“Your hair looks pretty,” I say, taking in the freshly cut bob—flat-ironed sleek, with new caramel streaks framing a face that looks a lot like mine. Except the eyes. Hers are a soft walnut-brown. Mine are hazel, like Grandpa Webber’s. “The chin length and color are so good on you.” It complements her bronze skin.
“Thanks, honey.” She fluffs the ends, pleased. “Needed a change.”
“Everything okay?”
“Everything’s fine.”
I study her. Fifty-eight. Petite and compact. Dressed in sage scrubs. While I was growing up, she was a stay-at-home mom. Now she works mornings at the dental office. Belinda Webber is all heart. Sweet in a way I didn’t inherit. I always thought she deserved better than Maurice.
“Where’s General Patton?” I ask.
“Lot,” she scolds gently, “your father just had a scope and a replacement. Try to go easy on him.”
“I promise not to fire first.”
She sighs and pours two glasses of tea, handing them to me like I need a peace offering.
The house has that lived-in, homey feel. The kind that makes you expect chocolate chip cookies to be cooling on the counter, the scent wafting through the air. But my father’s too traditional to bake and my mom can’t, though she gave it her all. I used to dread potluck days at school when she’d send me off with those hard disks passed off as ginger snaps. They could’ve snapped a tooth, all right. I smile inside at the memory.
Where Mom is hugs, warmth, and positivity, my father is all discipline, rules, and critique. Delivered under the banner of “this is for your own good.” When really, it’s just his assholery on display. They’re the epitome of opposites attract.
When Rayne lost her mother at a young age, mine stepped in, caring for her and Uncle Mo. That’s just how Mom is. It was the same with Dice. We never knew the full extent of what was happening next door. I still don’t, because Dice never talked about it. But we all knew Jasinder Jones had a reputation for lying and deceiving. She was a scammer who would swipe your wallet while smiling in your face. I was there the day the cops took her away in handcuffs when Dice was sixteen.
Mom never judged. She was the one who always told me Dice deserved kindness—even if my father disagreed.
I find Maurice in the den, leg elevated on his brown leather recliner, the outline of the bandage showing through his dress pants. Even post-op, the man doesn’t do casual. Neat afro, face clean-shaven. Button-down shirt, tweed cardigan, reading glasses low on his nose, spreadsheets across his lap.
He’s an accountant by trade. Still has a handful of clients he does tax returns for, but he always wanted to run a business. When Docks was about to go under, he stepped in and bought the old watering hole. If it weren’t for Dice and his ability to see opportunities where my father couldn’t, Docks 2.0 might not have survived either.
“Hello, Charlotte,” he says, peering over his half-frame glasses.
“Maurice.”
His brow twitches. I told him years ago that I’d stop calling him by his first name when he respected my decision to go by Lot. Fifteen years later, we’re still in a standoff. I’ve conceded on other things—covering my midriff when I’m in his house—but I won’t compromise on my name.
“How’s the knee?” I ask, setting the tea down beside him on the table.
“Still attached. No thanks to that butcher of a surgeon.”
“You mean one of the best ortho specialists in Illinois?”
“Best? He stitched me up like bargain-bin fabric.”
I drop into the floral armchair across from him. “Glad to see you’re not being dramatic.”
“Hmph. Is my business still standing?”
“You know it is. You watch the numbers like a hawk. I’m wasting my time there. You’ve got capable people and I’ve got a business I need to get back to.”
“Making lewd T-shirts,” he grunts.
“It’s making art in a way that works for me.”
“You could’ve gone to any art school. Had your work in fine galleries. Why you chose to graffiti shirts and buildings is beyond me.”
“Graffiti is life. It’s urban. It speaks. I did a mural in New York celebrating Black pride. That’s my gallery.”
“In a filthy city where street people urinate against your so-called art.”
