer. And I minded my mother and thanked the nice man. I had no idea he would become my stepfather.

  I just remember watching wide-eyed from atop his sturdy shoulders as colorfully attired band members shook their booties down the street.

  A jolly looking woman nudged me and asked, “Baby, are you enjoying the parade?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I shouted politely, being fresh from the South.

  “Being colored can be fun when ain’t nobody looking, huh, baby?” The woman chuckled.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I answered, somehow knowing instinctively what she meant. It’s funny what you remember after thirty-six years.

  My mother married my stepfather during the Christmas holidays. I was a flower girl and my brother was the ring bearer. Everybody said how lucky she was to find a hard-working man, willing to take in another man’s kids. They told us to color him father. And at first, it seemed like the coloring book was gonna have a happy ending. But less than a year later, when Mama was pregnant with Alexis, my stepfather was occasionally molesting me and regularly whipping my brother for the smallest of infractions.

  Mama was a “good mother,” but she was especially good at seeing no evil when it was too close to home. In those days, children didn’t have a lot of power. Besides, we were brainwashed to believe that when bad things happened, it was our fault.

  When bone cancer left my mother an invalid, our family hated to put her in a nursing home. We paid to have someone come in and take care of her at home as long as we could. But when her condition deteriorated, we agreed to put her in a skilled facility.

  Even though Mama had lapsed into a coma and her eyes were shut, we still had hope. But looking back, I believe the nursing home staff had already given up on her. That’s why nobody told me to leave that chilly November night, even though visiting hours were over. I was the last one who saw Mama alive. I stayed after the others left, partly because I was a night person and partly because I just wanted to be alone with her. Maybe I just wanted some form of closure.

  Mama had always taken pride in her smooth coffee-with-cream complexion and her shapely figure. But now the flesh hung away from her frame like the drooping skin around a chicken neckbone. I kissed Mama’s slack, ashy jaw and told her I loved her. I insisted that nobody could ever take her place. I touched the gold star she wore around her neck with the inscription, “Turn your scars into stars.” I opened the Bible and read the Twenty-First Psalm to her. Suddenly, I noticed that the lamp-lighted room glowed beyond its wattage power.

  I should’ve sensed that Mama was in the process of dying, but I didn’t. The mysterious light gave me hope. Still, I was weary and wanted to go home and get some rest so that I could come back refreshed. But when I got up to leave, I heard a low, faint gurgling sound. It was as though Mama’s soul was crying out to me, “Don’t go!”

  I begged Mama to gurgle again, or to squeeze my hand, or raise a finger, if she knew I was there. But she never did anything. So, I kissed Mama’s cool forehead and told her lifeless face that I’d be back tomorrow. But our tomorrow never came.

  The next morning I called to check on Mama’s condition. The woman who answered the phone said, “Mrs. Joseph is dead,” without much sympathy in her voice. They didn’t know exactly when she died, just that she was dead by seven o’clock in the morning, when they went to check on her. That’s how I found out, in a cold, impersonal way.

  I will always regret that I left my mother to die alone. I could’ve stayed. I know that they would’ve let me stay all night. I could’ve been there with her at the very end. Nobody should have to die alone, even if they are in a coma.

  “I didn’t even look at my wife until my wedding day.”

  “Huh?” I mumbled. The cabbie suddenly brought me back to the present reality. I glanced at the meter; it was just over eight dollars. I looked out the window. We were crawling down Michigan Avenue, just passing the Tribune building.

  “I said I never saw my wife until my wedding day.”

  “Oh. It was arranged?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It worked out?”

  “Of course.”

  “You’re lucky.”

  “I am not lucky. That’s how it is for everybody in Pakistan.”

  “There’s no divorce rate?”

  “It’s less than five percent. I tell you why. Because people don’t just think of themselves. You couldn’t pay me to marry an American or European woman.”

  “I thought that you were already married.”

  “I am.”

  “Well, you couldn’t pay me to marry a Pakistani man.”

  “What do you know about Pakistani men!” the driver shouted, swerving around a bus.

  I was a little concerned for my safety, but I didn’t back down.

  “I know that the men have a lot more freedom than the women,” I answered firmly.

  “My wife has all the freedom she could possibly want. She doesn’t even have to work. I work two jobs to support my family. What could she possibly have to complain about? She can buy whatever she wants.”

  “What if she gets tired of staying at home? What if she wants a career? What if she needs personal satisfaction?”

  “There’s no reason for her to want that. I told you I work two jobs. I can support my family.”

  “Yeah, but money and control go hand in hand,” I argued. Secretly I wondered if I’d be happier myself in a more traditional role. Maybe it beat being alone. What if the cabbie’s wife felt more fulfilled than I did? So what if I was an independent, successful woman? Didn’t they say that success means nothing unless you have someone to share it with?

