Page 65 of The Key To His Soul
I placed her back on her feet. “Hey, Ma.”
“Hey, son.” She pulled me back into a tight hug before leaning back to grab my face the way she did when I was younger. “I so love you.”
“I love you too, Ma. Can I come inside?” I asked, smirking.
She pouted. “Then, I gotta share this love wit’ Daddy.”
I covered my mouth with my hand, chuckling. “Ma.”
“Okay, if you must,” she joked, stepping back and opening the door. “Oh, wait. Hey, Pearl,” she greeted loudly to her next-door neighbor who did the same. “Look who stopped by.”
She spun me around like a prized showpiece. “Hey, Ms. Pearl.”
“Heyyy, Mehki, baby,” the older lady spoke. “Looking all handsome in the face. It’s good seeing you.”
“You too.”
“Alright, Pearl. I’ll catch you later,” my mother said, walking into the house. She didn’t get far before she turned to me. “You hungry?”
“Nah. I’m good, Ma,” I replied, closing and locking the door behind me.
“You look good physically, but your eyes say you brought something heavy in here that you need to sort out.” She picked it up immediately, same way she’d done all my life. “Daddy’s in the den. I’ll be in there in a minute.”
I simply replied, “Aight” and headed that way. My mother knew me like a book, so there was no disputing what she already knew.
“Wassup, old man?” I spoke, finding him behind his bar, puffing on a Cuban cigar, fixing himself a drink.
“Ayeee, there’s my son, the self-made millionaire. What’s going on, king?” Setting his glass down, he walked around the bar, pulling me into one of those quick hugs men gave that showed love without making the other feel uncomfortable.
“Nothing much. Came through to see my favorite people.”
“Well, alright, what you drinking?”
“You can give me whatever you having, Pop.”
“You know I’m whiskey to the bone.”
“So long as it ain’t the cheap shit you try to give the family when they come over, pour me up.”
He held a brown bottle up with an unfamiliar name and flashed a look of offense.
“You ain’t been here five minutes, and you already insulting yo’ old man?”
I laughed. “How I’m insulting you, and I’m telling you the truth?”
He shrugged and poured the brown liquor in a glass. “Them damn alcoholics that come through here on occasion, you damn right I give them Jack Daniels. And when they get pissy drunk, I switch that out for Paul Mason. They don’t know the difference.” He cracked up, and I shook my head.
“You cold.”
“I’m resourceful. You want ice?”
“Yeah.”
Placing a block of ice in my cup, he pushed it toward me. I waited until he poured his own cup before clinking my glass with his and taking a sip. The whiskey went down smooth.
“What I tell you ‘bout them nasty ass cigars?” I pointed to the one burning in his hand.
“You ain’ttellme shit ‘cause I’m grown. You did request that I stop smoking them. I, in turn, stopped smoking them as often. And ain’t a damn thing nasty about this craftsmanship,” he said, holding the cigar up as the smoke wafted in the air.
