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something from a white person, or rather from white
culture
—in fact, very specifically, she wanted to steal a name. She had her reasons for this, and they had nothing at all to do with hating white people, which she didn’t at all, or else she wouldn’t have been able to abide Eddie Valentino.
    The second was that she wanted to be a baroness.
    “Does Your Grace plan to invite me in?”
    Actually, Talba hadn’t planned to. The fact was that, after a string of losers, Talba had finally brought home a boyfriend who delighted her mama so much Talba suspected her of wanting him for her own. Miz Clara would offer him supper and try to keep him around as long as she could. And Talba desperately wanted to go out. Now.
    Even now, Miz Clara was getting impatient to see him. Talba could hear real shoes clicking behind her instead of her mama’s accustomed scruffy blue slippers. “ ’Zat Darryl Boucree I hear?”
    “Sure,” Talba said to him. “Come on in.”
    Miz Clara was all over him. “Darryl, how ya keepin’ yaself? How come you been such a stranger?”
    He hadn’t, of course. Talba met him away from her mother’s cottage as much as she could. She liked living with her mother—had moved in just for a few months and stayed—but a person had to have some semblance of adult life.
    “Miz Clara,” he said, “you know I can’t stay away from you for long.”
    “Hmm. From my food, ya mean. I been makin’ smothered chicken. Y’all want some?”
    “Ohhh. That sure sounds good.” He’d stay and eat it if Talba’d let him.
    “Nosiree, Mr. Boucree,” she said. “You promised me Italian.”
    “Okay. Italian it is.” He’d promised no such thing, but he was a quick study. She liked that about him.
    “My car or yours?” he said when they’d made their escape. “Yours, of course. I hate that damn white thing.”
    He opened her door. “Have you looked for a new one yet?”
    “I checked out the ads on Sunday. But I can’t really afford anything new—or half decent, even. The accident was my fault, you know. If the insurance pays for it, you know what that does to my rates.”
    “Maybe you should just bite the bullet—you really need a car. Venezia okay?”
    “Always.” This was a great hangout for cops and all manner of hard-bitten characters. Eddie had introduced her to it. She loved it though not for the food, especially.
    “Well, you can’t keep renting a car. That’s a quick way to the poorhouse.”
    “I would have the one job in the world that absolutely requires a car.”
    “Sure can’t do surveillance in a New Breed cab.”
    “Oh, God. Surveillance.”
    “What?”
    “Nothing. Or rather, something I don’t want to think about. I had to tell a friend her boyfriend was cheating on her.” They arrived at the restaurant and went in. Curiously, Darryl didn’t pursue the subject. She asked him about school—he taught English at Fortier High School—and about his gig the previous night, and about his daughter, Raisa.
    He had amusing stories about the first two and worry about Raisa. Always a difficult child, she was acting out more than ever. He wanted to find her a therapist; his ex was opposed.
    Talba’s stomach churned when she thought about Raisa. If she married Darryl—and things were heading that way—this giant, seemingly insurmountable problem became hers. Motherhood itself seemed insurmountable, much less third parent to a young volcano. Come to think of it, she’d not only get Raisa, she’d get her mother, and that would be even worse.
    Yet she hated herself for thinking that way. She knew Darryl wouldn’t if the roles were reversed. She wanted Darryl and she was going to have to accept this one day. Perhaps, she thought, she wasn’t mature enough yet.
    In fact, there was no doubt of that. Maybe she’d met him too early. She still had things to do, unfinished business that really had to be addressed.
    Suddenly, a great sadness came over her—sadness for Babalu, who thought