His Adam’s apple bounces as he swallows. He wants to ask a “Rich question” about Mama and Tony, but I think he can see I can’t say more about them—not even after eighteen years.
“What about New York? He know what you do when you lie?” he asks.
“New York?”
“The ballplayer—the wide receiver—the one everybody around you thinks is so good.”
“I don’t think he ever paid that much attention to how words fell out of my mouth.”
He pulls his thumb away from my lip and I curl my fingers into my hand so they won’t chase his like they did in Beatrice’s kitchen.
“Hmph.” He shakes his head. “Yeah. I forgot he was a fuckin peon.”
Dammit, I felt every morsel of hate intertwined in that insult and for the first time in my life, my mouth and pussy water at the same time for a man like Rich.
He’s not my type.
He’s not my type.
He’s not my type.
He reaches for my neck again, and I try to gulp in some of the savory air slithering from Beatrice’s kitchen while that mantra disappears into the abyss with everything else Rich doesn’t tolerate, like shame and loneliness.
“C’mon,” he says, gently pushing me toward the last open door in the hallway.
I lean into his hand to savor its hardness before he snatches it away again. I try to memorize the calluses and scars that decorate it so I can have them later in the privacy of my bedroom.
When we get near his dad’s doorway, he holds me in front of him like a human shield and taps his fingers against the doorframe. I hold my breath, waiting for Senior to turn his head and excitedly beckon us into his room because his son had made it to his thirtieth year on this god-forsaken planet, but he doesn’t do any of that.
Instead, he sits up straight in his wheelchair, staring at the moving image of a fireplace crackling on the mounted flatscreen on his bedroom wall while his fingers shake against the armrest.
Rich drags the rough pads of his fingers across my neck in lazy circles while I try to fight through that nasty feeling in the pit of my stomach.
Jesus, doesanybodyremember what day it is?
“Man, why you ain’t out on the porch?” Rich asks, pulling his hand from my neck and placing it at the small of my back.
He nudges me, and I take a step forward until he places both hands on my hips and walks us inside. I’m caged between his heavy arms so there’s no way I can take off now, but I’m okay with it.
I glance around the large bedroom.
Senior is loved.
It’s in his neatly made full-sized bed, the Harley-Davidson calendar on the wall with notes scribbled onto different days, and in the bleachy scent that lingers inside his room.
He finally grunts. “My last cigarette was a month ago. Go on the…the…porch for what?”
“To socialize.”
“Socialize? I see them niggas every day.”
His words drag out in that unnatural, breathy rhythm Rich told me about. It makes me lean in closer to hear him.
Rich pushes us forward again until we stop in front of the empty chair sitting underneath the TV. He lets my waist go while I study his dad.
Senior is a mammoth of a man, just like his son is, but he’s so thin his cheekbones poke out. I’d say he’s beautiful, but that word is too boring to describe the scar that zigzags across his symmetrical face and the brightness of his golden skin. He looks too young to be confined to a wheelchair.
He holds his shaky finger up, pointing it at me with a neutral expression.
