I open one of his dresser drawers real fast. Underwear stacked neat. Next drawer. Undershirts. Next. Socks. And then pajamas and T-shirts. I’m tempted to just slide my hand under some of ’em, like they do in the movies, but I’m too scared. Plus, everything is so organized, I can’t see how he could hide anything.

His closet could pass for two racks at a department store. This is ridiculous. On the shoe boxes he done actually wrote the type and color of shoe in each box. His bed looks like nobody ever sleeps in it. Before I know it, I’m sliding my hands between the mattress and box spring and—bingo!—magazines. I pull one out and flip through it, and—Lord have mercy!—men doing all kinds of things to each other. Things I do to my husband. I close it fast. The next one is Playgirl. Mostly young white guys with big thick penises. It becomes very clear that the shit they been saying about white men having little ones ain’t hardly true no more. I don’t even realize I done got comfortable sitting on the floor, and taking my sweet time looking at these pictures, especially when I find myself reading about Jim and Bill and how they’re on some soap opera. These is some good-looking, sexy young men, I swear to God they are. But then I snap the magazine shut, slide both of ’em back where I found ’em, and smooth the bed back the way it was, and then get the hell outta here. After locking the door, I put that key right where I found it.

Okay. So it is true. What the fuck can I do about it? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I can forget about my son getting a football or basketball scholarship; forget all those fantasies of seeing him play in the NFL or the NBA; forget about him ever giving us any grandbabies or, hell, what about his wedding? The part I hate the most about this whole affair is everybody in my family finding out that what they been saying about Trevor all along is true. I don’t think I can handle it, really. So—I’ma just keep my mouth shut.

In the girls’ room I just start throwing shit into piles, but it don’t take me but a minute to realize that every single piece belong to Tiffany: clothes she don’t fucking appreciate, ’cause if she did they wouldn’t be on the goddamn floor. They just gotta have all this hip-hop shit these rappers who done all become designers overnight is selling and my kids and everybody else’s kids is buying as fast as they can make it. Correction: I’m the one buying it. I open Monique’s side of the dresser, and all of her things is folded. She always complaining that Tiffany is the slob, and she ain’t never lied. And just look at all these sneakers: we should own some stock in Nike, ’cause that’s all they wear. And if that Michael Jordan comes out with one more sneaker, I’ma kick his ass myself.