Kim | 1993
She Who Holds It Together
The girls slip inside, swallowed by heat and music and the smell of ham.
Kim glances back at Brandon, still curbside. He grabs a bag from the trunk. A pea-sized knot forms deep in her chest. Kim steps in last and lets the door close behind her. The cinnamon gives way. Smoke. Sweet malt.
“Look at you,” Loretta says, hands on Kim’s upper arms, holding her out like a framed photo. “Beautiful. And always so put together.”
“Merry Christmas, Momma Lor,” Kim says.
The soul food fills the air, pulling up old memories Kim still has not separated the truth from. She reins it in, saving her energy.
Inside is a holiday that has been rehearsed for years. The same couch. The same plastic runner on the carpet. The same tree center-stage in the front window for the foot traffic to appreciate.
Donny Hathaway sings about Christmas over a football argument at the end of the couch. The brothers are locked into their narratives, voices tight with certainty, tracing a catch from ’76 with their hands while a plastic pill organizer sits open on the armrest, seconds from disappearing into the cushions.
Brandon’s aunts appear, both walking with “world’s best” energy preceding whatever dish they were assigned to bring this year.
“Kim!” Aunt Trina grabs her, pulls her close, cheek to cheek. “How was the ride?”
“Not terrible, actually. I took the Jackie Robinson. Only about 40 minutes.”
“Oh boo. You drove?” Trina’s eyebrows lift. “Imma have to talk to my nephew. Where’s Brandon?”
“He’ll just be a minute. He’s out front.” Kim pivots, tugging one puffer sleeve after another off her girls. “Aunt Trina, I’m loving your new do.”
Aunt Denise smiles, drying her hands on a dish towel before tossing it over her shoulder. “Is that your mac and cheese, Kim? You know I’ve been waiting all year.”
Kim holds the aluminum pan up like an offering.
“Merry Christmas then, Aunt Denise.”
“Ooooh, yes.” Denise’s eyes shine, too bright. “Y’all, she brought it. Move that other one over.” She screams with laughter and conviction.
Denise and Kim press cheeks with an air kiss as the mac and cheese exchanges hands.
“Put y’all coats in the den, and close the door behind you. Where’s Brandon at?”
“He’s just out front. He’ll be in soon.”
The family room bustles with the sounds of cousins who have waited all year to beat each other in Sonic and Super Mario Bros. In the corner, Brandon’s little cousin Sherry looks at Kim with eyes that are too old for her age.
Sherry is nineteen now and a mom, lip gloss shining, bob-cut fresh, burping an infant like she has done this her whole life.
Kim waves her over for a hug, eyes signaling it’s safe and I’m sorry. The tension lines in Sherry’s face loosen as she walks over with baby Jamal on her shoulder, looking for the perfect spot to spit up on. It’s been almost a year since Sherry’s baby shower.
“Aww, look at him! Is this the little bookie who gave you all that gas?” Kim laughs, holding her hands out for permission to hold him.
“Gas, heartburn, swollen feet, and had the nerve to come out less than seven pounds.” Sherry exhales, stretching her arms, thankful for the break. “How you doing, Kim? You good?”
She stares at Kim deeply. Not aggressive. Looking past the well put-together facade. Kim wasn’t ready for that level of complexity today. Not here.
Kim lets a half smile, an obvious avoidance, answer the question. Then she looks at Jamal.
Before she can pivot, Sherry says abruptly, “Oh boy, let me go,” reaching for him. The tension lines return.
“Hey lil’ cuzzo,” Brandon says, sliding in.
Sherry leans to grab the baby bag. “It was great seeing you, Kim.”
The chill she leaves behind is both deadly and merciful.
Kim does not look at Brandon directly. No need to add more reasons to his list.
“She just needs time, babe,” Kim says, softening it for him.
He nods and walks toward the den, his stride slower than a rush. He dabs his forehead before returning his faded blue handkerchief to his back pocket.
Kim steps into the kitchen. Dishes clank. Oven timers beep. Cutlery taps granite.
Trina clears a space on the counter. “Set it right there, Denise.”
The kitchen table is covered in food and strategy. Greens. Yams. Rolls. A glazed ham dressed in pineapple rings. Stuffing, not to be confused with dressing. Two pies. A large orange bowl of potato salad.
Kim’s youngest comes running like the quest to find her took days. “Mommy, can I have some juice?”
Kim crouches, smooths the little girl’s dress. Checks her tights. Straightens a bow that was already straight.
“In a second. Go play with your sister and cousins.”
The girl runs off.
“Did Brandon come in yet?” Aunt Denise asks, casual, like enough time has passed.
Kim glances toward the den. No Brandon in sight. “He was just in the den. He might’ve stepped back out. I’m sure he’ll be back in soon.”
“Mm.” Denise’s mouth tightens, then relaxes again. “I won’t even waste my breath. I’ll see him when he comes looking for that potato salad.”
From the den comes a roar of laughter and validation, deep and loud. Somebody got proved wrong. It wasn’t Brandon. Kim does not look.
Trina slides a sweet potato pie out of the oven and the heat rolls over Kim’s face. Brown sugar. Nutmeg. Butter. Comfort.
