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Charlie hugged and kissed him goodbye. Their visit was over. Charlie left with a profound void inside her. God was like the air she breathed. She needed him home.
***
Butch had the kitchen smelling like a backdoor restaurant with his fish frying in the pan, his baked beans simmering in the pot, and French fries sizzling in the skillet. The porgies he fried were his specialty, and he seemed to know his way around the kitchen.
He was barefoot in a wife-beater and shorts, and his limber frame danced around the kitchen seasoning his meal. Though he was mean and cranky, some people started to see a slight change in Butch. He still cursed like a sailor and could be meaner than a junkyard dog, but seeing Butch cooking in the kitchen was an anomaly.
Claire’s suicide attempt was somewhat of a wakeup call for him. He had almost lost his daughter, and he wanted to comfort her and be there for her the best he knew ho
w. He decided to help cheer her up by cooking.
Chanel walked into the kitchen after arriving home from school, and she was completely astounded by what she saw. Her father? In the kitchen? Cooking?
Butch looked at her and smiled, “You hungry?”
Chanel was speechless. Did hell freeze over? Did pigs start to fly? And did her father ask if she was hungry?
Befuddled, Chanel stammered, “Um . . . um, I guess.”
“Sit down and I’ll make you a plate,” he said.
Whoa! Where is this coming from? she said to herself.
She sat down at the table and suspected that it was all a dream. Shit, she even pinched herself to see if it was, and it hurt like hell. This was real.
“How was school today?” he asked.
“School was fine, Daddy.”
“And how are these fuckin’ boys treatin’ you?”
“Boys will be boys, right?”
“Well, them boys better be treatin’ my little girl with respect,” said Butch. “You got a fuckin’ boyfriend?”
“No,” she answered.
“Good. You stay in school n’ learn somethin’—get ya education. Don’t be like me, a stupid drunk. Ya hear me, girl? Ya smarter than this.”
Chanel nodded.
“Fuckin’ doctor gon’ tell me I can’t drink no more. Shit, a nigga been drinkin’ all his life. It’s what I do best—drink and have a good time. I never knew how to be right when I’m not drunk. But drunk, I’m in a different place . . . I’m happy. I’m fun,” he proclaimed.
He took a deep breath and went on, “But you don’t need to be like me, ya hear? You smart, Chanel, and you let the world know it. You get ya respect from everyone, even these niggas, and you behave and dress like a lady, cuz no nigga gonna want to marry a whore. Ya hear me?”
Chanel sat there and listened to him ramble. She wondered where all of it was coming from. The speech about respect from men was ironic coming from him, because for so many years he never gave his youngest daughter any respect. He always treated her like a whore and a problem child, constantly laying hands on her like he was fighting an enemy on the streets.
“Ya respect yourself? If ya fuckin don’t, then these muthafuckin’ young niggas won’t,” he continued to ramble on.
He fixed Chanel a plate and served it to her at the table. It was the first time in a long while that someone had cooked and brought her a plate of food at home. Chanel couldn’t help but to beam and relish the moment. She didn’t want it to end.
Butch continued his talk about life and respect and how she needed to be careful in the streets. He also took a plate to Claire in her bedroom, but she refused, claiming she wasn’t hungry.
For two weeks, a sober Butch surprisingly tried to be a father to his girls and fight the urges to drink. He was cooking and talking, or lecturing, and he also was becoming overbearing and overprotective. He would call his daughters’ cell phones to ask when they were coming home, and he would sometimes meet them at the elevator like he was a concerned and doting father.
Charlie didn’t care for his fatherly attitude and somewhat resented him, and Claire felt the same way. They both felt that it was too late for his fatherly love and words of wisdom. All their lives, Butch had been a selfish drunk, and a mean, cranky, and abusive father when sober. For them, it was too late for a change.
Chanel wanted it to be true—to be real and lasting. She liked who he was trying to become—someone different. She hoped and prayed that her father wouldn’t touch a drop of alcohol and that he’d continue to treat her like his little girl. For her, it wasn’t too late to be loved by her father. For her, it was a new beginning with the year coming to an end and a new one about to start. For her, there was no better way to bring in the new year than with her father’s love.
