shrimp could defrost. Which boy was it? The sounds were light and
quick. They were moving fast, and they were trying to be quiet. A drawer
slid shut a little too hard, and she heard a clipped tread. Christophe. So
he would be the one up and running then. She sat down at the table just
in time for him to come tiptoeing into the kitchen and stop short.
"Good morning."
"Morning, Ma-mee."
"You sleep alright?"
"Yes, ma'am." His voice sounded like he'd swallowed a mouthful of
gravel.
"Sounds like you done had better."
Christophe shifted: he was leaning as if he was about to go. He was
thinking of an excuse. She ran her fingertips across the wood of the
tabletop and thought of his thick curly hair. She wanted him next to her,
and she would not allow him to run. He took a step.
"Paul bought some shrimp by last night. Around ten pounds or so."
"Oh yeah?" He hadn't spoken so softly since he was a little boy.
"Yes, sir. More than I can peel by myself. They in the sink defrosting."
She passed her hand across the wood again, and gave him her best sweet,
flirting smile. "I'm glad you woke up so early. I was hoping you could
help me with them."
She heard him brush his hands down the front of his white shirt.
She knew that if she could see details, it would be wrinkled. Clean, but
wrinkled.
"I got to take a shower."
"Alright."
"Yes, ma'am."
Christophe was looking at her, studying her. He whispered, "Yes,
ma am." He walked slowly from the room. Seconds later, she heard the
shower running. She hummed to herself as Otis Redding's harsh, surging
voice wound its way through her head. The cock announced itself from
below the kitchen window, excited by the sounds of movement from the
kitchen. She loved Otis Redding. She tried not to influence the boys with
her affinity for sad love songs, with the melancholy in her that responded
to them, but after Cille had gone to Atlanta and she'd been left alone in
the house with the boys, she'd played his album over and over on a little
portable record player she'd given Cille as a birthday present when she
was a teenager: Cille had left the house without it. The Otis record was
one of a few Cille had left: Otis, Harold Melvin and the Bluenotes, Earth,
Wind & Fire, some boy that looked like a girl on an album cover that called himself Prince. She never listened to that one. But the others, the
others she liked.
She kept the record player in her room now on a dresser in a corner.
She rarely played it.
The small cassette radio player in the kitchen window had taken its
place in the kitchen. The boys kept that radio tuned to an oldies R&B
station, and that suited her. She liked to listen to it while she cooked or
cleaned in the kitchen. Sometimes they would play some of the songs she
liked, some Al Green or some Sam Cooke. Some song where the man
sounded like he'd been crying in the recording booth when he made the
song, like his fingers had been itching with the phantom feel of some
woman on them when he'd hit the high notes in the recording studio. It
was always a woman. She knew that there was something new that played
music now, CD players that played hard shiny discs that looked like small
records, but she was too old for those: her eyesight prevented her from
reading the digital display on the stereo in the boys room, so she figured
it was a waste to fool with it. She felt the shrimp through the plastic bag,
felt the small bodies give under the pressure of her fingers. They were
ready. The shower shut off in the bathroom, and she pulled the plug. The
water gurgled down the drain like a throat: a noisy swallowing.
When Christophe walked into the kitchen in a T-shirt and shorts,
barefoot, Ma-mee had spread newspaper over the table and piled the
shrimp in the middle of it. An empty gallon plastic ice-cream bucket sat
in the middle of the table next to the shrimp. She was waiting on him.
He sat and passed his hand over his face. She thought he must
quick. They were moving fast, and they were trying to be quiet. A drawer
slid shut a little too hard, and she heard a clipped tread. Christophe. So
he would be the one up and running then. She sat down at the table just
in time for him to come tiptoeing into the kitchen and stop short.
"Good morning."
"Morning, Ma-mee."
"You sleep alright?"
"Yes, ma'am." His voice sounded like he'd swallowed a mouthful of
gravel.
"Sounds like you done had better."
Christophe shifted: he was leaning as if he was about to go. He was
thinking of an excuse. She ran her fingertips across the wood of the
tabletop and thought of his thick curly hair. She wanted him next to her,
and she would not allow him to run. He took a step.
"Paul bought some shrimp by last night. Around ten pounds or so."
"Oh yeah?" He hadn't spoken so softly since he was a little boy.
"Yes, sir. More than I can peel by myself. They in the sink defrosting."
She passed her hand across the wood again, and gave him her best sweet,
flirting smile. "I'm glad you woke up so early. I was hoping you could
help me with them."
She heard him brush his hands down the front of his white shirt.
She knew that if she could see details, it would be wrinkled. Clean, but
wrinkled.
"I got to take a shower."
"Alright."
"Yes, ma'am."
Christophe was looking at her, studying her. He whispered, "Yes,
ma am." He walked slowly from the room. Seconds later, she heard the
shower running. She hummed to herself as Otis Redding's harsh, surging
voice wound its way through her head. The cock announced itself from
below the kitchen window, excited by the sounds of movement from the
kitchen. She loved Otis Redding. She tried not to influence the boys with
her affinity for sad love songs, with the melancholy in her that responded
to them, but after Cille had gone to Atlanta and she'd been left alone in
the house with the boys, she'd played his album over and over on a little
portable record player she'd given Cille as a birthday present when she
was a teenager: Cille had left the house without it. The Otis record was
one of a few Cille had left: Otis, Harold Melvin and the Bluenotes, Earth,
Wind & Fire, some boy that looked like a girl on an album cover that called himself Prince. She never listened to that one. But the others, the
others she liked.
She kept the record player in her room now on a dresser in a corner.
She rarely played it.
The small cassette radio player in the kitchen window had taken its
place in the kitchen. The boys kept that radio tuned to an oldies R&B
station, and that suited her. She liked to listen to it while she cooked or
cleaned in the kitchen. Sometimes they would play some of the songs she
liked, some Al Green or some Sam Cooke. Some song where the man
sounded like he'd been crying in the recording booth when he made the
song, like his fingers had been itching with the phantom feel of some
woman on them when he'd hit the high notes in the recording studio. It
was always a woman. She knew that there was something new that played
music now, CD players that played hard shiny discs that looked like small
records, but she was too old for those: her eyesight prevented her from
reading the digital display on the stereo in the boys room, so she figured
it was a waste to fool with it. She felt the shrimp through the plastic bag,
felt the small bodies give under the pressure of her fingers. They were
ready. The shower shut off in the bathroom, and she pulled the plug. The
water gurgled down the drain like a throat: a noisy swallowing.
When Christophe walked into the kitchen in a T-shirt and shorts,
barefoot, Ma-mee had spread newspaper over the table and piled the
shrimp in the middle of it. An empty gallon plastic ice-cream bucket sat
in the middle of the table next to the shrimp. She was waiting on him.
He sat and passed his hand over his face. She thought he must
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