Cabbage.
Dinner rolls.
“Do you have a preference or would you like everything?” Ishmael leaned in to ask.
“Chicken. Potatoes. Cauliflower. Cabbage. Rice.”
He lifted both plates from the setting in front of me. One by one, he filled them with the choices I’d made. Indigo did the same for his mother. Isaías’ palms were against the table until our plates were returned. Simultaneously, the three of them began to pile their plates.
“Let me get some chicken, big throat,” Indigo exclaimed, shoving Isaías’ hand.
“If you don’t want your throat shoved down your stomach, I suggest you refrain from putting–”
“Hey. Hey!” Janis called out.
“That’s this nigga, acting like he been in the field eating them pouches full of that bul–”
“Indigo,” Ishmael warned.
“Aight. Aight. I’m done.”
“You’re lying.” Ishmael eased into his seat.
“I am, but that’s nothing new.” Indigo shrugged.
I suppressed my laughter. It was obvious who was in charge. It was just as obvious who was the most problematic.
“Next time you invite me, don’t invite him.”
“Nigga, why are you here anyway? We ain’t seen you in five months of Sundays. It’s been peaceful.”
“That’s extremely hard to believe unless you were absent yourself.”
“Yeah, whatever. Answer the question.”
“I’m here to support my brother,” Isaías revealed. “This is about him. Not me.”
“Fine time to support. You marched for this fucked up ass country but ain’t been to one door to ask for support from the voters.”
Isaías forked his food.
“We can take it outside, Indigo.”
“My heat on me right now. Why we going outside? I can light you up in here.”
“Is your weapon your only line of defense?”
“Indigo! Isaías! We have a guest.”
“I have six sisters and five brothers. This is not–”
“Damn, your people was doing a lot a fucking,” Indigo shrieked.
“Watch your mouth, Son!”
“My bad,” he apologized.
“Twelve children amongst four adults. Not that I’m explaining the size of my family. Whatever they were doing was their business. Not mine. Not yours.”
