Noles
The smell of Hot grease, Pepper, and Salt.
That iron-heavy smell fried gizzards always carried, thick enough to sit on your tongue before you even ate.
Mama had the skillet still popping low on the stove, oil snapping soft through the kitchen.
I scooped the gizzards out the bowl she set on the counter, piling them onto my plate without even thinking.
My hands moved before my mind caught up.
"Ma, you ain't cook no biscuits?" I asked, already looking around her shoulder like I might catch a glimpse of salvation.
"Tell me you cooked some biscuits wit these gizzards.
" She didn't even turn around. "If your hongry ass would hold your horses," she said, fuss sharp but familiar, "I'm pullin' 'em out the oven now. "
She carried my plate into the dining room and set it down hard, then sat across from me folding towels slow, precise, tight.
I ate in silence for a minute, chewing too fast. I didn't even taste it at first. My chest felt tight.
That same tightness I woke up with every morning since the coma.
Like my lungs forgot how much space they supposed to take up.
"That wife of yours must don't cook," Mama said, side-eyeing me over a folded towel.
"Every time I see you, you starvin'." I chuckled low because she wasn't wrong.
Ayida didn't cook like that. She could make a mean ass pasta salad, but she cooked when she felt like it, when the mood hit, when the spirits felt right.
And even then, half the time we ended up ordering out.
But that never bothered me. Not even a little.
Truth was, nothing about her bothered me.
Not her silences. Not her rituals. Not her way of driftin' off into herself like she was listening to something I couldn't hear.
I loved her through every flaw she thought she had, every one she tried to hide.
That was the part fuckin' with me now. Because love make you blind but it also make you notice when something been missing the whole time.
This shit about Fidel bein' her daddy been sittin' in my chest since that night like a stone I couldn't cough up.
We'd talked about our childhoods before.
Trauma. Loss. Her mama. Her grandma. Her strength.
But whenever the conversation drifted toward her pops, it always stopped short.
She told me she never met him. Never knew him. And we left it there.
I assumed she didn't know who he was. Finding out she did and just never said it had me in my head.
It wasn't betrayal or anger. It was distance.
A door I didn't know was there. I sipped from the cup on the table, swallowed, then cleared my throat.
"Hey, Ma?" She hummed, folding another towel.
"You know we ran into Fidel's kids at that event you set up," I said carefully.
"I know they pops gone. I know him and Daddy ran in the same circles.
I guess Nash inherited everything?" I kept my tone casual, but my shoulders were tight.
My foot bounced under the table without me realizing it.
Mama snorted. "Nawl," she said. "They mama inherited everything.
" She folded another towel. "Killed that man and continued to raise her kids and live off all that money he made over the years.
" My fork froze halfway to my mouth. "Ma," I said slowly, smacking my lips.
"How you just gon' say that lady killed that man?
" She looked up at me then. Dead serious.
"The truth is the light. Ion care who tell it.
" She stared me down like she always did when she meant what she said.
"Mozele been an evil low-down bitch all her life," Mama continued.
"They always said her folks did black magic.
Not the good kind either. Selfish shit. Blood shit.
Thats why I can't get jiggy with this lil girl you done went off and married.
" She pointed at me. My chest tightened harder.
"Ma," I said flat. "What happened?" She leaned back in her chair.
"We the same age," she said. "Grew up together.
She met Fidel when she was fifteen. They was together till he died.
" My jaw clenched. "The white folks say aneurysm," Mama went on.
"That's bullshit. Fidel was healthy as an ox.
Just like your daddy. Anybody with sense know she did that.
" She stacked the towels neatly. "A year or two before he passed, she killed his hoe.
" I sat back in my chair, Taking in everything she was saying.
"Some woman he'd been creepin' with for years. She got pregnant. Kept the baby, that time.” She sided eyed me.
“That sent hell through that house." Mama's voice stayed calm, but I could hear the old anger under it.
"She killed her. Then found out Fidel had been keepin' tabs on that baby.
Givin' money to the family. And that?" She shook her head. "That sent even more hell through her."
