The Turner House by Angela Flournoy

up.”
    â€œMmm-hmm,” Troy mumbled. He sponged Worcestershire sauce and cold lamb fat from the skillet. Every summer Troy sent for Camille for a month. For three years it had been the only time he’d seen her in person. Jillian had come to look forward to the visits too. Troy knew she wanted a child of her own, a child that he was not poised to give her. Viola had always called him the Lucky Boy because he was the last son born, and Francis had tried harder to be present in his life than he had the six boys before him. They’d gone fishing on Lake Saint Clair, to countless Lions games out in Pontiac. One summer when Troy was twelve, Francis, inspired by an announcement on the morning news, had tracked down the SwimMobile for Troy and two of his friends. He dropped them off on the west side. He must have noticed their apprehension at swimming with kids from unfamiliar blocks because he’d told them, “This whole city belongs to you. Specially at this age. Don’t let nobody stop you from enjoyin it.” He’d sat in his truck as they splashed around in the mobile pool—an eighteen-wheeler with an open cargo container in the back filled with hydrant water—listening to the radio and smoking his pipe. Francis even attended Troy’s graduation from basic, something he’d never done for Quincy, Russell, Lonnie, Miles, or Duke when they finished boot camp. This extra time spent was not enough for Troy, because Francis still existed behind a wall of formality. You could not go to Francis for advice about girls, or bullies, or even siblings. He would shrug off responsibility with something like, “Your mama got a better head for that sorta thing,” or “Might as well ask Cha-Cha, what’s an old man know?” It was if his father had finally figured out the value of sharing his time with his children but not his heart. Troy tried to give more than this to Camille, via video chats, spontaneous gifts in the mail, and support of her extracurricular interests, which ranged from German and French classes to ballet. It took a lot of energy, and Troy did not think he had enough reserved for another child, nor enough money.
    â€œWe should put her in a little summer program,” Jillian said. “She’s old enough now to do a day camp, or maybe a short sleep-away one. There’s this one in the Upper Peninsula that’s a week long about ecosystems and stuff. Maybe Cara would help pay.”
    He dried his hands and came over to the couch.
    â€œI met with Dave earlier tonight.”
    â€œOh yeah? What’s he talking about?”
    â€œUm.” Troy hopped back up and went to the fridge for a beer. “Ha. It’s funny. We was talkin about my mama’s house, actually.”
    He could feel her eyes on him, even as he faced the fridge in mock deliberation (they only had Heinekens to choose from). He knew her head was cocked, that she was incredulous that he’d brought the issue up again. Soon her neck, that beautiful, elongated, near limb that had drawn him to her in the first place, would be tensing up, shrinking into her shoulders.
    â€œDave knows a guy who can help with the house paperwork, but it’ll cost extra. And, um, I was thinkin maybe we could wait to bring Camille out here till the second half of the summer, like late July?”
    He turned around to find her posed just as he’d imagined.
    â€œWhat the fuck, Troy? What’s there to even . . . help with? Huh? We had this . . . conversation not three fucking days ago.”
    â€œYeah, but the more I think about it, we gotta do this, Jill.”
    He sat on the couch, ignored her hostile posture, and moved in close. If they were willing to be close to each other, it could not be considered a fight yet. He put his hand on her thigh.
    â€œWhy?” she asked. “You need to . . . to really
think
about why. You’re gonna piss folks off . . .