Page 58 of Rastor

Sometime in the past couple of decades, the shutters had been painted, along with the porch. The shrubbery might be overgrown, but at least it was there – unlike the other houses that had no landscaping at all.

At one time, there had been flowers, too. In the spring, Grandma used to plant them – big orange Marigolds where it was sunny, and small white Impatiens for the shade.

Funny to think I remembered their names, just like I remembered standing by my grandma when she planted them year after year. While she planted, I'd hand her the flowers one-by-one, and then water them afterwards.

It wasn't because it was fun – although, if I were honest, it wasn't so bad. It was because of the other thing – the danger of letting my grandma kneel there without anyone watching her back. Around here, bad things could happen when you did stuff like that, as a neighbor lady the next block over had discovered the hard way.

And then, there'd been the hassle. I recalled this neighbor kid who lived three doors down – a kid named Duane who'd called me a pansy-ass, and worse, for touching the flowers at all. The grief hadn't stopped until I'd handed him his ass one night in July, and then threatened to take a shovel to his face if he bothered me or my Grandma, ever again.

That was how long ago? Maybe fifteen years?

I heard myself say, "She loved that house."

Chloe paused. "Is she, uh–"

"Still alive?" I shook my head. "No. She died a few years ago. I grew up here though."

"Just you and your grandma?"

"Sometimes my mom lived here too. But most of the time–" I shrugged. "She was off doing other things."

"Like what?" Chloe asked.

I heard myself laugh, a quiet, bitter sound. My mom had done a lot of things, and not many of them involved taking care of her kids. "Drugs, mostly. My grandma, she was a school teacher at St. Mary's. She always said she should've done better, especially with Mom being her only kid."

I looked ahead, feeling myself drift back in time. "But I dunno. Mom was just wild, I guess."

"Like mother like son?"

"No." I turned to look at her. "I'mnothinglike her." My jaw tensed. "Sheneverlooked out for us, never gave a shit one way or another what happened to us when she was off doing fuck-knows-what."

Chloe shrank back in the seat, and I felt instantly ashamed. Chloe wasn't my mom. She didn't deserve this shit. With an effort, I softened my voice. "Sorry."

"It's alright," Chloe said. "You said 'us'? You mean you and Bishop, right?"

I shook my head. Back then, it would've been nice to have a brother, someone else to watch my back. But that came later. Some might say it came just in time.

"No," I said. "I didn't even know about Bishop 'til I was a teenager. We're half-brothers. Same dad, different cities."

"So how many kids did your mom have?"

"Two. Me and a sister."

"Where's your sister now?" she asked.

"College out East. Working on her master's in social work."

"And your mom?" she asked.

"Dead."

"Oh, I'm so sorry," she said.

That madeoneof us.

Into my silence, Chloe asked, "How?"

"Overdose. Finally. Best thing she ever did."