before her, she went into a virtual coma. But there all similarities ceased.
Before that she did take the suggested bath, but she didn’t need my help. She also didn’t luxuriate in it nor did she wash the makeup from her face as far as I could tell. I was going to have to replace the pillowcases.
None of the sleep pants and tops we had on hand would fit her, and she didn’t hug the smallish T-shirt I unearthed as if it were from Abercrombie and Fitch the way the others had done just because they had something clean to put on their bodies. She examined it with lip curled and asked if she could just sleep in her underwear.
“You can sleep however you want,” I said. “As long as you’re not under the influence. That’s the one thing we do insist—”
“Under the influence of what?”
“Illegal drugs. Alcohol. Any controlled substances.”
“I tried pot once and I hated it. I don’t like not being in control.”
Imagine that.
I didn’t say anything, though, because her lips were now clamped together so hard the space under her nose went white. She obviously hadn’t intended for that much to escape and she was making sure it didn’t happen again.
She conked out until after I got back from picking Desmond up at school. By the time he and I heard her on the second floor getting up from the sleep of the thoroughly exhausted we were sitting at the bistro table in the kitchen finishing up my prelude to his meeting this new addition to the household.
“I done this ’bout a hundred times before, Big Al,” he said, as he slyly palmed his third Oreo from the plate between us. “I know I got to give her space and don’t ask questions and don’t go poppin’ my eyes out if she look like she just done crawled outta the gutter.”
“You don’t have to worry about that part. She’s not an addict.”
“Then how come she was hookin’?” he said.
I felt the pang I always felt when my thirteen-year-old came out with something he’d learned from living in the gutter himself. Only this time the Mosquito came to mind, buzzing about his community of origin.
“’S wrong, Big Al?”
I pulled the lid off of my second Oreo and lied, “I was just thinking that that’s a good question.”
“And I ain’t supposed to ask it ’cause itta come out when she ready. What’s her name again?”
“Her street name is Foxy.”
His brow puckered. “What kinda name is that?”
“You don’t know the expression foxy ? Like foxy lady.”
“That some ol’ tired thing they use to say in the old days?”
“It wasn’t tired then. It meant the person was very attractive.”
“Like hot.” The irrepressible grin swallowed his face. “Then they musta called you that back then. Imma start callin’ you—”
“No, you’re not. So look, it’s just business as usual with Foxy. Love and respect.”
“Got it.”
“Even if she doesn’t show us any.”
“We got to be the model.”
“Right.”
The door from the dining room swung open and Foxy appeared wearing the T-shirt. That was it. It came down just to the top of her thighs, which was right where Desmond’s eyes went.
“Des,” I said, “go grab a pair of your hanging-out pants from the clean laundry basket I put in your room.”
“Huh?” he said.
“Go,” I said.
He fell more than climbed out of the bistro chair and walked backward to his room. The pot rack and the kitchen trash can tottered in his wake.
“That was your son?” Foxy said. “Were you married to a black guy?”
“No,” I said. “He’s adopted.”
“How old is he?”
“Just turned thirteen.”
“What grade is he in?”
“Eighth.” I crossed my arms. “Y’know, for somebody who doesn’t want to divulge anything about herself, you sure ask a lot of questions about other people.”
She shrugged her hair back. “Other people don’t have to be on their guard every single minute.”
It struck me how articulate this young woman was. The fact that she knew what
Before that she did take the suggested bath, but she didn’t need my help. She also didn’t luxuriate in it nor did she wash the makeup from her face as far as I could tell. I was going to have to replace the pillowcases.
None of the sleep pants and tops we had on hand would fit her, and she didn’t hug the smallish T-shirt I unearthed as if it were from Abercrombie and Fitch the way the others had done just because they had something clean to put on their bodies. She examined it with lip curled and asked if she could just sleep in her underwear.
“You can sleep however you want,” I said. “As long as you’re not under the influence. That’s the one thing we do insist—”
“Under the influence of what?”
“Illegal drugs. Alcohol. Any controlled substances.”
“I tried pot once and I hated it. I don’t like not being in control.”
Imagine that.
I didn’t say anything, though, because her lips were now clamped together so hard the space under her nose went white. She obviously hadn’t intended for that much to escape and she was making sure it didn’t happen again.
She conked out until after I got back from picking Desmond up at school. By the time he and I heard her on the second floor getting up from the sleep of the thoroughly exhausted we were sitting at the bistro table in the kitchen finishing up my prelude to his meeting this new addition to the household.
“I done this ’bout a hundred times before, Big Al,” he said, as he slyly palmed his third Oreo from the plate between us. “I know I got to give her space and don’t ask questions and don’t go poppin’ my eyes out if she look like she just done crawled outta the gutter.”
“You don’t have to worry about that part. She’s not an addict.”
“Then how come she was hookin’?” he said.
I felt the pang I always felt when my thirteen-year-old came out with something he’d learned from living in the gutter himself. Only this time the Mosquito came to mind, buzzing about his community of origin.
“’S wrong, Big Al?”
I pulled the lid off of my second Oreo and lied, “I was just thinking that that’s a good question.”
“And I ain’t supposed to ask it ’cause itta come out when she ready. What’s her name again?”
“Her street name is Foxy.”
His brow puckered. “What kinda name is that?”
“You don’t know the expression foxy ? Like foxy lady.”
“That some ol’ tired thing they use to say in the old days?”
“It wasn’t tired then. It meant the person was very attractive.”
“Like hot.” The irrepressible grin swallowed his face. “Then they musta called you that back then. Imma start callin’ you—”
“No, you’re not. So look, it’s just business as usual with Foxy. Love and respect.”
“Got it.”
“Even if she doesn’t show us any.”
“We got to be the model.”
“Right.”
The door from the dining room swung open and Foxy appeared wearing the T-shirt. That was it. It came down just to the top of her thighs, which was right where Desmond’s eyes went.
“Des,” I said, “go grab a pair of your hanging-out pants from the clean laundry basket I put in your room.”
“Huh?” he said.
“Go,” I said.
He fell more than climbed out of the bistro chair and walked backward to his room. The pot rack and the kitchen trash can tottered in his wake.
“That was your son?” Foxy said. “Were you married to a black guy?”
“No,” I said. “He’s adopted.”
“How old is he?”
“Just turned thirteen.”
“What grade is he in?”
“Eighth.” I crossed my arms. “Y’know, for somebody who doesn’t want to divulge anything about herself, you sure ask a lot of questions about other people.”
She shrugged her hair back. “Other people don’t have to be on their guard every single minute.”
It struck me how articulate this young woman was. The fact that she knew what
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