Vera is sitting on a wooden stool with her back to the kitchen sink, and Sheryl is standing in front of her. She runs the hot comb through the last section of hair at the back of her youngest daughter's neck.
"You've been confined to your room since you got back in, Judith," Sheryl reminds her. The two sisters exchange sorrowful glances. "Are you gonna tell me what's wrong, or should I ignore it?"
You do that anyway.
She lets out a sigh, shrugs her shoulders, and says, "Mom, I'm fine. The crash just messed with my head a little, and I've been tired ever since."
Sheryl places it on the front burner to the left and grabs a red jar with both hands. Blue Magic Pressing oil, according to the label.
"Your bandage needs to be changed." As her fingers lift a glob of blue gel, she searches around the back of her head. "Pull up a chair next to your sister."
She returns her attention to the next section of Vera's shoulder-length hair, slicking the pomade against her dark coils, and Judith steps into the spacious dining room to retrieve the chair closest to the arch.
Stevie stomps down the flight of stairs with his fists balled up at his sides, and she settles into the chair to her sister's right.
"What're you cooking," he grumbles. His sisters look at him thoroughly, but his mother peeks at him from her peripheral, and she sets the jar on the counter. He ignores the cold expression she's displaying.
"My hair." She twists a generous amount on the right into a ball, leaving a narrow and defined portion. Her hand tightens around the pressing comb's wooden handle, and the warmth radiates through her palm.
"Can I go ride my bike with Hendrix and Mardi," he asks, and he's answered with a humored chuckle that he rolls his eyes at. Sheryl sinks the comb through her hair near the root with it in her free hand, and Vera clenches in her seat, mentally and physically preparing to be burned.
"You're not leaving this house until your father says so, Stevie, and you know that." Sheryl puckers her lips and blows on the greasy metal as it slowly passes to the ends of Vera's hair.
"Well, where is he?" She runs the teeth from root to tip once more then sets the straightening comb on the burner.
"He's outside talking to Robbie," she tells him without looking in his direction, and he flounces toward the door.
"Momma, when will you be done," she whines. Sheryl unravels another small portion, gripping the ends between her left hand's index and middle fingers.
"I'm almost done with the back. This isn't a picnic for me either, Vera," she tells her with a weary sigh. She returns the tool to her hair, glancing at the window in front of them. The moon has risen, but only a few stars illuminate the night.
"Mom, why're you pressing her hair?" Sheryl turns to Judith when she asks.
"Tomorrow is their school's picture day. Your Grandma in New York wants to see the kids, but I'm not packing y'all in a car to Brooklyn this time of year; it's too dangerous," she explains.
"Grandma Ida?" A smile grows on her face at the thought of seeing her extended family in Brooklyn, family members that she hadn't seen in years. "What if I watch the kids? I won't let anything happen."
Stevie slams the door, and it resembles a thunderous boom. It sends Judith to her feet and causes the trio to flinch. The hot comb's teeth graze Vera's right ear, and she emits an earth-shattering scream.
"What in God's name was that," Sheryl asks over her daughter's weeping. She returns the pressing comb to the burner and follows Judith to the arch. Stevie stomps toward the staircase, his face beetroot red.
Walter thrusts the door open with Robert – Judith's oldest sister's husband – behind him. Her brother-in-law's skin is that of mocha, contrary to her father's dark umber complexion, and his dark brown irises are gentle despite what's happening in front of him.
"Boy, have you lost your damn mind?" As his son races up each step, he rushes toward the stairs, Robbie taking average strides with his hands in his jeans pockets. Walter approaches him and says calmly, "I'm sorry, son. Usually, the kids have eaten dinner by now and are in bed."
"Oh, no, it's fine," he assures him, flashing his top row of teeth with a smile. Sheryl folds her arms at her husband. "My kids are with my mother, and they can be – hectic."
"Why is Baby Girl crying," he asks his wife, his voice irritated as he turns his head to her. Stevie slams his door.
"Because your son slammed the door so hard I dropped the pressing comb on her ear." Walter peeks between his wife and daughter, searching for Vera. He notices her sitting with her right ear in her hands, tears streaming down her cheeks.
"I'll be right back. Sheryl, is the food almost done?" He slowly ascends the steps, waiting for her answer. When she nods, he runs to the second floor of their house.
"I'll go put some ice on her ear," Judith tells her mother before stepping into the kitchen. Robert shakes his head, chuckling dryly.
"Does this happen often," he asks, and Sheryl narrows her eyes at him. Judy retracts a cube of ice from a blue tray in the fridge's freezer.
"Aren't you a social worker?" She glances at him as she strolls toward her sister.
"Open this door, or I'll knock it down, Stevie," Walter threatens, and his wife drops her arms. Vera places her hands on her lap to allow her to ease the pain of the forming burn mark.
"Yes, I've been in this field since I graduated," he answers her question with a smile.
"Hm, well, thank you for your concern, but focus on my grandbabies instead of my children." She returns to her initial place in the kitchen, watching him raise his hands in playful surrender.
"Yes, ma'am." He stands in the doorframe and leans to the right.
