And there was the letter!
He would be doomed if it was bad. Had he misspelled something in his essay? He should have had his school counselor read it over one last time before submitting it! If it were a rejection, the agony would be all over his face. No way was anyone going to see him that way. Frankie slid the letter, carefully, carefully, into his back pocket. He would open it at home.
All the way up the mountain, the crimson and blue University of Arizona logo burned at his brain. The first thing he wanted to do, if he got to America, was to go to the Hoover Dam, to set his eyes on the 60-story-high, 660-foot-thick wall of concrete. It was an engineering coup, for sure. But what if the letter wasn’t… no! He wasn’t going down that road. Compared with the burden of the unopened letter in his back pocket, his bucket of water was light. The stakes in his game doubled. The water sloshed, but not a drop spilled over. He was starting to feel dizzy, cold, as if he hadn’t eaten in days. Each step racked his nerves, even after he reached his yard. He had to open that damn letter.
Behind the house, he slid aside the sheet of zinc covering the water drum and spilled the full bucket in. He yanked the zinc back into place, careful not to slice himself against the curved rusted edges.
In the kitchen, his father was pouring exactly a quarter tin’s worth of condensed milk into a steel pot simmering with cornmeal porridge. The heat from the stove made the small kitchen sizzle.
“Wait till it cool,” his father warned, taking the dish towel off his shoulder and wiping the counter.
But it was the letter in Frankie’s pocket that felt on fire. Frankie pressed his elbows into the kitchen table, rocking it side to side. Should he look? Should he wait? The letter was so thin. But how much room did a yes or no take up? How much room did his future take up? He edged a fingernail under the seal, but the adhesive was too strong, his finger too shaky. So he carefully pinched the side of the envelope and ripped the edge off sliver by sliver. Gulping, he pulled out a single folded sheet, a creamy textured parchment. He read the first paragraph, then read it again: On behalf of the University of Arizona and the Presidential Regional Collaboration program, I am pleased to inform you that you have been selected by the Department of Engineering to receive an undergraduate scholarship, inclusive of room and board, starting in the fall semester later this year.
Frankie couldn’t read any further, a sort of tunnel vision setting in. He could only decipher that first paragraph. He looked up at his father. “I got the scholarship.”
Samson paused, blinked. He threw the dishcloth back over his shoulder, then went to the side table and picked up a black-and-white framed photo of Frankie’s mother. Staring down at her image, he said, “Me almost forget, today would be your mother’s birthday. Me going to lay flowers down by her grave. Why don’t you stop down there after you’re done with school? Pay your respects.”
“Yeah, okay.” Frankie read that first paragraph a second time. A third. One sheet. That was all his future needed.
“Me tell you you would get it.” Samson set the photo back down and started drying some bowls.
Now Frankie stared after him. That was it? It wasn’t that he resented his father choosing this second to remember his mother’s birthday—the way he had looked at her said everything—it was just, well… he’d just gotten a scholarship—a full ride—to the United States! And Samson barely seemed to register the news. A sensation like billowing smoke seared at Frankie’s nose, down his throat, and filled his stomach with toxic, burning acid. His ma—she would have been hooting and hollering, hugging him and reminding him to be as respectful of his American professors as he had been of his Jamaican teachers. And when she finished hugging him, she’d start hugging him all over again. She’d have gone on for days!
He ran his hand over the short, bristling hair of his new cut. Strange, he thought again, how instead of his ma’s death bringing him and Samson closer, it left them more isolated. Sometimes… sometimes he couldn’t help wondering if Samson would have preferred it if his mother had lived and Frankie had died. The only time his father ever noticed him was when he was doing something Samson didn’t like, even if—thinking about the last beating—it wasn’t his fault. His grades were already top of the class. He’d never skipped a day of high school, not once! Maybe he should have just become a bushman—seemed like that was when his father was happiest. Frankie swallowed hard and looked back at the letter.
This was no letter.
It was a portal, the transport to his future.
Six
frankie strode down Troy’s main street after school like an emperor with a new groove, a legit one. His teachers, his classmates, they were all full of props at the scholarship news. Mrs. Gordon went ballistic, in the best way. Dragged him by the hand to tell the principal, even! Today hope wasn’t a one-word prayer to a God who laughed at well-thought-out plans. Frankie nodded happily at everyone he passed.
He fished out his bandless rotary watch from his pocket. Under the scarred glass, the dial read four thirty. He was a little late, but his father would be right on time; he always was. Frankie picked up his pace. Past the rum bar, he took the snaking dirt path toward the cemetery. He wondered if he should find some flowers, then figured he would see some once he got closer.
Though he’d done so eighty-seven times already, at least, Frankie had to read the letter again to prove to himself it was real. This time, he focused on the last paragraph: I am delighted that the University of Arizona Board of Engineers has recommended you for a full scholarship. If this offer is acceptable to you, please let me know in writing two weeks from the date of this letter.
Acceptable? Were they kidding? How could the offer not be acceptable? Who would turn down a winning lottery ticket? Frankie looked around, and satisfied no one was there, he broke into his own little happy dance. Immediately, a thought nagged, warning him not to feel too good, trust fortune, but he ignored it and full-on danced, hands in the air, twisting and spinning, laughing.
At last he folded the letter, eased it back into the envelope. He might read it out loud when he reached his mother’s grave. She’d like that. He wished he could tell her the news in person. He broke into a trot.
A hundred meters ahead, Frankie spied his father in the small cemetery. He was kneeling, head bowed, staring at the poured concrete that was his wife’s grave, hands clasped. Frankie froze. A pang gripped his throat.
The tip of Samson’s machete pierced the earth, the machete tilting sideways as if it hadn’t the strength to stay upright, like his father right at that moment. What might happen if Frankie went up to him, put his arm around his father’s shoulder, tried to share the grief they had never talked about?
Samson was all he had, Frankie told himself, so why not go to him now? He felt like he was teetering on the edge of a cliff. And then Samson groaned. Frankie shrank back, wishing he could become invisible, let his father’s moment be his alone. For Samson, pain was private, not to be shared, not even with his son. At his mother’s funeral, Samson had demanded that Frankie not cry. So now he backed away, each step soft and silent. His father was wrapped tight, sealed like a package. Maybe Frankie might open that package one day. But not today.
“Frankie.” His father’s voice sounded like a beacon, an announcement, like dinner was ready.