Page 2 of Beck & Coll
“Twelve.”
“Why?”
“I didn’t have anybody that could run the salon in my absence.” I thought that was obvious, so I probably responded with a little more sass than was necessary.
“You had a floor manager. So, are you saying that you didn’t have anybody who could do it or that you didn’t have anybody you wouldtrustto do it?”
“And you’re surethis is the vacation you want to take?” My mother handled the pages I’d printed like they were contaminated.
“Why’re you holding them like they’re infected or something?” I took them from her hand.
“Was I holding them like that?” She reached up and scratched her scalp through the freshly laid sew-in on her head.
Even at fifty-six years old, Alisha Kingsley was a strikingly beautiful woman. And she had passed the good looks down to my sisters and me.
That was a thing with the Kingsley women. We were all physically pretty. We didn’t have any problems attracting men, and our face cards never declined, but we damn sure hadproblems keeping a man. The truth was that my mother was the fatherless daughter of a fatherless daughter of a fatherless daughter. And for all intents and purposes, my sisters and I were fatherless daughters. We were all Kingsleys—just like our mom, our grandmother, and our great-grandmother.
I often mused at the irony of us being a brood of women named Kingsley, who had no king.
“You were holding them like that,” I assured her. “So, this isn’t the kind of vacation you think I should take?”
“I wouldn’t.” She picked up the sheets of paper, detailing my vacation experiences from where I’d placed them on the table. “I wouldn’t say that. All of this… physical activity doesn’t giveBlack vacation, Coll. It gives… Caucasian adventure.”
I laughed.
“What happened to going to the D.R. and relaxing on the beach? What happened to cute little excursions to visit waterfalls and rock formations? What happened to cocktails poolside? Renting a cabana?”
“Nothing happened to it.” My shoulders hiked in a quick up and down motion as I shrugged. “I just want to do something different.”
“For your first vacation in twelve years? This sounds like work.” She shook the paper that talked about the opportunity for guided mountain hikes at me. “Who considers climbing a mountain relaxing?”
“Your second-born daughter.” I took the paper she was waving from her hand. “Don’t worry about it, Ma. I know you don’t get it.”
She caught my free hand in hers. “I get it, daughter. You’re mine. I get you. I know you’re my head-strong, do-it-yourself, baby. I know you like to prove to yourself that you can… do things. That you can complete tasks and achieve the goals you set for yourself. I just also want you to relax.”
“Being surrounded by nature will be relaxing for me. I’m not a beach person, Ma. Your other daughters are beach bums?—”
“Who are you calling a bum?” my older sister, Perkins, asked as she sashayed into the room.
Perkins was the first born—by default she was bossy and always thought she should know everybody’s business and have a say in how we lived our lives. I was the second born, so I took Perkins’ ways in stride. She and Bailey (the third born), on the other hand, constantly bumped heads. The baby of the bunch, Church, was used to having four mothers, so she let all of us live and give her unsolicited advice and feedback. She let us give it, but she rarely took it.
“Sand gets on my nerves,” I continued, ignoring Perkins’ interruption. “I prefer trees and mountains. I like lush greenery everywhere I look, not miles and miles of boring brown sand. I’m excited about this vacation.”
“You’re such a weirdo.” Perkins picked up the papers from where my mom had laid them on the table. “Fishing? Who the hell goes fishing on vacation?” She rolled her brown eyes. “Ugh, you’re such a damn boy.”
“Ya mama.”
“Hey, hey, now,” our mother protested.
“You see how your favorite daughter does you, Alisha?”
“I don’t have a favorite daughter, Perkins. Any one of you could be my favorite on any given day. As soon as I think I like one of y’all more than the others, you do something to piss me off. And I’m like, ‘nope, I’m not feeling that one today.’ Now what?”
Perkins waved her off with a gesture of her hand. “Whatever, lady. Collins and Church are your favorites.”
“Perkins, please shut up,” I told her. “If anybody is her favorite, it’s you, boo. She does more for you than she does for any of us, including Church.”
“She helps me with my kids,” Perkins insisted.
