Brandon Massey - Cornered

The morning that Corey Webbs past finally caught up with him, he was taking his daughter to a doctors appointment.

Tuesday, June 10, began hot, windless, and bright. The clear sky was cobalt blue, the blistering sun giving it the gloss of a glazed porcelain bowl. Although it was two weeks before the first day of summer, the temperature was forecast to peak in the mid-nineties, the heat worsened by a strength-sapping humidity that would guarantee thousands of air conditioners cranked to the max throughout metro Atlanta.

Cool air humming from the vents of his black BMW sedan, Corey navigated the crawling rush-hour traffic on Haynes Bridge Road in Alpharetta. His wife, Simone, and their nine-year-old daughter, Jada, were debating an R amp;B song that had been playing on the radio, a track apparently titled Get Me Some. Corey had changed stations within five seconds of hearing the songs lewd hook-and had been treated to Jada singing the rest of it word for word in a pitch-perfect voice, drawing a gasp from Simone and a blush from Corey.

I cant believe you knew the words to that awful song, Jada, Simone was saying. And you tell me you cant recall where youve heard it, which I simply do not accept.

Corey had to admit that even after all these years, he got a kick out of watching Simone play mom. With her penny-brown eyes, jet-black hair styled in a cute bob, milk-chocolate complexion, and prominent dimples, she might have been a fresh-faced coed, not a thirty-four-year-old woman with a PhD in clinical psychology.

She was a great mother, though. He liked watching her at work.

Twisted around in the passenger seat, Simone subjected Jada to her penetrating gaze and awaited a satisfactory answer.

Mom, I said somebody at school played it on their phone, Jada pleaded from the backseat.

Keeping quiet, letting Simone handle this her way, Corey glanced in the rearview mirror. Jada had pecan-brown skin, gray eyes, thick dark eyebrows, black hair woven into tight cornrows. Hed once worn his hair like that when he was a kid. It struck him that the Corey from back then and his daughter looked so much alike they could have been twins.

Whos this somebody? Simone asked. Her voice carried a gentle breeze of her Alabama accent. Give me a name. I want to talk to their parents.

Last month, Jada had completed fourth grade at Alpharetta Elementary. She currently attended a three-week summer program in Roswell for gifted students. Nevertheless, high-performing youngsters, like all other kids, obviously found the time to enjoy lascivious songs that would have shamed their parents, and they did it on their cutting-edge cell phones that performed every conceivable task short of whisking you to the moon.

Sometimes, when listening to his daughter talk about what she and her classmates did these days, Corey felt as if he had grown up in the Middle Ages.

Somebody, Jada said. I dont remember who it was. Everyone in class has a phone except me. When can I get a phone?

Corey held back a smile. His girl was a clever one. When you couldnt win the debate, change the debate.

Dont try to change the subject, Simone said.

Jada frowned, caught red-handed. A chuckle slipped out of Corey.

Simone turned to him. Why are you laughing? This is serious. Your daughter was singing about having sex.

No, I wasnt, Mom, Jada said. I was singing about getting some till the morning comes.

It took every ounce of willpower in Corey to hold back a laugh. Simone flashed him a deadly, dont-you-dare-laugh glower.

Corey cleared his throat. Umm, thats not the kind of song you should be singing, Pumpkin. Seriously.

Why not? Jada asked.

Its a song for adults, thats why, Simone said. Its not appropriate for you to sing. Understood?

Okay, Jada said with a sigh. Then I wont sing it any more.

Good, Simone said. And if you hear one of your friends play it again on their phone or iPod or whatever else, youll tell me who did it, because none of the children in your class should be listening to that song, either.

Yes, Mom, Jada said in a defeated voice. Then she piped up, But when can I get a phone? Daddy said I could have one.

Corey cut a glance in the rearview mirror again. Jada was grinning at him. Nine years old going on nineteen.

You told her that? Simone asked him. I thought we had an agreement. No cell phone, at least for a few more years.

Corey shrugged. All of her classmates have them.

Yeah, Mom, everybody does, Jada said. Everybody except me.

Simone shot him a rebuking look. Baby, you know I dont agree with keeping up with the Joneses.

Who are the Joneses? Jada asked. Do they live near us?

Its just a form of expression, Pumpkin, Corey said.

It means getting something you dont need, only because everyone around you has it, Simone said. Its giving in to peer pressure, which weve discussed before.

But what if I need a phone? Jada asked.

You dont need a phone, honey, Simone said. You want a phone. Theres a world of difference.

It could be a good security measure, Corey said. We could get one of those phones for kids that would call only the numbers we program into it-like ours and your mothers.

But if were doing our jobs as parents and keeping track of our child, she would never have a use for a cell phone.

Things dont always go as planned, he said. I like to take extra precautions. At the end of the day, better safe than sorry, dont you think?

Simone got quiet. They both knew she could never beat him in a debate about security. He was co-owner of a firm that installed alarms and surveillance systems in residences and businesses throughout the region, and their own house was a marvel of high-tech surveillance and monitoring. Debating the merits of security with him was like debating criminal justice law with a judge.

You still shouldnt have promised her a phone before discussing it with me, Simone said.

I didnt exactly promise her a phone. He looked in the mirror and caught Jadas eye. Pumpkin, did I promise you a phone? Didnt I just say maybe?

Yes. Jada nodded vigorously. Daddy said maybe, Mom.

Didnt I say that Id have to discuss it with your mother, first? he said.

Another eager nod. Daddy said hed have to talk to you about it, Mom.

See? Corey grinned at Simone.

You two co-conspirators are full of it, Simone said.

She shook her head in what was meant to be an aggravated expression, yet a smile broke through the mask, accentuating those killer dimples. The disciplinarian role she played so well was only an act, Corey knew; her heart was as sweet and soft as melted caramel.

So can I get my phone? Jada said.

Your father and I will discuss the subject later, Simone said.

Can you talk about it now? Jada asked. Please?

Later, Simone said firmly.

Jada made a whiny sound, but Simone gave her a warning glare, and she fell silent. Simone settled back into her seat, mothering duties concluded for the moment.

Corey took Simones hand, squeezed. Glancing at him, she returned the squeeze, lips curved in a soft smile.

On mornings like that one, Corey felt like the luckiest man alive.

Growing up, hed never imagined that he would one day have a life like this. A beautiful wife. An adorable daughter. A successful business. Most people thought they never got what life owed them, but he considered his own story as proof that sometimes you actually got more than you deserved, that God smiled on sinners and saints alike.

Hed been raised by his grandmother in one of Detroits toughest neighborhoods. Hed never met his father, didnt so much as know the mans name. As for his mother, she had abandoned him when he was three to follow some long-forgotten Motown crooner to California. Shed died twenty-five years ago with a needle in her arm in a seedy Los Angeles motel.