by Jackson Ford
A thought occurs to me as we reach the sidewalk. “Where’s Jeannette tonight?” I ask Africa.
“Huh?”
“Jeannette? Your girlfr—”
“Oh! Ya ya. Busy.” He steps over a puddle in a single huge step – I have to go the long way round. Weird; I could have sworn he said Jeannette was coming tonight. In fact, I know she was, because I was psyching myself up to be nice to her.
“Maybe she come later,” Africa mutters. “Annie, my dear, am I smart enough?” He’s wearing a threadbare brown suit that only barely fits his enormous frame, over a Mandela shirt with a pattern of psychedelic green swirls.
She rolls her eyes. “You’re good, dude. Relax.”
The power lines are down, but the lights in the houses around us are still on. There are some cracks in the walls, but I guess whoever built the homes did them to code. There’s no power, though: the clatter of generators is an undercurrent to the noise of the neighbourhood.
Annie leads us to a small bungalow, badly in need of a paint job, set back from the street behind a chain-link fence. As she pushes through the gate, a huge monster explodes out of the shadow of the porch, roaring, desperate for blood.
“Jesus fuck!” I take a quick step back, glad that I’m not the first one through. The monster is a Rottweiler the size of an SUV. It launches itself at Annie, almost bowls her over. But Annie has clearly been through this dance before. She braces her legs, catches the dog’s paws on her shoulders, then quickly pushes it back down before it can slobber on her. The beasts’s barks are loud enough to drown out the generators.
“Hey, Rocko.” Paul isn’t quite as skilled as Annie, and the dog nearly does knock him over. Then it’s off him, heading right for Reggie.
There’s a horrible second where I think the dog is going to knock her right out of her chair. Instead, it skids to a halt in front of her, tongue lolling, head tilted to one side.
“Well, hello there,” Reggie says. A delighted smile crosses her face – the first I’ve seen all day – and then Rocko is gone, leaping towards me.
All the restraint he showed with Reggie vanishes. He actually leaves the ground, front paws outstretched, pink tongue flicking out flecks of saliva.
I don’t have a great history with dogs. I like them just fine, but they don’t always like me back – I regularly have nightmares about a little terrier from a job we did in Long Beach, who I am convinced wanted to eat my kidneys.
“Annie,” I manage to get out. And then I’m on my back in the grass, Rocko slobbering right in my mouth, plastering me with delighted licks. I decided that it wasn’t worth pissing off Annie, or her mom, so I actually did make an effort with my clothes. I’m wearing a summer dress with a floaty skirt, and no sooner does Rocko have me down than he grabs hold of the hem and pulls.
I am a government agent who can hurl a car with the power of thought, and there is absolutely nothing I can do.
“Rocko!” Annie shouts. “No!”
She has to yell twice before Rocko lets go. He bounds away and starts humping Africa’s leg. I push myself up on my elbows, blinking in embarrassment.
A whistle pierces the air. The dog about-turns instantly, huge paws scrabbling at the ground, heading for the porch. He comes to a stop and sits immediately, next to the woman who’s just come out the front door.
She’s tiny – half Annie’s size, even smaller than I am. She’s wearing slacks and a polo-neck sweater, her greying hair pulled back in a tight bun. She’s in her early fifties, with full lips and huge, milky-blue eyes. She has a cannula inserted in her nostrils. A cart trails behind her, holding a small tank that looks like a beer cooler, connected to the cannula.
“Stay,” she says to Rocko – even sitting, he comes to halfway up her arm. He woofs delightedly, nuzzles her hand.
Annie straightens up. “Hey, Ma.”
“Did you bring my Paul?” The woman’s voice is curiously wheezy.
“Over here, Mrs Cruz,” Paul waves.
Annie’s mom makes her way down the front steps, lifting the tank, moving with surprising speed. Rocko stays where he is, still slobbering. “Look at you,” Mrs Cruz says, pulling Paul into a massive hug.
Paul hands her a bottle of wine when she lets him go. “I brought your favourite.”
“That’s so sweet. Thank you, my dear. We’ll have to drink it together. How’s your little boy?”
