Read The Residue Years for Free Online Page B

though, will accept the shine how it comes.
    Mom smoothes her ponytail, bats lashes hard to tell ain’t hers. You try and give her the gift of seeing her new, but it’s tough when most years, most days, Mom’s so vintage. She asks me about school and I mention this class I’m taking that begins with the prof posting a quote for guided free-write. Last week’s quote was by Oscar Wilde: A man’s face is his autobiography. A woman’s face is her work of fiction. Mom puzzles those brows. And just what’s that supposed to mean? she says.
    We linger after our meal, and when we leave, Mom says she wants to stay out, so I drive to Irving Park and park on Fremont, two wheels on the curb and two wheels in the street. Since we don’t do publicity (no public hand-holding, public hugging, public kissing), me and Mom walk uphill with a little spacebetween us to the masticated bench that overlooks the covered court where down below the Mexicans play eight-on-eight full-court with a tricolored ball. Mom swirls her heel in a mound of damp leaves. A team erupts over a three-point make.
    So what you been doing since you got out? I say.
    She zips her jacket, worries the buckle on her oceanic bag.
    Not enough, she says.
    Well, why not? I say. What’s the plan?
    She shakes out another smoke, turns to watch a car maneuver the islands on Seventh Ave. The plan’s to keep planning, she says, and lights up.
    Right, I say. But you got something a little more defined?
    Yes, she says. She takes out a folded sheet, her diversion contract. It lists rehab mandates, how long she has to get a job, how much she owes for her fines and fees. Don’t get no more defined than that, she says. So right now my plan is their plan.
    Okay, so now we know what’s what, I say.
    We? she says.
    Yes, we, I say.
    Enough about that, she says. You know what, I was thinking about finding me a new church, she says. One where worshipping is more important than who put what in a plate.
    Again? I say.
    Is that a problem? she says.
    The problem is them church saints persecuting almost all of mankind. Like I saw one of your old friends on the corner the other day. And you know what she was doing?
    No, but I bet you’ll tell me, Mom says.
    Spiking a slapdash cross and singing “Happy Birthday” to Jesus?
    That’s a bit much, Mom says. But there’s nothing wrong with committing to God.
    Nothing wrong with commitment is right, I say. But what about what’s beyond that? Mom smirks and shakes her head.
    Oh, so it’s that time, huh. Time to rededicate your life to your Lord and Savior? I get to my feet and, imaginary mic in hand, pace in front of the bench. Umm-hmmm. I spoke to the Lord today, amen, and he said put a lil extra in the offering plate. I said, I spoke to the Lord today, amen, and he said God blesses those that give. Cause the church, amen, needs money for new paint. Cause Reverend Bootleg, amen, amen, needs money for a new car.
    Boy, you best quit mocking the Lord, she says. For lightning snap out the sky and strike you down. Mom crosses her legs, knocks a wet leaf from the hem of her frayed jeans. She takes off a shoe (Mom’s toes are a sight) and shakes out something worrying her foot. How’s your brothers? she says. When’s the last time you seen them?
    Now, them jokers need Jesus for real, I say. But not to worry, we got em.
    Who’s the we this time? she says.
    Big Ken, I say. And me. Mom, trust, the boys are all good till you’re good. Let’s worry about getting you off this paper. With them, it’s no rush.
    With them it’s all the rush, she says, and groans. You won’t understand until you do.
    Hey, I’m with you. On the home team. Us versus them, I say, and throw up my hands.
    Mom’s smile, silver caps, missing molar and all, could burn off high clouds. Something else, she says. What you think about megoing back to school? Or picking up a trade?