“Now me,” says Catherine, spread like an eagle on the white quilt. The hairs on her are red. The lips seem longer than normal. They flap like butterflies’ wings. They’re bronze-pink, but the tips look like they’ve been dipped in salt.

“Now me,” she repeats.

“I’m no eater,” says Ernest, folding his arms.

“You see how they are,” says Catherine, rising up on her elbows.

I’m sitting on the floor now, and it looks like she’s staring at me up from a hill of red fern.

“How are they?”

“You know, how they like to make a cocksucker out of a woman, and then they won’t return the favor.”

I stare at her, flapping like she’s ready to take off.

“Yeah, I know what you mean.”

She bends over like a contortionist, slides her own tongue in.

When her head pops up, she’s teeth again. She looks like she’s advertising them, as my aunt once said of a local dentist.

“What if I Gwendola’d it? Put it on a platter for you, with sprigs of parsley, lemon, pimento, Worcestershire, Louisiana hot sauce?”

“Who’s Gwendola?” he asks, matter-of-factly.

“You’d better be glad I’m not Gwendola, Mister.”

“So who is she?”

“That’s for us girlies to know, and you to be grateful you don’t.”

Ernest, his arms still folded, looks like he’s blowing bubbles. I get into his view so he can blow one toward me.

“Here it is. Come and get it y’all! Join the feast!”

Haven’t you had dreams too where you’re afraid to look?

4

“I want stuffed grape leaves,” Catherine announced as soon as we sat down. “I haven’t had stuffed grape leaves in ages. I love ‘em.”

“You?” Ernest asked. He sat across from us. He was still holding the jacket like a shield, then he laid it on the seat beside him.

“I’ll try the grape leaves,” I said. “I’ve never had them.”

“They are the most delicious things in the world,” said Catherine.

“I’ll have the chicken wings with green pepper,” said Ernest. “You always have chicken wings. You don’t have anything but chicken wings.”

“You always have grape leaves.”

“Yes, but Greektown’s the only place I can get stuffed grape leaves. You can have chicken anywhere. You don’t have to go out on the town to have chicken.”

When the waiter came, Ernest ordered a Greek wine, his chicken, and the grape leaves.

“What do you think?” Catherine asked when I bit into the stuffed leaves. I chewed. Really, it looked a little like stuffed cabbage but had a taste I couldn’t exactly place.

“I like it,” I said.

“It’s just too good. How’s your chicken, Baby?”

“Very good.”

“You can have chicken anywhere.”

“They use different spices,” Ernest defended.

“I don’t care how it’s spiced, chicken’s still a bore,” said Catherine.

“You can kill me with boredom. Nothing kills me like boredom.”

We said nothing. Catherine glanced around the room. “Looky y’all, there’s a Chinaman eating Greek. I read somewhere where you shouldn’t call a Chinaman a Chinaman. It’s considered derogatory. It doesn’t sound derogatory to me.”