Long Division(33)

Ufa always brought one episode of The Dukes of Hazzard and one episode of Dallas over to Grandma’s on Friday nights. Ufa and Grandma realized a year ago that you could buy the box sets of old shows at Walmart. Ever since then, Friday was Dallas and Dukes of Hazzard night just like I guess it was for them way back in the 1980s. After bringing in the box sets, they would go back out to his truck and get the fried fish or chicken platters and cold drank that he left there.

When folks came to Grandma’s house, they parked in this little rocky sand patch to the right of the porch. But Ufa D went way past the patch and parked on the grass next to the work shed, damn near in the back of Grandma’s house, under a magnolia. We walked back and looked in the back of his orangey-red pickup. On top of lots of dry pine needles and lots of long stalks of sugar cane were three big burlap sacks filled with orange drank, donuts, fried chicken parts, and potato logs from Jr. Food Mart. Even though my chest still hurt from what happened earlier with Pot Belly, and even though my insides felt super sour, I couldn’t wait to eat as much greasy food as soon as possible. For a second, I thought about this skinny speaker they brought to Hamer to talk mainly to the girls in my grade. This skinny dude kept talking about how black girls loved to eat their feelings when things were sad for them. I acted like I wasn’t paying attention, but I really wanted to ask that skinny dude so many questions. Anyway, I wondered if I was trying to eat my feelings after what had happened to me over the past two days.

By the time we got in the house, I didn’t wonder about anything except how much greasy food I could force down my mouth in the shortest amount of time. If I was eating my feelings, it felt so good while it was happening.


I was hours into a chicken-fat-and-orange-drank-induced coma when Grandma tapped me on the booty.

“Get up, baby,” she said. “Time to go to bed.”

I waddled back into Grandma’s bedroom and lumped myself into her bed. I still had chicken crumbs and cold drank stains all over my shirt.

A little while later, Grandma came in our room. She took off her clothes and put on her gown, but kept on her wig. As long as I knew Grandma, before she went to bed, she’d turn on that damn Mahalia Jackson song, “Precious Lord.” Then she’d start humming and writing in a tablet. Usually, I’d be in the bed reading some book or something and Grandma would be on the floor humming.

“I’ll be right back,” she said.

I was in that bed for about four minutes thinking about all kinds of stuff, and then I heard the screen door open.

I kept listening for the door to close. I didn’t hear anything else except the chunky buzz of bullfrogs. I tiptoed over to the door of our bedroom, put my greasy hands on the edge of the door, and peeked around the corner.

Layers of Grandma’s booty were spilling over the fingers of Ufa’s paws. And Grandma had her arm wrapped around him, too. Their arms made a long, off-center X on the side of their bodies.

All I could think about was Grandma’s hand behind Ufa’s back, probably cupping his tobacco-smelling booty, too. It’s one thing to think of your Grandma’s booty being cupped, but when you think of her cupping someone else’s booty it makes your insides rot and tangle, especially if that someone is probably married and named Ufa D. It makes you think that the person who fed you and talked to you and listened to you and laughed with you and bathed you when you were young was really some super freak you didn’t even know.

Ufa’s head was to the side and he and Grandma were standing in the doorway, kissing and hunching like some young white fools on wemakexxxvideos.com. Ufa had his hat off so I could see his face and raggedy eyebrows pretty good. As soon as I saw the white of his eyes, I ran my ass back to the bed, covered my head with the covers, and faced the fan in Grandma’s window.

The screen door closed and Grandma stomped back into the bedroom.

“City, you meddling in grown-folk business again, ain’t you?” I didn’t say a damn word. I figured my best bet was to fake sleep until Grandma tapped me on the booty.

“I know you woke,” she said.

I didn’t move an inch. Didn’t shake. Didn’t even smile like I usually did when I fake slept. Even with my greasy head under the covers, I felt the heat of Grandma coming near me. I thought she was going to try to kiss me, so I made sure my face was tucked tight. But even under the covers, I could still smell Ufa on her.

I needed to throw up.

“Know that I love you, baby,” Grandma said, rubbing my back with her fingertips. “You gotta wake up early to go to the library with Relle. G’night.”


When Uncle Relle and I walked into the library Saturday morning, I was surprised at the shampooed-carpet-and-cornbread smell of the place, especially since the floor was linoleum. Looking at all the slightly wack books in the library made me grab Long Division tighter. I hadn’t been in a real library for so long and this one didn’t really feel real either. It was more like a mobile home with a lot of bookshelves in it. Every bookshelf in the library was its own section. You had your colorful kids’ books section, your Bible section, your John Grisham and William Faulkner sections, and then you had a Classic section filled with books that were thick, dark, and spinach-green and had that rich gluey smell.

I was too old for the kids’ books and to tell you the truth, all the Bible stuff I’d heard didn’t seem interesting for too long. For less than two pages, you’d get something interesting about naked Adam and Eve eating on apple cores and grabbing snakes by the throat, and then three hundred pages later, you’d get some boring stuff about jokers named Isaac and Ham. But the Bible was better than those other spinach-colored Classic books that spent most of their time flossing with long sentences about pastures and fake sunsets and white dudes named Spencer. I didn’t hate on spinach, fake sunsets, or white dudes named Spencer, but you could just tell that whoever wrote the sentences in those books never imagined they’d be read by Grandma, Uncle Relle, LaVander Peeler, my cousins, or anyone I’d ever met.