“Up in Arizona for a few days,” Paul says. He keeps his smile plastered to his face. His son Cole is six or seven or possibly ten, I don’t really remember. I know Cole likes soccer and Pokémon and that his mom is, as Paul calls her, a “difficult person”, but I admit to blanking on a lot of the other stories Paul’s told us.
Mrs Cruz pats Paul’s cheek. “I bet he misses you. And he’s always welcome here, you know that.”
Annie’s smile is a rictus. “Hi, Mom. Nice to see you. Remember me? Your daughter?”
“Yes, hello, dear. Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friends? You must be Regina. I’ve heard so much about you.” She doesn’t offer Reggie a hand, or bend down, like most people do when they meet her – just gives her a nod, along with a wide, welcoming smile.
Annie gestures to me. “This is Teagan.”
Mrs Cruz’s eyes narrow. “Aren’t you the one always giving my daughter trouble at work?”
“Uh…”
“Every time Annie comes home it’s Teagan this, Teagan that, Teagan said some such or other.”
“Mom!” Annie looks like she wants the ground to open up and swallow her, which is fine, because I’ll jump right in after her.
“Well, you did! Anyway, Teagan, happy to have you. Ignore my Annie, she can be a little touchy sometimes.” She turns to Africa, ignoring Annie’s protests. “And you are?”
And Africa does the oddest thing. He swoops into a low bow, one arm at his stomach, the other spread wide.
“I am Idriss Kouamé, madam,” he says to the ground. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
Annie and I share a glance, and Annie mouths What the fuck? I just shrug.
“Such a nice name!” Mrs Cruz tells him. “And I’m Sandra-May. You might not want to bow to me, though. My late husband did that when he asked me to dance for the first time, and our marriage didn’t turn out so good.”
“Um, hello?” Annie says.
“Oh please, Annie, you know what I mean. Come on in, come on in. Paul, I’ve been meaning to ask you, could you take a look at the cabinet again? It’s still sticking a little, which makes me think the hinges need some more oil, but I’m not really sure.” She marches Paul up the steps, his arm in hers, Rocko trotting at their heels.
“Mom likes the boyfriend,” I say to Annie, as we lift Reggie’s chair up the steps. “That’s half the battle, right?”
“Yeah. The other half would be convincing her not to disown me if we ever broke up. She thinks Paul’s gonna be the one to straighten me out.”
“Annie!” Mrs Cruz’s wheezing voice reaches us. “Take your shoes off before you come in the house, haven’t I told you enough?”
The outside of the house might need attention, but the inside is warm and clean. There’s hardly a speck of dirt on the carpet, and absolutely zero dust on the shelves. It has nothing to do with that old piece of shit about poor people being proud of their homes: it’s because Sandra-May Cruz can’t tolerate any dust. It kills her lungs. Ditto for cologne or perfume – Annie specifically asked us not to wear any tonight. Somewhere out of sight, a generator is running.
Sandra-May has to stop several times before she gets to the kitchen, wheezing and coughing. She waves away all offers of help. “Be damned if I can’t make it to the kitchen in my own house. Annie, dear, get down the good glasses. Not those ones – the ones in the cupboard over.”
The kitchen is cramped, with ancient appliances and a broken clock on one wall, but whatever is cooking smells amazing. Meat and sizzling oil and gravy and spices, all mixed together. Pots bubble away on
the stove.
“You have a wonderful house,” Africa says.
“Like hell. It’s small and noisy. Those youngsters from next door never stop their racket. Parties till six in the morning!”
“That’s why I keep telling you to move,” Annie says.
“Out of Watts?”
“To a bigger house, away from the towers. We’ve had this conversation.”
“No, I am serious,” Africa nods his head slowly, gazing around him. “It is beautiful. I used to have a house like this, when I was living in France.”
“You lived in France?”
“Oh ya! I was a policeman in Lyons. I have a house in the country, very nice, maybe two stories.”
“Thought you ran a bookshop in Lyons,” I mutter.
“I was bookshop man and a policeman.” He puffs out his chest. “I tell you already, Teggan. You know this.”
