Daddy Long Stroke

“It calls its mother, that’s what the hell it do,” she says, pretendin’ to be annoyed. “But obviously, you done forgot who gave birth to it.”

I chuckle, blowin’ smoke outta my mouth. “You right, my bad. Didn’t I tell you I was gonna be outta town?”

“Yeah, you told me all that. I’m just tryna figure out why you didn’t return my call.”

“You called? When?”

“I don’t remember which day it was; maybe a week or so ago.”

“Oh. Well, I don’t remember seein’ a call from you. Did you leave a message?”

“No, fool,” she huffs, “I figured you’d see my number and have sense to call back.”

“Is e’erything okay?”

“Everything’s fine,” she says, softenin’ her tone. “The question is, is everything alright with you?”

“Oh, no doubt,” I tell her.

“You sure?”

“Yep. I’m good, Ma, real talk.”

She responds, “I’m cooking tomorrow. Dinner will be ready at six.”

I shake my head and smile. Anytime she calls me and says she’s ‘cookin’,’ she wants to see me. And, more than likely to beat me in the head ’bout sumthin’ she’s heard, seen, or thought I’ve done. She’s never been one to confront me over the phone; it’s always face to face. However, no matter the reason, a muhfucka drops e’erything for Mom dukes, no questions asked—whether I want to hear it or not.

“I’ll be there,” I tell her, puttin’ out my blunt.

“See you then.”

19

“I dreamt of fish last week,” Moms announces at the table as I’m bitin’ into my second piece of her slammin’ cornbread, then scooping up a forkful of her infamous three-cheese baked macaroni and cheese.

I cough, chokin’. Ramona’s words sting my ears. I’m pregnant. Moms studies me as I continue coughin’. I finally stop, takin’ a sip of my pomegranate and blueberry juice. I swallow, hard.

“You okay?” she asks, raisin’ her brow.

“Yeah, I’m good.”

“Hmmm, as soon as I told you I had a dream about fish, you practically choke to death,” she says, givin’ me the eye.

“Ohhhhkaaay, and?”

“Is there something you wanna tell me?”

I frown. “Nah, there’s nuthin’ to tell you.”

“You sure?”

It’s yours. “No doubt.”

“You know everytime I have a dream about fish someone’s pregnant.”

I don’t know what the hell fish has to do wit’ some ho bein’ knocked up? I shift in my seat. “Well, don’t look at me. I’m not the one pregnant.”

She doesn’t crack a smile. “Then who is?”

All of sudden I’ve lost my appetite. I get up from my seat, takin’ my half-eaten plate of food over to the counter. You heard me, nigga…I’m pregnant. I shake the thought. Ain’t no way that bitch pregnant by me. “The hell if I know.” I gulp down the rest of my drink, placin’ the empty glass into the sink.

Moms remains seated, watchin’ me. “Alex, you need to come back over here and have a seat.” I sigh, knowin’ she’s ’bout to beat me in the head. I walk back over to the table and take a seat. She folds her hands. “When I was married to your father, I could always tell when he was lying, or keeping something from me. And the last time I dreamt of fish I confronted him and he looked me dead in my face and”—she catches herself, foldin’ her arms ’cross her chest, realizin’ she’s ’bout to say sumthin’ I’m not supposed to know. She shakes her head, swipin’ hair outta her face— “Is one of them hot-in-the-ass girls you fucking pregnant?”

I shake my head. “Not by me.”

“Mmm-hmm,” she says, raisin’ her brow. “The left side of your jaw twitches like your father’s when you’re lying,” she calmly states.

“I’m not lying.”

“Well, then, you must be keeping shit out ’cause you’re definitely not telling me something.”

“There’s nuthin’ to tell,” I tell her again, feelin’ a headache comin’ on.

She tilts her head, stares at me. “Are you protecting yourself?”

“Ma, on some real shit, I’m many things, but reckless ain’t one of ’em. I keep my pipe wrapped at all times. Well,”—I grin— “unless I’m gettin’ topped.”

She rolls her eyes. “Please, you better be wrappin’ that dick of yours up for that, too. The last thing you need is a baby, or catching some shit you can’t get rid of. Then again…maybe having a child might slow your ass down and make you more responsible. You know, force you to get a job, knowing you’d have someone depending on you.”

I shake my head. “Nah, I’m good. I’ll pass. The only thing havin’ a baby would do is make me miserable, especially knowin’ I’ma be stuck wit’ its mother in my ear for eighteen or more years. No thanks, boo. I’d rather kill myself.”

She sucks her teeth. “‘Boo,’ my ass. You’re a damn mess.”

I get up and kiss her on her forehead, then say, “Well, I’m your mess, beautiful woman.” I decide to tell her ’bout my fucked-up convo wit’ Ramona’s nutty ass. She takes it all in, then wants to know why I didn’t tell her from the rip. And I tell her ’cause I really didn’t wanna get into it wit’ her. She nods, asks me if there’s any truth to what she’s sayin’.