Chapter 3

It was the uncle who called the police.

Less than ten minutes after he hung up, sirens carried up from the street.

Two officers came up, took one look at Duane's mother sitting on the floor, then looked at me.

One of them frowned. "Who called us?"

The uncle stepped forward. "I did. This woman, my nephew's girlfriend, walked in and started swinging. She got my sister so worked up she had an attack!"

Duane helped his mother up off the floor. She clutched her chest and groaned as he half-carried her over to the couch.

The female officer came over and asked me what had happened.

"They—" I started.

"Officer," Duane cut in at once, "this is my girlfriend. It's her first time at my place today."

"My little brother's young, doesn't know any better, teased her a bit, and she just hit him out of nowhere. My mom came out to stop it and got shoved. My mom's got a bad heart. She went down right then and there."

The uncle nodded. "I saw the whole thing. This woman, she's a real piece of work!"

The old woman from next door chimed in.

"I live right across the hall. I heard shouting and came out, and there she was, an old lady sitting on the floor, couldn't get up!"

The male officer picked it up. "Young lady, a person her age, whatever the argument was, you don't throw the first hit. That's on you."

"And if she really got sick over this, the responsibility falls on you. There's no getting out of that."

I watched Duane's mother on the couch, rubbing at her chest, while Lester crouched beside her handing her a glass of water.

Duane turned to face me, his tone still that same gentle one.

"Rissa, hand over the medical fees first. Thirty thousand."

"My mom and my brother are hurt. You're paying to treat them."

"And for now you'll move in and work as their maid. Look after their meals, take care of them, until they're back on their feet. We'll talk after that."

The officers had only come to mediate. Once they left, the people out in the stairwell drifted off little by little.

On his way out, the uncle clapped Duane on the shoulder and said, low, "Call me if you need anything."

The second the security door clicked shut, Duane's mother sat up straight on the couch, the hand that had been rubbing her chest dropping away. "What are you standing there for? Go clean up the kitchen. The oil's still on the burner."

Lester had long since dropped the act, one leg crossed over the other, foot swinging. "Maid, sis. You threw out my socks, right? Consider those a gift, then. Go buy me a new pair."

I looked at his face and my hands curled into fists.

Duane came over and stood next to me, laying a hand on my shoulder.

"Be good, just do it. My mom's angry right now. You behave, and she'll let it go on her own."

His voice was still that same warm, gentle thing it had always been.

I walked into the kitchen. The scallions in the oil pan had already scorched black, the burnt smell stinging my nose.

I shut off the burner. The sink was piled with the lunch dishes, a layer of grease congealed over them.

Duane's mother followed and leaned against the door frame, arms crossed.

"Dishes have to be done by hand. Don't use too much soap. Rinse three times, dry them, put them in the sterilizer. When you're done with the rag, wring it clean and hang it up. Anything drips on the counter, you wipe it."

Out in the living room Lester was playing a game, the sound effects blasting from his phone speaker, crackling away. Duane's mother went back and started talking to him, and the two of them laughed, loud.

Duane sat on the couch scrolling on his phone, glancing over toward the kitchen now and then, calling out, "Rissa, mop the floor while you're at it."

I finished the dishes, wrung the rag out three times and hung it, wiped down the counter, mopped the floor.

When sweat ran down past my temple I lifted a hand to wipe it away, and caught that sour reek of the socks still on my sleeve.

Out in the living room Duane's mother was on me again. "What's taking so long? When you're done mopping, wipe the coffee table. Look at those marks!"

Lester lifted his eyes from his phone to look at me, the corner of his mouth curling up, and stretched out a foot to poke at my elbow.

"Sis," he drawled, all singsong and smug, "tomorrow morning I want a sandwich. Cut the crusts off, double the cheese inside."