Hook Shot by Kennedy Ryan, now you can read online.
Prologue
Lotus
I grew up believing the sky spoke to me. The booming voice of thunder. The sharp retort of lightning. Every storm, a conversation. A volatile exchange. But today, there’s a rainbow. Skittle-colored stripes airbrushed overhead in a rain-washed sky.
“You remember what the rainbow means?” MiMi, my great-grandmother, asks.
Like so many things she has taught me, the answer is ingrained, woven into my fibers. I don’t even have to think about it.
“A rainbow is the bridge between Heaven and Earth,” I reply, my voice coming strong even though my insides quake.
“Hmmm. Somebody’s trying to get into Heaven.” She considers the sky, eyes wise beyond her eighty-some-odd years. “Not today.”
We stand shadowed by one of New Orleans’ famous oaks in the cemetery, watching the few assembled mourners disperse. There are no tears for the dead. There weren’t many who loved Ron Clemmons. He was a man only a mother could love.
His mother and mine.
My pulse stutters at the sight of Mama. I last saw her when I was twelve, four years ago. She is today, as she was then, standing by Ron, but this time he lies in an open grave. I snap my lips tight against the word screaming in my head, determined not to speak.
Mama!
Even though I don’t say her name, she looks up as if I have. Her eyes widen through the short black veil that looks like something fashionable women wore years ago when burying their lovers. “Vintage,” Mama used to say, instead of “thrift store.” Classic, not second-hand. She always wanted the finer things and clung to any man who promised them. Except Ron never promised her much, and Mama still clung like it was a habit she didn’t know how to break.
The fine arches of her brows snap together, and her gaze ricochets between me and MiMi, then darts to the open grave. There are few cemeteries in New Orleans where they bury folks underground. This is one of them. For the poor and unloved, unclaimed. That’s what this is. That’s what Ron is.
She touches the black silky chignon pleated at the back of her head and takes a few steps in our direction, but freezes mid-stride. I glance at MiMi, who shakes her head gravely, telling Mama not to come any closer. It’s acceptance, not shock, on Mama’s face as she turns away and follows the trickle of mourners leaving the cemetery. It’s not the first time she has thought to see me, but MiMi knows I don’t want to see her.
If anyone knows, MiMi does.
Gravediggers take the place of the few who’d stood around while the clergyman read from his little book of ceremonial prayers. Weddings, baptisms, funerals. A verse for everything.
“It’s time,” MiMi says, her mouth grim.
We make our way across the grass to reach the men shoveling dirt. One of them glances up, catching sight of MiMi, and elbows the other. They pause in the shoveling.
“Madam DuPree,” one of them drawls, his Louisiana accent thick as swamp water. “What can we do for you?”
“Leave.” MiMi waves a hand at the grave. “Don’t worry. You don’t have to go too far or wait too long. We just need a bit of privacy. Then you can do whatever you want with his body.”