2. Josiah Brooks
“Man, if you don’t stop eating and hand me that flashlight, I’m finna leave you down there!” I yelled from the attic.
“You threaten me every week,” Juice replied from beneath the opening, standing there with half a sausage biscuit in his hand.
“And one day, I’ma mean it
“You ain’t meant it yet,” Juice said around another bite.
I looked down through the attic opening and found my cousin grinning up at me as if I wasn’t stretched across a ceiling beam in a house older than both of us. “You know what your problem is?”
“I got several,” Juice said. “Be specific.”
“You’re always comfortable when somebody else is in a dangerous position
“That’s because I trust your gift,” Juice replied, lifting the biscuit like a toast.
“You trust my gift because you’re lazy,” I said, sweeping my flashlight across the wiring above Miss Claudette’s kitchen.
The June heat had already bullied its way into Self Ridge, and Miss Claudette’s attic had no mercy in it.
Sweat slid down my temple, insulation scratched my forearms, and dust clung to my work shirt while I eased further across the beam.
Beneath me, the hallway smelled like sausage, coffee, and lemon cleaner, which meant Miss Claudette had been up before the sun, preparing to feed grown men who were supposed to be working.
“You know Miss Claudette made breakfast,” Juice said.
“Focus
“I am focused
“No, you’re focused on grits,” I said, angling the flashlight deeper into the insulation.
“Grits matter,” Juice said.
“They do, just not while I’m up here trying not to fall through somebody’s ceiling
“See, that’s your problem. You’re always dramatic,” Juice said, laughing hard enough for the sound to jump off the hallway walls.
“Justice,” I called.
“Uh-oh. Government name,” Juice said.
“Hand me the screwdriver
Juice finally set the biscuit down. “Yes, sir. See? I help.”
I reached through the opening, took the screwdriver from him, and turned back toward the wiring. Nobody had called Justice by his government name since childhood. After one greedy incident involving fruit punch, he’d been Juice ever since.
“Stop smiling up there. I know you thinking about my nickname,” Juice said.
“You did it to yourself,” I reminded.
“I was a child,” Juice reasoned.
“You were greedy.”
“I was thirsty.”
“You were both.”
He acted a fool; I acted bothered. Somehow, we’d carried each other through more than most men survived.
Juice remembered me before life got expensive. Before county glass. Before betrayal. He’d been there through every version of me
The flashlight caught the junction box, and the smile left my face.
The neutral sat wrong.
Heat had darkened the insulation around the splice, and the copper had been twisted with more confidence than skill.
Somebody had opened this wall, made a lazy connection, closed everything back up, and walked away.
Now Miss Claudette’s kitchen lights had been flickering for weeks, and another man had charged her money to tell her it was the bulbs.
It wasn’t the bulbs.
“Found it,” I called down.
“How bad is it?” Juice asked.
“Bad enough,” I said.
“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.
“And?” Miss Claudette asked.
“This is why I love her,” Juice said, slapping the counter while he laughed.
“You love anybody feeding you,” I said.
“Correct,” Juice replied.
“Your daddy used to sit right there,” Miss Claudette said, nodding toward my chair.
The fork paused halfway to my mouth.
Jeremiah Brooks had been gone ten years, but grief didn’t keep appointments. It showed up when it pleased. A name, a smell, an old hymn, a plate of food, and suddenly the dead weren’t gone so much as standing just beyond reach.
“My daddy would’ve eaten this whole plate and asked you what else you had,” I said.
Miss Claudette laughed, and memory warmed the sound. “He sure would’ve. That man loved him some breakfast.”
“He loved butter more than he loved medical advice,” I said.
“That’s facts,” Juice said, pointing his fork at me.
“He loved your mama right too.”
“Thirty-two years,” I added.
Miss Claudette nodded. “Thirty-two faithful years. That matters.” It did. “Your mama doing alright?”
“She says she is,” I said.
Miss Claudette lifted one brow. “That ain’t what I asked you.”
Juice got still at the counter. He knew that tone. So did I.
I pushed a piece of egg around my plate. “She misses him.”
Miss Claudette took a small breath before she answered. “Of course she does. A love that deep doesn’t leave because somebody dies. It just has to learn how to live without a body.”
Nobody moved for a second.
I looked down at my scarred hands. They’d known wire, prison bars, prayer, and more responsibility than a sixteen-year-old should’ve carried.
Mama had pressed her palm to the glass every visit. Daddy had sat beside her, jaw tight, eyes wet but too proud to let tears fall in front of me. “Loyalty without wisdom will bury you, son. Don’t let love make you everybody’s sacrifice,” he told me once through that scratched-up phone.
I heard him then. I understood him later.
“You work too much,” Miss Claudette said, pulling me back into her kitchen.
Juice nodded quickly. “I’ve been saying that.”
“You say a lot,” I told him.
“And every now and then, I’m right,” Juice replied.
Miss Claudette reached across the table and rubbed her thumb over my wrist. “Your daddy carried everybody until his own body started asking for what he wouldn’t give it. His heart attack scared this whole community. Don’t make the same mistake trying to be everybody’s strong place.”
I looked down at her hand over mine. Somewhere along the way, I’d inherited more than his work ethic.
My jaw worked once. Juice didn’t have anything smart to say either.
Miss Claudette’s voice softened, but she didn’t let me look away. “Rest ain’t weakness, baby. Even Jesus got in the boat and went to sleep.”
I huffed a small laugh. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Don’t yes, ma’am me and then go lift six houses before sundown,” Miss Claudette said.
Juice pointed at her. “Please tell him again.”
“You hush. You need rest too. Your mouth been running since 1986,” Miss Claudette said with a laugh.
Juice pressed a hand to his chest. “Unprovoked.”
“Accurate,” I said.
Miss Claudette squeezed my wrist once more before letting go. “Your daddy would be proud of you.”
I nodded, but I didn’t trust my voice right away.
“Auntie, before you make this man cry in your grits, can we discuss these extra biscuits?” Juice asked, clearing his throat and lifting his fork.
Miss Claudette threw a napkin at him. “Greedy boy.”
“I’m not greedy. I’m appreciative with range,” Juice said.
I laughed then, low and grateful. That was Juice. A clown with discernment. He knew when a room needed air. He knew when memory had gotten too heavy and grief needed somebody to crack a window.
By the time we finished breakfast and tested the kitchen lights, the circuit held steady.
“Look at God,” Miss Claudette said.
“And proper wiring,” I said, packing my tester into my bag.
She pointed at me. “God made the man who did the wiring.”
“Don’t gas him up, Auntie. He already walks around looking like somebody’s final answer.”
I paused and looked at him. “What does that even mean?”
“It came to me,” Juice said with a shrug.
“That’s usually the problem.”
Miss Claudette laughed and packed us leftovers before we could argue and made us promise to call when we got back to the shop.
Twenty minutes later, Juice had one of Miss Claudette’s pork chops in one hand and another opinion in the other.
“We need an administrative assistant.”
I kept my eyes on the road. “Here we go.”
“I’m serious, Siah. Somebody needs to answer phones, schedule jobs, order parts, and not come in there trying to become step mama to your future children,” Juice argued
“We need help,” I admitted.