“What’s this word?” Romina pointed to the word, so her ten-year-old daughter could tell her what it was. Romina was sitting at the kitchen table with all her children. She was sitting at one end of the table and Quantenerra was sitting at the other end of the table. Quantavianna sat on the left side of the table and the twins–Quantarius, a boy, and Quantevisha, a girl–sat side-by-side on the right side of the table. Her children were doing homework and she was filling out a job application. Quantavianna leaned over in her chair to look at the word to which her mother was pointing.

“That word is history, Momma.” Quantavianna had been helping her mother fill out job applications and other forms since she could read and write, which seemed like from the time she was born. Without her mother noticing, Quantavianna looked at Quantenerra and rolled her eyes skyward. Quantenerra mimmicked her sister and they smiled at one another.

“What does this sentence say?” Romina pointed to the sentence where history appeared. Quantavianna leaned over again and looked at the sentence.

“It says ‘Please include your job history for the last 10 years,’ Momma.” Quantavianna tried not to show her irritation. She preferred when Romina didn’t have paperwork to fill out, because she could get her homework done more quickly and go outside and play.

The kitchen was silent while Romina finished filling out the application. Quantavianna was bracing herself for more questions. Quantenerra was working on her math homework and Quantarius and Quantevisha, were practicing writing their names. Romina leaned to her right to look at the twins’ papers.

“You all are doing really good.” All her children had had a hard time learning to write their names. Romina hadn’t considered this when she’d given them all such long names. She just liked the fact the names were unique and started with “Qu.” She’d always liked the sound that “q” and “u” made when you put them together. The twins were four, and she insisted that they start learning to write their names. She wanted to make sure they were able to it flawlessly by the time they started kindergarden. Each day, before she started her homework, it was Quantenerra’s job to neatly print Quantarius’ and Quantevisha’s names on several sheets of paper, so the twins could practice writing and spelling their names.

The twins were both able to recognize every letter of the alphabet, even though Romina had refused to allow them to learn the alphabet song. She hated that song. She’d learned it, and it hadn’t helped her to spell or read well. It was a crutch, she thought. Even as an adult, she had to sometimes sing it to herself to remember a letter, but she never told anyone she did it that. With all her children, Romina had gotten flashcards, mixed them up and made her children learn their letters out of order. She was confident that when they saw a letter they actually knew what it was, as opposed to being about to remember them in the order of a song. Already, her twins were reading very simple books, and that pleased Romina. She’d always struggled with reading, spelling and even math in school, which is why she ended up in the slow classes.

“Quantavianna, look over this for me.” Romina handed her oldest child the job application and got up from the table to start dinner.

“Momma, this isn’t our phone number. You have the last two numbers backwards.” Quantavianna erased the phone number and wrote it over in much neater penmanship than Romina. This was how Quantavianna checked her mother’s forms. She convinced Romina to fill everything out in pencil, and then Quantavianna would erase what her mother wrote and fix all her many mistakes. Most days, Quantavianna just fixed the mistakes without pointing them out to her mother, but when she was feeling especially irritated Quantavianna made mention of some of the mistakes Romina made over and over again on all her paperwork. Quantavianna was feeling a little, extra irritated today.

“OK, just fix it, Quantavianna, and get back to your homework.” Romina tried not to sound annoyed. She hated having to ask her children to help her with reading and correcting her forms, bills and mail. Usually, Emmanuel helped her, but she wasn’t sure when she’d see him this week, and she wanted to try to find a better-paying job without him knowing about it.

“Did you mean to make yourself 52 years old?” Quantavianna tried to make her question sound like an innocent inquiry.

“No, Quantavianna,” Romina turned toward Quantavianna and slammed her open hand onto her hip. Quantavianna bowed her head as Romina stared hard at her.

“Sorry,” Quantavianna said quietly and finished erasing and rewriting the incorrect information on the job application. Quantavianna knew her mother’s information by memory now. She’d helped her with so many of these forms, it was just second-nature to her now.

“No, I’m sorry, sweetie,” Romina exhaled.

‘Momma, can I ask you a question?” Quantavianna walked over to her mother with the corrected application.

“Of course. Ask me anything.” Romina accepted the application from Quantavianna and pulled her into a close one-arm hug as she held the application in her other hand and read the changes.

“Can you really type 50 words a minute?” Quantavianna rested her head on her mother’s stomach.

“Uh, no,” Romina admitted embarrassed to have to confess this in front of all her children.

“Can you type at all, Momma?” Quantavianna knew she was treading on thin ice, but she felt compelled to press the issue. When her mother went out on job interviews that she was obviously not qualified for, she would come home in a bad mood and Quantavianna hated to live through the days of tears and depression.

“You see me type at the computer everyday. Why would you ask me if I can type?” Romina was trying very hard not to allow her temper to rise. She didn’t like the questions, but she tried to keep the channels of communication open, as well. She wanted to be the first person in her children’s lives to know what was going on in their minds. She didn’t want to have to hear it from a teacher or even their father. She wanted to be approachable. Her parents had not been approachable.

“Momma, typing on the computer to surf the web and typing for a job ain’t the same, I don’t think.” Quantavianna put her arms around her mother and kept her head on Romina’s stomach.

