His Mama called out from down below. “You movin’, child? You up?”

She was not his mother but he called her Mama. He was not even sure they were related. She had just always been around, always been Mama.

“Comin’ down,” he said.

Mama dressed exactly the same. There was no fashion here in Holly Park. There were no politics. Nothing external was going to change things here. Louis knew that. It was all inside, as it had been for him.

Mama was large. She sat sipping instant coffee at her formica table. Her hair was held by pins and covered, mostly, with a bandanna. She wore a plaid flannel shirt, untucked, over a pair of faded blue jeans that was tearing at the seams by her generous hips.

Louis kissed her, spooned some coffee crystals into a mug, poured boiling water over it and sat down across from her.

“It’s good to be home.”

“What you be doing now?”

Louis shrugged, blowing on his cup. “Get a job. Something. Got to work.”

“An’ be careful, right?”

He reached over and touched her face. “Don’t you worry, Mama. Nothin’ else, I learned careful.”

But he wondered then, for a second, if it was true. When they let him out, he had not given a thought to careful. But seeing Ingraham just when he got out had brought it all back. Back on the streets, he best be careful every minute.

He saw Ingraham again-taking care of business before he had even come down here to Mama’s-and his blood ran hot. The rage was still there. Beatin’ it was the hard thing.

He gripped at his mug with both hands, bringing it to his mouth.

But that had been old business. Finished now, he hoped. He wouldn’t have any cause to think about it again. It was settled.

“Cause out there, you know…” Mama motioned to the back door.

Louis followed her glance, then scanned the kitchen. Over the stove the paint was peeling in wide sheets. A poster of Muhammad Ali was taped up next to a religious calendar-he noted the suffering Christ.