practically raised her after her mother was sent to prison for killing her father.
Always dripping in fabulousity and ultraglamorous, Samantha stood five feet nine inches and was model thin. She wore only the best push-up bras that money could buy to make the small breasts God probably considered a blessing look like a B cup. Dressed, as always, as if going to a
Vogue
photo spread, she was at the funeral in a fierce black dress that complemented her small waist. Her long black hair was always kept up to par, and she was never caught without her makeup. Samantha was blessed with the beautiful eyes that Isis and Sandy shared, but the difference was that Samantha was never without long false eyelashes to enhance them.
After the funeral, Isis was walking out of the funeral home toward the limo when, out of nowhere, she was greeted by an unwelcome guest whom she saw walking from a red limo.
“Let me ask you one question.” Ms. Davis approached, wearing candy-apple red from head to toe. The two-piece skirt set was matched by stockings and pumps that were both the same shade of red. She was wearing a big-brimmed red hat with a lace veil, with red-and-white drop earrings, a red pearl necklace, and a wristful of gaudy red bracelets.
Before Isis could regain her composure, or her vision, from the shock of Ms. Davis having taken things too far both by showing up for the funeral and by sporting such a hideous
coordinated
ensemble, Dave’s mother was in her face, nose to nose, as if they were professional boxers posing for a pay-per-view fight advertisement.
“How da fuck you gonna have a motherfucking funeral for
my
son,” Ms. Davis said to Isis, “and not invite his momma, bitch?” She was moving her shoulders and neck from side to side like she was doing a stiff version of that dance, the snake.
It took everything in Isis’s power not to dropkick the woman. She answered with all the decorum she could muster. “Ms. Davis, you don’t send invites to a funeral.” Isis flashed a fake smile. “And besides, I thought you didn’t care if he was left in a cardboard box. Why should I go out of my way to make sure you were here to see that he wasn’t?” Isis had no intention of punking out to Ms. Davis ever again.
“It don’t make no motherfucking difference what I said, you little bitch. I am still his mother!”
Isis’s face twisted ever so slightly. She wasn’t going to be called a bitch too many more times by this hag. “Surely a real mother would have
never
collected the insurance money from her son’s death and not taken care of the burial of her son, would she?” Isis took a step back so she wouldn’t be in arm’s reach of Ms. Davis before continuing. “Not any mother that was worth a damn anyway.”
“Listen, you little bitch! I will beat yo’ young ass.”
“Whatever, lady.” Isis brushed off the threat. “Don’t come at me sideways just because you feel guilty that you’ve always been a piss-poor mother to your offspring.”
Aunt Samantha wasn’t far away and had overheard the conversation. Samantha, who was a little taller than Isis and about the same height as Ms. Davis—but much prettier—got right into Ms. Davis’s face. “My niece ain’t gon’ be called nan nother bitch from yo’ stank ass.” Samantha, like always, wanted to protect Isis from the unnecessary madness around her. “You want to put your hands on someone, honey, take it up with me.”
Ms. Davis looked Samantha up and down, observing every inch and detail, right down to her bone structure. “You must be crazy if you think I am going to stand here and fight a
man
.”
That statement got Isis worked up. “Oh, no you didn’t,” Isis said to Ms. Davis before hauling off and spitting at her. The spit landed right on her red pointed toe pumps. “Don’t you ever call my Aunt Samantha a man.”
Ms. Davis put her hands on her hips. “Shit, why not? Sa
man
tha.
Man
tha.
Man
! Take away the ‘Sa’ and the ‘tha’
Always dripping in fabulousity and ultraglamorous, Samantha stood five feet nine inches and was model thin. She wore only the best push-up bras that money could buy to make the small breasts God probably considered a blessing look like a B cup. Dressed, as always, as if going to a
Vogue
photo spread, she was at the funeral in a fierce black dress that complemented her small waist. Her long black hair was always kept up to par, and she was never caught without her makeup. Samantha was blessed with the beautiful eyes that Isis and Sandy shared, but the difference was that Samantha was never without long false eyelashes to enhance them.
After the funeral, Isis was walking out of the funeral home toward the limo when, out of nowhere, she was greeted by an unwelcome guest whom she saw walking from a red limo.
“Let me ask you one question.” Ms. Davis approached, wearing candy-apple red from head to toe. The two-piece skirt set was matched by stockings and pumps that were both the same shade of red. She was wearing a big-brimmed red hat with a lace veil, with red-and-white drop earrings, a red pearl necklace, and a wristful of gaudy red bracelets.
Before Isis could regain her composure, or her vision, from the shock of Ms. Davis having taken things too far both by showing up for the funeral and by sporting such a hideous
coordinated
ensemble, Dave’s mother was in her face, nose to nose, as if they were professional boxers posing for a pay-per-view fight advertisement.
“How da fuck you gonna have a motherfucking funeral for
my
son,” Ms. Davis said to Isis, “and not invite his momma, bitch?” She was moving her shoulders and neck from side to side like she was doing a stiff version of that dance, the snake.
It took everything in Isis’s power not to dropkick the woman. She answered with all the decorum she could muster. “Ms. Davis, you don’t send invites to a funeral.” Isis flashed a fake smile. “And besides, I thought you didn’t care if he was left in a cardboard box. Why should I go out of my way to make sure you were here to see that he wasn’t?” Isis had no intention of punking out to Ms. Davis ever again.
“It don’t make no motherfucking difference what I said, you little bitch. I am still his mother!”
Isis’s face twisted ever so slightly. She wasn’t going to be called a bitch too many more times by this hag. “Surely a real mother would have
never
collected the insurance money from her son’s death and not taken care of the burial of her son, would she?” Isis took a step back so she wouldn’t be in arm’s reach of Ms. Davis before continuing. “Not any mother that was worth a damn anyway.”
“Listen, you little bitch! I will beat yo’ young ass.”
“Whatever, lady.” Isis brushed off the threat. “Don’t come at me sideways just because you feel guilty that you’ve always been a piss-poor mother to your offspring.”
Aunt Samantha wasn’t far away and had overheard the conversation. Samantha, who was a little taller than Isis and about the same height as Ms. Davis—but much prettier—got right into Ms. Davis’s face. “My niece ain’t gon’ be called nan nother bitch from yo’ stank ass.” Samantha, like always, wanted to protect Isis from the unnecessary madness around her. “You want to put your hands on someone, honey, take it up with me.”
Ms. Davis looked Samantha up and down, observing every inch and detail, right down to her bone structure. “You must be crazy if you think I am going to stand here and fight a
man
.”
That statement got Isis worked up. “Oh, no you didn’t,” Isis said to Ms. Davis before hauling off and spitting at her. The spit landed right on her red pointed toe pumps. “Don’t you ever call my Aunt Samantha a man.”
Ms. Davis put her hands on her hips. “Shit, why not? Sa
man
tha.
Man
tha.
Man
! Take away the ‘Sa’ and the ‘tha’
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