Before, After, and Somebody In Between Read Online Free PDF Page B

his wheels. “Naw, thanks, baby. Think I’ll keep on lookin’…”
    “Pitiful,” Jerome comments around a mouthful of meat. “That old one-eared dog of his been dead for a month. Got run over downtown.”
    “Didn’t anybody tell him?”
    “You wanna tell him?”
    “Well, no,” I admit. “But isn’t it kinda mean to let him go on hoping like that?”
    “Maybe.” Jerome sucks the last bit of meat off a greasy bone before tossing it over the porch rail. “Or maybe not.”
    The music in the backyard switches over to “Boot Scootin’ Boogie,” and I can hear Momma and Wayne just a-whooping it up by the garage.
    “Oh God, I can’t stand this,” I wail softly to Jerome.
    “Aw, c’mon. They just having a good time.”
    “Yeah, well, if it was your mo—” I snap my lips shut in the nick of time. No point in bringing up the fact that he doesn’t have a mom to boot-scoot down the driveway in full view of the whole neighborhood.
    Anthony picks that moment to stroll around the corner of the house, all baggy pants and dangling chains, his hair twisted in tight rows from one end of his scalp to the other. “Yo, JoMo, my man! Hangin’ with the white chicks now?”
    Jerome stops chewing, but stays silent.
    “Mind your own business,” I suggest, hoping I sound tougher than I feel.
    Anthony sends me a dark, dangerous smile, then jams hishands into his pockets and swaggers off—probably to the Eagle Deli at the end of the street where all the rest of his future convict buddies hang out.
    “JoMo?” I poke Jerome with my elbow.
    Jerome finally swallows the chicken. “It’s like a street name.”
    “You mean like a gang name?”
    “What do you think?” he demands, rolling his eyes.
    “Well, you’re not in his gang… are you?” I ask suspiciously, even though the idea of Jerome in a gang is funnier than hell. Kind of like trying to picture Sister Mary Shavonne taking her final vows.
    “I ain’t in no kind of gang,” he insists, highly offended.
    We rock on the squeaky glider and devour the rest of our food while inventing gory, creative ways to annihilate Chardonnay. As the sun begins to sink over the telephone wires and rooftops, sending soft slashes of lavender and pink across the sky, we gather up our trash and wander to the back of the house where we find Mario crouched on the steps, a tear-streaked Bubby squirming on his lap.
    “Where you been?” He thrusts the baby at Jerome. “I’m sick of watching this kid. I got stuff to do, man!” And he takes off down the driveway, swaggering like Anthony.
    “Damn. I was gonna study,” Jerome says with a hopeful lift of his eyebrows.
    “Yeah, yeah. I’ll take him.” I hold out my arms and Bubby climbs into them happily. Jerome, with a grateful glance, rushes up the back steps and into the house.
    “Ba-ba-ba,” Bubby babbles, snatching my glasses off my nose and jamming them in his mouth. Yikes, just what I need. I shove them back on, then swipe a hunk of chicken from the cooling grill, shred it, and feed it to Bubby one piece at a time. He gobblesit up like he hasn’t eaten in days, but I know that’s not true. Jerome takes good care of him when he’s not in school.
    We plop down into the overgrown, weedy grass where Bubby pulls at my ears and my hair and jumps on my stomach. The music is low for a change, something soft, old-fashioned, and kind of yodely…oh yeah, Patsy Cline, out a-walkin’ after midnight, in the moonlight, yada, yada—and Momma and Wayne sit together in lawn chairs, their hands entwined, heads close together. Momma sees me and waves, and I wiggle my fingers back. Even Wayne sends over what could possibly pass for a smile.
    It hits me then how truly happy Momma looks, a whole lot happier than she’s looked in a long time. Cheeks pink, crispy yellow hair bouncing in the breeze, her toothy smile bright and beautiful. Wayne slings a tattooed arm around her shoulders as she takes a dainty sip from a can of Pepsi, and then