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“He’s not an enemy,” I was quick to counter. “They’re just men playing a game. These sports rivalries get out of control.”
“Okay, baby, you don’t have to get defensive about it. I’m just surprised is all,” she softly responded, which made me feel like a six-foot-two-inch pile of dung.
“No, I’m sorry for being snippy. It’s been hard since we became friends, is all.”
“Sure, baby, sure, I can see that it’s taken a toll.” She gave my arm a pat. “Your new friend is welcome at this table. Of course he is. The good book says to love your enemies, do good by them, and pray over your fake turkey and gravy with them.”
“Thank you.” I bent down to kiss her wrinkled cheek. The doorbell rang. Kyleen squealed about our guest being here. “Also, just one more thing. He’s Baskoro Huda, the goalie I sort of had a fight with a few hours ago.”
My aunt’s dark eyes grew as round as her beloved turkey platter that she’d found at a thrift shop for a quarter way back in 1968. Lord, she did love that dopey plate with the big-eyed turkey baked into the ceramic.
I ran off to allow her time to wrap her head around all of that, took note that none of the dolls, coloring books, or crayons had been picked up, and hurried to the front door where my daughter bounced up and down in glee. The child loved company as it gave her someone new to chatter with endlessly.
Smiling down at Kyleen, I opened the door. Baskoro stood on the short stoop, random green toque pulled down to his eyebrows, the hood of his jacket tugged up over his head, and his shoulders up to his ears. He looked like a cold turtle. I spied his Uber pulling from the curb and chastised myself for not giving him a ride, but then realized how would that have worked? This subterfuge spy shit was getting old. Really quick.
“Come in,” I said, my gut churning with nerves. He hurried in and out of the cold, bringing the smell of winter wind and his fruity shampoo. I took quick note that the tips of his hair that peeked out of the hoodie/toque super stealth costume were icy. “Mama Huda’s wet hair alarm must be going berserk.”
He smiled. I smiled back. Kyleen took his hand and tugged him inside. “My daddy is rude. Come in, please. My name is Kyleen Newley. I’m six and in Mrs. Lamp’s kindergarten class. My favorite animal is an otter. I want to be an otter trainer when I grow up. Did you know that baby otters are called pups? They are. I asked Dad for a pup last week and he said no because we don’t have a river in our backyard for the pup to play in but someday when I’m older I am going to make friends with wild otter pups and invite them into my house by their river. Please take off your shoes. Aunty Zada just mopped. Do you like creamy corn? If so, I will share what is left with you, but be careful because it makes you poop like a goose.”
Baskoro blinked at me as Kyleen led him into my home, his face breaking into a wide grin as my daughter held out her hands for his coat. Where she had learned how to be a valet, I had no clue. Shame she didn’t take care of her own clothes as well as she was toting Baskoro’s coat to the hall closet. He toed off his shoes without a moment’s hesitation, which many people did when the shoes off at the door was announced.
“Thank you,” Kyleen said as he placed his huge sneakers beside mine on the rubber shoe mat beside the front door.
“My pleasure. My name is Baskoro Huda,” he replied. “In my house, we always take off our shoes at the door. Then we wear slippers or warm socks.”
“Daddy forgets. Oh you need slippers! Daddy, can he have your slippers?”
“Of course, he’s our guest.”
Kyleen beamed at me, then ran off to find my slippers beside the sofa.
“She is amazing,” Basky said as our eyes met and held. My hands fisted at my sides. All I wanted to do was card them into his cold, damp hair and then yank his mouth to mine. Sadly, with the girls up and about, that was not going to happen. “And she looks just like you.”
“Poor kid,” I replied and got an eye roll from my guest.
“Nah, she’s lucky. You’re a beautiful human being.”
Okay, that kind of talk right there was not helping my restraint. Knowing I had to say something, I drew in a breath to make some inane comment when Kyleen bulled in between us with my well-worn slippers. Once his feet were dressed—my toes could just be cold, I suppose—she grabbed two of Baskoro’s long fingers.
“We eat in the kitchen when we have company. Come on. I will show you to your seat, but you must wash your hands first. Aunty Zada is corrosive about that.”
“Compulsive,” I corrected gently as Basky softly chuckled while allowing himself to be led about like a toddler’s pull toy. I followed along behind, grinning like a damn loon, as she jabbered steadily into our cozy kitchen. The sound of gravy bubbling nicely in a pot greeted us as did the smell of sage while a dish of stuffing rotated slowly in the microwave in the corner.
“Aunty Zada, this is Baskoro Huda who wears slippers in his house,” Kyleen called while tugging at Baskoro, intent on getting him seated. He paused when my aunt turned to face him, gently wiggled free of my daughter’s grip, and placed his hands in a prayer position. He bowed slightly to my aunt who, and this didn’t happen often, looked stunned.
“It’s a pleasure, ma’am,” he said and straightened. All eyes were glued to him as my aunt nodded her silver head. “I got you a small gift.” He rummaged in his hoodie pocket and drew out four colorfully wrapped soaps—all the size of a half dollar but fat and round—which he placed in my aunt’s hands. “I hope you enjoy these. Thank you for having me over for dinner.”
“Oh well, thank you,” Zada said, her face relaxing, her cheeks blossoming into a fine pink as she smiled up at Baskoro. “How polite.”
“Do you have something in your pocket for me?” Kyleen asked.
“Kyleen, that’s not polite,” I chided, but then I saw Baskoro rooting around in his hoodie pocket once more. He gave me a wink and dropped four chocolate coins into Kyleen’s outstretched hands, the gold foil winking in the bright lights. “But you have to save them for dessert so you don’t ruin your dinner.”
“Thank you!” Kyleen gushed, placing her coins beside her seat and then directing Baskoro to sit. He did and was immediately besieged with questions from my daughter and a hot cup of coffee from my aunt. He gave a short, seated bow to Zada for the drink. “Why do you do that?” Kyleen asked after climbing into her chair. She pulled her coins closer to her and placed her glass over them, upside-down, to protect the candy from roaming candy thieves. Or maybe me.
“Kyleen, honestly,” I said, but Baskoro waved it off.
“It’s okay. She will never learn unless she asks questions. The reason I bow, or make wai, is a sign of respect. My family is from Thailand, which is on the other side of the world,” Kyleen’s eyes went as round as a manhole cover, “and we wai for most things it seems. But not to people younger, so sorry that I didn’t wai to you.”
