Welcome to Braggsville. T Johnson Geronimo

embarrassed that you flirted with Charlie.

      She slapped him on the cheek with the spatula. You know better. Don’t get highfalutin in front of folk. You told me you were bringing home friends, and gave me specific instructions that made me think … Never mind. One day when I’m not here, you’ll appreciate me.

      Daron walked out, stomping down the hallway to the foyer, where he stopped short of slamming the front door because his father was across the yard, leaving the garage and walking toward the backyard. Daron waited in the doorway until he disappeared, not wanting his father to tear into him about the temporary tattoo on his cheek, as he would call it, before lecturing him on respecting his mother.

      Ruts ran from the small squares of dead lawn on either side of the driveway entrance to the detached garage. His father had remembered to put away The Charlies. They were passed down from his grandfather, Old Hitch, who counted them creepier than bankers, he said, with those watermelon-red lips, but who kept them because his father had given them to him. Daron’s own father had the same complaint, and had promised to put them up when Old Hitch passed, but after the funeral, when the first thing Daron thought to do was move them, because from his bedroom window he could see them leering at night, wild-eyed, his father took to Daron’s neck with a shuddering reminder that, This is my house. I make the rules about who goes where, when, why, and how.

      Laughter erupted from the backyard while Daron was toeing one of the squares of dead grass where The Charlies had stood, and he looked up to see his mother kicking the other. He had not heard her come out.

      Those were heavy. She flexed her arms.

      That explained the ruts. Daron muttered his thanks.

      Does our deal still stand, D’aron?

      Yes’m.

      Don’t Yes’m me. Does our deal still stand?

      Yeah, Mom, it does.

      Okay. She pinched his cheek and it burned even more than the slap. He flinched. Trying to disfigure me?

      They laughed. She kissed him.

      You don’t really think I forgot about your girlfriend, did you?

      She’s not exactly my girlfriend, and she does eat meat, just not beef.

      Oh. Well. Anyway, what I was going to say was I forgot to take those veggie thingamabobs out of the freezer. And who knows, after she gets to see you in your home environment that might change. Hmmm?

      Daron tore the blade of grass he was holding.

      His mother chucked his chin. I love you, hon.

      Me too.

      She went, as she always did, Thank you, honey. You know that’s my favorite band.

      WHEN HE RETURNED TO THE BACKYARD, Quint and Louis were sitting on the red beer cooler, thumb wrestling, Candice and his stripper cousin—at least he thought it was her—were in the gazebo in deep conversation, and Charlie was talking to Daron’s father. The Davenports were big men and women. Two generations in the mill. Before that, three generations of farming, his father liked to say, Yeoman. Yo-man! His uncles would kite their arms like they were steering a bullwhip and declare, We’re the original Georgia Crackers. But next to Charlie, his father looked puny. He never thought of Charlie as large until he saw him next to other people, or recognized the look of closeted alarm some people wore as they tried to avoid being next to him. In The City, rarely did anyone sit beside him on the subway, even during rush hour. At night, women clutched purses, crossed streets; guys steered wide. Charlie would occasionally whistle Vivaldi to reassure bystanders because, No one expects to be mugged by a dude who knows classical music. More than once he claimed he enjoyed the extra space. Daron never believed that. Today, no one behaved like that. But then again, they knew if anyone was going to gladly handle their possessions, it would be Quint. His father waved him over.

      D’aron, is there something you want to say?

      Daron stuttered, giving Charlie a quizzical look.

      Tell me again what D’aron told you about us, Charlie.

      Charlie looked confused.

      His father laughed. I’m just teasing you. I wouldn’t want to know what you said, especially if you didn’t say anything. I thought my mom was old-fashioned for scaring us off the radio, D’aron thinks we’re old-fashioned, and your kids—he rested a hand on Charlie’s shoulder—will think you’re old-fashioned.

      Just a cycle, sir.

      That’s right, sir.

      They went back to talking about the playoffs, and Daron quickly excused himself. The smoke rising from the Green Egg swayed lazy in the wind, the bright coolers were lined up beside the house like Legos. Candice was now moving through the crowd, snapping pictures of everybody. Daron would have to ask her about that later. He didn’t want his family to be featured in the final project, the object of academic scrutiny, their every cough subject to diagnosis by his professor and classmates. But he couldn’t say, No, no he couldn’t, not while she was hugging up next to his uncle and aunt, teetering, extending her arm before her to capture what she called her Paparazzi shot. Last year she’d cut her hair short a few days after they first met. He remembered because the week after the dot party, she waved him over to her bench on Lower Sproul Plaza and he felt a momentary thrill at being hailed by an unknown female. With the cropped hair, she looked tomboyish, which he liked. In profile tonight, with her dreadlocks pulled back, he saw that again, the slight nose, the prominent forehead, and the smile, always a smile like she knew you. Over the sound of the breakers at César Chávez Park, she’d once admitted that her family wasn’t close; that her father expressed a greater affinity for moths and fruit liqueurs and her mother a keen interest in civil rights. She dubbed them emotionally abusive. Taking it to mean that she wasn’t as spoiled as she would have preferred, Daron had laughed so hard he hadn’t even seen her walk off, vanish into the grassy hill, footsteps light as a squirrel. But as she shared more about her parents, he wasn’t so sure, and now prided himself on the fact that in his family, no one had ever been interested in anything other than someone else’s business. Candice remained between Roy and Chester for several minutes, showing them photos, or who knew what else, on her phone. With Aunt Chester gasping in amazement and Uncle Roy squinting with disbelief and Candice grinning proudly, they looked like a family. Daron took a picture. He had anticipated protecting his friends, running interference, but everything was going smoothly. Even Quint and Louis were still getting along. They stood at the table, deep in conversation, eating directly off the serving dishes, Louis gnawing a rib and Quint a piece of chicken, both ignoring Daron when he walked up.

      Louis’s fingers and face oozed, gooey as those of a zombie at a fresh coffin trough. He sucked the knuckle of one hand so hard it looked like he might take the skin off. This is the shit! Someone put their foot in the sauce.

      Oh. Is that a—Chinese—saying, too? asked Quint.

      Simple math. Everything Chinese saying, if you add accent and subtract words. You put foot in sauce!

      Quint guffawed, spraying flecks of chicken across the table. Daron made a mental note of the dishes seasoned thusly.

      You oughta be a comedian. Chinese people are funny and all, but you got some jokes.

      Louis beamed like he’d found a buttered Olsen twin in his bed. Quint kept talking, all the while pouring a shot from a bottle of Jack, which he handed to Louis while taking an impressive draw himself, enough to bob his apple a few times. Louis continued bobbleheading. About ten minutes later Quint called for everyone’s attention.

      Hey, hey! he yelled, tapping a fork against a beer bottle. Before they all could hush up, Quint escalated to bottle-on-bottle action, head-butting two fallen soldiers, which he did until one broke, at which point everyone fell silent and looked at Janice, who stood in the kitchen doorway, one hand holding open the screen door, the red spatula at her side.

      What the heck are you doing, Quintillion Lee Jackson?

      I’m gettin’ y’allses