“I know where it is. Why were you at an Arby’s? And what happened with the . . . pyramid-scheme food thing?”

Arlene rolls her eyes. “I was looking for a job. I didn’t think the Wonderfully Delicious thing was a good fit.” Atlanta at first wonders if her mother actually took her advice, but then figures it’s something far simpler: Mama thought it was too hard.

Truth is, Atlanta doesn’t know if her mother is lazy or scared or what. She’s not stupid. She can be very sweet. Maybe she’s depressed, needs pills or something.

“You at least get any money back that you put in?”

“Well . . .”

Dangit!

“Mama, what the hell? You trying to bury us here?”

“Hey, now, I’m trying! I really am.”

“Tell me Arby’s at least gave you a job.”

“They did.” Whew. “But they wanted me to push a broom! They already got a young retarded girl—or maybe she’s older, I dunno, they always seem kinda young even when they’re not, on account of their lack of worldliness—and I told the manager, I said to him, I have more skills than a retarded person—”

Atlanta regrets it soon as she says it, but there it goes, falling out of her mouth: “Do you?”

“What?”

“I’m just saying, retarded people do jobs all the time. Hard jobs. Good jobs. But you mostly sit home and . . . don’t. They probably have plenty of skills you don’t have. I mean, not the really super-retarded ones, maybe, but—you know, I don’t even think we’re supposed to say that word anymore, retarded?”

“Who cares about the damn word? My own daughter is being cruel to me!”

“I’m not being cruel, Mama, I just . . . I’m just saying you can’t go talking to the manager like that. And you oughta be nicer about people. Besides, why can’t you push a dang broom?”

“Because I’m better than that!” Arlene yells. Face suddenly red and eyes suddenly glassy with tears that threaten to fall but don’t. Her voice lowers. “Normally I’d have a man around the house, but ever since . . . well.” Arlene looks away, and Atlanta feels a sudden stab of shame and anger all her own—one of her mother’s many gifts, it seems, is taking her own shitty feelings and passing them along to other people the way you’d hand off a football or give someone else the flu. Arlene continues: “It’s all right. I’ve got it figured out. I’m going to start my own business, be my own boss. You’ll see. For now I need to . . .” It’s like she’s searching for the word. Then she finds it: “Ruminate upon it. Have a cigarette. Maybe a beer. And go sink into a nice hot bath.”

And like that Arlene is gone, walking her way up the steps.