Her face hardened in confusion. “Which grandma? I got three.” She held up three fingers.
I guided her. “Your daddy’s mother?”
Keyonna’s head whipped damn near backward to her grandmother. “Her? Oh! Tabitha.”
“Tabitha what?”
She laughed at my strictness. “Lee, like my daddy.” Her palm opened on her chest, chipped pink nail polish on splayed fingers. “Like me.”
“And who’s number forty-three?”
“What?” her mother asked defensively.
Keyonna’s barrettes clanked when her head fell to the side. Ignoring her mother, I maintained a narrow gaze on the seven year old. That was for seconds, until her pretty cinnamon face opened in a bright beam.
“Oh! Bush.” Keyonna’s head tossed back in laughter as the room reacted with varying sighs.
“Oh, shit,” her mother breathed, clearly not knowing her daughter was in possession of that particular knowledge.
She had no idea.
I raised a single brow. “I think his mommy gave him more names than Bush, princess.”
Giggling again, she recited, “George. George Walker. His daddy name Herbie.”
That made me laugh. “Herbert.”
“Yeah! Herbert. George Herbert.”
“Bush,” I corrected.
“Bush!”
The crowd grew in my mother’s living room. We were minutes away from saying grace to eat. They seemed to enjoy the routine Keyonna and I recited since she was able to speak and retain information. I’d told Brick the girl was exceptionally bright, but I didn’t think he got it. A brain with this level of absorption should be exercised. Unfortunately, her father was married to the streets, and her mother’s goal was to stunt on all of Brick’s babies’ mothers.
“And what number is he?”
Her eyes paced my face as she considered it. Keyonna put up four little fingers, and I waited patiently, expression schooled. “Forty-three—no!” She slapped her forehead. “Forty-one. He old.” She laughed.
“He’s old,” I corrected.
Giggling, she argued, “That’s what I said.”
Charm. She had it. Not only was she smart, she was charming. Her trajectory in life be damned, my little cousin was lighthearted and capable of being anything she wanted to be. She was still innocent and receptive to good. My mother taught a class on “The Dimming of Black Girls” due to trauma. Abuse and lack of resources sucked the life out of so many of our sisters, and according to my mother, it often happened around Keyonna’s age. But Brick’s daughter, who I was sure saw too much in her young years, was still innocent.
Was NormaJean this bright-eyed at this age? I was sure Aivery had been. She still was. What about Tori? That thought gave me pause. She’d seemed too converse with adversity. What dimmed Tori? Had she been born strange or did circumstance—trauma—play a part in shaping her dark personality?
Bizarrely enough, my phone vibrated. It was a BBM from the strange girl herself.
Tori: I’m good. About to pool together some cash to get something to cook now.
Anxiously, I replied right away.
Me: What’s on the menu?
“Aye!” Keyonna shouted playfully. “What’s wrong with you?”
That woke me out of my thoughts. I also remembered they had to go. Keyonna was only spending Thanksgiving morning with us. Her mother, Precious, had to hurry home to care for her grandmother, who was basically bedbound.
I reached for my wallet in my pocket while balancing her on my thigh. “I know you gotta go,” I played annoyed. “So, I’ll let you go with some change if you tell everybody in this room who your favorite uncle is.”
My relatives reacted to that, engaging with her. While I knew I wasn’t Keyonna’s biological uncle, it would be years before she did. That’s how many times I’d been referred to as uncle and godfather since she was born. Brick made it that way; Precious, too.
Keyonna took in all the pressure as she continued giggling and snaking her fingers together anxiously. “That’s easy, Uncle Ashton.” Her tiny index pushed into my chest. “You, silly!”
This time, I broke character and laughed hard as hell. “Okay.” I tried catching my breath. “But I’m sure my momma gave me another name, too!” I feigned offense.
I knew she’d recited my name earlier, but I preferred her giving first and last names when answering. It reinforced memory, in my opinion.
Her expression dropped as she computed. “Your other name not, Lee, though.”
My head swung left and right. “No, it’s not.”
“Why?” Keyonna’s forehead creased.
“Because like you, I have my daddy’s last name.”
“Oh.” Her face was still tight. Keyonna didn’t get that although there were so many Lees in the room and I wasn’t, that I was still her family. Her uncle. “But your other name is Spence.”