Bare Bones

“You eat barbecue.”

Bam! Bam! Bam! The screen door danced in its frame.

“Yes, bu—”

“You like bluegrass.” Katy could be persistent.

At that moment the inner door opened and a woman scowled through the screen. Though he had an inch on her in height, the woman had Slidell hands down in poundage.

“Is Gideon Banks at home?” Slidell barked.

“Who askin’?”

“Katy, I’ve got to go,” I whispered.

“Boyd’s looking forward to this. There’s something he wants to discuss with you.” Boyd is my estranged husband’s dog. Conversations with or about Boyd usually lead to trouble.

Slidell held his badge to the screen.

“Pick you up at noon?” My daughter could be as unrelenting as Skinny Slidell.

“All right,” I hissed, punching the “end” button.

The woman studied the badge, arms akimbo like a prison guard.

I pocketed the phone.

The woman’s eyes crawled from the badge to my companion, then to me.

“Daddy’s sleepin’.”

“I think it might be best to wake him,” I jumped in, hoping to defuse Slidell.

“This about Tamela?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Tamela’s sister. Geneva. Like Switzerland.” Her tone suggested she’d said that before.

Geneva backhanded the screen. This time the spring made a sound like piano keys.

Removing his shades, Slidell squeezed past her. I followed, into a small, dim living room. An archway opened onto a hall directly opposite our entry point. I could see a kitchen to the right with a closed door beyond, two closed doors to the left, a bath straight ahead at the end.

Six kids. I could only imagine the competition for shower and sink time.

Our hostess let the screen whrrrrppp to its frame, pushed the inner door shut, and turned to face us. Her skin was a deep, chocolate brown, the sclera of her eyes the pale yellow of pine nuts. I guessed her age to be mid-twenties.

“Geneva is a beautiful name,” I said for lack of a better opening. “Have you been to Switzerland?”

Geneva looked at me a long time, face devoid of expression. Perspiration dotted the brow and temples from which her hair had been pulled straight back. The lone window unit apparently cooled another room.

“I get Daddy.”

She tipped her head toward a worn couch on the right wall of the living room. Curtains framing the open window above hung limp with heat and humidity.

“Wanna sit.” It was more a statement than a question.

“Thank you,” I said.

Geneva waddled toward the archway, shorts bunching between her thighs. A small, stiff ponytail stuck straight out from the back of her head.

As Slidell and I took opposite ends of the couch, I heard a door open, then the tinny sound of a gospel station. Seconds later the music was truncated.

I looked around.

The decorating was nouveau Wal-Mart. Linoleum. Vinyl recliner. Oak-laminate coffee and end tables. Plastic palms.

But a loving hand was clearly present.

The frilled curtains behind us smelled of laundry detergent and Downy. A rip on my armrest had been carefully darned. Every surface gleamed.

Bookshelves and tabletops overflowed with framed photos and crudely made objets d’art. A garishly painted clay bird. A ceramic plate with the impression of a tiny hand, the name Reggie arching below. A box constructed of Popsicle sticks. Dozens of cheap trophies. Shoulder pads and helmets encased forever in gold-coated plastic. A jump shot. A cut at a fastball.

I surveyed the snapshots closest to me. Christmas mornings. Birthday parties. Athletic teams. Each memory was preserved in a dime-store frame.

Slidell picked up a throw pillow, raised his brows, set it back between us. God is Love, embroidered in blue and green. Melba’s handiwork?

The sadness I’d been feeling all morning intensified as I thought of six children losing their mother. Of Tamela’s doomed infant.

The pillow. The photos. The school and team memorabilia. Save for the portrait of a black Jesus hanging above