“You know, all you women think alike. . . .”

“Put Mama back on the phone, would you?”

“I’m not finished.”

“I’m hanging up this phone if you don’t put her back on.”

“Hold on a minute. A man can’t even get his own sister to listen to him anymore. Hear what I feel. Anyway, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Can’t wait.”

Mama gets back on the phone. “Yes indeedy,” she says.

“He’s pathetic, isn’t he, Mama?”

“Worse.”

“I thought you said you told him everything?”

“Everything I wanted to. But what’s done is done.”

“Have you talked to Janelle or Charlotte?”

“Janelle and Shanice are driving here tomorrow sometime. And, no, I have not heard from Charlotte, and don’t even think about calling her to ask her to come. I don’t want to see her ass.”

“I won’t.”

“I mean it, Paris. For once in your life, don’t try to play the referee. Just come and bring me some of that sour bread from Fisherman’s Wharf and a box of those little oyster crackers to put in my soup—could you do that?”

“No problem, Mama. Love you.”

“You ain’t said nothing but a word,” she says, and hangs up.

I look down at my phone list. Then over at the budget sheet. I don’t feel like facing any of these folks. Do not feel like chitchatting, hearing their voices. I don’t feel like thinking about fire-roasted anything or Moroccan-this or Moroccan-that. Don’t care what kind of salad they eat, or where in the house a band will fit, or the difference in cost for the strippers who go all the way or those who show only breasts. My daddy’s gone. I wonder if Mama really is glad. People say one thing but feel another. Oh shit! I forgot about that stupid interview with the producers who want me to host a cooking show preparing meals from start to finish! From start to fucking finish. Look at this desk! It’s covered with every kind of paper you can think of: pictures of food, recipes I’ve been altering and saving for years which will one day go into my cookbook—if I ever find the time for that.

What I do know is, I’ve got a budget to write, a soon-to-be-seventeen-year-old son who may or may not be on his way to fatherhood, my mama’s in the hospital, I do not feel like meeting with anybody today, and my head is getting tight again. I take a few deep breaths, but this doesn’t quite cut it, so I reach inside the drawer and take out the prescription bottle. I dump one white pill into my palm, but then I think two should probably do the trick.

Every Shut Eye Ain’t Closed

Shanice jerks the door open.

Before I can decide whether to walk in or not, she appears from behind the doorway. It looks as if she’s trying to block the entrance by her presence alone. I feel a sheath of heat jut out from her body that creates an invisible shield I know I can’t penetrate right now. I look at my daughter. She does not look like my little girl. She’s too tall for her age. Her shoulders are erect, her chest up too high, like some runway model. Her hands are pressed deeply into her hips, as if she’s trying to stop herself from leaping on me. I could be wrong. I hope I’m wrong. She does not look scared or frightened, the way I imagined she would. She looks more annoyed than anything.