The View From Here by Rachel Howzell

Author:Rachel Howzell [Howzell, Rachel]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Literature & Fiction, Contemporary, United States, African American, Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, Women's Fiction, Domestic Life, Thrillers & Suspense, Suspense, Contemporary Fiction, American, Genre Fiction, Family Life
Amazon: B004BA52W6
Published: 2010-11-07T04:00:00+00:00

33

I sat at the breakfast bar staring at fire-colored fruit flies that buzzed over corpse-like bananas. I lifted my coffee cup, but didn’t drink, hypnotized by the magnetic hovering of insects over old fruit. Any other time, I would’ve gleefully smashed those annoying buggers between my palms. Now, though, I needed all living creatures—flies, roaches, and possums—to exist and to be okay because maybe then Truman would be okay.

Monica had stayed with me overnight. She had wrapped my bloody foot in gauze, and had mopped the floors. By the time sunlight cracked across the canyon, the power to my house had been restored.

Leilani had only gawked at the den’s damage before storming out of the room. And now, dressed in a micro-mini that showed her thong, she rummaged in the refrigerator.

Monica, buttering slices of toast, noticed Leilani’s wardrobe malfunction, and raised an eyebrow. “Wow. You’re wearing underwear.”

“Yep,” Leilani said. “I have an interview today.”

“With who?” Monica asked.

“These people,” Leilani said. “I don’t know who. My girl Taj hooked me up.”

“Here you go.” Monica slipped a plate of toast near my hands. “You need to eat.” She returned to the sink, and squirted dishwashing liquid over the dirty cups and plates.

“She’ll eat when she’s ready,” Leilani said. “When she’s not burning shit up.”

“It was an accident, Lei,” I said, then nibbled the toast. “The candle fell over.”

Monica watched me over her shoulder and nodded as I swallowed the bread and sipped from my coffee cup.

But the toast was making me nauseous. I dropped it back to the plate and hid my face with my hands. “I can’t eat. I’m so tired.”

“And I’m tired of you being tired,” Leilani mumbled.

I glanced at her and saw no emotion in her expression. No softness. No glee. No sass. She had meant what she had just said. “Am I inconveniencing you somehow?” I snapped. “Keeping you from doing something productive, like finding a job?”

Monica said, “Nic, calm down.”

“Want me to throw a Mardi Gras parade?” I asked my sister-in-law. “Or maybe I should drive us all down to Hooters for hot wings and beer? What am I supposed to be feeling right now, Leilani? You’re smart. You’re a rabbi or whatever now. Tell me how to stop plotzing.”

“I don’t expect you to throw parties now that my brother’s gone,” Leilani said, “but your attitude is getting old. And now it’s getting dangerous and you need to snap out of it.”

“It’s been two weeks,” I said. “I’m doing the best I can.”

Leilani rolled her eyes. “You’re not doing anything. Everybody’s doing everything—”

“Excuse me? Everybody? Have I asked you to do one damn thing for me?” I shouted. “Have you offered to deal with Flex or the Coast Guard or his co-workers or any of that? No, you haven’t. You’re only interested in going shopping and eating lunch and a bunch of other bullshit that I could care less about right now.”

“You wanna know why?” Leilani asked, hands on her hips. “Because I’m dealing with the truth: Truman’s dead.

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