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snatch up her tennies, untie her tight-ass knots, loosen the laces so she could slip them on the next morning no hassles. Set them side by side, and vanish before anyone in the house witnessed. It was the most I could do for her back then and may be the most I have done for her since.
    Mom is outside the gates glancing.
    She’s smoking a nasty-ass cigarette and wearing clothes that might be secondhand. This is the first time she’s seen my ride, which is probably why, right off, she don’t move, not until I tap the horn and pull up close.
    She climbs in and the first thing out her mouth is, Whose car is it?
    How about hello? I say, but already Mom’s shimmying in her seat, running her hands along the dash, opening vents, and saying, Wow, wow, the whole time.
    No, Champ, serious, whose car is this? she says.
    Mom, I say. C’mon.
    Mom what? she says. This cost, what? What did this cost?
    Nothing, Nothing, I say. No worries.
    She twists to give me the side of her face and lets her window down. Okay, I’ll let it be, she says. But for now.
    I ask why she didn’t call me the day she got out. Tell her I would’ve picked her up.
    Some things you should do on your own, she says. Some days it’s best to be by yourself. Mom touches the door handle, and smiles at me, the way she might’ve half my life ago. Look at you, she says. Look at you. She can’t decide on where to eat, soI drive us to the diner where my high school coach would take our hoop team during state tournament time, a spot with a waffle breakfast that could bring a nigger to tears of joy. The hostess seats us in a booth near a window and gives us menus and ice waters. Our waiter appears, asks if we need time to decide. Mom does, so I busy watching cars wheel Broadway while she over-thinks her choice. She closes the menu and our waiter reappears pad in hand.
    So, how’s it going? she says.
    Cool, I say.
    Just cool? she says
    Just cool, I say.
    And Kim, she says. How is she?
    Cool, too, I say.
    You haven’t had a conversation with me in umpteen months and all you can say is cool? she says.
    Just being honest, I say. Ain’t gone put nothing on it. Ain’t gone to take nothing off it.
    Boy, you silly, she says. What’s the good news?
    That’s a lot of pressure, I say. What if it ain’t none?
    Mom lifts her head. Her eyes, they’re oceans. I’ve seen them roil with storms, but now they’re clear, becalmed.
    Boy, life’s pressure, she says. You best prepare.
    How about I’m free and alive? I say. There’s the report.
    Mom holds her water glass as if it’s a chalice and sips. There’s a whole lotta difference between being alive and livin, she says. There’s a whole lot of folks walkin dead on they feet. She pauses and clamps her eyes. And I should know, she says. Believe me if anyone should know that, it’s me.
    I slide out the booth and slink to the register and take my timebuying a paper. I glance over the front page and lollygag more before I make my way back. Mom ain’t interested in reading a section, says she’ll pass on the bad news. What she does is scrounge her purse (that joint’s big enough to bury an elf) for her compact, fogs a tiny mirror, wipes it with her sleeve, gives herself a once and twice-over, and drag a finger across brows she’s forged since my wee bit days.
    The Metro headline is news of another judge handing out another Measure Eleven charge (you’ve got to love those mandatory minimums!) to someone I know, this time to this Blood dude who warmed the bench on my Biddy Ball team. Every other week, I see a name I know, an old friend, ex-teammate, a face I recognize from summer camp, in the Sports or Metro, more in the Metro than Sports, which, when you think about it, proves a point: there’s a gang of dudes (you might could count me in) out here who love to be seen, felt, heard, most of whom (you got to count me out)