“What did I tell you about saying ain’t?” Romina was hoping to get the attention off herself.

“Sorry, Momma.”

“What did I tell you about always saying ‘sorry’?” Romina hated when her children used that word. It was the word her father had used to describe her when she was growing up.

“I apologize, Momma.”

“That’s better,” Romina said and kissed Quantavianna’s forehead.

“Why are you trying to change jobs, anyway, Momma?” Quantenerra finished the last of her math homework and joined the conversation from her seat at the table. The twins were talking quietly amongst themselves in a language no one else could understand. It must have been about their writing, because they kept pointing to each other’s papers.

“I need more money. Y’all are getting bigger and so are the bills. When the twins start school next year, they’re going to need all those school supplies, lunchboxes, more clothes and everything. I need a better job.” Romina still had one arm around Quantavianna, but she put the application down on the counter next to her and wrapped her other arm around her oldest child.

“They want you to type,” Quantenerra asked.

“It’s a receptionist job, so I’ll have to type.”

“Momma,” Quantavianna began, “that application says you have to take a typing test. Are you going to be able to pass it?”

“I’m going to try.”

“How are you going to be able to keep your letters straight? You know you have trouble with mixing up your letters sometimes, Momma.” Quantavianna looked up at Romina. Romina looked down into Quantavianna’s face. Romina was silent for a long time. She gently pulled Quantavianna’s arms from around her and gestured for her daughter to go back to the kitchen table. No one spoke and even the twins stopped their chatter as they realized the tension in the room had grown thick. Romina changed the subject.

“Quantenerra, I’m coming to your school this week to volunteer, OK?” Romina smiled big, thinking this was something to which Quantenerra looked forward. She saw the quick eye-to-eye exchange between Quantavianna and Quantenerra and instinctively knew she was wrong.

“Uh, I thought you were trying to get a new job,” Quantenerra said without looking at Romina. Romina could hear the anxiety in Quantenerra’s voice.

“I am,” Romina started slowing, “but that doesn’t mean I won’t have time to get involved in your school activities. Hey. Look at me.” Quantenerra reluctantly raised her eyes to her mother’s face.

“Yes, Mommy.” Quantenerra forced herself not to look away from Romina. Romina stared at her middle child. She knew why Quantenerra didn’t want her to volunteer in her class. Romina had heard the children snickering behind her back when she couldn’t help them with what seemed to be simple words and simple math problems. Romina was the only mother who volunteered but never read a storybook to the class.

Romina remembered the humiliation of trying to read a book to Quantavianna’s first-grade class a few years ago, and she let all her children’s teachers’ know that she’d be happy to volunteer her time but she would not be reading during storybook hour. It was a small school, and all the teachers were aware of why Romina didn’t want to read. They’d all accepted all the other help Romina offered and never pressed the issue about storybook hour.

The one thing her children’s classmates and teachers did love about her visits were the goodies she brought with her. Romina may not have been able to read or do math well, but she could cook any mother in her children’s school under the table. She didn’t use recipes. She just had a talent for cooking the most delectable dishes. This was the one class in high schol she had excelled in once she convinced the teacher to allow her to create her dishes without having to rely on recipes.

“If I can’t make it this week, you promise not to be dissappointed?” Romina watched Quantenerra surpress a smile.

“Yes, Mommy. I promise.” Quantenerra wondered if the relief showed on her face.

“Well, I’ll let you know. I might be really busy.” Romina turned away from her children and started pulling cans of vegetables from the cupboard. She fought back her tears by taking deep breaths. She didn’t want her oldest girls to know she knew they were embarrassed by her. At that moment, the doorbell rang, and Romina motioned for her children to stay seated and walked past them to the front door.

She looked through the peephole, but she didn’t recognize the lady standing on the other side. She was dark-brown, very pretty and alone. Romina couldn’t understand why she wasn’t sure she should open the door. The woman didn’t look threatening. She looked young.

“Yes, who is at?” Romina spoke into the door with her eye still set closely to the peephole.

“I’m looking for Romina Morgan, please.” The lovely woman on the other side of the door stepped back a bit, realizing that she was probably being watched through the peephole. She smiled into the glass eye, and Romina found herself smiling a bit, too.

“And, you are?” Romina spoke into the door again.

“My name is Xavari. Forgive me for just showing up to your house like this, but when I called your number it was disconnected. We have a mutual friend.”

“Who,” Romina asked puzzled, thinking there wasn’t anyone they could know in common.

“Um. Emmanuel Freemont.” Xavari dropped her gaze as she said the name.

Romina stepped back from the door, unlatched the chain and opened it. She looked at the young lady and smiled.

“Sorry to bother you? Is this is bad time?” Xavari shifted uncomfortably but tried to pretend like it was the most natural thing for her to be knocking on a stranger’s door.

“You said you know Emmanuel,” Romina asked her.

“Yes,” Xavari said. Romina continued to smile warmly at her and Romina’s next words stunned Xavari.

“Is he the father of that baby in your belly?”

———-

This is Installment #9 of “The Pride.” If you missed the beginning, go to “The Pride: From the Beginning” to start at the first installment.

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Copyright© 2009, Faydra D. Fields, All rights reserved.

This entry was posted on Friday, June 19th, 2009 at 22:30 and is filed under The Pride. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.