The woman begins to move about the kitchen, improvising this fried chicken recipe as she goes. Atlanta watches as she dumps an indiscriminate amount of flour and cornflakes into a plastic grocery bag—which has a little hole in it, so tiny streamers of flour drift from the bottom like dust from a broken vacuum bag. “I got that taken care of, sweet-cheeks, no problem. Mommy’s on the case.”

“You . . . are?”

“Uh-huh. I took what we had in the bank account and what I get from the state, and I put that toward a Wonderfully Delicious kit. Should be coming in a few weeks and then—”

“Wait, what’s this kit and what’s so wonderfully delicious about it?”

Arlene laughs as she uses a pair of metal tongs to deposit parts from the cut-up fryer chicken into the bag. “No, Atlanta, that’s the brand. Wonderfully Delicious. I’m going to be a saleslady for them. You order the kit and then people come over and you demo their . . . culinary products . . .” Way she says culinary it’s like she’s feeling along a dark room as she walks through it. Cu . . . lin . . . ary? “It’s going to be the bee’s knees, sugar-pop.”

Oh, crap-on-a-stick.

“It’s like Amway,” Atlanta says.

“It’s not like Amway. Amway’s a scam.”

“It’s just like Amway, Mama. For fuck’s sake—”

“Now watch your tongue, girl.”

“—don’t you remember back home when that older boy next door got wrapped up in it? Ricky? Dicky? He had to spend more money than he got back. Amway’s best customers are their own dang salesmen. That’s how they make their money.”

Arlene, indignant, shakes the chicken bag. Flour and cornflakes do a herky-jerky polka inside.

“This is not that,” Arlene insists. “I get to host a party and be a real saleswoman. Like with Avon. Or Tupperware. It’s . . . esteemed.”

“It’s a pyramid scheme!” Atlanta’s hands ball up into frustrated fists. “Shit, Mama, how much did you spend?”

Shake shake shake. “Not your business.”

“I said, how much?”

“Like I said—”

“Mama.”

Arlene says in a much quieter voice, “Five hundred. Ah, five seventy-five. Shipping.” She upends the bag onto a nearby plate, which rattles as a pile of gluey chicken tumbles onto it. Each chicken piece has an uneven, clumpy coating of flour and maybe two cornflakes per piece. Three on the breast. The rest are still in the bag. “Oh, what the hell, I thought I did this right.”

Atlanta sees her mother’s eyes shimmering, like the first few raindrops before the storm hits. Sure enough, the woman starts to whimper, and her lips tighten like a closed-up coin purse, and the tears start to fall. Atlanta knows she’s supposed to go and hug her, but she just can’t stomach that right now. All she can do is scowl and stomp out of the kitchen.