Other People's Skin by Tracy Price-Thompson

Author:Tracy Price-Thompson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Atria Books
Published: 2008-04-15T00:00:00+00:00

Lettie got off the elevator of her east side apartment building and walked toward 5D. Two children, their bushy hair full of lint and their skinny legs and arms naked, ran by as they played with a plastic truck.

“Hey Mama Lettie!” they called, nearly tripping her in the tangle of their legs.

“Hey, LaShon, Lamont, where’s your mama? Get inside and put some clothes on, it’s cold out in the hallway…”

“She ain’t home,” said the oldest, a six-year-old who was used to watching his five-year-old brother whenever their mother stepped out. “She over at Niqua’s.”

Lettie paused. She was too tired today to take the boys in and feed them like she sometimes did. She put the key in her door, but feeling guilty, called back to them as she went inside.

“Well, you knock on my door if you need anything, hear?” she said. The boys nodded but kept playing.

Lettie dead-bolted the door behind her. Putting down her bag, she trudged to the sofa and plopped down heavily on the worn-out springs. Sighing, she thumbed through her mail.

“Gas bill, light bill, water bill,” she mumbled. She read the outside of the brown envelope—“You may have already won $10 million!”—then eyed the stack of unread magazines over by the television stand.

“Humph,” she said. “I wish they’d stop sending me this stuff.”

The last envelope was a white one, with tall, looping handwriting scrawled on the front. “Nicholas Greene, 34904857, Leavenworth Correctional Facility, Leavenworth, Kansas.”

She sucked in her breath and pressed the envelope against her heart.

“Nick,” she whispered.

She placed the envelope on the coffee table and stood, suddenly euphoric. She opened the refrigerator door and bent down to peek in. A quart of whole milk, a block of Velveeta, a packet of fatback (even though the doctor told her to stay away from pork), eggs, a dish of macaroni and cheese, and some chicken left over from lunch at church last Sunday.

She frowned; not much for a meal. She pulled out the milk and got some flour from the cabinet. Outside, she could still hear the boys playing in the hallway, bumping against the walls with their truck. Maybe she’d fix them a little something after all. She hummed “Precious Lord” as her hands nimbly worked the flour into dough. She pinched off pieces and rounded them in her palm. Placing them on a greased cookie sheet, she popped them in the oven, while stirring grits into lightly salted, boiling water.

In minutes, the biscuits were golden, filling the apartment with their buttery aroma.

“Here, boys!” she said, opening her apartment door. “Want some hot biscuits? I don’t have jelly for you today, want some cheese on them?”

The boys dashed to her door and lined up for a biscuit stuffed with a slice of melting Velveeta. They eagerly crammed them in their mouths, and without even a “thank you,” they were back out in the hall, tumbling on the floor.

Lettie shook her head. Inside, the teakettle whistled. She gently shut the door, then made herself a cup of instant coffee.

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