1967 Mustang Love
My maternal grandparents, Xavier and Rose Thurman, lived on a beautiful, tree-lined street four blocks from where Manny and I were currently living. It didn’t take much convincing for Manny to abandon his Lego set to take a walk to visit our grandparents. Their only great-grandchild, Xavier and Rose adored the ground Manny walked on. Manny adored them too. Mostly because there was always a sweet treat waiting for him. On any given day it could be homemade ice cream, sticky buns, cupcakes, or cookies. We never left without Grandma Rose packing up a shopping bag loaded with goodies before we headed home.
Hand in hand, we strolled down the street taking in the sights. A lazy cat sunbathing on a porch. Bushy-tailed squirrels scurrying up and down trees. Bumblebees did their pollinating thing as they buzzed from flower to flower. I slowed down, wishing I had my Nikon Z8 to snap a few pictures. After Manny was fast asleep, I could’ve unwound by breaking out my watercolor paper pad to create a replica of nature. I had just gotten around to reading Preston’s email from several days ago via my website because I didn’t want to be bothered. His demanding my whereabouts had left my nerves on edge. Every other year he took a hiatus from his jet-setting life as an artist to “check in on” his son. Out of the seven years Manny has been alive, Preston had seen him four times. Chantel swore Preston popping in and out of our lives was to control me. If she only knew.
I pushed thoughts of Preston out of my brain to languish in my surroundings. It seemed everyone had a thing for rose or honeysuckle bushes. One of the things I loved about Colemanville was the clean, fragrant air from the flowering bushes. I inhaled deeply to drag the scent into my lungs, cleansing my insides.
“How was school today, Manny?”
Lifting his head to gaze at me, Manny squinted against the late afternoon sun. “I guess okay.” He hunched his shoulders, looking away from me.
“Why just okay?”
“Stupid Amanda was taking too long to show her stupid doll at show and tell. And there wasn’t enough time for me to show my picture of us on the camel.”
The picture he was referring to was from when I was hired to do a seven-day photoshoot in Giza, Egypt. Before leaving for the freelance job, Chantel and I planned to stay a few extra days after I was done working to explore. Manny inherited my adventurous spirit. The folks in our tour group were astounded that at five he wasn’t afraid of the camels. Probably because my baby kept calling the camels “big ponies.” The previous summer, Granddad X had taken him over to Sims Stables to ride the ponies. Meeting Noah, and a promise to take them to the stables once school was out for summer break, seemed to be the turning point for Manny accepting our new home.
I turned my head so I could silently laugh before I addressed my child calling his classmate stupid. I imagined him scrunching up his forehead in aggravation with little Amanda at school today. Doing my best to put on a stern face, I tugged Manny’s hand so he would look back up at me. “Manny, you know it’s not nice to call people names…right?”
He dropped his head. “Yes, Mommy.”
“Will there be a show and tell next Friday at school?”
Manny nodded, swinging his free arm. “Yes. My teacher said I can go first.”
When I ruffled his curls with my fingers, he smiled at me. “See, problem solved, Mr. Manny.”
My baby’s cherub grin was precious. “Yep.”
As we came to a stop at the corner, a shiny, red classic convertible Mustang pulled up to the red light. Whoever the owner was, I could tell they took pride in the vehicle by the way it was highly polished from the car’s frame to the jet-black tires. The classic car reminded me of Mr. Harvey’s 1967 Mustang. One summer during our crazy teen years, me, Jillian, and Kristen “borrowed” Mr. Harvey’s Mustang to go joyriding while he and his wife were away on a cruise to the Caribbean. Kristen worked that summer at Mr. Harvey’s auto shop as a receptionist. She had access to the building and knew where he kept an extra set of keys to the vehicle.
We would not have gotten caught if Jillian hadn’t decided to blast Will Smith rapping about Summertime as we cruised down Fig Avenue thinking we were cute. No amount of crying and pleading dissuaded the sheriff from piling us up in the backseat of his cruiser and hauling us off to the jailhouse. It was Nana Flo, Jillian’s grandmother, who told our parents to leave us in jail overnight. We were better off staying in jail. Nana Flo showed up the next morning with a belt and tore our behinds up.
“Mommy! Look at that car!”
Manny’s new fascination I discovered last week in Target while we were in the toy aisle were Matchbox cars. He seemed to have an affinity for the classic style cars. Whenever Manny expressed an interest in something, I would go down a rabbit hole in search of his latest obsession. Mostly because it gave me ideas for stocking stuffers for Christmas and birthday gifts. I was still trying to decide if that was a good or bad thing. Sometimes I struggled with not giving him whatever he expressed interest in.
Before I could stop him, Manny broke away from me and ran up to the driver’s side. “Hi, mister. I like your car.”
Oh no. Manny’s hands were plastered on the door. I was sure his fingerprints were going to be visible once he removed his grimy little hands.
“Manny, please get over here.”
The driver, a handsome man with dark, shoulder length locs, lifted his shades to gaze at Manny and it took my breath away. Other than my father and grandfather, I had never witnessed another man look at my son that way. The stranger’s dark eyes held tenderness that Preston had never displayed when looking at my son. God help me. He turned those eyes on me and our gazes connected. A path of warmth flowed from the roots of my curly afro to the tips of my toenails. The upturned grin at the corners of his mouth was giving me palpitations.
Obediently, Manny eased away from the classic vehicle to stand at my side. Sure enough, ten tiny fingerprints were left behind. Not knowing what to do, I grabbed Manny’s hand to ground me.
“No harm done, Miss.” He turned his gaze back to Manny. It should’ve made me glad that his attention was taken off me, but it left me wanting his attention. Attention, until now, I had avoided at all cost.
“Thank you, Manny. Do you know what kind of car this is?”
It didn’t slide past me that he called my son by his name.
Manny dug his hand into the khaki cargo pants he was wearing, producing a toy car.
“Is it this one?”
I wanted to tell the man behind the wheel that the light had changed and he should be moving along. But I couldn’t. Not when Manny was so excited.
“Let me see that.”
Manny released my hand to drop the toy in the center of the man’s palm. Lips pursed, he rotated the blue car in his hand. “Naw, this is a Porsche. What I’m driving is a 1967 convertible Mustang.”
Mr. Harvey’s car was a 1967 Mustang of the same color. What were the chances?
A car pulled up behind the Mustang and honked its horn. Stepping forward, I pulled Manny back. “We don’t want to hold you.”
Putting the sunglasses back on, he grinned at Manny. “See you around, Manny. Hope to see you later, pretty lady.”
“Bye, mister!” If Manny didn’t stop waving his hand so hard, it was possible it might snap in two.
Tongue tied, my wave wasn’t anywhere as enthusiastic as Manny’s.
He honked the horn before taking off, headed to wherever he was going. Manny and I stood rooted in place until the shiny, red car was no longer visible.
