Three of them. Him. You. Malik.
Malik is eight. Smart.
Has your eyes and Zay’s mouth which means he’s charming in a way that gets him into things.
He gets the charming from you.
This is parenting. What is the recurring theme of this household— is that Malik has figured out that you are the softer landing.
Saturday. Two PM.
He’s in the kitchen when he hears it. The particular sound of something that shouldn’t be happenin.
He puts down what he’s doing. Goes to the living room.
And there is Malik.
a full cup of juice, which is fine, on the carpet, which was discussed, near the new couch, painting something on a piece of paper that is balanced on the armrest.
he looks at the armrest. The small smear of green paint on the fabric.
Malik goes still.
“Hey, Dad.”
“Don’t hey Dad me right now. Stand up boy.”
Malik stands.
“What’d I say about the carpet.”
“To not—”
“What’d I say about painting near the furniture.”
“To not—”
“And what is that,”
Zay says. Looking at the armrest.
“it was an accident—”
“Accident.”
“I was trying to be careful—”
“You got paint on the couch, Malik.”
“It was just a little—”
“Little is still on there. Little doesn’t come off.”
Malik’s mouth is doing the thing. The wobble.
“Where’d you get the paint.”
Malik’s eyes go to the hallway.
Zay follows the look.
“Where you at.”
To the hallway.
“…I’m just—I’m getting something—”
“Come here.”
Another pause. Then you appear.
“What’s up,”
you say. Like you don’t know what’s up.
He looks at you. At the paint.
“You gave him this shit.”
“He asked if he could do an art project—”
“On the fucking carpet.”
“I thought he’d use the table—”
“Did you say use the table.”
A pause.
“…I said be careful.”
Zay looks at you.
“You said be careful.”
“I mean I thought—”
“On the carpet. Next to the brand new fucking couch.”
“He’s done it before without—”
“He’s eight, baby. Be careful is not instructions.”
You look at the armrest.
“It’s not that bad—”
“It’s on the couch.”
“It might come out.”
“It’s on the couch.”
You stop.
“Okay,”
you say.
“Okay.”
He looks at Malik.
“Get to your room.”
“Dad—”
“Go, boy. We’ll talk in a minute.”
Malik goes. Slowly.
You are—edging. The way you’re angled slightly toward the hallway.
“Sit down.”
“I was gonna go check on him—”
“He’s in his room. Sit down.”
You sit down. On the non-painted side of the couch. He sits across from you.
“Third time this month.”
“I know.”
“You gave him chips before dinner last week.”
“He said he was hungry.”
“He’s always hungry. That’s what eight means. That don’t mean chips before dinner.”
“I know.”
“You told him he could stay up Friday and I had already told him he couldn’t.”
“I forgot you’d already—”
“You ain’t forget.”
You look at him.
“Zay—”
“He came to you because I’d already said no and you said yes.”
A pause.
“…he had the face.”
“He always has the face.”
“It’s a really good face.”
“He got it from you.”
You press your lips together. He sees it.
“You think this is funny.”
“I don’t—I don’t think it’s funny. No sir. ”
“But.”
“I just—he really wanted to do the art thing.”
“So he should do it at the fucking table. With goddamn newspaper down.”
“I know.”
“You know,”
Zay says.
“You always know. After.”