  “There’s no battle for control,” the cabbie insisted. “We understand each other. I’m a man and she’s a woman.”

  “Yeah, right. I mean, stop right here.” I’d spotted Jade’s graceful, womanly figure sporting a sarong and a KLUV T-shirt heading toward the Art Institute. “There’s my friend Jade!” I pointed. “Jade, hold up!” I shouted before she crossed the street. She heard me and stopped and waved.

  I paid the tab and added a reasonable tip. A blast of steamy, hot air slapped me in the face as I stepped onto the warm curb.

  “Find yourself a man before it’s too late,” the cabbie called over his shoulder. “You don’t want to end up writing letters to yourself, like that old woman in London.” He sped away.

  I felt like I was in an art film. It seemed so surreal, a philosophical warning from an almost total stranger on a busy street corner. Jade’s almond-shaped eyes gave me a puzzled look. I hunched my shoulders as if I hadn’t a clue what the lunatic was talking about. It was too hot to go into it.

  Later that evening, I was kicking it with Jade on her spacious, screened porch. I still felt stuffed and worn out from being at Taste of Chicago. It was the first time I’d seen Jade and her husband’s new home. Yoshi was playing golf and their teenage sons were somewhere doing their own thing. Although I’d known that Yoshi had recently started his own software company and they’d moved to an expensive North Shore suburb, I wasn’t prepared for a mansion that took up half a block.

  “Girl, you all are really living large! I can’t believe you have wall-to-wall mango carpeting in the master bedroom!” I exclaimed. “Which, by the way, is as big as some folks’ whole apartments. In fact, you could rent your master bathroom out as a studio.”

  Jade shook her head of thick, black, stylishly cut hair. “The carpeting was already in there,” she explained, scrunching her soft, wide features together like she was asking for forgiveness. “I probably wouldn’t’ve picked it.”

  “Your kitchen is da bomb!” I exclaimed. “The whole place is dope, as the kids would say. The skylights, the grounds, the marble bathroom, the gold bidets, everything is tight. How does it feel to ‘have it all’ at thirty-nine?”

  Jade sipped her iced latte and frowned. “This stuff has nothing to do with ‘having it all.’”

  “Now, as the kids would say, that’s wack,” I said, gazing through the screen at the manicured grounds. “Having stuff sure beats struggling. I’ve been there, done that and got the T-shirt,” I said, snapping my fingers.

  “That makes two of us. Don’t forget, I grew up in a fourth floor walk-up in New York’s Chinatown. There were eight of us in a two-bedroom apartment.”

  “Damn.”

  “I don’t want to go back to that,” Jade assured me. “But money in itself doesn’t make you happy.” She hunched her shoulders. “I mean, all of this is nice, but ultimately it’s just scenery.”

  “Well, I’m enjoying the scenery. Come on, Jade, you can admit it. After sleeping in the bathtub, this house has to be a dream come true for you.”

  “It wasn’t that serious.” Jade smiled, borrowing a black expression. “But really, this is Yoshi’s dream come true, not mine. To be honest with you, I was actually nervous about you seeing it.”

  “Why? I can share the fantasy. I’m not bitter. I’m more than a few paychecks away from the streets myself.”

  “I was afraid that you might not like me anymore.”

  “Not like you anymore! Why?”

  “Well, you know …” Jade looked apologetic again. “Because I’m not down with the people, as you would say.”

  “Honey, let me clarify something. I wanna help the po’, not be po’. You’re my new best friend.”

  “Yeah, right.” Jade smiled, giving her face an attractive, mischievious look. “I’m glad you’re so accepting.”

  “Not to change the subject, but, what’s up with you and that sexual harassment case? I meet with the mediator on Thursday. Do I need to have a lawyer present or what?”

  “The point of mediation is to keep the lawyers out of it. Obviously the station is trying to avoid a lawsuit.”

  “And to keep from firing Bill.”

  “Yeah, I noticed that, too,” Jade said.

  “I don’t even know why the mediator wants to talk to me. I told Rob that doing a mediation with Bill is the last thing I want to be bothered with. I just wanted to support you,” I said, giving Jade a caring look.

  “I think the mediator just wants to give you an opportunity to reconsider. In case you want to tie up any loose ends. I’m sure management doesn’t want any remaining residue.”

  “Yeah, right. Speak now or forever hold your lawsuit?” I laughed. “Well, I’ll just reiterate what I said to Rob,” I continued. “As far as I’m concerned, my situation with Bill is history. Unlike with you, he took ‘no’ for an answer. So my meeting with Skylar Thompson should be pretty short.” I yawned and covered my mouth. “By the way, has he actually met with you yet?”

