The Sky Beneath My Feet - By Lisa Samson Page 0,61

seat, arms folded. “Just like always.”

Ouch. That wipes the smile off my face.

There are all these things you’re not supposed to say to your kids, things that will demotivate and warp them, things that will make them grow up to be self-loathing axe murderers. But restraint seems to be a one-way street. A teenage boy in anger will say just about anything.

But I’m not giving in. “Let’s get this over with, Eli.”

“I’m staying right here.”

In the end, I have to get out and go around to his door, which he won’t unlock, forcing me to use the one power every mother possesses in such situations: shame. I start tapping on the window loudly, telling him not to be scared, and the power of humiliation does the rest. He may be afraid of the strangers on the sidewalk, afraid of what’s waiting behind the scary pink door, but he’s also sixteen and he will do anything to get his mom to stop embarrassing him in public.

“Okay, fine,” he says, slamming his door shut. “Just be quiet, okay?”

He follows me across the street, eyes cast down. At the door, I pause before knocking.

“This isn’t about scaring you, Eli. The fact is, you’re scaring me. I just want you to see the world you’re dabbling in. You need to decide if this is really the direction you want to go.”

I’m proud of myself for that little speech, which acknowledges that I know about the weed without coming out and saying it. I’m proud, too, that he doesn’t protest his innocence or try to argue. He hangs his head down, defeated. Maybe I’m getting through to him.

I have to rap on the door several times before there’s any movement on the other side. Finally, I hear the bar dragging on the floor, the locks sliding open. When the door cracks open, it’s not Mother Zacchaeus who answers. It is the girl who sat smoking in Sam’s room. She is wearing a sequined tube top and cutoff shorts. Seeing Eli, she throws the door open wide.

“Well, well, what we got here? What your name, big man?”

Eli swallows hard but doesn’t look up.

“Aziza, right? Is Mother Zacchaeus here?” I ask.

“Whatsa matter? Don’t he talk?”

“Mom, can we just get out of here?”

“Ooohhh,” she says. “This your boy? Come on in here and lemme take a look at you. Come on, now.” She motions Eli through, but he doesn’t budge. “He’s shy, ain’t he? Don’t worry, big man. I ain’t gonna bite you or nothing.” She laughs, revealing a gold-framed tooth, then pulls a soft pack of Parliaments from her back pocket, offering him one. I wave the pack away. She pulls one free with her lips before tucking the cigarettes away, then fishes a purple plastic lighter out.

“Mother Zacchaeus?” I ask her.

She nods through a cloud of smoke. “She in the back. You go on.”

I walk through, pausing for Eli to follow me, along with the girl’s chuckles. She puffs smoke in his face as he passes her. Eli looks about as uncomfortable as I’ve ever seen him. As mothers go, I’m about as protective as they come. But this really couldn’t be going any better. It wouldn’t surprise me if he threw himself at my feet, promising never to touch marijuana again, if only I’d get him out of here.

I feel the footsteps trembling through the floorboards before I hear them. Eli steps back involuntarily. Then Mother Zacchaeus appears, stomping through the TV lounge from the kitchen, making her way straight for us. The way her eyes flash reminds me of a cartoon bull making its way toward the red cape. “Who’s smoking inside?” she roars.

If Aziza didn’t inoculate Eli against all future vice, this threatening nun is sure to do the trick.

“You?” Her eyes flash.

“I want you to meet someone,” I tell him. “Mother Zacchaeus, may I present my son—”

Her hand flashes quickly.

I catch a snapshot of her open palm, then my cheek explodes.

The shock comes first. She slapped me! And then the pain, a hot, throbbing swell of pain. I double over, shielding my face with my hand, fully expecting my eye to pop out at any moment. There’s embarrassment, too, because I can feel tears welling up.

“What’s wrong with you, lady? You call yourself a good Christian. What’s wrong with you?”

Mother Zacchaeus spits the words out over my reeling head. What’s wrong with me? You’re the one who smacked me—what’s wrong with you? I can only answer her in my mind, though. My