The housewarming mango
present
“Bloody hell, who’s eaten all the Lucky Charms?”
“Language, Rory,” I remind him. In my head, I’m repeating, Don’t laugh. Don’t laugh.
He’s shaking an empty box of cereal into a bowl, and all that’s drifting out are the powdery remnants of grain and sugar dust that’s left behind to illustrate his point while he looks at me in utter disbelief.
“Sorry, buddy. I think your sister killed what was left this morning while she watched TV.” Cereal is on the short list of foods Kira will eat, along with mac and cheese, pickles, bananas, hot dogs, and bologna sandwiches.
He mumbles something under his breath, something I’m glad I didn’t hear, and walks to the trashcan and dramatically deposits it. Then he turns to me and says, “It’s rubbish.”
I don’t know if he’s referring literally to the box being trash or to the situation in general, but I humor him and nod.
He nods in return, apparently pleased with my act of solidarity, and walks with new resolve to the loaf of bread, from which he takes two slices and goes about making toast for breakfast.
There’s a knock at the door. And it’s not your average knuckle rap. It’s a succession of raps that vary in length and intensity. The knock is odd, to the point that my hesitation to answer the door is exaggerated, I’m questioning if it was actually a gesture asking for entry or something else entirely, like Morse code. When I come to my senses and shake the early morning fog from my brain, I walk to the front door and answer.
The stranger standing at my front door is wearing a white, strapless top with a big, red heart on it and frayed denim shorts. She has long dreadlocks in different hues of blues, greens and purples so vivid that rainbow doesn’t seem a sufficient description. My first reaction is one hundred percent male, instant initial appreciation. She’s eye catching. I’m not a perv, but no one would argue she has the face of an angel set atop a strikingly, well-proportioned body. Her hand is extended across the threshold in what I assume is greeting, like she’s offering to shake my hand, but then I notice she’s holding a mango in it. “Good morning, neighbor.”
I look from the mango to her glittering blue eyes and shake off the momentary shock of being unexpectedly greeted by a Technicolor goddess. “Good morning.” She smiles, and it makes her look younger. Innocent. Friendly. I take off my male admiring female hat and put back on my neighbor greeting neighbor hat.
“This is for you.” She shakes the mango like a maraca. Her hips follow the silent rhythm that only she’s hearing. “Little housewarming gift.”
I take it reluctantly. “A mango?” I question. I hope my surprise doesn’t sound inconsiderate.
She shrugs and when she does my eyes are drawn to the words tattooed below her collarbone, Life blooms in second chances. “Sorry, I know it’s a little unconventional, but it’s all I have.”
My hand reflexively tries to hand the mango back at her admission. “You should keep it then. If it’s all you have.” That sounded stupid. She wasn’t making a literal statement. Think before you speak, Seamus.
She smiles at my response and gently places both hands on top of the fruit in my right hand and slowly pushes it back until it’s touching my chest. “It’s a gift. Keep it. There’s this store a few miles down the street.” She raises her eyebrows as if she’s letting me in on a secret. “It’s called a supermarket. They sell replacements.” Her smile softens her teasing, and I find myself chuckling a little with her.
“Okay. Well, thank you…for the housewarming mango…” I pause and lift my eyebrows and chin, silently requesting her name.
“Faith,” she says as she turns and walks to descend the stairs. There’s a bounce in her step that reminds me of Kira when she’s playing. It’s carefree. She glances back over her shoulder and waves. “Nice to meet you…”
When she pauses on my name I fill in the blank, “Seamus.”
“Nice to meet you, Seamus.” When she says it, it sounds like she means it. That it really was nice to meet me. Nice. Genuine nice is such a rarity.
“Nice to meet you, too, Faith.” I look down at the mango in my hand and repeat the next word only for me, “Nice.” It feels at odds with the bitterness; the bitterness resents even the fleeting consideration and stomps it into oblivion.
I shut the door and take the mango to the kitchen where Rory asks, “What’s that?”
I tuck it away in the refrigerator while I answer him, “Housewarming gift from the neighbor.”
“Looks like fruit,” he responds dryly.
“It is.”
He’s looking at me for further explanation while he crunches through his slice of toast.
“A mango,” I offer.
“That’s right weird.” Rory sounds so proper with the accent.
“It’s a bit odd, yeah,” and I quickly add, “but it was nice too,” because I don’t want my kids putting the weirdo label on the neighbor on day two.