  Jade hesitated. “Yes, but he asked me not to discuss it. You know how it is.” Jade stifled a yawn. “You made me yawn.”

  “You know they’re contagious.” I paused. “Well, can you at least tell me if the brotha’s tall, dark and handsome?” I asked, rocking harder in the porch swing. “And more importantly, if he had a wedding ring on his finger?”

  “I don’t remember seeing a ring, but I wasn’t looking for one. And he was tall. When he stood up, he towered over me. And I’d say he was good looking.”

  “But not too good looking?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.” Jade shrugged. “Besides, I wasn’t really focused on his appearance. I wasn’t there to hit on him.”

  “Yeah, that would’ve really been tacky, under the circumstances. Anyway, I just don’t want a man that looks so good that people wonder how I got ’im.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t want it to look like I’m taking care of him, if you know what I mean.”

  “You’re selling yourself short. Not to mention projecting. I mean, you haven’t even met the guy yet.”

  “Yadda yadda yadda, so how old is he, about?”

  “I’d guess around our ages.”

  How angelic of Jade to group me with her, I thought. A lesser being would’ve pointed out our two-year age difference—Jade was still under forty. “You wonder about men who aren’t married after thirty-five,” I said. “I hope he’s at least divorced.”

  “Don’t you care if he seemed like he was a nice guy or not?”

  “Of course. Well?”

  “You can imagine that I was disappointed that they sent a man, but after I got over that, I liked him all right.”

  “He didn’t seem gay, did he?” I raised my eyebrows. “You didn’t pick up any of those tendencies, did you?”

  “I don’t know. I mean, he didn’t show up in a dress or anything.”

  “You don’t understand.” I pointed my finger. “I’ve been burned before. I told you about Randall.”

  “Oh yeah, I remember.”

  “Maybe men see me as matronly. I could stand to lose twenty pounds. Thirty would even give me a cushion. If I lost forty, I’d be skinny.”

  “You have a great body for belly. In a year, you could perform.”

  “Don’t even go there! I will never roll my belly around onstage in public.”

  “You gotta come to our Annual Student Night in August. It’ll be so inspiring.”

  “I don’t mind being a spectator. I’m even open to taking a class or two. I’d love to tighten up my abs.”

  Jade sat up straight, like she’d received a sudden burst of energy. “You’ll take my class?”

  “Sure.” I nodded. “So long as I don’t have a male audience.”

  Jade jumped out of her seat. “Dee Dee, you’re going to stop dwelling on not having a man!” She shook her fists, excitedly. “And you’re going to walk like an Egyptian!”

  “Maybe so,” I mumbled, trying to muster up some enthusiasm.

  Jade threw her head back and held her arms high. She strutted, shifting her hips from side to side.

  Jade was definitely not a stereotypical, unemotional Asian, I thought. That’s why it’s good to get to know people as individuals. It makes it harder to put folks in a box.

  “Did it ever occur to you that the grass is not always greener on the other side?” Jade asked.

  “Yeah, it has. I got a massage last Mother’s Day to treat myself, and the masseuse told me that I was the happiest person that she’d worked on all day. I confided to her that I’d be happier if my mother were still alive and I were married. She said that was ironic, because all day she’d heard women do nothing but complain about their mediocre lives and especially their mediocre marriages. I was sort of surprised.”

  “Well, I’m not. Married women are the most depressed segment of our society.”

  “Yeah, I heard that on Oprah, too.”

  Jade paced with her arms folded. “Marriage is an institution. And the purpose of institutions is to keep the wheels turning, not to make individuals happy.”

  “Does that mean you’re not exactly walking on air yourself?”

  Jade groaned. “I’m married to a passive aggressive.”

  “I thought you said he was a workaholic.”

  “That, too. Anyway, Yoshi says to me, ‘Honey, don’t worry about making money, just do what you love to do,’” Jade mimicked in a syrupy sweet voice. “‘Besides, with your bachelor’s degree in anthropology, you couldn’t possibly earn enough money to make a noticeable contribution to our income anyway,’” she added with a fake smile. “Makes it kinda hard not to feel useless.”

  I stood up and looked at Jade’s face. It was etched in sadness. I guess you could feel trapped in a marriage, despite the fact that it had yielded material rewards, an heir and a spare.

  “I understand what you’re saying,” I replied. But there was a time when I wouldn’t have understood. I would’ve thought that if a woman like Jade was unhappy, it was her own damn fault. I’d been raised in the black female tradition. And feeling useless was not one of our fears. I didn’t know what they told Chinese girls. But nobody told “colored” girls some knight in shining armor was going to ride in on a white horse and save us.