Home At Last. Deborah Raney
“I know, but . . . Maybe he thought you did.”
“That don’t make no sense.” She gave an exaggerated frown that made Shayla and Link both laugh.
But you couldn’t pull anything over on this little girl. Shayla herded Portia closer to the fancy-wallpapered wall of the corridor and squatted down in front of her. She felt Link behind her. “Don’t you worry about anything that guy said, baby. He’s just a dumb teenager who doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Come on. Let’s go see our movie!” She forced false cheer into her voice.
The film—even though the theater was full of noisy kids—was an entertaining one, and Portia was glued to the screen, seeming to have forgotten all about the disgusting creature with the Mohawk. But Shayla felt Link’s eyes on her more than once during the movie.
After the feel-good ending, Shayla could almost forget what had happened earlier. At least until Portia said she wanted to go to the bathroom.
“Again?” she said. “The movie was only an hour and a half long.”
“I don’t gotta pee. I wanna wash my hands.”
“You can wash them when we get home.”
“No, they’re dirty. I need to wash them now.”
It struck Shayla then what was going on. She didn’t really want to press it in front of Link, but she didn’t want to let it go for Portia’s sake either. “Why do you need to wash your hands, sweetie?”
Portia held her hands out and inspected them, turning them over to reveal her pale colored palms. “I just do. They’re dirty. ’Cause of the popcorn.”
Shayla looked up at Link and motioned for him to give them a moment. He took a step back and watched people streaming in for the next showing. But she got the distinct impression that he was listening to her and Portia.
She knelt in front of her niece. “We can go wash your hands if you want to, but they are perfectly fine. They aren’t dirty and they never were. Well, except maybe that time you played in the mud with Josie.”
That earned her the giggle she’d been going for.
“Maybe I can wait till we get home,” Portia said.
“Good plan.” She rose and touched Link’s shoulder. “Okay. We’re ready.”
Portia skipped ahead of them, singing a song from the movie.
“Everything okay?” Link’s brow wrinkled with genuine concern. “What did I miss?”
She gave him a short version of the exchange, not sure if he’d heard everything that had transpired before he picked a fight with the yellow-haired kid and his gang. “She wanted to go wash her hands.”
“Oh, man. That loser,” Link said under his breath.
“So what really happened? Earlier. What did you say to him?”
“I just told him he needed to grow up. And to pick on somebody his own size . . . if he could find a Neanderthal anywhere in the county.”
“You didn’t?” She held her breath.
“Well, I might not have said that last part loud enough for him to hear. But he got the picture.”
She rolled her eyes. “Well, I appreciate the thought, but I really wish you would have just let things be. We don’t need any trouble.”
He straightened and lifted his chin, and she could almost see his defenses rise. He opened his mouth but just as quickly closed it as if deciding better of what he’d been going to say. “You hungry?” he said instead.
“Sure.”
Portia was waiting for them by the door. Two clean-cut black teens slammed through the doors nearly knocking her over.
One of them stuck out a hand to keep her from falling, but looking embarrassed, he yelled at Portia. “Hey, move it, kid! Not a good place to stand.”
Shayla hurried to her, looking daggers at the kid.
He ducked his head and rushed away.
But Portia just shook her head matter-of-factly. “It’s okay. He’s just a dumb teenager who doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”
Shayla looked at Link and they both lost it. They laughed all the way to Link’s truck with Portia asking over and over, “What’s so funny?” Which only made them laugh harder.
***
Link sat at a table in the back of the bakery, listening to murmurs and giggles drifting down from upstairs. Shayla was tucking Portia into bed. It sounded like they had a routine a lot like his sisters’ kids—brushing teeth, reading stories, saying prayers. He had to keep reminding himself that Portia wasn’t Shayla’s daughter.
He heard one last round of goodnights, then saw the light at the top of the stairway click off, and Shayla came trotting down the stairs.
“Whew. She’s down.” She slumped into the chair across from him. “You want something to eat?”
He patted his belly. “No way. I’m still stuffed.” They’d gone for burgers at Culver’s after the movie and he’d overdone it with a large chocolate shake.
“Something to drink? Coffee?”
“Maybe some water.”
“Sure.” She scooted the chair back and went to the sink behind the pastry counter.
“Thanks,” he said, when she set glasses of ice water on the table. “Hey, I’m sorry about that jerk at the theater.”
She shook her head. “There’s one born every minute. You learn to ignore them.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t. Maybe you ought to let him have it.”
“Oh, yeah. That would go over real well.”
“Because you’re a girl?” Or because you’re a black girl? The question hung between them, unspoken.
Shayla answered it anyway. “Not just because I’m a girl. Besides, how would that help Portia if I’m always walking around with a big ol’ chip on my shoulder? She doesn’t need to go through her whole life expecting the worst of people.”
“Even when people are at their worst?”
“Those kind of people don’t deserve one moment of my attention or emotion. And for sure not a moment of Portia’s. There’re always going to be people like that in the world. Doesn’t mean we have to let them ruin ours.”
“Well, you’re a bigger man than I am.”
“Excuse me?”
He grinned. “You know what I mean. Anyway, despite that yellow-headed idiot, I had fun tonight.”
She nodded. “Me too. And thank you. For including Portia.”
He shook his head. “She’s a character.”
Shayla giggled. “That’s one way to put it.”
“Do you know . . . how long you’ll have her?” As soon as the words were out, he knew it sounded like he was trying to gauge when Shayla would be rid of the “brat.” He hadn’t meant it like that at all. “You said her parents aren’t in the picture? You mean . . . like ever?”
She took a long drink of water. “I don’t know about ever but not for a long time.” She eyed him, as if she were trying to decide whether she could trust him. “My brother’s in jail. Prison. Eight years before he’ll be eligible for parole. Drugs. He’s not exactly father material. At least not now.”
“I’m sorry. That’s got to be hard.”
She shrugged. “It is what it is.”
“What