The Pact Read Free

“What about Gloria? How’s she doing?”
    She asked about Gloria, my father’s wife and my stepmother. I was sure she didn’t really care how Gloria was doing but asked out of courtesy.
    “She’s all right,” I said, and pulled one of my bags off the carousel. “She’s just Gloria.”
    “The two of you getting along better, Marcus?”
    “Not really. I just tolerate her,” I said, and thought about our bumpy road, Gloria’s and mine. I didn’t really care for Gloria, and couldn’t stand her cooking. I thought she was only with my father to spend his money and to make my life miserable. Even though I had long ago stopped hoping my parents would get back together, I tolerated Gloria for my pop’s sake.
    “You don’t have to like her, but you have to respect her.” My mom rubbed her hand over the waves in my hair.
    “I know, Ma. I do respect her,” I said, and grabbed my second bag from the carousel.
    “That’s good. Always respect your elders.” She took my carry-on duffel bag from my shoulder and put it on hers. “You ready?”
    “I’m ready.”
     
    We drove through the streets of Houston’s midtown area in Mom’s silver convertible BMW, the sunshine beaming down on my forehead. I could just picture myself driving this fly car downtown on a Friday or Saturday night or fifty miles to the beach in Galveston—styling and profiling like it belonged to me.
    “You wanna drive?”
    It was like she’d read my mind. She pulled over into a McDonald’s parking lot.
    “I thought you’d never ask.” I grinned and did a pimp walk over to the driver’s side of the car.
    “You know how to drive a stick, Marcus?”
    “Yes, ma’am. I sure do.” I put the car in second gear, and before she could say another word, I breezed out of the parking lot and back onto the main road.
    We cruised the streets, sightseeing, and Mom pointed out what she considered to be all the good restaurants. We drove past the Toyota Center, home of the Houston Rockets basketball team.
    “Turn left up here at the light.”
    I turned and my mother led me into her condominium neighborhood, with multicolored flowers in the front, a huge tennis court and an Olympic-size swimming pool. The pool area was packed, and I couldn’t wait to change into my trunks and go for a swim. I pulled the BMW into an empty parking space and popped the trunk. Grabbed my bags and followed Mom up a flight of stairs and into her unit.
    “Here we are,” she said, unlocking the door.
    The house smelled like fresh flowers and Creole food. I had been hoping that mom had prepared something good to eat, because it had been a long time since I’d tasted a good home-cooked meal. My stepmother, Gloria, didn’t know the first thing about cooking, and eating at Burger King or McDonald’s was getting pretty old. I missed my mother’s New Orleans–style cooking, and I was sure my pop did, too—he just didn’t want to admit it.
    “I made your favorites, baby.” Mom headed toward the kitchen and I followed. “Shrimp étoufée and crawfish corn bread.”
    “You remembered.” My mouth watered at the sight of it.
    I immediately washed my hands, grabbed a plate from the shelf and dug in.
    “Of course I remembered. Boy, you’re my child. I know what you like.” She laughed.
    Mom disappeared into one of the back rooms. I sat at the bar in the kitchen and ate like there was no tomorrow. I grabbed the remote control and turned on the television, flipped the channel to ESPN. I glanced around the room at all the nice art on the walls, lots of photos on the mantel, plants in every corner of the room and candles everywhere. I could just imagine watching a football game on that big-screen television. I almost wished it was still football season.
    Pretty soon, my mother came back into the room dressed in a blue business suit.
    “Where you going?” I asked.
    “I have to go back to the office for a little bit, sweetie. Eat as much as you want. I picked up all your