“Carlos, calm down.”
“No, Lisa. I wanna make sure I got this right. Does he mean the same niece I took care of while he was locked up? Huh? The one I took to her first day of school because he took a charge for his so-called boy? The one I held when she cried for her daddy?”
He’s loud, and Momma stands in front of him to keep him from Daddy.
“You can call me as many names as you want, Maverick, but don’t you ever say I don’t care about my niece and nephews! Yeah, that’s right, nephews! Seven too. When you were locked up—”
“Carlos,” Momma says.
“No, he needs to hear this. When you were locked up, I helped Lisa every time your sorry-ass baby momma dropped Seven off on her for weeks at a time. Me! I bought clothes, food, provided shelter. My Uncle Tom ass! Hell no, I don’t wanna work with criminals, but don’t you ever insinuate I don’t care about any of those kids!”
Daddy’s mouth makes a line. He’s silent.
Uncle Carlos snatches his keys off the coffee table, gives my forehead two pecks, and leaves. The front door slams shut.
NINETEEN
The smell of hickory bacon and the sound of way too many voices wake me up.
I blink to soothe my eyes from the assault my neon-blue walls are giving them. It takes me a few minutes lying here to remember it’s grand jury day.
Time to see if I’ll fail Khalil or not.
I put my feet in my slippers and head toward the unfamiliar voices. Seven and Sekani are at school by now, plus their voices aren’t that deep. I should be worried about some unknown dudes seeing me in my pajamas, but that’s the beauty of sleeping in tanks and basketball shorts. They won’t see much.
The kitchen’s standing-room-only. Guys in black slacks, white shirts, and ties are at the table or standing against the wall, shoveling food in their mouths. They have tattoos on their faces and hands. A couple of them give me quick nods and mumble “S’up” through mouths full of food.
The Cedar Grove King Lords. Damn, they clean up nicely.
Momma and Aunt Pam work the stove as skillets full of bacon and eggs sizzle, blue flames dancing beneath them. Nana pours juice and coffee and runs her mouth.
Momma barely looks over her shoulder and says, “Morning, Munch. Your plate’s in the microwave. Come get these biscuits out for me, please.”
She and Aunt Pam move to the ends of the stove, stirring the eggs and turning the bacon. I grab a towel and open the oven. The aroma of buttery biscuits and a heat wave hit me head-on. I pick the pan up with the towel, and that thing is still too hot to hold for long.
“Over here, li’l momma,” Goon says at the table.
I’m glad to put it down. Not even two minutes after I set it on the table, every last biscuit is gone. Goddamn. I grab my paper towel–covered plate from the microwave before the King Lords inhale it too.
“Starr, get those other plates for your dad and your uncle,” Aunt Pam says. “Take them outside, please.”
Uncle Carlos is here? I tell Aunt Pam, “Yes, ma’am,” stack their plates on top of mine, grab the hot sauce and some forks, and leave as Nana starts one of her “back in my theater days” stories.
Outside, the sunlight’s so bright it makes the paint on my walls seem dim. I squint and look around for Daddy or Uncle Carlos. The hatch on Daddy’s Tahoe is up, and they’re sitting on the back of it.
My slippers scuff against the concrete, sounding like brooms sweeping the floor. Daddy looks around the truck. “There go my baby.”
I hand him and Uncle Carlos a plate and get a kiss to the cheek from Daddy in return. “You sleep okay?” he asks.
“Kinda.”
Uncle Carlos moves his pistol from the space between them and pats the empty spot. “Keep us company for a bit.”
I hop up next to them. We unwrap the plates that have enough biscuits, bacon, and eggs for a few people.
“I think this one’s yours, Maverick,” Uncle Carlos says. “It’s got turkey bacon.”
“Thanks, man,” Daddy says, and they exchange plates.
I shake hot sauce on my eggs and pass Daddy the bottle. Uncle Carlos holds his hand out for it too.
Daddy smirks and passes it down. “I would’ve thought you were too refined for some hot sauce on your eggs.”
“You do realize this is the house I grew up in, right?” He covers his eggs completely in hot sauce, sets the bottle down, and licks his fingers for the sauce that got on them. “Don’t tell Pam I ate all of this though. She’s always on me about watching my sodium.”
“I won’t tell if you won’t tell,” Daddy says. They bump fists to seal the deal.
I woke up on another planet or in an alternate reality. Something. “Y’all cool all of a sudden?”
“We talked,” Daddy says. “It’s all good.”
“Yep,” says Uncle Carlos. “Some things are more important than others.”
I want details, but I won’t get them. If they’re good though, I’m good. And honestly? It’s about damn time.
“Since you and Aunt Pam are here, where’s DeVante?” I ask Uncle Carlos.
“At home for once and not playing video games with your li’l boyfriend.”
“Why does Chris always have to be ‘li’l’ to you?” I ask. “He’s not little.”
“You better be talking about his height,” says Daddy.
“Amen,” Uncle Carlos adds, and they fist-bump again.
So they’ve found common complaining ground—Chris. Figures.
Our street is quiet for the most part this morning. It usually is. The drama always comes from people who don’t live here. Two houses down, Mrs. Lynn and Ms. Carol talk in Mrs. Lynn’s yard. Probably gossiping. Can’t tell either one of them anything if you don’t want it spread around Garden Heights like a cold. Mrs. Pearl works in her flower bed across the street with a little help from Fo’ty Ounce. Everybody calls him that ’cause he always asks for money to buy a “Fo’ty ounce from the licka sto’ real quick.” His rusty shopping cart with all of his belongings is in Mrs. Pearl’s driveway, a big bag of mulch on the bottom of it. Apparently he has a green thumb. He laughs at something Mrs. Pearl says, and people two streets over probably hear that guffaw of his.
“Can’t believe that fool’s alive,” Uncle Carlos says. “Would’ve thought he drank himself to death by now.”
“Who? Fo’ty Ounce?” I ask.
“Yeah! He was around when I was a kid.”
“Nah, he ain’t going nowhere,” says Daddy. “He claims the liquor keeps him alive.”
“Does Mrs. Rooks live around the corner?” Uncle Carlos asks.
“Yep,” I say. “And she still makes the best red velvet cakes you ever had in your life.”
“Wow. I told Pam I have yet to taste a red velvet cake as good as Mrs. Rooks’s. What about um . . .” He snaps his fingers. “The man who fixed cars. Lived at the corner.”
“Mr. Washington,” says Daddy. “Still kicking it and still does better work than any automotive shop around. Got his son helping him too.”
“Li’l John?” Uncle Carlos asks. “The one that played basketball but got on that stuff?”
“Yep,” says Daddy. “He been clean for a minute now.”
“Man.” Uncle Carlos pushes his red eggs around his plate. “I almost miss living here sometimes.”
I watch Fo’ty Ounce help Mrs. Pearl. People around here don’t have much, but they help each other out as best they can. It’s this strange, dysfunctional-as-hell family, but it’s still a family. More than I realized until recently.
“Starr!” Nana calls from the front door. People two streets over probably hear her like they heard Fo’ty Ounce. “Your momma said hurry up. You gotta get ready. Hey, Pearl!”
Mrs. Pearl shields her eyes and looks our way. “Hey, Adele! Haven’t seen you in a while. You all right?”
“Hanging in there, girl. You got that flowerbed looking good! I’m coming by later to get some of that Birds of Paradise.”
“All right.”
“You not gon’ say hey to me, Adele?” Fo’ty Ounce asks. When he talks, it jumbled together like one long word.
“Hell nah, you old fool,” Nana says. The door slams behind her.