Page 18 of When Love Takes Root

“That mean expensive?” Juice asked.

“That means necessary.”

“See, that’s why people don’t like electricians.”

“Because we tell the truth?” I asked.

“Because y’all always expensive.”

“Electricity’s expensive. We’re just the messengers,” I said.

Miss Claudette’s voice rose from the kitchen with church-mother authority. “Josiah, you alive up there?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I answered.

“Then stop all that talkin’, and come eat before these eggs get cold,” Miss Claudette commanded.

“See? The Lord provides,” Juice said, looking up at me with his whole face lit up.

“The Lord also said a man don’t work, he don’t eat,” I countered.

“That verse don’t apply while breakfast is hot,” Juice said, pointing toward the ceiling.

I snorted and secured the connection enough to make the space safe before climbing down. By the time my boots hit the hallway floor, Miss Claudette already had a plate in her hand and a look on her face that made refusal pointless. She didn’t ask whether we were hungry. She just started assigning food to bodies.

“Wash your hands, baby,” Miss Claudette said.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And sit down,” she ordered.

“Yes, ma’am,” I said, because arguing with Black women over sixty was a waste of good oxygen and proof your mama hadn’t raised you right.

“See how she talks to you? All sweet and maternal,” Juice said, grinning while I washed insulation dust from my forearms.

“That’s because she respects competence,” I said.

Juice leaned against the counter. “No, that’s because you’re six-six and sad-eyed. Old ladies love that.”

I cut my eyes at him through the mirror above the sink. “You want to walk back to the shop?”

“I said it with love,” Juice said, lifting both hands.

“You say everything with liability attached,” I said.

Miss Claudette set my plate on the table. Eggs, grits, sausage, toast, and enough butter to make Mama Yolanda call after church and ask who raised me. “Eat, Josiah.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” I said, sitting down.

Miss Claudette studied me from across the table, her gaze moving over my face, my shoulders, my hands. “Baby, you too skinny.”

Juice folded over laughing before I could even respond.

I stared at Miss Claudette, then at him, then back at her. “Too skinny?”

Miss Claudette nodded. “Yes. You need another biscuit.”

“I’m six-six,” I said.