My thoughts started pacing. If that woman was capable of that, and If Nash grew up under that roof, who knew what the nigga was capable of. My hand tightened around my fork. Paranoia crept in quiet. Just questions stackin' on top of each other until my chest felt like it was caving in.
"Why you so nosy in peoples' business all of a sudden?
" Mama squinted her eyes at me, lips pursed tight as she reached for a cigarette from the pack on the table.
She tapped it against her finger once, slow.
"This got somethin' to do with that girl you done brought in my family?
" I stared at her hard. "Ma, what I told you 'bout that?
" I said, my tone firm, not loud but heavy enough to land.
"No. This don't got nothin' to do with her.
" I leaned forward, forearms on the table.
"And you already know, we one now. If you don't like her, you don't like me.
And I'ma have to stop comin' over here sittin' wit' you, talkin' shit wit' you like you love.
" I flashed her a grin to soften it, but I meant every word.
She sucked her teeth, shaking her head. "Noles, please.
You comin' 'cause that girl can't cook and you love a home-cooked meal.
" She rolled her eyes and stood up, already reaching for her lighter.
"Don't flatter yourself." I snorted, leaning back in my chair.
"That might be true too," I muttered. She slid open the back door, the screen creaking, and stepped outside to smoke.
The door hadn't even shut all the way before Juste walked in, phone in one hand, already eyein' the counter like he smelled food from the driveway.
"Ma, how you cook and ain't tell nobody?
" Juste said, yelling through the screen door at her.
"Juste, go to hell," she snapped without reason.
"I cook every damn day." He laughed and shook his head, grabbing a plate and loading it up like he hadn't eaten in weeks.
"Wassam, baeebbyy brudda," he said, dropping into the chair across from me.
I nodded once but my mind wasn't there. Juste noticed.
"You good?" he asked, chewing slow, eyes studying me over his plate.
"You look like you somewhere else." I shrugged.
"Just thinkin'." "Dangerous," he muttered.
I nodded agreein with him. "Speakin of dangerous, fuck was all that about the other night?
" I questioned referrin to the situation with Jules and Nash.
I watched him swallow the food that he was eatin'.
"Man I don't know what the hell goin on.
I'm hopin it don't go past that." He said shakin his head like he was tryna make sense of it all.
"Know that shit real. Ya brudda had the look of murda in his eyes," I mumbled.
Juste didn't say nothin' back after that.
He ain't have to. Some truths sit too heavy to argue with.
?
I pulled up to the house after bein' gone damn near the whole day, engine still runnin' while I sat there a second longer than I needed to.
The sky was turnin' that dusty purple blue, the kind that always made my chest feel tight.
I stared at the front of the house like it was a picture I needed to memorize.
I made a mental note to get the grass cut before fall really blew in.
Could already see the edges curlin' up, weeds tryna creep through like they always do when you ain't payin' attention.
Funny how shit fall apart the second you stop watchin' it close. Just like people.
I cut the engine and stepped out, gravel crunchin' under my shoe louder than it should've been.
I checked the corners out of habit. Windows.
Porch. Side yard. My body still moved like danger was waitin' on me, even when my mind tried to pretend otherwise.
Inside the house, it was quiet. Then I heard Ayida's voice drifted down the hallway, soft and lilting, wrapped in Creole.
The words curled around each other, prayer-like, familiar.
She sounded tired. Like her spirit had been holdin' somethin' heavy all day and was finally lettin' it rest on somebody else's shoulders.
I followed the sound to the bedroom doorway and stopped there.
She was laid up in the bed, wrapped in my hoodie like it belonged to her more than me, sheets pulled up around her waist. Hair wild on top of her head, coils rebellin' in every direction.
Her legs were tucked up, knees bent like she was protectin' herself from somethin' invisible.
Madame Laurent's voice floated through the phone speaker, low and steady, sayin' things I couldn't fully understand .
That woman always sounded like she was talkin' to more than just the person on the line.
Ayida hummed softly in response, eyes closed.