The Color of Water: Chapters 1–4

He was seventy-two when he died, trim, strong, easygoing, seemingly infallible, and though he was my stepfather, I always thought of him as Daddy.

He lived in Brooklyn until near the end of his life, staying away from the thronging masses to come home on weekends, bearing food and tricycles and the resolve to fix whatever physical thing we had broken during the week.

“The bus isn’t bad,” one quipped, “except for the snakes.”

Another added, “Sometimes the bus never brings you home.” Guffaws all around.

They were a motley crew of girls and boys, ragged, with wild hairdos and unkempt jackets, hooting and making noise, and only when they were almost upon me did I recognize the faces of my elder siblings and my little sister Kathy who trailed behind them.

I always remembered that, and I think that’s why I’m claustrophobic today, because I didn’t know what death was.

Answering questions about her personal history did not jibe with Mommy’s view of parenting twelve curious, wild, brown-skinned children.

Since she refused to divulge details about herself or her past, and because my stepfather was largely unavailable to deal with questions about himself or Ma, what I learned of Mommy’s past I learned from my siblings.

We traded information on Mommy the way people trade baseball cards at trade shows, offering bits and pieces fraught with gossip, nonsense, wisdom, and sometimes just plain foolishness.

“It’s still light,” I’d suggest, my voice wavering, as my siblings gathered behind her to watch the impending slaughter.

He always made sure his kids never got into trouble, was concerned about money, and trusted the providence of the Holy Father to do the rest.

She actually preferred to be among the poor, the working-class poor of the Red Hook Housing Projects in Brooklyn, the cement mixers, bakers, doughnut makers, grandmothers, and soul-food church partisans who were her lifelong friends.

Then she’d turn to us and deliver the invariable lecture: “You don’t need money. What’s money if your mind is empty! Educate your mind! Is this world crazy or am I the crazy one? It’s probably me.”

His kid was very handsome, well dressed, and quite refined.

He placed his kid’s bags in the back of the bus and when the kid went to step on the bus, instead of hugging the child, the father offered his hand, and father and son did a magnificent, convoluted black-power soul handshake called the “dap,” the kind of handshake that lasts five minutes, fingers looping, thumbs up, thumbs down, index fingers collapsing, wrists snapping, bracelets tingling.