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nothing but a miniseries of the previous ten years, which is probably why our parents made me executor of the whole estate years before they both passed. All hundred and sixty acres. My brothers weren’t happy about this even though they got enough cash for anybody to live on for years. Just to be fair, I turned around and deeded them twenty acres each, including the house (which wasn’t worth half as much as the land), since they wanted to live in it for what they claim were sentimental reasons. But a funny thing happened while they partied the years away: They blew their inheritance and are now flat broke, which is why they’ve decided to sue me for what they call “our fair share.” Mine has been earning 3 percent interest.
    It’s unfortunate that Jackson, the oldest, has yet to find steady employment even at the tender age of forty-eight. He claims to be handicapped but has yet to reveal what his disability is. Clay, a year younger, a high school dropout, never quite got the hang of working and has never demonstrated any marketable skills unless you count rounding up cattle. They’ve always resented me for marrying a black man and have never met him or the kids, which hurts even though I understand. Regardless, they’re still kin, so once I get this ordeal all straightened out, I’ll most likely give them some more acreage to do with as they please, sell off the rest, give them just enough money so they won’t kill themselves, and then maybe I’ll move to a more pleasant neighborhood out in the Valley, and definitely get my boobs lifted.
    My moving to Los Angeles was not an accident. I dropped out of college to escape my family, boredom, and the brutal Montana winters with hopes of becoming an actress or a dancer—whichever happened first. (I was also a gymnast, but a broken tibia prevented me from going to the Olympics in Mexico City.) I managed to become a professional cheerleader instead. Which is how I met my husband. Howard was a rookie point guard for the Lakers but got cut after sitting on the bench for three years. From there he followed in his dad’s boots and started putting out fires. Last I heard, he retired the dice and worked his way up to captain. Instead of dancing, for the last twenty years, five days a week I have sat in a courtroom and typed into my steno machine some of the most horrific crimes imaginable when it comes to what folks do and don’t do under the influence of drugs and alcohol. Some things they don’t even remember. My daddy was a drunk. My mama was his memory. Everybody I knew played with guns. Especially my brothers when they were stoned out of their minds. Once, Jackson accidentally shot Clay in the foot. He didn’t even feel it. Guns have always frightened me. All this stuff has added up to why I’ve never tasted alcohol or smoked marijuana. I didn’t want any of them to play a role in my life. After all I’ve seen and heard, I don’t think everybody who drinks a little too much on occasion is an alcoholic or that people who smoke marijuana on an occasional basis are potheads. I take that back. They are potheads. If you smoke only three cigarettes a day instead of the whole pack, you’re still a smoker. It just always seemed easier and saner to deal with life with a clear head instead of one that’s overcast.
    Lee David and BJ were the first people on the block to treat us like our mixed marriage was no big deal. Howard and I didn’t really have that hard a time. We got an occasional stare when we went out. But black women have been the worst. Whenever we were in public, when his back was turned, they’d look me up and down quickly, then again slowly, as if they were trying to figure out what I had that they didn’t—nothing—and they’d cut their eyes at me or give me the finger or twitch their nose and lips to one side or mouth the word
bitch
, all while leaning back on one leg, either with their arms crossed or with their hands on their hips. Sometimes all