“You’re very welcome.” Sandra-May says, utterly ignoring the bullshit story Africa just told. “That’s what I keep telling Annie. Move out of Watts, she says. I been here twenty-five years, I ain’t going anywhere. I thought I might have to sell the house at one point – damn health insurance wouldn’t cover my lungs. Annie takes care of me, though. She’s a good daughter.”
“Nice to hear you admit it,” Annie says, ignoring the look that passes between me and Reggie.
Sandra-May’s emphysema and her lack of insurance led Annie to do some pretty crazy shit a few months ago. And by pretty crazy, I mean shipping a bunch of heroin up north for the MS-13 gang. It went horribly, ridiculously, stupidly wrong, and almost got her killed.
I don’t know why I should be so surprised that Annie takes care of her mom the way she does. People aren’t just one thing – and while that’s a goddamn trite statement if I ever heard one, it also happens to be true. I guess it’s just because the Annie I know did some seriously foul shit back in the day. It’s hard to put that together with the house she grew up in, the mom that still cooks her for – let alone how she’s now involved with a straight-laced Navy boy.
“Long as you keep this one around,” Sandra-May tells Annie, swatting the straight-laced Navy boy on the behind. “Your taste in men is better than mine used to be, I’ll give you that.”
“Mom!”
“Now, dinner will be ready shortly – Teagan, Idriss, be honeys and set the table. I’m afraid the bump we had last night knocked some of my china out the cabinet, so we’ll have to use the old plates. At least the house stayed standing. Most of Watts and Compton were fine. Hell of a thing, what happened out in San Bernardino. Hell of a thing.”
“My utensils are in the bag on the right,” Reggie tells me. She uses a special fork and knife to eat, which strap to her wrists. I dig them out of the compartment on the back of her chair. “I’m not going to be much help, I’m afraid,” she says, as Africa walks past with an armful of plates.
“Nonsense. You can stay and talk to me while the youngsters do the heavy lifting. You run the office for the moving company, right?”
“That’s right.”
“And you’re a vet?”
Reggie purses her lips – she’s never liked talking about the chopper crash that paralysed her. Sandra-May takes another wheezing huff of oxygen. “Both Bushes were damn fools, sending you folks over there. And my fool of a husband voted for him! Drove me to the cigarettes, and now look at us. I’m guessing you’ve got a few lung problems of your own. It’s on hot days, right? When the smog gets real low?”
Reggie blinks, then laughs. “Like trying to lift a truck off your chest.”
“Damn straight! Difference is, I only got myself to blame for my condition. I got no excuse. And I still want to sneak one now and then, even though I haven’t smoked in three years. You believe that?”
Africa and I leave them to it, heading through to the living room. To my surprise, there’s a massive dining table – the kind of thing you’d see in Downton Abbey, all ornate curlicues and fine-grained wood. It takes up nearly two-thirds of the living room, squashing the plastic-covered couch up against the window. A big TV plays silently in one corner, showing football reruns. Rocko wanders in, snuffling around the edge of the couch, ignoring us.
“Teggan – where your boyfriend tonight?” Africa says, as we set the table.
“What’s that now?”
“Nathan?”
“Nic.” I actually feel myself blush, a little.
“Ya ya. Where he now? You two OK?”
“He’s not my boyfriend.”
“Ah, you break up?” He kisses his teeth. “Shame. But if he hurt you, he must learn. I will talk to him…”
“No! Jesus, Africa, calm the fuck down. We were never actually together.”
He nods, like he suspected all along. Goes back to sliding plates into position.
We set the rest of the table in silence. Which is a hundred per cent A-OK with me. Despite the smell of good food, despite Sandra-May, I don’t really want to be around people. Maybe I should have blown off tonight…
“Hey, Teggan,” Africa says, straightening forks. “We must talk about something, huh? Can you tell me—?”
“OK.” Sandra-May waddles through, trailing Paul and Annie, both of whom hold big pots in oven-gloved hands. “Paul’s fixed the cabinet, and the gravy’s ready, so let’s get to eating.”
Oh, thank God.