Kim wipes her hands on a towel. “Smells delicious.”
Appreciation gleams in Trina’s eyes. “Thank you, boo. Since the divorce, I’ve been trying all types of recipes. I even sold a few pies at church,” she says, proud.
Kim catches the current of disapproval from Loretta.
Kim turns the aluminum pan a quarter inch so the label “mac and cheese” faces forward. Presentation matters.
“You’re going to need business cards soon,” Kim says, warming the room.
Trina turns, inquisitive, and the idea lands like it has never occurred to her before. “You’re right!”
Her mind drifts into possibilities. Loretta’s eyes roll into judgment.
A shadow cuts across the doorway.
Keisha appears, her nephew Jamal tugging at her long goddess braids. Her denim overalls are draped with a burping cloth as she grabs his bottle from the crowded island.
“Oooooh.” Keisha grins, stepping closer like she just spotted a childhood friend. “Hold on. Who made the potato salad?”
Denise lifts her chin. “You know who made it.”
Keisha laughs, pleased. “Yes! The only Hampton-family-approved potato salad. I’m still traumatized from the sweet mess last year.”
A couple of the women try not to laugh. One fails.
Keisha reaches for a spoon like she is about to taste-test for the United Nations, then pauses.
She finally notices Kim. Her face shifts.
“Hey, Kim.” She leans in and presses a quick cheek-to-cheek. “I’m glad you came.”
Kim nods, small. “Hey, Keisha.”
Keisha’s gaze flicks once toward the hallway, toward the den, toward all the noise that keeps men protected.
“Brandon still outside?” she asks, kinda asking, kinda telling.
Kim’s eyes widen before she catches herself. “He was just in the den a moment ago.”
Keisha locks in. Jamal’s tiny fingers secure her pinky. “Nah. I just came through there. I saw him out by the car when I pulled up a few minutes ago.”
“Keisha.” Loretta’s voice snaps from the living room, sweet but sharp. “Bring that bread in here.”
“Let me go before they get hangry,” Keisha says. Then she grabs a plate of rolls, bopping Jamal softly toward the den.
Kim keeps her face smooth.
“That girl… I tell you,” Denise mumbles under her breath.
A heavy step crosses the hall.
Brandon’s father enters the kitchen like a man who knows exactly where the quiet is. He smells like aftershave and outside air. His eyes skim the counter, the food, the women’s hands at work. He lands on Kim and walks over with a smile you can’t assign blame to.
“There you are, Kim. You been hiding in here all this time?”
Kim braces for his bear hug. “Merry Christmas, Pops. How’s retirement treating you?”
“Good, good, good. I’m just trying to stay out of trouble with Lor.” A hearty chuckle, then a hearty cough. “I saw the girls playing. Where’s Brandon?”
His eyes move around the kitchen.
“Keisha said he was outside by the car,” Denise interjects. “Go on and tell him to get in here before he catch cold.”
Kim catches a look in Pops’ eyes. A subtle lift of the brow. The look that precedes an interaction that could go left abruptly.
“Alright. I’ll fetch him.” He pulls two Heinekens from the freezer and a bottle opener before disappearing toward the front of the house.
Sipping the adult-only eggnog, Trina asks, “Kim, you still working over there at the clinic?”
Kim nods. “Yes, ma’am. Five days a week.”
“Mm.” Trina wipes her hands. “That’s a blessing. I heard they got good benefits?”
“Yep. Thankfully. It comes in handy,” Kim replies, counting plates and forks and ER visits in her mind.
Denise reaches under the sink and pulls out a large bottle of Dawn. “Oh, before I forget. Y’all coming to the reunion this summer, Kim?”
Kim corrects the clench in her jaw. The save-the-date details start running through her mind. After last year’s debacle, Kim kept the money close. It wasn’t until this Christmas morning, when she felt the envelope was thin. It’s been three days since she removed her name from the “Available for OT” roster at the clinic. The knot in her chest pulsing.
Trina looks over her shoulder. “We gotta get a headcount early. Flights be high if you wait, boo.”
Loretta appears in the doorway, overseeing kitchen operations. “Tell her, Trina. We not doin no last-minute mess this year.”
Kim’s mind battles the audacity and the surrender simultaneously. Tired from the long hours at the clinic. Exhausted from the second shift at home. Three months of demand to supply an envelope with roundtrip airfare for a family of four to Houston, Texas. The money she earned from her good job with good benefits. The envelope that she thought eluded Brandon’s hands.
Kim hears the den again. The laugh. The clanks. The excuses.
Denise asks again, “So, y’all comin, right, Kim?”
“We’d love to… if Brandon don’t drink up the flight money first.”
Denise’s eyes blink once, slow, like the blink will help her hearing.
The words slipped out of Kim’s mouth before she knew she had committed to them. Her eyes stay on her purse, wishing she had not said it, but also electrified that she did.
From the den comes a yell, “Man, you lyin’!” and the laughter swells again.
The room rearranges itself around the truth, trying to find some place to hide it.
But Kim set down a heavy bag, and she refuses to pick it back up.
And for the first time all night, everyone knows exactly where Brandon is.