She’s hunched over the kitchen table, scribbling geometry equations, desperately trying to get her quarantine tablet to connect to her hotspot. Her long braids are pinned back by Nana’s old leopard scarf.
I want to reassure my sister that solving for ‘x’ and ‘y’ is imperative, but I’ve effectively blocked out any math classes from that horrible time known as high school.
It’s almost dinnertime and I’m dying to make chicken stew and stuffing. It’s still chilly enough outside that the thick broth pouring over the buttery bread crumbs will heat the belly and the soul. The problem is we didn’t stock up on something trivial like celery and bouillon cubes. When the mad dash to grab supplies for the house descended on the city, I was too busy buying up eggs and meat to worry about all the little ingredients that make the meals.
“Triangle QMO is congruent, no, similar to DAB. Right? But then how do I solve for this?” she mutters to herself, “You know even when I was in the class I wasn’t getting this. It’s not like the teacher explained it. She just gives us the answers.”
Our father’s snores from his third nap of the day echo in the living room.
I’m distracted, too distracted to worry about being scared of the outside like a shut-in. I don’t have the answers for her. I hated math, for one thing. I can’t tell her the world’s going to suddenly shift and she’ll have access to someone who can explain all of this. Before the coronavirus outbreak, there was always the anxiety of sending her off into the unknown of whatever Brooklyn had to offer. Some boy that doesn’t like her and shatters her heart. Some fight at school breaks out. Another black or brown kid gets arrested or shot at. Some mass shooter has her under a desk cowering and texting me that she might not make it out. Some bomb threat to the city shuts the trains down before she can come home.
I don’t have answers, but I can make something she’ll like. In the same way my Nana would pour love into her food. She’d dig her hands into the meat and flour and build comfort for me and my cousin when we were younger.
In East Flatbush, we don’t have the massive crowds of a BJs or Walmart or Trader Joes. The bodega won’t have it, it’s too small. I probably shouldn’t risk it to be in such close quarters with people, but the grocery store just down the street past Kings County Hospital on Utica Avenue is sure to be stocked enough to have what I need.
I sniffed out the sole mask in the house, leftover from when the front porch bricks needed repointing. I don’t really bother with getting properly dressed, except to throw on some old gloves since I’m not really sure how long things live on surfaces like groceries.
Outside is bright.
Kings County Hospital looms, the main building towering over all the other centers in the area. Kingsbrook and Downstate are quiet with most of the bustle centered around Kings County’s intake tents and emergency rooms. I dodge by as quickly as I can on the way to the store. The giant men’s shelter on the corner is sullen as usual, with a few guys at the entrance smoking cigarettes or chatting with one another seemingly unphased.
The Caribbean Market’s blessedly devoid of people and surprisingly full of food. I’d expected more of a Walking Dead hunt and gather situation, but except for the utter lack of toilet paper, milk, and bread, it’s got enough. I grab the things I need and beat it back home as if moving fast can somehow outsmart a virus. I know it can’t but it makes me feel better all the same. On the way back I pause to take some pictures, since those old journalistic instincts are dying hard.
As I chop the onions, carrots, and fresh celery for the sizzling olive oil in my pot, my sister declares she’s solved for ‘x’. She triumphantly jumps up from the table and does one of her jerky Tik Tok dances before abruptly leaving the rest of her homework to tell everyone else.
