*
He'll never forget the look on Sam's face when he went into Aunt Gwen's room. It was hard to read and at first he didn't understand, but when he did it made his stomach sink into his shoes. Uncle Henry's eyes grew wide, his jaw clenched when he joined Sam at the foot of the bed, and his stomach sank even further into the floor. It was so quiet. It was an aching quiet that filled the entire apartment like a 45 blasting during a block party.
He went out that night. He had to. Angela was crying so loud it was making him sick because he knew there was nothing he could do; Except work. He made a few deals and got some more supply. He came home with a wad of cash in his coat pocket around midnight. Angela was asleep against Sam on the couch. Sam's eyes were wide, staring at the blank television screen.
He's never felt pain like this before, nothing that stung so bad and changed so much. Everything is going to change, he can feel it.
The kitchen was filled with relatives he hadn't seen in years the very next day, cooking and cleaning, singing hymns as they worked, some how a homage to his aunt's passing. The people made him nervous, suffocated him. They bothered Sam, and Angela, and he was sure they bothered Henry too. They meant well, but sometimes he had wished they would go home, forget they ever heard the news, so they could grieve in peace.
The Priors showed up the day of the funeral. He caught Sam and Meg hugging in front of the house. It doesn't bother him; he has bigger problems to worry about. With Gwen gone, that just means more money that needs to be made, more work that has to be done and if Sam can find some comfort in that white girl with the curly blonde hair, let him. It'll never amount to nothing anyway, at least that's what he tells himself.
They won't have to worry about food for a while. They have enough leftovers, and home-cooked meals are brought to them every night from the neighbors. Uncle Henry sees it as charity; he tries not to see it that way. If people want to bring them casseroles, or dresses for Angela, what's the harm? Wouldn't it be worse if nobody cared?
He didn't used to think like that, he would have thought just like Henry, but something has changed in him. Just like something has changed in Willy Johnson. He's not sure what, or how, but he dresses, and speaks, and acts far different than the guy he used to run the neighborhood with a year ago. Willy wants him to listen, and he will, but he's not sure yet what he's listening to.
He'll never forget the look on Sam's face when he went into Aunt Gwen's room. It was hard to read and at first he didn't understand, but when he did it made his stomach sink into his shoes. Uncle Henry's eyes grew wide, his jaw clenched when he joined Sam at the foot of the bed, and his stomach sank even further into the floor. It was so quiet. It was an aching quiet that filled the entire apartment like a 45 blasting during a block party.
He went out that night. He had to. Angela was crying so loud it was making him sick because he knew there was nothing he could do; Except work. He made a few deals and got some more supply. He came home with a wad of cash in his coat pocket around midnight. Angela was asleep against Sam on the couch. Sam's eyes were wide, staring at the blank television screen.
He's never felt pain like this before, nothing that stung so bad and changed so much. Everything is going to change, he can feel it.
The kitchen was filled with relatives he hadn't seen in years the very next day, cooking and cleaning, singing hymns as they worked, some how a homage to his aunt's passing. The people made him nervous, suffocated him. They bothered Sam, and Angela, and he was sure they bothered Henry too. They meant well, but sometimes he had wished they would go home, forget they ever heard the news, so they could grieve in peace.
The Priors showed up the day of the funeral. He caught Sam and Meg hugging in front of the house. It doesn't bother him; he has bigger problems to worry about. With Gwen gone, that just means more money that needs to be made, more work that has to be done and if Sam can find some comfort in that white girl with the curly blonde hair, let him. It'll never amount to nothing anyway, at least that's what he tells himself.
They won't have to worry about food for a while. They have enough leftovers, and home-cooked meals are brought to them every night from the neighbors. Uncle Henry sees it as charity; he tries not to see it that way. If people want to bring them casseroles, or dresses for Angela, what's the harm? Wouldn't it be worse if nobody cared?
He didn't used to think like that, he would have thought just like Henry, but something has changed in him. Just like something has changed in Willy Johnson. He's not sure what, or how, but he dresses, and speaks, and acts far different than the guy he used to run the neighborhood with a year ago. Willy wants him to listen, and he will, but he's not sure yet what he's listening to.
