“Hey!” Madge Sawicki yells from the counter. “Git off her! You wan’ me to come out dere with my Louisville?”

She offers up a baseball bat, shakes it above her head like a monkey with a bone-club.

Mitchell relinquishes his grip. Steps backward off the curb, almost gets hit by a car. He says nothing else, just points at Atlanta and then crosses the street.

Atlanta lets out the breath she didn’t realize she was holding. Goes back to the counter where Madge waits.

“Thanks, Madge.”

“Nat a problum,” she says. “Richie-riches are ruinin’ this dang town. You go’n home now, ’Lanta. Go’n.”

When she gets home, Mama’s in the kitchen, which is never a good sign unless the waffle maker is out or there’s an open carton of eggs, and this time she spies neither. What she sees instead is a fryer chicken. And a box of generic cornflakes. And a big, rust-cornered metal container of vegetable oil that’s been in their pantry so long it’s probably rancid.

“You’re gonna start a fire,” Atlanta says.

Arlene shrugs. Sniffles a little. Eyes so puffy the crow’s feet are gone, like bird tracks swallowed by snow. “I want fried chicken, so I’m gonna make me some fried chicken.”

“Do you know how to make fried chicken?”

“Well.” Arlene blinks and looks around her at the fixings like an archaeologist staring at the icons of a lost civilization. “Sure. Coat the chicken in flour. Then cornflakes. Or maybe cornflakes, then flour. And I guess I need some way to make that stuff stick to the chicken. Ummm, and when that’s done you dunk it in hot oil. For some . . . amount of time. Abracadabra, got us some fried chicken. See? Can’t beat that with a stick.”

Atlanta thinks that if she sees her mother go anywhere near a pot of hot oil she might have to beat the woman with a stick. Thing about Atlanta’s mother is, when she gets in a mood, Arlene decides she wants comfort. And the way she gets comfort is with home cooking. Collard greens. Or red beans and rice. Or, heaven forbid, some ugly, sick-making facsimile of barbecue. That woman can’t cook worth a shit. Unless it’s breakfast.

Though maybe if she burns the house down, they’ll get the insurance money and all this will be blood under the bridge. Provided they don’t both die in the fire.

“Mama, we gotta talk.”

“Can we do it over dinner?”

“I think we should do it now.”

Arlene picks up the box of cornflakes, shakes it at her daughter dismissively. “Honey, I know you’re thinking I’m going to burn the house down, but I promise I am not.” She pleads: “Just let me have this.”

“It’s not about that. I mean, it is about the house. It’s about the mortgage payments.”