'Sergeant Motley's worried about you.'
He looked at me, waiting to see what new kind of trap was being constructed around him.
'He thinks you're going to get cooled out one of these days,' I said.
'Cooled… what?'
'He thinks you're cruising for a big fall.'
'Why y'all on my case? I ain't done nothing.'
'Did you tell your mother about what happened this morning?'
His eyes flicked sideways toward the house. He sucked in his cheeks and tried not to swallow.
'I remember something a guy told me once,' I said. 'He said it's as dishonorable to let yourself be used as it is to use someone else.'
'What you mean?'
'Your friends impress me as shitheads.'
'I don't care what you say. We stand by each ot'er. They're my friends in all kinds of ways.'
'Zoot, I didn't see one of those guys say thank you when you handed him a soft drink. Who's kidding who, podna?'
I found his mother on her knees in the backyard, spading out a hole for a pot of chrysanthemums. The Saint Augustine grass was thick and spongy underfoot, and the beds along her weathered wood fences were bursting with azaleas, banana trees, elephant ears, flaming hibiscus, and pink and blue hydrangeas. She was barefoot and wore a pair of white shorts and a purple blouse with green flowers on it. Her hair was on her shoulders, and her face was hot with her work. For the first time I saw a prettiness in her. I sat on a wood box next to her and turned on the garden hose and let it sluice into the fresh hole while she fitted the plant in and troweled dirt over the roots.
'How'd you know I was home?' she said.
'Your office told me you're
working nights now.'
'What were you talking to Zoot about out there?' she said, without looking up.
'Not too much… His friends.'
'You don't approve of them?'
'People sure know when they're around.'
'Well, I guess you're glad you don't have to be around them very long, aren't you?'
'A boy can gravitate to certain kids for a reason.'
'Oh?' she said, and rested her rump on her heels. As she looked at me she tilted her head in feigned deference.
'I don't know why you think it's funny. He's a good boy,' I said. 'Why don't you stop treating him like a douche bag?'
She made a sound like she had swallowed bile. 'I can't believe you just said that,' she said.
'Why don't you give the kid some credit? He's got a lot of courage. Did he tell you he went three rounds against a professional fighter who could have turned his brains into mush?'
'Where do you get off telling me how to raise my child?'
'That's it, Lucinda. He's not a child.'
Then she made the same sound again, as though she couldn't remove a vile taste from her throat. 'Please spare me this, would you?' she said. 'Go away somewhere, find a nice white neighborhood, find a white lady digging in her garden, and please give her your advice about the correct way to raise children. Can you do that for me, please?'