Yellow Brick Road
It’s taken me three weeks to make this call but as soon as my father answers the phone, my doubts about what I’m doing disappear.
“Son. To what do I owe this surprise?”
“I’ll come to Palm Sunday.”
“Heh!” he shouts and then switches the call to video. He’s standing in the bathroom with a towel around his waist. His face is half covered with shaving cream. “Do you mean it?”
I laugh at the astounded grin on his face. “Yes. I mean it.”
He claps his hands together and peers at the phone. “That’s my boy. I knew you’d see sense.”
“I’m glad you’re happy because I need something from you first.”
He laughs out loud. “Finally, you’re learning. What do you want?”
I sigh and look toward the bedroom where Sin is getting dressed and singing along to “If I Ruled the World”at the top of her lungs.
My heart skips a beat. I’d do anything to keep her singing, hopeful, happy.
“I’ll come to the party as long as you let go of your grudge against The Sackeys.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because you want me to come to Palm Sunday,” I answer simply.
He scoffs. “Don’t play prosecutor with me, Kwame. You know what I’m asking. Why wouldyouwant me to do that?”
“Because I’m in love with their daughter.”
He sputters. “How?”
“Mom introduced us,” I say, and my smile is irrepressible.
“How?”
“Dad, I know you. I’ve got about three minutes before another call cuts in and interrupts us. I’ll tell you the how when I see you, but I just need you to understand that I love her. She’s a journalist.”
He makes a choking sound. “Why?” he huffs.
I cough to cover my laugh at his reaction. “You can ask her that. She’ll be with me at the party and before that, I want you to grant her an interview. About the house and you. Let her take pictures of the house, tell her your story, and let her write an article about it.”
“Fine. But there will be conditions and she will have to sign several nondisclosures,” he says with a grim face.
I lean in and eye him. I’d come prepared to fight for this. “So…you’ll do it?” I ask stunned at how easy that was.
“Yes. I’m getting a call. Put her people in touch with mine. See you in two months.”
“See you.”
“Oh, and Happy Birthday.”
I blink. “You remembered.”
“Of course. Did you think it was your mother who sent you a card every year?”
“Frankly, yes.”
