“I thought you didn’t go to East Harlem.”
“I don’t want Kenny to go to East Harlem.”
“Why, Justine? Do you think it’s more dangerous than West Harlem?”
“No. I don’t want him to go to either Harlem. At least not until he’s older.”
“What about when he goes to high school, Justine? There’s no doubt he’ll have to take the bus or the subway to get where he has to.”
Justine crossed her arms under her breasts. “I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.”
Frank’s head popped up and met her eyes. He wanted to tell Justine that she was overly protective of her son; that she had to allow him the freedom to explore new places. If not,then she would stunt his maturing into a confident man able to withstand the ups and downs of life.
Knowing instinctively that she wouldn’t appreciate his questioning her decision as to how she’d chosen to raise her son, he smiled. “By the way, where’s Kenny?”
Justine lowered her arms. “He’s in his room, sulking.”
Frank’s hands halted. “If you don’t mind my asking, but what is he sulking about?”
“He feels as if he’s losing his friends. He told me about Frankie moving across town and that Ray’s family is planning to move to the Bronx. I tried talking to him, but he just stared at me as if I was speaking a language he didn’t understand. This is the first time I’ve felt as if I’m losing my son.”
“You’re not losing him, Justine. He’s probably going through things he can’t talk to you about.”
“And you think he would feel comfortable talking about those things to you?” she asked.
Frank bit back a smile. Justine had just given him the opening he needed to run interference between her and her son. “Probably,” he said. “There was a time when I, too, was a teenage boy who refused to talk to my mother about what was bothering me.”
“Did you talk to your father?”
Shaking his head, he said, “No. He believed that children should be seen and not heard.”
“Who did you talk to?” Justine asked.
“My favorite uncle, and when he wasn’t around, an older cousin.”
“Kenny doesn’t have an uncle or cousins, so I would really appreciate it if you would talk to him.”
“I can’t promise a miracle, but I will try.” He held up a hand. “I’ll finish unpacking everything when I come back.”
“Francis.”
Justine had said his name so softly that for a moment, he thought he’d imagined it. “Yes, Justine.”
“Thank you.”
Frank nodded. He didn’t know if she was thanking him for being there for herself or because he’d volunteered to intervene between her and Kenny. He hoped it was the former. He walked out of the kitchen, through the living room, down a narrow hallway past a bathroom and bedroom he assumed was Justine’s because it was decorated in pastel yellows and greens. Across the hall from hers was a bedroom with a closed door. Raising his hand, he knocked softly.
“I told you before I don’t want to talk to you,” came the reply to his knock.
“I’m not your mother.”
It was a full minute before the door opened, and Frank smiled at Justine’s son. “May I come in?”
Kenny opened the door, and he walked in, his gaze sweeping around the room, noting the unmade bed, a pile of discarded clothes in a corner, and stacks of books on a table doubling as a desk. The boy moved quickly to remove a loose-leaf binder from a chair. “Please sit down, Mr. Dee.”
Frank pointed to the bed. “After you.”
Kenny sat and stared at his hands sandwiched between his knees. “I suppose you were talking to my mother.”
