Salvation Row by Mark Dawson Page A

say—”
    “I can’t put my head through the door, say hello to my folks?”
    His tone was jocular, but there was aggression and threat behind the words. He was slurring, too, drunk or high. Milton started to feel uncomfortable. The atmosphere had soured. It was obvious that there were developments within the family that he still had to understand.
    Alexander walked across to the kitchen counter. Elsie had prepared a Key lime pie for dessert and, without asking, he took a spoon and clawed off a chunk from the edge. Elsie frowned, more with discomfort than disapproval, and Milton decided, for sure, that Alexander Bartholomew had taken a turn for the worse since the time he had last seen him.
    “You remember John Smith?” Solomon said.
    Alexander put the spoon into his mouth and chewed with laconic hostility as he looked down at Milton. “No,” he said. “Refresh my memory.”
    “During Katrina, him and his friend—”
    “Oh, shit, him . Yeah, sure, I remember.”
    Milton stood and extended his hand. “Hello.”
    Alexander sucked the spoon clean. He left Milton’s hand hanging.
    “What did you do after Katrina? You stick around?”
    “No,” Milton said.
    “Flew straight out of here, right? Forgot all about us?”
    “No. I didn’t forget.”
    “Bull shit .”
    “Alexander,” Elsie said severely, looking at Milton in apology.
    “Nah, Mom, things like that, they gotta be said. What’s this like for you, you here to look at how the poor black folk are managing? Like a bit of misery with your tourism?”
    “That’s enough,” Solomon said, pressing his hands down on the table so that he could get his feet beneath him.
    Alexander smiled, sudden and surprising, and pressed his hand on his father’s shoulder to stop him from rising. “S’alright,” he said, slurring. “I was just pulling his chain, is all. How you doing, buddy?”
    “I’m well,” Milton said.
    “What do you want?” Solomon asked his son.
    “Told you. I was in the neighbourhood. Thought I’d come over and say hi to my mom and pops.”
    “You don’t ever just do that,” Elsie chided him sadly.
    “Well, you know, I’m busy—”
    “Doing what?” Solomon interrupted. “Last time I looked, you weren’t doing shit.”
    “Thinking about going back to finish my studies,” he said, pretending hard to be hurt. It was an obvious lie. Milton saw through it the moment the words came out of his mouth, but Solomon’s face opened a little and showed a little hope. Milton felt a prickle of anger that Alexander was toying with him that way.
    He could see that Izzy wasn’t fooled. Elsie wasn’t, either. “What do you really want, Alex, like I needed to ask?”
    “I was hoping, maybe you could advance me a little cash. I’m behind on my rent. Landlord say he’s gonna throw me out if I don’t get straight with him, and, that happens, there ain’t no way I’m going to be able to think about getting that qualification.”
    Solomon reached into the pocket of his slacks and pulled out his wallet. “How much you want?”
    “No,” Izzy said, standing so quickly that she knocked over her empty glass.
    Alexander turned to her, his face dark with anger. “Back off.”
    She ignored him. “No, Pops. Put it away.”
    “I said back—”
    “You know what he’s going to spend it on as well as I do. You don’t pay rent, Alex. The places you been living, they don’t charge, least not for that, do they?”
    “What would you know about the places I been living?”
    “I’ve seen enough of them. I built houses where some of them used to be.”
    Milton felt exquisitely awkward. He had expected an interesting evening, one that had the potential to be pleasant, and now he was in the middle of a personal family argument. He knew that the Bartholomews were proud people, it was obvious from their hospitality and the way that they worked at their house, and he knew that this would be terribly embarrassing for them. Knowing that, and that his