your father saying, serious as can be, ‘You see, gentlemen. I told you that she was a fine girl, and that she would wait
for me.’ ”
My mother laughed once more, and once again I saw her as the child she had been. Except this time I saw something
else: In her smiling, slightly puzzled face, I saw what all children must see at some point if they are to grow up-their
parents’ lives revealed to them as separate and apart, reaching out beyond the point of their union or the birth of a child,
lives unfurling back to grandparents, great-grandparents, an infinite number of chance meetings, misunderstandings,
projected hopes, limited circumstances. My mother was that girl with the movie of beautiful black people in her head,
flattered by my father’s attention, confused and alone, trying to break out of the grip of her own parents’ lives. The
innocence she carried that day, waiting for my father, had been tinged with misconceptions, her own needs. But it was a
guileless need, one without self-consciousness, and perhaps that’s how any love begins, impulses and cloudy images
that allow us to break across our solitude, and then, if we’re lucky, are finally transformed into something firmer. What
I heard from my mother that day, speaking about my father, was something that I suspect most Americans will never
hear from the lips of those of another race, and so cannot be expected to believe might exist between black and white:
the love of someone who knows your life in the round, a love that will survive disappointment. She saw my father as
everyone hopes at least one other person might see him; she had tried to help the child who never knew him see him in
the same way. And it was the look on her face that day that I would remember when a few months later I called to tell
her that my father had died and heard her cry out over the distance.
After I spoke to my mother, I phoned my father’s brother in Boston and we had a brief, awkward conversation. I
didn’t go to the funeral, so I wrote my father’s family in Nairobi a letter expressing my condolences. I asked them to
write back, and wondered how they were faring. But I felt no pain, only the vague sense of an opportunity lost, and I
saw no reason to pretend otherwise. My plans to travel to Kenya were placed on indefinite hold.
Another year would pass before I would meet him one night, in a cold cell, in a chamber of my dreams. I dreamed I
was traveling by bus with friends whose names I’ve forgotten, men and women with different journeys to make. We
rolled across deep fields of grass and hills that bucked against an orange sky.
An old white man, heavyset, sat beside me, and I read in a book that he held in his hands that our treatment of the old
tested our souls. He told me he was a union man, off to meet his daughter.
We stopped at an old hotel, a grand hotel with chandeliers. There was a piano in the lobby and a lounge filled with
cushions of soft satin, and I took one of the cushions and placed it on the piano bench, and the old white man sat down,
retarded now, or senile, and when I looked again he was a small black girl, her feet barely reaching the pedals. She
smiled and started to play, and then a waitress came in, a young Hispanic woman, and the waitress frowned at us, but
under the frown was a laugh, and she raised a finger to her lips as if we were sharing a secret.
I dozed for the rest of the trip, and woke up to find everyone gone. The bus came to a halt, and I got off and sat down
on the curb. Inside a building made of rough stone, a lawyer spoke to a judge. The judge suggested that perhaps my
father had spent enough time in his jail, that perhaps it was time to release him. But the lawyer objected vigorously,
citing precedent and various statutes, the need to maintain order. The judge shrugged and got up from the bench.