The Black Notebook

It is August and the U.S. has now topped 5 million COVID cases and tallied over 160,000 deaths. Mere grocery shopping outings have become ninja-like scenes, with people's faces covered by facemasks, clamoring to get to essential items, such as toilet paper and cleaning products. Extended families have now become desolately more extended and only congregated by a decent Wi-Fi connection. One can only fear that an apocalyptic-like future is nigh.

As for her, it felt like that future was present.

She stood at the doorstep of her now-deceased father’s Suitland, Maryland home. This is not the home in which she matured, but the home in which her father sought refuge after a nasty war with her late mother. A home she never chanced. Nonetheless, here she is, standing on the front porch in a little short sleeve black dress that would expose her back, if not for her waist-length braids. She’s trembling with anxiety at the thought of entering the home of the man who once was her mother’s torturer.

Twenty-six years have passed since the night of his escape from her mother’s prison. That night was almost like any other night. He would come home in the wee hours of the morning reeking of cheap vodka whilst performing the drunken ballet. A clumsy croisé devant from one wall to the next. Then eventually, a disordered plié onto the recliner.

Even in a muddled state, her father was a thing of beauty. God graciously painted him with light mocha brown skin, a divine hand-crafted body, and a perfectly chiseled face. Her mother, a voluptuous dark-skinned queen, stood angrily with folded arms, dressed in a pink satin gown and bonnet; surrounded by a few packed garbage bags. That day, for her, was trash day. The day she finally let him go.

“Girl, you going inside or nah?” pondered her best friend, who had traveled with her from their apartment in West Philadelphia.

“You think it’s safe?” she worriedly asked back.

Her father had already been diagnosed with diabetes years prior, which he did not take seriously, nor did he with this on-going pandemic. Hence why, he is now ashes in a box, that currently rest on the floor of his only child’s 2001 Honda Civic.

Much like others in the world, she too has faced hardship due to the pandemic. As a hairstylist, who had to temporarily halt services, she had no means to make ends meet. She even had to overdraft her bank account just to get gas to go down to Maryland to claim her father's ashes. Her father had no life insurance, so cremation was her best option.

“I don’t know, but I came prepared.” Her friend proclaimed as she reached into her knock-off Louis Vuitton bag to pull out her face mask and a can of Lysol.

While her friend finished her preparation, she unlocked the door and turned the knob. Her immediate thoughts were to hopefully find something in there to pawn, to recover the cremation expenses, and to put her bank account back in the positive.

“If you find anything worth more than $20, pile it up in the living room.” She ordered her friend.

They then charged into the house and immediately started looking for things of value. The house, a two-bedroom and one bathroom bungalow was generally kept neat. So, it wasn’t like they had to rummage through piles of trash. Probably, the most expensive thing in the house was the forty-some odd inch screen TV, he had mounted on the wall. The furniture seemed to be as old as she is, and the carpet looked as if it has seen better days.

She then walks into his room.

“Girl, ain’t nothing in here.” Her friend complained from the kitchen. “No silverware, no china, no gold! Ya daddy was cheap!”

She giggled at her friend as her eyes turned to the nightstand. A small black notebook laid underneath her father’s glasses. Curiously, she picked it up and turned the cover. It appears he had been doing some kind of journaling. Maybe in the last few months before his death.

I have sinned greatly. I have made a mockery of my life and hurt the ones I love.

The first few lines read.

It seems as if this is his confessional. Maybe the egomaniac is looking for some salvation. Who knows?

She read on to learn about specifics of his poverty-stricken childhood. He explained the inner workings of his big family and how much of a curse it was to be a pretty light-skinned boy. It felt like more of an illegitimate tangent on why he was the way he was. A bunch of dumb fucking excuses, if you ask her. However, she kept reading, but then something caught her attention:

It wasn’t until I met her, at a house party in the summer of 83. She had dark ebony skin and curves that resemble a Coca-Cola bottle. Breathtaking, to say the least.

She sat down on the bed to read about how he met her mother. Although she knew of the story from eavesdropping on conversations between her mother and friends, it was astounding to learn in-depth, of her father’s admiration. He proclaimed that it was love at first sight. For him, she was the most beautiful woman on the planet. So, it came as no surprise that they married 6 months later and pregnant the month after.

The book went on about how her mother’s insecurities about her post-pregnancy weight, created an absence of intimacy within their marriage. As with any narcissist, he felt he had no contribution to his wife’s uncertainties. Reading this, caused a series of eye rolls and pursed lips, but then things started to get more interesting:

Then came a night in ‘94 that turned my world inside out. A night that both robbed my family of faithfulness, but also set me free from the bondage of my marriage.

