I don’t even know which sister I dial until one answers. “Charlotte?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s me, Paris.”

“What can I do for you?” she says, dryly.

You’d think I was a bill collector. “You don’t have to sound so cold, Charlotte, my goodness.”

“I don’t sound cold, and if you called to give me another lecture, I ain’t in the mood.”

“I’m not calling to lecture you, so please don’t hang up the phone.”

“Well, what’s going on?”

“I was just calling to see how you’re doing.”

“I’m doing just fine. Why wouldn’t I be?”

Just the tone of her voice tells me she’s lying. I don’t know why it’s becoming so hard for us to tell each other the truth, when we used to tell each other everything. “Relax, Charlotte. Why’re you so defensive? You’re the one who hung up on me the last time we talked, remember?”

“Look, Paris, I talked to Mama and she understood why I didn’t come out there, okay?”

“Okay. That’s not why I’m calling.”

“Then what are you calling about?”

There’s a click on the line. This could be my agent. “Can you hold on a second?”

“Yeah.”

Before I press the receiver, I hear Miss Ordelle, the older lady who irons for me on Wednesdays, come in the side door. I see her bandana tied around her head. “Hi, baby,” she says, almost to the floor.

“Hi, Miss Ordelle. How are you?”

“No worse for the weary,” she says, and coughs ferociously. “But I’m here.”

The phone clicks again.

“You gon’ get that?” Charlotte asks.

I click it this time.

“Hello, Mrs. Price?”

My agent calls me “Paris,” and anyway it’s a man’s voice, so then I think it’s Dingus trying to pretend like he’s Isaac Hayes or Barry White, but he’s still at school. “Look. I’m on a long-distance call, and if you’re trying to sell me something, the answer is I’m not interested, or I already have some, and, no, I don’t want to change my long-distance company, and if you’re not selling anything, who’s calling and how’d you get this number?”

“This is Randall Jamison. I’m the landscaper. . . .”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Now I feel silly.

“No, I’m sorry for being late. I’m stuck in traffic. Apparently, a semi has flipped over on 280, and me along with about a hundred other cars are waiting to see when we can move. I just wanted you to know that.”

“Well, thanks for calling, Randall. And don’t worry, I’ve got enough to keep me busy until you get here.”

Before I click back to Charlotte, I have to pause for a minute. What a nice voice. What a sexy voice. A landscaper. He’s probably rough and ready and raggedy and ugly and dry and dirty, and I bet he stinks. Oh, who cares, as long as he can get the job done. I press the receiver. “Charlotte?”

“I’m still here.”

“So—how are you, again?”

“I’m fine, Paris. Couldn’t be better. How’s Dingus?”