"How're Cynthia and Charles," she asks. Vera sniffles.
"They're okay. I haven't told them about Stacey yet; they wouldn't understand." He and Judy lower their heads, and Sheryl nods.
"And how's Stacey?" His smile fades, and he doesn't reply. "Robbie?"
"She's – some days are good." He forces a grin through his misty gaze. "I don't know how to help her, and I don't know how to help myself. What she did – I'll talk to you about it another time."
"I understand." They avert their attention to the staircase when a familiar crackle echoes from the second floor.
Stevie hollers after a brief moment of silence as if his attempts to suppress it weren't enough. "Well, that's my cue. I'll swing by in the morning before I head to work."
"Alright. Kiss the kids for me," she tells him as he walks to the exit.
"Will do. Goodnight, Ma." He shuts the door behind him on the way out, and Judy sighs. The ice has melted with only a tiny chip left in her grasp.
"Go wash your hands and fix the plates," Sheryl instructs her. When she proceeds to walk toward the stairs, her mother stands behind Vera.
***
Judith grips the straps of her overalls hanging off her hips as she waits for the bus. She's standing next to the empty bench that Jerome and his friends crowd around, occasionally glancing at it.
A thin blanket of fog covers the ground around her black and white converse and the morning breeze is colder than she's used to.
She turns to her right to run home for a jacket, and when she takes three steps forward, a voice behind her says, "Good morning."
Her face brightens at who she assumes to be Jerome, but when she veers around, her smile falls.
A pale, sea-blue-eyed man in a suit and tie with low-cut hair is sitting in the middle of the bench with his right arm resting on the top.
She notices David riding by her in his father's car, driving to their campus. Then she turns to face the unidentified man in front of her. He nods since she doesn't open her lips to speak.
"Stranger danger. Your parents taught you well," he says condescendingly, and she turns to the road. She recognizes the tone of voice he's using. She often hears that voice from people who assume that she's a child, but she doesn't correct him.
The Palmetto Breeze rolls toward them, and she squints down either end of the sidewalk, hoping to see Jerome. When Mr. Rogers brings the vehicle to a halt and turns the gear to open the doors, she boards the bus with the well-dressed man behind her.
"Good morning, Miss. Jefferson," he greets her, and she grins at him.
"Good morning, Mr. Rogers." Judy dispenses the change in her pockets and strolls down the aisle, each seat occupied except the long one in the back. He drops his quarters into the machine and follows her to the back row.
She sits in the center, then slides to the left as she notices him standing above her. He opts for the aisle seat. He glances at her as the bus continues down the cul-de-sac.
"How old are you, Miss. Jefferson," he asks, and her mind goes blank. She doesn't want to answer, but she doesn't want to hear his voice for the rest of the ride either.
"I'm – twelve," she lies, and he blinks from surprise.
"Wow, you're tall for a twelve-year-old. I would've guessed, maybe, fourteen." She pulls her lips into a straight line and nods her head, then peers out of her window. "So, what parent allows their child to ride the bus alone? Especially with serial killers running around."
"Sir, with all due respect, I have a headache, and I could use some peace and quiet," she tells him with her attention on him. The driver glances at them through the rearview mirror.
"I was gonna ask about your head injury." She rolls her eyes onto the driver's reflection. He whispers, "What happened if you don't mind me asking?"
"I fell down the stairs," she rushes the words from her mouth with annoyance in her tone, but it doesn't stop the intrigued man.
"What a coincidence. My wife was playing with our kids last summer, and she tripped over her feet going down the stairs in our townhouse," he tells her with an eerie smile. She glances at his left hand, then at him when she doesn't see a ring. He follows her gaze, then gives her a grim sigh. "She passed this year; Cancer."
"I'm sorry for your loss," her voice and expression soften, and he nods.
"I don't know what I would've done if it weren't for my kids and my Christian faith. I lost my job last week, and I'm barely getting by. Right now, I'm heading to an interview." Judith turns at the hips to face him, then places her hands on his left hand. He marvels at her pity.
"The fact that you're strong enough to look for work is commendable. I know how it feels to lose a loved one, though I recognize that the pain you may feel is different from mine." He nods his head. "Can I get your number before either of us gets off the bus? I'll talk to my friends and see what we can do to help you and your family."
"You're kind, but what could a fifteen-year-old do to help my situation?" He gives a dry chuckle, and she casts her gaze onto her hands. She removes them and straightens her posture.
"I'm actually nineteen," she confesses without lifting her chin. The corners of his mouth twist into a smile. "I didn't want to tell you that because I--"
"You thought that I was a threat," He completes her sentence, and she turns her head in shame. "It's okay. I have daughters, and I would hate for them to feel what you felt."
"Thank you for understanding." He softly nudges her head higher with his left index finger under her chin.
"You have the prettiest eyes that I've ever seen. Don't be afraid to show them." He returns his hand to his lap as Judith smiles at him. He tucks his right hand into his pocket, then presents her with a square laminated card. "Here's my number. You can call in, maybe, five hours."
She takes a close look at the inscription. His full name is John Lewis.