This is the moment she had been so desperately waiting for. An explanation of what lead up to the night of his liberty when she was just 10 years old.

“Girl you mighty quiet in here. What you reading?” her friend barged in.

Even with some apprehension, she continued to read:

Some white boy approached me, who was about 6’2, with short sandy brown hair, crystal blue eyes, and a muscular built body; asking me if I wanted to party. By now, I’ve already glided through two bars and only stopped at a local pizza shop to feed my liquor induced belly.

Her friend then sits next to her and leans over to read with her. Although her friend is breathing down her neck, it doesn’t break her focus:

That night was the first night I had coke and boy was I buzzed. He asked if I ever been to Tracks.

“Yo, what is your father talking about?” Her friend feverishly asked, while snacking on grapes she removed from the fridge. By this time, her friend has also become invested in the story.

He goes on to describe a club called Tracks, which was a predominately gay club in Southeast D.C. The kicks from the EDM music seemed like they shook the room and the lights danced off of the hanging disco balls hitting the half-naked bodies of the patrons. Although she’s aware of how wild her dad can get when under the influence, she pondered on his interest in visiting a club for gay men.

I don't know if it was the coke, the liquor, or the blinding lights in the club, but while we galloped about on the dancefloor, he leaned over to kiss me. I begged my lips to not give in, but they did, and I think I liked it.

“Yooooo, what-the-absolute fuck?!” Her friend gasped, “Your dad was out there living double lives and shit!”

If the room was silent enough, you could probably hear her heart racing like bulls toward a matador. She was flabbergasted to discover a man who had much criticism of the LGBTQ lifestyle, would allow one of them to craft him into, what she considered, acts of sin.

Her body burned with rage and her eyes filled with pools of tears as she continued to read:

The next thing I know, we were in the bathroom stall, pants down, with me giving him parts of myself I use to give to my wife. It was like a trip of ecstasy. I enjoyed him like I'd enjoy a woman. He made me feel wanted, free, and in charge.

She threw the book across the room in fury. How could her dad betray his family?

Was he still living this life?

So many questions crowded her mind.

“Girl read the rest, maybe ALL of it is not as fucked up.” Her friend said while moving the dresser the book slid underneath.

As her friend pushed the dresser out the way, she discovers that one of the floorboards is disturbed. Consequently, her friend lifts them to reveal an old shoebox. “Girl come look at this.” Her friend insisted. “This like those secret compartments you see in movies. Mister had one in The Color Purple, you remember? Shug and Celie found a box like this filled with naked pictures of white girls.” And then, it hit her friend. "Oh damn, what if there are pictures of naked white MEN in this shit? Biiiitch."

She then walks over, picks up the box, and opens it. Much to her disbelief, rolls of cash fill the rim of the shoebox that once housed sized 11 sneakers, and thankfully, there were no pictures of naked white men.

While she knew her father never trusted banks, what she didn’t know is that he had BANK!

“Oh my God, $20,000!” Her friend shouted, after counting for what felt like hours.

After a couple of actual hours of celebration with her father’s stash of money and bottle of vodka from the kitchen, she picked up the book which had landed face down on the last written page and it read:

I tried reaching out to my daughter but had no luck. She must have her Facebook profile under a different name. I just want to tell her how sorry I am and how much I love her. It was for her own good that I stayed away. My shameful night I feel, she would never have understood. Understood how a man, her father, needed his balls back, his masculinity which was stolen from him. And it was a white boy from New York that filled that void within a one-night stand. Never thought I'd indulge in a man and she can trust in the promise that I never relapsed. I could’ve blamed the sissy at my wife's salon that spotted me in the club that night, but undeniably, it was my fault.

I heard she lost her battle with cancer years ago and I know now, I should've come to my daughter's aide, but I was too chicken shit. I guess I'll live with that misery for the rest of my days.

Forgiveness, it appears, will not manifest itself today, but knowing her father lived in regret in his last days, brought her some satisfaction.

“Let’s go.” She said, as she packed the box of money and laid the black notebook back on the nightstand.

The sun has gone down, and it started to rain. So, they grabbed a newspaper from her father’s coffee table to guard their hair, but when they opened the door to prepare to run to the car, they were greeted by a white man. He had brown-tinted gray hair, about 6'2", crystal blue eyes, and nervousness on his face, while he stood on the front porch.

She froze.

It was him... the white boy from the black notebook.