The Keysha Diaries, Volume One: Keysha's Drama. Earl Sewell
Katie began asking me questions about my mother and our lifestyle.
“Has your mother ever held a job?” she asked.
“No, not one that I can think of.”
“Have you been in touch with your other grandmother?”
“No,” I answered her.
“What exactly happened to her? I know that she was mixed up in some type of mess with a bank, or at least that’s what I’ve been told.” I didn’t want to talk about my Grandmother Rubylee. I missed her, and it was still difficult for me to talk about it because it made me think about my Aunt Estelle and how she passed away.
“Can we not talk about this right now?” I asked.
“Okay,” said Grandmother Katie. “I understand. We can talk about it later.” I remained silent for a long while as we drove down the highway. My father didn’t say much but I could tell that he had a lot on his mind. I suppose we are alike in that sense. Whenever there is something eating away at us, we prefer to remain silent and think about the situation before talking about it. I know that my thoughts were all over the place. I was fearful, uncertain and confused. I felt like I was being forced on my father, and that made me feel as if I was some germ no one could get rid of.
“We have enough room for you,” said Jordan, who only began speaking after I saw Grandmother Katie nudge him. “You also have a brother. His name is Mike.”
“You’ll be in the upstairs bedroom down the hall from him. He’s a bit apprehensive about your coming to live with us. He’s been the only kid in the house for a long time, and he now has to learn how to share.” I didn’t know what to say so I remained silent.
“I know you’ll find living with me to be a lot different, but I know that it’s for the best.”
Whatever, I thought to myself. In the back of my mind, I was already thinking about running away. To where, I don’t know. I just wanted to be alone and not be bothered.
* * *
We turned into this community where there was nothing but beautiful green grass and large homes. I took in everything. I saw both black and white people out mowing their lawns and planting flowers. A few younger kids were riding their bikes along the sidewalk. We finally turned into a driveway and I focused on the house.
“Here we are,” said Jordan as he drove down a long driveway. My jaw dropped when I saw the home.
“This is where you live?” I wanted to be sure I wasn’t dreaming.
“Yes, and now you’ll be living here,” said Jordan. The house was two stories tall. It was a soft shade of green with red roof shingles. The underground sprinklers were on. I noticed that there was a greenhouse attached to it that appeared to be filled with all types of flowers that were bursting with color. Once we reached the end of the driveway there was a large black iron gate. Jordon touched a remote that was in the car and the gates opened up. We drove in, and he parked the car in front of one of the doors of the five-car garage.
“Okay, we’re here,” Jordan said once again as he glanced into the rearview mirror to look at me.
“Do you like it?” he asked with a slight smile.
“It’s all right,” I said, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of knowing that I was completely impressed.
“It’s just all right?” he asked again.
“Yeah, it’s just all right,” I answered him back.
“Jordan, why don’t you give her a tour. I’ll take her things up to her room and meet you guys up there,” said Grandmother Katie.
“Is it okay with you if we take a walk around the property, Keysha?” asked Jordan.
“I guess it’s not like I have a choice,” I answered sarcastically.
We got out of the car and stepped into the bright sunlight. I heard a chorus of birds singing, and for the first time noticed all of the trees that surrounded the house. I counted a total of eight.
“This is the garage,” Jordan said as he opened one of the bay doors. We stepped inside. The garage was bigger than the apartment I lived in with my mother. Everything inside was organized and in its proper place. Items like bicycles, the lawn mower, leaf blower and hedge trimmer hung from hooks in the ceiling. There was plenty of shelf space and plastic color-coded and labeled containers on each shelf. To my right I noticed a car covered with a black cloth. Jordan noticed me staring at it.
“Do you want to see what kind of car it is?” he asked. Before I could answer he walked over to it and removed the covering. Beneath the cloth was a black sports car with an eagle painted on the hood.
“This is my 1979 Pontiac Trans Am,” he said proudly. “I’ve spent a small fortune rebuilding it to its original condition.”
“Do you ever drive it?” I asked. He looked at me strangely as if the thought of pulling it out of the safety of the garage would take an act of God.
“Rarely. This car is a classic. I drive it each year in the Memorial Day parade but that’s about it.” I looked around the garage a little more closely and saw that there was an additional door.
“What’s in there?” I asked.
“Go ahead and take a look,” he said. “I’ll be along once I finish re-covering the car. I don’t like dust getting on it.” When he said that I quickly realized that his old car meant a great deal to him. I walked over to the other door and opened it up. Inside was a small workshop. It was tidy and well organized. On the shelves were various containers of paint, wood stain, tools and other items used for building and repairing.
“This is my workshop,” Jordan said as he entered the room.
“You build stuff?” I asked.
“I restore things,” he said. “Have you ever heard of the phrase, ‘one man’s trash is another man’s treasure’?”
“No, I’ve never heard of the expression,” I lied to him. I don’t know why I did. I just did.
“It means that what one person tosses away, another person may find value in.”
“Was the old-time car someone’s trash?” I asked.
“Yes, it was. The man who had it sold it to me for only a few hundred dollars. It was just sitting on his property rusting away. I had it towed here and over the course of about seven years I rebuilt it.” I was impressed but I didn’t let him know it.
“So what do you build in here?” I asked.
“I restore furniture that I buy at garage sales.”
“You’re basically like the junk man who rides around in a raggedy pickup truck picking up everyone’s junk on the street,” I said as I found a way to identify with what he did. I could tell that he didn’t like my comparison because he didn’t respond to my comment. I wanted to laugh at him for being so sensitive but I didn’t. “Where do those stairs lead to?” I pointed toward the back of the room.
“Come on, I’ll show you,” he said. I followed him through the work area and up the back staircase. When we got upstairs I was speechless at what I saw.
“This is the apartment above the garage. I had it converted to a workout gym,” Jordan said as he flipped a few light switches so that I could take a better look. There were a number of machines positioned all around the room. There was a flat-screen television mounted on the far wall, and two treadmills were situated in front of the television.
“Do you know who this is?” he asked pointing to a mural on the wall. The wall painting was a life-size portrayal of two boxers. One had knocked the other one down and appeared to be towering above him yelling down at the other man on his back.
“That’s that boxer man,” I said, not remembering his