I guess that’s what I get for tuning Faye out when she wanted to run her mouth while we sat on Beatrice’s back porch sometimes. The most I remember her saying about her niece was that she was smart. She was a private school kid and a Lockwood alumni. Next thing I know, Faye’s telling me she’s gonna send her to clean my house when I only ever saw her twice in my life—once in a few pictures at Faye and Kenny’s house and another time when I ran into Faye at Lucky’s. I was only thirteen, and she slept in Faye’s backseat while Faye fussed over the sunken knuckle I had from sparring with Benny Jones.
“She’s supposed to be marrying some NFL player up there,” Smitty says.
New York?
NFL?
“Oh yeah? A ballplayer?”
“Mhmm.” Smitty hums, pulling out a bar stool and flopping down on it, spreading the stale scent of beer and cigarettes around. “He supposed to be a wide receiver.”
“He from here?”
“I’on think so.”
Smitty knows a lot more about Slim than I do, and I feel some type of way about it. Shit, she’d been in my house, digging in my stuff, when she was only supposed to be washing my drawers, and I don’t even remember her real name.
“You know she graduated from Lockwood ‘bout two years back. Matter of fact, I got a plate from her graduation party when I went to grab a beer from Old Man Hester’s on Chantilly. I met the boy’s mama while Faye fixed my food. They said the boy went to Lockwood too—played on a scholarship there. I think his people is from New York, maybe. I can’t be too sure.” He pausesand looks up at the ceiling. “I just remember his mama talking ’bout how happy they was that he got drafted to the Knights. Why the hell else would they be happy about the boy getting drafted to the sorry ass Knights? He ain’t go to no Cowboys. That right there told me everything I needed to know about them.”
“An NFL player letting his gal clean houses?” I ask, looking over my shoulder.
“Strange, ain’t it?”
I shrug, letting out a “hmph.”
There’s more, but I doubt I’ll ever hear the full story—especially from Smitty. He can’t even remember what day it is most of the time.
He whips a pack of Newports from his shirt pocket and pats the bottom like he doesn’t already have a cigarette dangling between his scarred lips. He always says it’s a nervous tic, but it really keeps his hands busy and curbs his cravings because he’s been a junkie since he stopped fighting.
“Borrowitz take care of you today?” he asks, resting his elbows on the island.
I turn around, flashing my dark gums at him.
He grins. “Looking good, neph. You looking real, real good.”
“‘Preciate it.”
“Don’t worry ‘bout that mumble. It goes away with time. Your brain just ain’t caught up with your body. It’s part of the healing process. You’ll be back talking normal pretty soon. The hardest in the litter always heals the fastest.”
As soon as he says that, the excitement of coming home and finding a woman in my kitchen wears off and the teeth-grinding soreness surges back through my jaw.
I open it and close it.
“The first thing them wild boys try to do is take your teeth—especially nice teeth like yours.” He talks around the cigarette dangling from his mouth.
“You don’t think I know that?” I sputter out.
Smitty rolls his eyes.
When him and Senior fought at Lucky’s, missing teeth gave fighters clout. They loved to leave the pit with loose teeth and broken bones. Things were different, though. Back then Lucky ran the house and paid Dr. Borrowitz to hang around the pit to tend to the fighters every Sunday. He said it was to help us keep our dignity, but then Melo Barnes decided Dr. Borrowitz was a waste of his money because he ain’t believe in shit like dignity. Now they rolled niggas’ bodies into the bayou before the rigor mortis even set in.
“Get me a light and let’s go on the back porch,” Smitty says, eyeing the full dustpan I left on the floor. “You got time, don’t you?”
I swipe my neck and nod. “Nothing but it.”
“Good. I heard some shit down at Lucky’s about a boy coming from the northside.” He whistles, lifting his arms in the air. “They say his footwork so raw he look like he moonwalking and I know you hate a dancing nigga.”
I chuckle, shaking my head. “‘Cause I’m getting too old for that shit.”
