“You better watch how you throwing that name around,Slim.” I chuckle.
“Or what?”
“Or I can take your pretty ass over to Chantilly where you supposed to be and we can pretend none of this ever happened before you get me caught up.”
She rolls her eyes and purses her lips while I pull up the latch on the gate.
“Mhmm. That’s what I thought. Behave, baby bird.” I snort.
“Whatever. Can you at least put a shirt on before we go in this nice woman’s house?”
“Nope.”
She sucks her teeth while I push the gate open, exposing Beatrice’s lush lawn that’s taller than it was last Saturday. I motion for Slim to go ahead of me. Her eyes widen as she walks up the walkway leading to the front porch.
Beatrice has the biggest and nicest house on Joliet. It sits at the very end of the dead-end street with live oak branches draped over it. When we were little, Arnez used to say it looked like “some southern gothic shit” every time we passed it because she was obsessed with reading the Better Homes & Gardens magazines in the checkout line at H-E-B. She said Beatrice’s house was a classic “Craftsman-style.” It’s the only one in the Bottoms.
I suck my teeth, picking up a stray branch lying on the sidewalk from the storm that blew through last week. I toss it off into the high grass, walking past Slim as she stares up at the winding nest of branches covering the house and yard. A few seconds later, her heels clack against the sidewalk, and I catch a whiff of her scent as she eases beside me.
It’s wind-down time.
The porch light cloaks all the guys in an orange tint as they sit in a neat line in wheelchairs that swallow their skinny bodies. A bitter cloud of smoke floats above their heads from all their cigarettes being lit at the same time.
“Is this a nursing home?” Slim whispers, eyeing the porch as we approach it.
“Nah…just a place for the guys to go when they need a lil’ extra love, that’s all.”
“Extra love, huh? So your dad wasn’t getting enough love at home or something?”
She lets out a “hmm,” side-eyeing Beatrice’s yard and front porch. She’s so nosy that I see the questions bubbling at theseam of her lips …and here I go again answering her like a lil’ bitch.
“It started with his hand,” I mumble. “He woke up one morning and couldn’t even keep it steady enough to brush his teeth. Six months later, it was his voice. It used to be so deep it made the walls shake when he yelled. Now it’s lighter than yours. The doctor said he needs a neurologist.”
A soft croak falls from the back of her throat. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“Sorry you have to witness your dad experiencing something like that. It must be difficult for you. I can’t imagine what it must be like seeing him so vulnerable.”
“They teach you that at those fancy schools or something?”
“Teach me what?”
“The perfect words to say to people that tell you depressing shit.”
“It’s called empathy, Tin Man.”
“What the fuck is that?”
She chokes out a laugh. “It means I see you just like you see me. I’m putting myself in your shoes and imagining what it would be like if somebody so close to me had to go through that.”
I cut my eyes at her. “You see me?”
“Yes.” She nods with her eyebrows raised. “So what’s the hold up? When’s he gonna go to the neurologist?”
“Ain’t no hold up. Some folks don’t wanna live the rest of their lives being burdened by specialist visits, Western medicine, and thousands of dollars of medical debt. Beatrice takes good care of him right here.”
Her arm brushes mine while she marches next to me.
