Free The Cake House by Latifah Salom Page B

mother’s mouth.
    Before I could lower my head to the fire, Alex walked in. He noticed my dress, then the cigarette between my lips.
    “Where did you get that?” Alex snatched the cigarette from my mouth. “Your mother?”
    “Give it back.” I reached for it, but he put his arm against my chest, his eyes so frosty they were better than air-conditioning. “Yes, it’s hers,” I said. “Give it back.”
    “She asked you to light it for her?”
    “Yeah, so what? I can do it.” I reached for the cigarette again, but he blocked me a second time.
    Taking the cigarette between his lips, he bent over the flame, put the tip in the fire, and inhaled. His cheeks sank in for a moment; then smoke trailed from his nose and mouth. I was tempted to steal a pack of my mother’s cigarettes and ask Alex to light each one for me.
    He ran up the stairs, taking several steps at a time, and I followed right behind as he marched over to my mother. I was afraid he was going to throw the cigarette, but he handed it to her, lit end facing away.
    “That’s pretty lazy, even for you,” he said. “Here’s your fucking cigarette.”
    “She wasn’t going to smoke it.”
    “Do that again, and I’ll tell my dad.” Alex turned away, heading for the stairs.
    Her mouth in an ugly twist, my mother took the shoe that she was still holding and threw it hard. It smacked against the wall by his head.
    White-faced, he turned. She had the other shoe in her hand, ready to throw it.
    A loud, booming voice made us all jump. Claude stood behind me like a giant.
    “What are you doing?”
    My mother let the shoe fall to the floor with a dull thump. She turned away and with a shaking hand took a drag. “I’m tired,” she said to no one.
    “Dahlia,” said Claude, “that woman will be here any minute.”
    “I know. I’m just going to lie down. For a moment.”
    “No, you’re not,” he said.
    Alex also turned to leave, trying to slip past his father, but Claude blocked him.
    “Both of you, you’ll wait downstairs.”
    My mother didn’t move, waiting until Alex went past first. She followed a moment later.
    Claude sighed, then looked at me. “That’s a nice dress, very pretty. But can I trust you?”
    “To do what?”
    “Behave yourself,” said Claude, more amused than not.
    “I’ll behave if you behave,” I said. Light streamed in through the window, illuminating the lines that crowded around his eyes and creased his forehead. He started to speak, but the sound of a car pulling up to the driveway interrupted and he snapped his mouth shut. There were footsteps and a knock on the door.
    We stared at each other, the moment suspended like before glass breaking or a gun firing. I went down the stairs first.
    MRS . WILSON ’ S GLASSES ECLIPSED HALF her face. Behind the lenses her eyes were as round as quarters.
    “There she is. Hello, dear,” she said with a broad smile, sticking her hand straight out. Her neat, strong fingers squeezed mine before she marched over to Claude and gave his hand one hard shake.
    My mother lingered behind us both, her hair down andframing her face. She took Mrs. Wilson’s hand but said, “I’m not sure why you’re here. I tried to tell them not to waste your time.”
    “We take our job seriously,” Mrs. Wilson replied. “As it is, you had plenty of notice for my visit.” She turned to where Alex loitered by the stairs. She offered her hand again.
    Claude ruffled Alex’s hair. “This is my son, Alex.”
    When we moved into the living room, Mrs. Wilson became distracted by the artwork Claude had on display. She loved the paintings. She admired the cluttered shelves of collectables.
    “Are these originals?” she asked, and Claude gave each piece’s history.
    “Art can be a good investment,” said Claude, adjusting a Chinese vase he claimed was a lucky find from an estate sale.
    “Oh, I agree,” she said, gazing at a framed, one-of-a-kind piece of modern art from the late 1960s that to me looked