Devon
Memaw was weak after that fever, much weaker than she’d ever been. Devon took to making all the meals now. He knew how to make box meals, like mac n’ cheese or those rice-and-bean combo things, but he’d figured out how to fry up chicken, when they had it, and after a few failed attempts, scramble some eggs.
T came and went. He was like a shark, Devon finally decided. Circling for the scent of blood, waiting for the kill.
He came home the last day of school to find T flipping through the mail.
“What are you doing?”
T whirled, clutching an envelope. “Social Security,” Devon read on the return address.
“You’re taking her checks, aren’t you.” He didn’t mean to say it, but the words tumbled out, like they couldn’t help themselves.
“Easy now, hustler. You think you all that? You at the bottom. You’re living here rent-free. I’m her son. I deserve a cut, too.”
“A cut? Is that what you think this is?” Devon heard his own voice turn up at the end, like a little kid’s would, and he was mad for a minute, mad that his voice would betray him, mad because Twould know he’d always win. Because at the end of the day that’s all he really was, and they both knew it. A little kid.
T shoved the stack of mail back at him, stomped through the house. “Don’t you dis me.”
Devon followed. Memaw’s door was closed. Good—she was asleep.
“That money’s for food, and medicine.” He couldn’t stop now. Had to see this thing through. “Besides, what do you need the money for, anyway? I thought your ‘business’ made lots of money.”
T set his jaw. “You better watch your back, boy.”
“Just leave her alone, all right? I’m trying to take care of her. Come on, Uncle T. Please?”
“You’re nothing. She’s my Maw.”
“Then act like it.”
He didn’t even see it coming, just felt the roar of pain on the side of his cheek, by his ear. The room spun.
T’s fist was clenched now, and he loomed above Devon, fire in his eyes.
“More where that came from, you little punk. I shoulda taught you some respect a long time ago. Your mama spoiled you rotten, and my mama’s doin’ the same thing. You walkin’ ’round here like you’re God’s gift to the world and all that. Pfff. Uncle T’s here to stay now. Mark my words.”
Devon clutched at his cheek, heart thudding, and slowly backed away toward his bedroom.
???
He slipped out that night and down to the church. The Friday Night Giveaway was in full swing by the time he arrived.
“Thought you weren’t gonna make it, doll baby,” a tall womanwith caramel-colored skin and a massive silver necklace said, pulling him in for a hug.
She moved back, caught a glimpse of his face in the fluorescent church lights.
“What in the world?”
“Long story, Miss Marla.”
Marla frowned, grabbed his chin to peer at the mottled skin. “Long story, my foot. You been fighting? Don’t lie to a preacher’s wife.” But she gave him a little wink and rubbed the top of his head. “Seriously—you all right?”
His mouth felt as dry as a sock, but he forced a shrug. “It was a dumb accident. I’m fine.”
He couldn’t tell her about Uncle T. Couldn’t tell anybody what really went on at home. If they knew, they’d come fishing, and pretty soon he might find himself in a home like Shane and T.C. They said too much, someone from the state came snooping, and that was that. And then who’d take care of Mama’s memory garden? Who’d take care of Memaw? They’d put her in some home, where she’d be a number, not a person. She needed to be with family.
Needed to be with him. They needed each other. Besides, he’d promised Mama.
