Flood Plains by Mark Wheaton (best reads txt) 📗

twenty, which only happened if she’d gone to the restroom or on some other errand, she knew it was a special kind of day. One day that she was particularly zoned out, she went fifty-five minutes between clockwatching and almost had a heart attack.

It was only four hours ten into the day’s shift, and she was already wondering how she’d make it another seven hours fifty.

“Hey, you left without me this morning. What’s that say to our daughter?”

Zakiyah rolled her eyes as Alan sidled up to her. Sure, he’d been charming at one point, but after all the times he’d failed her over the past however many years, the charm had more than worn off. Most of the time, she wanted to slap him across the face for routinely making her daughter feel as if she meant less than nothing to him.

“It says you have to take responsibility for your actions.”

Alan scoffed.

“’Melia said I missed you by five minutes.”

“Mia. She hates Melia, hates Amelia. Just ask her.”

Alan kicked himself. The last thing he wanted to do was give Zakiyah more ammunition.

“We’re still getting reacquainted. She might end up liking Melia.”

“We got paid on Friday,” Zakiyah shot back, all but icing over. “I’m still waiting on your piece of the rent.”

“Oh, so that’s how it’s gonna be?”

“We agreed that there were no more favors. This is a business arrangement. You pay rent, and I don’t go after you for child support.”

“And I appreciate that,” Alan replied evenly. “But as you know, I’ve had some expenses. Most of them are about getting back to school in the spring. I’ve got one semester of eligibility left, and it has to count. The good news is, the way I’m running now? It will.”

As soon as it was out of his mouth, Alan regretted his words. Up until that exact moment, he’d been vague with Zakiyah about his progress. He was sure she knew about the chart Beverly kept at the back of Line 10 but doubted she glanced at it that often.

But it was too late to backtrack so he plowed ahead.

“My times are good enough for Nationals, which means it’ll start being about the Olympics pretty soon. Couple of records later, and I’m running pro. For Nike. That’s only a couple of years away. Then we’ve got no worries ever again.”

Zakiyah stared at Alan. For a brief moment, she wished she could share this dream with him. At one time, she believed it was within his grasp. This was before the death of his grandmother and before Katrina threw his collegiate career, training regimen, and life in general out of whack. He had spent so much time wallowing in self-pity after the storm that he’d pissed away several opportunities that might have helped him (and his estranged daughter, but that was a different story) out. He had this one semester of NCAA eligibility left, and all his hopes and dreams were tied up in using it to make the Prairie View A&M track team. They had offered him a slot immediately after the storm, but Alan had held out for what he thought would be more favorable openings around the corner.

That was two years ago.

He’d called up the Prairie View coach in the spring and said that he would be in shape for the following year. Knowing Alan’s story and charmed by his determination, he was offered a try out and a partial scholarship. Now Zakiyah had to hear about it in Herculean terms. He’d gotten what was rightfully his and now he just had to perform at a heroic level and get back in front of those news cameras. Destiny would take care of the rest.

“I’m supposed to believe the second you’re all big-time you’re not going to leave me and your daughter behind again? The first skinny white girl looks your way, you’ll be out the door.”

“Are you kidding me? You know I can’t get by without you. I learned my lesson.”

“So why am I the bad guy because I want rent and grocery money?”

“I’ve got a line on that,” Alan said, turning serious. “You need your money, and I need to stop spending my days in here when I need to be stepping up my training.”

“Meaning what, exactly?” Zakiyah asked, suspicious.

“If you want anything, you’ve gotta enterprise, right? That’s how it’s going to work here, too.”

With that, he blew her a kiss and walked away.

•  •  •

Sineada.

Sineada Maria Araujo was surprised to hear her name, even more because no one had spoken it aloud.

Sineada. Prepare.

For what? Sineada asked.

Sineada waited a long time for the answer. When none came, she realized what it must be and opened her eyes. She found herself looking at a fifty-something black woman, Viola Mason, across a table. Viola stared back at her in expectation. Rain poured down on the little Fifth Ward house as the disembodied voice of a radio announcer wafted into Sineada’s parlor from the kitchen.

“The National Hurricane Center is predicting landfall around Galveston Island tomorrow morning just before five in the a.m. At present, Eliza is still being designated a Category 4, but is speeding up as it nears the Texas coast.”

“So, what are they saying? Is it going to be a bad one?”

Sineada mentally composed herself, recalling the words of her grandmother when discussing the family business: “You’re there to tell them what they need to hear, not what they want to hear.” Abuela had always added, “But mind you be gentle,” something Sineada didn’t need to be reminded of, as most of her clients were like Viola. Past middle-age, often alone, often poor. It was why she had a donation box instead of a fixed rate and didn’t mind being paid in coins.

“They think it’s coming straight here and gonna drop buckets of rain on everybody, probably flood out Fourth and Fifth Ward,” Sineada said harshly.

Viola whistled.

“That doesn’t sound good at all.”

“No. Anybody that didn’t know if their roof was worth a damn will sure know by mid-day,” the diminutive