“You heard what I said Jewel. Get on to New York. I’ll handle this situation here.”

“What’s your way of handling it?” Jewel asked, standing to confront Ma while Hakim braced for possible blows between them.

“My way,” was all Ma answered before saying, “Good night,” and retreating to her bedroom with Hakim’s bottle of Caribbean rum she snatched off the table.

I DIDN’T NOTICE Aunt Jewel’s packed suitcases and bags until I lay alone in the dark on the living-room couch. I was furious at her, for leaving I supposed, and decided not to speak to her in the morning. Ma had set her and her soon-to-be husband up in my bedroom while I was gone. The boiler had been overset and the radiators were rebelling—hissing, clanging, shooting out spit from their rusty valves. I couldn’t sleep because the window was cracked, and though it was the bitter start of a winter the hypes, drunks, and other vagrants weren’t dissuaded from acting up all along King Drive. I listened to the honking horns, laughter, frequent whoops, and arguments rise from the street. A pool of sweat dampened the space between my breasts. I wouldn’t remove my sweatpants because Hakim might rise in the middle of the night and have to use the bathroom. Instead, I threw off the scratchy throw Jewel had bunched around me after she washed up for bed and I pretended to be asleep. She used cocoa butter all over her body every night before she went to sleep, and the scent from her hands wafted down from my forehead, making me imagine chocolate or something else sweet. Like the butterscotch we made, the perfume she wore, the comfort she gave me. Then I knew why I loved her. She gave me the taste of sweetness I could never seem to find on my own.