Louisiana Bigshot

about it?”
    The other woman sighed again. “I suppose so.”
    Talba had seen plenty of houses like this one—her brother Corey had one. Corey lived in Eastover, home of politicians, musicians, and Saints (along with a number of white people, though perhaps none in those categories). This place was something like it, or at least the houses were—expensive, soulless, and utterly unattractive to Talba, who would have lived in a Moroccan palace if she could have. She might be a baroness, but she wasn’t a European one.
    The doorbell chimed some kind of ditty that was almost a whole song, but it too was soulless, and a little tacky. The woman who appeared at the door wore jeans that showed off a nice figure, and a crisp blouse. She was Miz Clara’s age, and trim, her straight hair fashioned in a shoulder-length do that was actually quite glamorous. She looked exactly like a doctor’s wife—and looked like she worked at it.
    “Ms. Simmons?”
    “Yes?”
    “I have something very good to tell you, but it may surprise you a little.”
    She smiled and, up close like this, Talba could see just how much time and trouble had gone into her makeup, the shape of her eyebrows, her manicure. She thought that no matter how much money she made, she’d never get into that silliness.
    “Yes?” Mozelle said again, her head cocked a bit condescendingly, as if she thought
she
were a baroness.
    “My name is Sandra Wallis. You may have known my father. Denman—”
    Before Talba could even get his whole name out, the woman fainted.

Chapter Eighteen
    Talba could see it unfolding, in slow-mo and yet still so fast she couldn’t stop it. The woman’s eyes rolled back, she started to crumple at the shoulders, her legs gave way… Talba reached out and did break her fall, but that was the best she could do.
    Mozelle came to almost immediately, and she woke up screaming, screaming what the hell was Talba doing and she had tricked her and for God’s sake would someone throw Talba out. Since it was a Saturday, the whole neighborhood turned out, just about. But no one made a move to throw Talba out.
    First, a man came out of the house, presumably Mozelle’s husband, a pudgy man not nearly so attractive as she was.
    Talba had managed to ease the woman to the ground and now stood slightly away from her, unnerved by all the screaming. She kept staring at the inside of the house, half expecting a girl to come out, a girl slightly younger than she—the sister who was probably going to hate her after this.
    “What happened?” the man asked and knelt by his wife. “What you doing on the floor, baby?”
    Mozelle eased up on an elbow. “This trash come around here, tryin' to trick me….”
    It wasn’t the right accent for the neighborhood, and Talba wondered if it got any better when she wasn’t upset. She doubted it. Mozelle’s charms, for Dr. Simmons, were probably obvious before she even opened her mouth.
    The man looked at Talba inquiringly, and there was something long-suffering in his glance, something that emboldened her.
    She gave him a smile that was just the least bit ironic, though she spoke apologetically. “I guess I reminded her of somebody. She fainted dead away.”
    “Again?” he said to his wife. “You fainted again? Aren’t you ever going to learn?” There was affection in his voice, and Talba thought she understood a little of their relationship. Drama on her part and reassurance on his seemed a couple of the key elements.
    The woman turned on Talba, furious. “You come here just like your daddy, trying to get what you can from folks doing better than you.” To her husband, she said, “Matthew, you make her leave. You just get that woman off my property. She Janessa daddy’s girl, you know who I mean? You know?” She was still on the floor of the porch, her husband’s arm around her shoulders, a queen giving orders.
    This woman had reason to fear and hate Talba, given what her father had been to her sister, and, indeed, what she, Talba, had been to her. Talba suddenly felt ashamed that she’d for gotten how vivid yesterday’s events could seem to people. “Mrs. Simmons, I’m really sorry I got you all upset. I can’t remember a thing about your sister, or about you if I ever met you, or even about my daddy—I hope you understand that. I’m sorry for what went down a long time ago, and I understand why you feel the way you do. I just wanted to meet my sister—that’s all in the world I wanted