Angela Flournoy - The Turner House

“Let’s talk about something else,” Lelah said. “When’s the last time you seen Marlene?”

“Marlene came by and gave me some lace gloves. Lace! They was pretty, but where I’m goin with lace on? I threw them under the bed. Troy been by too. He get your fingerprints yet? He came by for mine, but I know he was lyin about something, I don’t know what. He can’t lie to save his life.”

Lelah looked. No gloves under the bed. A good thing. It would have been cruel of her sister. Viola’s hands were too knotted and her nails too thick for lace. She had no idea what she meant about Troy, but she hoped Viola was mistaken about him too.

“Now, your daddy,” Viola said. “Maybe if he didn’t buy so much liquor, he’d of had less to be worryin about in the first place.”

“Yeah, well, he stopped drinking eventually, didn’t he?” Lelah said. “Plenty of people never stop, Mama. It’s hard.”

“Shit,” Viola said. She looked to the left and right of her, and whispered, “Your daddy ain’t stop nothin. That doctor told your daddy his liver was about to up and quit on him. And you think he wanted to stop? No. ”

Viola made a clucking noise in an attempt to scratch the back of her throat.

“I made Cha-Cha follow your daddy around, and sure enough he was drinkin still. Got to the point I told him if he had another drink, I would kill him dead myself. I’da done it, too.”

Lelah propped herself up on an elbow.

“What are you saying, Mama? You know that’s not true. Daddy quit cause he wanted to. I remember he used to carry his flask around for show, but he never—”

“He didn’t quit nothin!” She shot Lelah an impatient look. “He just chose to stay alive is all. And lucky for him his liver held on. Mmm-hmm. That’s why you need to quit that smokin now, girl. Fore you mess around and get sick.”

And just like that, Lelah’s last illusion died.

Viola muttered to herself about tobacco pipes and beer money and something Lelah couldn’t decipher about ham hocks. Other Turner children would have forced Viola to remain alert, ply her with questions aimed at sharpening her focus and fighting the morphine- induced confusion, but Lelah saw no point in making her mother work hard at anything anymore. Soon Viola fell asleep, heralded by a soft whirring from her nose. Lelah turned over in the bed and grabbed her phone out of her purse on the floor. No missed calls. She wanted to call someone up and tell them the truth about Francis Turner and his drinking, but really, who cared but her? Better to let the myth of the man who beat his demons live on. She called Brianne instead. The phone went straight to voicemail, and Lelah wasn’t sure what message to leave. She hung up.

In the living room Cha-Cha sat with his head in his hands. Lelah came and sat on the arm of the couch next to him.

“Tina’s gonna be fine,” she said.

Cha-Cha shrugged. “I don’t wanna talk about it.”

“Okay,” Lelah said. She stood up to leave, but Cha-Cha grabbed her arm. Even with his red-rimmed eyes as proof, Lelah couldn’t imagine him crying.

“You can’t tell anyone about Mama. I’m not ready,” he said.

“Huh? You mean don’t tell her other eleven children that she’s dying? That’s not fair, Cha.”

“Now hold on a minute. Nobody said she was dying. Just give her some time. We can get her to do the chemo, I know we can. She just likes to be dramatic.”

Lelah sat back down. She pictured her mother, wide awake once more, straining to sit back up and eavesdrop on them. She lowered her voice.

“She’s dying , Cha. Sooner than you realize, I bet. Go ask her and she’ll tell you herself. It’s not even about the cancer as much as it’s about her being ready to go. You know once somebody her age decides to stop fighting, it’s pretty much over.”

Cha-Cha slapped his leg and Lelah flinched.

“Gotdamnit, regardless of that, I’m asking you not to tell anybody, alright? Not until we have some sort of plan. Can I trust you to keep this between us?”

Seeing as how she was staying under his roof, Lelah did not consider herself in a position to disagree.

He wanted to tell her that every second she stayed away he felt bereft. But Chucky, his own son, was playing bouncer. His shorter, stout body was planted on the threshold, his arms crossed. His face—more Tina than Cha-Cha, with small eyes and narrow nose—was veiled in artificial indifference. Cha-Cha would have punched him if he didn’t love him.

“I know you think you’re doing the right thing,” Cha-Cha said. “But you need to go on and let me in so me and your mom can work this out.”

“Just let her have a couple days to herself, Pop,” Chucky said. “She just needs a couple days.”

“It’s already been a day and half! She just ran off and didn’t tell me or your grandma or anybody where she was going.”

“You knew she’d be here.”

“Doesn’t matter! She knows I don’t know nothin about the pills Mama’s got to take, or what appointments she has or—”

“She obviously called Auntie Lelah and told her everything, or Grandma would already be in trouble.”

Was he talking smart? Cha-Cha thought so. He really could have punched him.

“So what, if I try to come in, you’re gonna hit me? Is that it? You shouldn’t be choosing sides, Chucky. Especially since you haven’t even heard my side.”

Chucky uncrossed his arms and put a hand on Cha-Cha’s shoulder. Cha-Cha stifled the impulse to flinch.

“She’s not trying to see you right now, Pop. That’s huge. In all the years y’all been married, she ever stay mad at you longer than a day?”

“I know it’s huge! I don’t need you to tell me about my own wife. Why do you think I’m here? We made you, remember that. If she wants to stay here for a while longer, fine. But we at least gotta talk.”

Inside the house, Chucky’s son, Isaiah, yelled, and someone immediately appeased him. Having been publicly cuckolded by his ex-wife made Chucky think he had a right to moral superiority when it came to relationships. If Todd were here, he would have cooperated, Cha-Cha thought. Todd, his spitting image, would remind Tina that she’d invited folks to a party that was supposed to be happening in two days, and that the person who really suffered by her staying away was Viola. Too bad Todd was stationed in a faraway desert, getting ready for a second tour in an even more dangerous desert.

“You’re worried about her forgiving you,” Chucky said. “But you need to be worrying about why you’re acting up in the first place, Pop.” He stepped back into the entryway and gently closed the door on his father. He might as well have slammed it.

A smashed silver Lexus sat in the middle of Cha-Cha’s driveway. Oil leaked from underneath and trickled toward the gutter. A diagonal gash across the passenger side revealed a mangle of folded metal and plastic. California plates, all four cheaply tinted windows rolled down to different levels. Cha-Cha parked on the street and stuck his head through the driver’s window on the way to his front door. A film of grease-dappled burger wrappers obscured the backseat and floor, some from fast food joints not found on this side of the Mississippi. The front passenger seat held a heap of tape cassettes. The chemical-sweet stink of Luster’s Pink lotion crowded Cha-Cha’s nostrils. The sum of this detritus was Lonnie.

In the kitchen Lelah beamed as she made breakfast for dinner. She put down her spatula, hugged Cha-Cha round the neck.

“He’s been here an hour and Mama’s already so happy,” she whispered. “I think he’s a little drunk, though, which is why I’m making breakfast.”