in.”
Zora ain’t hip to Section 8, so she asks all kinds of questions. By the time we get to her house, Momma’s still trying to set her straight.
“Section Eight is the government’s way of making it possible for people, poor people like us, to move into nice places at cheaper rates,” Momma explains. “We pick out a house or apartment we like, and the government pays part of the rent every month. We pay the other part of it. A small part.”
Momma starts to get out of the car with Zora. “You don’t have to walk me in, Miz Hill,” Zora says, trying to pull down her skirt and get out the car at the same time.
But Momma keeps going. When she’s halfway up the front walk, she turns back to me and says, “Come on.”
Zora looks at her, then at me. She’s as confused as I am.
When I’m out the car, Momma says to Zora, “Your father invited us to supper.”
That’s when it hits me. Momma and Dr. Mitchell got a thing going on between them. And, just like that, everything’s clear. Momma ain’t trying to get a house for me. She wants this house so she can get closer to Dr. Mitchell.
Zora looks at Momma real suspicious-like when she opens the door and lets us inside.
Dr. Mitchell is standing at the door. He reaches for Momma’s coat and kisses Zora on the cheek at the same time.
Momma rubs her cold hands together. “Nice place,” she says.
We all walk into the kitchen. Dr. Mitchell dumps wet, hot spaghetti into a strainer. He turns his face from the steam rushing at him. “Dinner’s in thirty minutes. You girls can go upstairs and relax in Zora’s room until we’re ready to eat,” he says.
When we get upstairs, Zora slams her bedroom door shut behind us. Her finger is stuck in my face. “What’s up with your mother?”
I push her finger aside and lie down on her bed. I pick up one of her old dolls and start playing with her hair. “What?” I say.
“Why is she trying to move here to Pecan Landings, trying to make my father like her?”
I’m sitting with the doll’s stringy hair in my lap, trying to think of something that will hurt Zora as much as she’s trying to hurt me. “My mother wouldn’t want your dad, anyhow. He’s a wimp. Dr. Wimp.” I make my hand like a microphone. “Dr. Wimp, please come to the emergency room,” I’m saying.
“Well, at least my father is taking care of me,” Zora says, fixing her sandy eyes on me like she’s trying to beam me right back to the projects. “At least he’s not some dope addict living in a crack house someplace,” she says.
I sit there real quiet, twisting the doll’s hair around my finger, not saying nothing.
“Sorry,” Zora says after a few minutes. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
I’m still twisting the doll’s hair around my finger, not looking Zora’s way at all.
The whole time, I’m wondering if Zora thinks what I think: What does somebody like Dr. Mitchell want with somebody like Momma, who lives in projects . . . who comes from nowhere?
“Your mother doesn’t really like my dad, does she?” Zora asks.
“Not that much, I guess.”
Zora shakes her head up and down. We are thinking the same thing. “I don’t care really,” she says. “But my mother, you know . . .”
I rub the doll’s eyelashes. They feel like toothbrush bristles against my finger.
“My mom and dad, they could get back together, you know,” Zora says.
I feel sorry for Zora then. I know my mother and father ain’t never getting back together. Knowing that makes it easier. You don’t spend your time crying over something you know won’t ever happen.
“If your parents were getting back together, I would know,” I say. “Momma tells me everything,” I say, knowing full well that things with Momma and me ain’t like they used to be. That Momma’s got secrets she don’t tell me nothing about.
Zora says, “I don’t have nothing against your mom, for real I don’t.” She gets up when her dad calls us to dinner.
Zora ain’t hip to Section 8, so she asks all kinds of questions. By the time we get to her house, Momma’s still trying to set her straight.
“Section Eight is the government’s way of making it possible for people, poor people like us, to move into nice places at cheaper rates,” Momma explains. “We pick out a house or apartment we like, and the government pays part of the rent every month. We pay the other part of it. A small part.”
Momma starts to get out of the car with Zora. “You don’t have to walk me in, Miz Hill,” Zora says, trying to pull down her skirt and get out the car at the same time.
But Momma keeps going. When she’s halfway up the front walk, she turns back to me and says, “Come on.”
Zora looks at her, then at me. She’s as confused as I am.
When I’m out the car, Momma says to Zora, “Your father invited us to supper.”
That’s when it hits me. Momma and Dr. Mitchell got a thing going on between them. And, just like that, everything’s clear. Momma ain’t trying to get a house for me. She wants this house so she can get closer to Dr. Mitchell.
Zora looks at Momma real suspicious-like when she opens the door and lets us inside.
Dr. Mitchell is standing at the door. He reaches for Momma’s coat and kisses Zora on the cheek at the same time.
Momma rubs her cold hands together. “Nice place,” she says.
We all walk into the kitchen. Dr. Mitchell dumps wet, hot spaghetti into a strainer. He turns his face from the steam rushing at him. “Dinner’s in thirty minutes. You girls can go upstairs and relax in Zora’s room until we’re ready to eat,” he says.
When we get upstairs, Zora slams her bedroom door shut behind us. Her finger is stuck in my face. “What’s up with your mother?”
I push her finger aside and lie down on her bed. I pick up one of her old dolls and start playing with her hair. “What?” I say.
“Why is she trying to move here to Pecan Landings, trying to make my father like her?”
I’m sitting with the doll’s stringy hair in my lap, trying to think of something that will hurt Zora as much as she’s trying to hurt me. “My mother wouldn’t want your dad, anyhow. He’s a wimp. Dr. Wimp.” I make my hand like a microphone. “Dr. Wimp, please come to the emergency room,” I’m saying.
“Well, at least my father is taking care of me,” Zora says, fixing her sandy eyes on me like she’s trying to beam me right back to the projects. “At least he’s not some dope addict living in a crack house someplace,” she says.
I sit there real quiet, twisting the doll’s hair around my finger, not saying nothing.
“Sorry,” Zora says after a few minutes. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
I’m still twisting the doll’s hair around my finger, not looking Zora’s way at all.
The whole time, I’m wondering if Zora thinks what I think: What does somebody like Dr. Mitchell want with somebody like Momma, who lives in projects . . . who comes from nowhere?
“Your mother doesn’t really like my dad, does she?” Zora asks.
“Not that much, I guess.”
Zora shakes her head up and down. We are thinking the same thing. “I don’t care really,” she says. “But my mother, you know . . .”
I rub the doll’s eyelashes. They feel like toothbrush bristles against my finger.
“My mom and dad, they could get back together, you know,” Zora says.
I feel sorry for Zora then. I know my mother and father ain’t never getting back together. Knowing that makes it easier. You don’t spend your time crying over something you know won’t ever happen.
“If your parents were getting back together, I would know,” I say. “Momma tells me everything,” I say, knowing full well that things with Momma and me ain’t like they used to be. That Momma’s got secrets she don’t tell me nothing about.
Zora says, “I don’t have nothing against your mom, for real I don’t.” She gets up when her dad calls us to dinner.
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