Turns out, we all have to pitch in to help. Sandra-May made a lot of food, like she was expecting the whole neighbourhood to come calling. Baked ham, studded with cloves. Gravy thick enough to stand a spoon up in. Platters of rice and mashed potato. A huge crock of green beans. Annie’s told us before how tired her mother gets, so she must have gone to huge trouble to make it all. I feel instantly bad for wanting to blow tonight off. Fortunately, this time my guilt is going to be rewarded with good stuff to eat. I didn’t realise how hungry I was, and by the time we all sit down, I’m salivating. The rain has started outside, spattering the windows with thick drops, but it feels a million miles away.
“Now,” Sandra-May says, once we’re all seated. “We don’t do grace here. I’m not a big God person. But we do give thanks.”
“Mom, are we still doing this?” Annie says.
“You’re damn right we’re still doing it.” Sandra-May’s tone is steak-knife sharp. “And you best remember that, you wanna keep coming by for my ham.”
She reaches out, takes her daughter’s hand. “I’m thankful my only daughter has found such a good man to take care of her.”
“Mom. Please, enough.”
“No, I’ll have my say, and give my thanks. I’m grateful for Paul, for who he is and how he respects Annie, and how he keeps her from leading the life she did when she was younger.”
“This is so embarrassing,” Annie mutters, hiding her face with the one hand her mom has left her. “It’s the twenty-first century, Mom, not the eighteenth.”
“And,” Sandra-May says, “I’m grateful to all of you for coming to visit me. It’s hard for me to get out the house sometimes, and Rocko ain’t much for civilised discussion.”
At her feet under the table, Rocko is busy licking his balls.
“Well,” Paul says, lifting his glass, “I’m grateful to you, Sandra-May, for your hospitality. We all are. And I’m grateful to Annie.” He takes her free hand. “For letting me be in her life.”
Africa applauds, grinning wildly. Paul leans over, kisses Annie on the cheek. She rolls her eyes, then cracks a smile, leaning over and kissing him back, to cheers from the rest of us. “Well, I’m grateful you two got the sappy stuff out of the way,” Annie says, laughing. “You know I wasn’t gonna say it.”
Nic’s face comes into my head. The argument we had last night… and how good it was before, when we were eating dinner and it all looked like it was going to be OK. Annie kisses Paul again, whispers something in his ear.
“And you, Idriss?” Sandra-May says.
“Mmmmm.” He nods to himself, brow knotted. “My job, I think. Ya. It
get me off the street. It was hard, yaaw, very hard.” More nodding, his eyes down, as if he’s trying to contain himself. “No money, police causing trouble. But Teggan and Reggie, they ask me for help, and Idriss always help, ya, so now we here.”
Reggie gives him an encouraging smile. He wipes his face, and continues. “I have plenty jobs before. I work for police in France. I cut trees. I wash dishes. I smuggle gold. I work security for Barack.”
Sandra-May raises an eyebrow at this, but says nothing.
“But I think, ya, this is the best job I ever have,” says Africa. “It has the best people.”
“This is the best job you ever had?” Annie says. “Damn, dude, you need to put yourself out more.”
“Hush,” Sandra-May says.
Reggie clears her throat. “I’m grateful we all survived the earthquake, when so many others didn’t. I’m grateful for the roof over our heads, and the people round this table.”
“Amen,” Annie’s mom murmurs.
“Thought you didn’t believe in God, Mrs Cruz,” I say.
“Amen!” She has to take a deep breath to say it, fighting through the wheezing, but there’s a huge grin on her face. More cheers, this time with Paul and Annie joining in.
“What about you, Teagan?” Reggie says.
“Hell no,” I say, laughing. “I’ll go after—”
Carlos.
I was about to say, I’ll go after Carlos.
Africa gives me a strange look. The table is silent, the others waiting for me to speak. I stare down at my empty plate, thinking hard.
What do I have to be thankful for?
I have a job. I have friends. I have a house – one that hasn’t been destroyed by fire, or the quake. My lungs aren’t fried like Sandra-May, and I have two legs to walk around on, unlike Reggie. I have Los Angeles. I have a past that doesn’t haunt me, because I know exactly who I am, and where I come from.
And yet, when I try to tell everyone that, nothing comes out.