Bare Bones Read Free Page A

Boyd usual y lead to trouble.

    Slidel held his badge to the screen.

    “Pick you up at noon?” My daughter could be as unrelenting as Skinny Slidel .

    “Al right,” I hissed, punching the “end” button.

    The woman studied the badge, arms akimbo like a prison guard.

    I pocketed the phone.

    The woman’s eyes crawled from the badge to my companion, then to me.

    “Daddy’s sleepin’.”

    “I think it might be best to wake him,” I jumped in, hoping to defuseSlidel .

    “This about Tamela?”

    “Yes.”

    “I’m Tamela’s sister.Geneva . LikeSwitzerland .” Her tone suggested she’d said that before.

    Genevabackhanded the screen. This time the spring made a sound like piano keys.

    Removing his shades,Slidel squeezed past her. I fol owed, into a smal , dim living room. An archway opened onto a hal directly opposite our entry point. I could see a kitchen to the right with a closed door beyond, two closed doors to the left, a bath straight ahead at the end.

    Six kids. I could only imagine the competition for shower and sink time.

    Our hostess let the screenwhrrrrpppto its frame, pushed the inner door shut, and turned to face us. Her skin was a deep, chocolate brown, the sclera of her eyes the pale yel ow of pine nuts. I guessed her age to be mid-twenties.

    “Genevais a beautiful name,” I said for lack of a better opening. “Have you been toSwitzerland ?” Genevalooked at me a long time, face devoid of expression. Perspiration dotted the brow and temples from which her hair had been pul ed straight back. The lone window unit apparently cooled another room.

    “I get Daddy.”

    She tipped her head toward a worn couch on the right wal of the living room. Curtains framing the open window above hung limp with heat and humidity.

    “Wanna sit.” It was more a statement than a question.

    “Thank you,” I said.

    Genevawaddled toward the archway, shorts bunching between her thighs. A smal , stiff ponytail stuck straight out from the back of her head.

    AsSlidel and I took opposite ends of the couch, I heard a door open, then the tinny sound of a gospel station. Seconds later the music was truncated.

    I looked around.

    The decorating was nouveau Wal-Mart. Linoleum. Vinyl recliner. Oak-laminate coffee and end tables. Plastic palms.

    But a loving hand was clearly present.

    The fril ed curtains behind us smel ed of laundry detergent and Downy. A rip on my armrest had been careful y darned. Every surface gleamed.

    Bookshelves and tabletops overflowed with framed photos and crudely made objets d’art. A garishly painted clay bird. A ceramic plate with the impression of a tiny hand, the nameReggiearching below. A box constructed of Popsicle sticks. Dozens of cheap trophies. Shoulder pads and helmets encased forever in gold-coated plastic. A jump shot. A cut at a fastbal .

    I surveyed the snapshots closest to me. Christmas mornings. Birthday parties. Athletic teams. Each memory was preserved in a dime-store frame.

    Slidel picked up a throw pil ow, raised his brows, set it back between us.God is Love,embroidered in blue and green. Melba’s handiwork?

    The sadness I’d been feeling al morning intensified as I thought of six children losing their mother. Of Tamela’s doomed infant.

    The pil ow. The photos. The school and team memorabilia. Save for the portrait of a black Jesus hanging above the archway, I could have been sitting in my childhood home inBeverly , on the south side ofChicago .Beverly was shade trees, and PTA bake sales, and morning papers lying on the porch. Our tiny brick bungalow was my Green Gables, my Ponderosa, my starshipEnterpriseuntil the age of seven. Until despair over her infant son’s death propel ed my mother back to her belovedCarolina , husband and daughters fol owing in her mournful wake.

    I loved that house, felt loved and protected in it. I sensed those same feelings clinging to this place.

    Slidel pul ed out his hanky and mopped his face.

    “Hope the old man