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I stare at her, not believin’ her. “C’mon, Ma, keep it gee. How long you been lettin’ Pops rock ya box?”
She rolls her eyes and laughs. “I’m not lettin’ your father rock nothing. And I don’t kiss and tell.”
“Lies,” I kid, shakin’ a finger at her. “But, it’s all good. If you wanna keep secrets from ya only child, then so be it.”
“Secrets, hell,” she says, wavin’ me on. “You just too busy tryna be all up in my Kool-Aid. What me and your father do or don’t do behind closed doors ain’t none of your business.”
I laugh, knowin’ she’s gonna spill the beans, anyway. “Yeah, aiight. I see ya work. But, it’s all good. Um, I thought you couldn’t stand him.”
She bucks her eyes. “I can’t…” she says, tryna sound all indignant ’n shit. But it’s all a front. She has that fresh “I-just-got-my-fuck-on” glow, and the way her eyes are twinklin’ ’n shit I already know what it is. Pops served her up a dish of stiff dick. She pulls her belt tight ’round her waist, “…outside of the bedroom. But, in between the sheets…” she pauses, fannin’ herself.
I cover my ears, gettin’ up from my seat. “Aiight, aiight. I get the picture. Pops does his thing-thing, and got you strung out, huh?”
She laughs. “What can I say, Good sex is hard to let go of. And your father got…”
“Okay, Ma, chill. I got you.”
“Well, you asked. So be prepared for what you hear.” This is one of the things I’ve always loved ’bout Moms. She keeps shit real. Ain’t no sugarcoatin’ shit with her. That’s probably why we have such a close bond. We’ve always had that kinda vibe where we can keep shit real wit’ each other. Growin’ up she was always more like a friend—nah, scratch that, a chill-ass older sister— than a mom to me. Yo, but don’t get shit twisted. She got in my ass ’n shit, and didn’t play that disrespectful shit, but at the end of the day she was mad cool.
“Yeah, I asked. But that doesn’t mean I wanna hear all the details.”
“Well, then stay outta grown folks’ business.”
I suck my teeth, smirkin’. “Yeah, aiight. But you still haven’t told me how long this been goin’ on.”
She sits in the chair ’cross from me, crossin’ her legs. Tells me they’ve been fuckin’ for almost six months.
“Six months?” I repeat, lowerin’ my voice. I shake my head in disbelief. “So, ya’ll datin’?”
Moms clucks her tongue. Leans forward in her seat. I can tell she’s ’bout to give it to me raw. “No. We’re fucking. Big difference.”
I shift in my seat. “But the two of you are thinkin’ ’bout gettin’ back together, right?”
She loses her smile, raisin’ her brow. “Hell no. I divorced him for a reason. Your father was a lousy husband. But he was a good provider, and a damn good lover. I’m open to a dinner here, a movie there. But, getting back together in the traditional sense is not an option for me. He can come by twice, maybe three, times a week and scratch my itch. Other than that, he can keep his ass right where he’s at.”
I laugh at her. “Yo, Ma, you real funny. You know that, right?”
“Mmm-hmm,” she says, gettin’ up from her seat, headin’ toward the stairs. “Let me go put something else on. I’ll be right back.”
“Whew!” I joke. “Thank Gawd! ’Cause for a minute there, I thought I was gonna hafta start tossin’ dollars atcha.”
She
stops, slams her hand on her hip, pretendin’ she’s ’bout to bring it to me. “You must want me to whoop your ass up in here. I taught you better than that. You better try twenties and up.”
I laugh. “Ma, you crazy for real, word up.” She waves me on. And I smile, shakin’ my head as she heads up the stairs. Pops got his hands full wit’ her, I think.
8
Moms comes back down wearin’ a pair of powder-blue Baby Phat sweats that cling to her hips and a white Baby Phat T-shirt. I blink, tiltin’ my head. Now, either Moms been hittin’ the gym e’ery day doin’ squats ’n shit, or she’s been hidin’ her body. ’Cause on some real shit, I didn’t know she was stackin’ cakes like that. I shake my head.
“You hungry?” she asks, switchin’ past me.
I jump up from my seat. She doesn’t hafta say another word. After all the fuckin’ and tree smokin’ I did earlier, I’m starvin’. And Pops didn’t have shit up in his spot to tie me over. I started to hit St. Georges Avenue and swing by that US Fried Chicken spot over in Linden on my way here to pick up a chicken snack. I’m glad I didn’t.
“You already know,” I say, followin’ her through the dinin’ room into the kitchen. “What you cook?”
“I made some barbecue chicken, mac ’n cheese and fried cabbage,” she says, openin’ up the cabinet and pullin’ down a plate. I take a seat and watch her as she shuffles ’round the kitchen fixin’ my plate. She sticks it in the microwave. “You want something to drink?”
