“You shouldn’t let him drive it, Mama.”

“I know. But it’s too far and too frigging hot to walk anywhere, and with his arthritis acting up and all.”

“His what?”

“Maybe he ain’t been lying about it. His right knee is all puffed up, and you should see his elbows and wrists, Paris. They look like big knots. Even two of his fingers is getting crooked.”

“Really? I just thought he’s been faking these past couple of years. That he’s just been complaining to get some sympathy and using it as an excuse so he wouldn’t have to work.”

“I saw it with my own eyes.”

“Then why doesn’t he go to a doctor?”

“He said he’s been to three or four, but all they do is give him this medicine that messes up his stomach. He said Tylenol works, sometimes. And he took four of ’em at one time. Why don’t you give him one or two of your Advils?”

Is she trying to be funny? “I’ll ask him if he wants to try one when he gets back. Where’s Shanice?”

“Still sleep!” Janelle screams from the bathroom. She’s sitting on the edge of the bathtub when I get back, fidgeting with Mama’s shower curtain with tropical fish swimming behind her. “I guess she was beat.”

“I know she was,” I say, and get out a brand-new toothbrush from under the sink.

“What are we going to do for Mama’s birthday?”

“That’s what you wanted to talk to me about?”

“Yes.”

“That’s it?”

“Well, not exactly.”

“Then what?” I ask.

“First, do you have any ideas what we could do?”

“Well, I was thinking about asking if she wanted to come up for a few weeks, which we know the answer to that already. Plus, I might have to go to London for four or five days. She could hang out with Dingus, maybe spend a week with you.”

“I’m not sure what my situation is going to be like yet.”

“Don’t worry about it. Anyway, what’s the deal with George? Have you guys really split up?”

“Probably.”

“What happened?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m still far too pissed.”

“He didn’t touch Shanice, did he?”

“No,” she says, dryly.

“You wouldn’t lie about some shit like this, would you, Janelle, seriously?”

“No, I wouldn’t. But I don’t feel like talking about George right now, Paris, okay?”

“Are you pregnant?” She looks shocked by my question.

“What would make you ask that?” Her eyes are black and glassy. Like she’s going to break down any minute.

“Well, you look like you’ve gained weight and your boobs are bigger.”

“So what? Yours are, too.”

“Yeah, but I bought mine.”

“What?”

“I got implants.”

“When? Why didn’t you tell me? Let me see!”

I lift up my pajama top and show these beauties off.

“Damn,” she says, staring. “They’re humongous!”

“They are not. I’m a 34-D. That’s it.” I cup them with both hands, then let them go. They don’t move.