Chapter 6
washington
. . .
If I thought yesterday was a nightmare, talking through my worst day, today was a whole Garden District goes up in flames type of day. Straight New Orleans disaster.
Latrice was confused. She wanted us to go to lunch solo?
No, ma’am. Never. That woman worked for me.
And the fantasies in her mind were staying hidden, tucked underneath those tight-ass cornrows.
I’d rather get baptized in Popeye’s grease.
Scalding, funky-ass grease that had sat there since the Saints won Super Bowl XLIV.
The only explicit thing between us was how detailed I was when offering her twenty dollars for lunch to knock on Madison’s window and report back my wife’s level of shock.
And yeah. I called Madison my wife.
The State of Louisiana had revoked that title, but my heart pulled a Steve Gleason block on the paperwork. Saints fans knew. Rebirth, bébé.
Latrice caught an attitude but confirmed Madison got the dress I purchased from Canal Place. A little while later, as I strolled down Royal Street, Madison texted me back.
Thanks! May I have the receipt?
ME: For what?
WIFEY: You know…
ME:
WIFEY: Pahlezzz! I’ll wait until after our date to return it .
She hadn’t responded earlier. Now, she came at me sideways by cooking up a scheme to return that dress for cash.
Nope. I left her ass on read like she’d left me all day.
Then I strolled past a violist seated at the edge of Royal Street and pushed through the emerald doors of Hot Chicken you can’t rush it.
You make a proper roux. Too hasty and the whole pot burns! ”
The restaurant seemed to shrink under Momma’s gaze. “Give that there bébé some time, you hear me? If I didn’t still think she loved you, do you think I would’ve borrowed your car to open up a conversation for y’all?”
“Momma, that’s what you call stalking? A segue to communication?” Maybe my voice raised a little because I was still envisioning how I sounded like a circus act while I’d explained the situation to Maddy in that interrogation room.
But Momma didn’t notice the amplification of my voice. She snapped, “That’s strategy, not stalking. So literal, Washington!”
Whatever you say. I almost opened my mouth to tell her about Madison’s little prison theory about Momma being a protective cellmate.
Woman had us sitting in that interrogation room like some sad rom-com subplot.
Yep. I almost snitched. Almost. But then I looked into my momma’s eyes, wise and deep.
The kind that had seen too many floods and funerals.
You didn’t talk back to a woman who could bless and bury you.
She leaned back, satisfied. “I said open up a conversation, not drop-kick the child. This fake dating business, Washington.” She muttered under her breath, “This is Montana’s fault!”
“Momma, it wasn’t one of my greatest moments,” I admitted. “But we aren’t doing the fake part. They’re three real dates.”
Momma clicked her tongue. “Don’t force love. ‘Do not arouse or awaken love until it so desires …’ ”
Her words hit me in the chest. Heavy and gentle all at once.
“Preach,” Tennessee muttered into his third drink.
“Bébé, hush.” She chuckled. “I’m trying to save your brother from heartache. You can’t rush a Black woman’s heart, especially when she’s halfway done packing her peace.”
“Oh, no.” Auntie Peaches dropped one foot over the other, her leopard-print heels clicking.
I should’ve known that strong perfume was hers before it wrapped around me and choked me deep down in my throat.
I glanced up at her, hair piled higher than the tallest building in the business district, nails glittering like a pink French Quarter chandelier.
She leaned a hip against my velvet chair.
She was about to dig in on me. I could tell. That’s what Auntie Peaches did.
“Lawd, have mercy!” She slapped her hand hard on the table, rattling our empty drinks. “Did I hear you right? My bébé over here tryna force love again?”
“Auntie … stop …” It was a quiet plea. Saying it louder wouldn’t stop her. Nothing but God.