The Between Read Free

seeing as you have that ring on your finger and you won’t take it off.”
    Still smiling, Hilton shook his head. Her attraction was flattering. “Damn. You don’t give up, do you?” he asked.
    “No, sir. That’s why I’m standing where I am right now.”
    He saw a fleeting image of the two of them nude, entwined behind boxes on the carpeting, christening her new home, but he forced the thought away because he felt the heavy warmth of arousal growing beneath his stomach. He took a deep breath and pinched her cheek. “Good luck, sweetheart. I’m late. I’d better leave.”
    “Yeah,” Danitra said, grinning knowingly, “you’d better.”
    As Hilton climbed into the dented Corolla he’d driven since grad school in the late 1970s, the thrill of temptation buzzed in his mind. Instead of regret, he felt a sense of power over it, knowing he had chosen not to act. He had Dede, who even now was being lauded as a newly elected circuit-court judge, the only black woman in Dade with that title; and together they had Kaya and Jamil, whom only a certified fool would risk willingly. Cute wasn’t worth it. Ten times cute wasn’t worth it.
    He knew and respected men who didn’t feel the same carnal allegiances—and he’d heard straight-faced arguments from black friends on how insulting it was to try to force fidelity, a European notion, on the descendants of African princes—but Hilton had already come too close to losing his own tribe from selfishness. Fucking around, as far as he was concerned, was just another form of selfishness. One he didn’t dare explore.
    The Elks lodge on Northwest Seventh Avenue was flanked by rented limousines with tinted windows and three Miami police cars, sirens flashing, just in case any restless have-nots nearby got ideas about crashing the bourgeois party. Seventh Avenue was otherwise occupied by storefronts badly in need of paint and customers; the Burger King across the street was bustling, but the African-fashions store next to the lodge was nearly empty. Hilton adjusted the kente-cloth necktie Dede bought him from the little shop as he excused himself past the huddles at the lodge door. Inside, he scanned the balloon-filled hall for his family.
    He saw Dede immediately, but she didn’t see him. She was center-stage with a dozen other black officials wearing name tags, posing for group photographs. She stood among the tallest, a graceful giant with a long neck and a sculpted natural that sloped above her forehead. Alongside her were two black mayors, state legislators, local commissioners, and two black U.S. congressmen. All had been guests in his home at one time or another. Hilton was struck by how impressive the group was and consciously stood a bit straighter when he reminded himself that his own wife was among them. Flashing bulbs lit the room like strobes.
    A stage whisper floated to Hilton’s ear from behind him: “Psssst. Dad.”
    He saw his daughter waving in her lilac taffeta dress from a table near the buffet line. Her permed hair was curled loose against her shoulders instead of in ponytails, the way he was used to seeing her. Apparently, she’d been allowed to wear a touch of rouge on her cheeks. She’d won many of these little compromises since her thirteenth birthday, or, as Kaya called it, her “teenagehood.” Jamil’s head popped up from whatever game he was playing crouched under the table. They had inherited their mother’s sharp jawbone and long neck, and their faces were smooth and round, looking nearly identical in a complexion mingling Dede’s darker shade with Hilton’s red-clay-tinged brown.
    “You’re late, Dad,” Kaya observed while Hilton kissed her forehead and massaged Jamil’s scalp.
    “Watch out for my fade, Daddy,” Jamil said, patting his flat hairstyle back into place. Hilton couldn’t remember being that vain at eight, or at any age since.
    “Mom made a speech,” Kaya said, and Hilton’s spirits sank. He’d left the house to