Read Online Femme Noir by Clara Nipper - Free Book Online

as dogwood blossoms, as pink as fresh roses with a blush, and I tore into the ribs with ferocity, alternating with bites of spicy jalapeno and peppery onion that flared fire into my sinuses and cleaned my tongue. I devoured everything before Sloane had a chance to finish her coleslaw. I looked up, my face wet with grease, grinning big. I threw my last pepper stem into the carnal wreckage.
    “Enjoy that, did you?” Sloane asked with a tiny, wry smile.
    I laughed, suddenly feeling at ease. Darcy was wrong to advise against seeing Sloane. “Sure did. This is some fine shit. ”
    “Funeral is tomorrow,” Sloane said casually, putting a toothpick in her mouth. I cleaned my hands the best I could.
    “Whose funeral?” I lied.
    “Oh, come on, I was there when you saw Max. I know you followed me. I heard you came from LA. Some hotshot coach.”
    “So?”
    “So, I’m telling you. Funeral is tomorrow at the main Methodist downtown. Three o’clock.”
    “Did you know her?” I gulped my strawberry drink, enjoying the afterburn of the sauce and the acid of the bubbles. I wished it were a dry beer that was so cold it would hurt going down.
    “Only a little.”
    “That’s what everyone says,” I mused, still shocked at the mention of Michelle’s funeral.
    “She couldn’t keep herself out of trouble. I helped her out a couple of times. She was staying with me when it happened. I know you’re her ex. I’ve got her parents’ address if you’d like to check it.” Sloane reached into her breast pocket and handed me a slip of paper. “I’ve got some of her sorry shit if you want to go through it. Mostly just trash, though.”
    “Yeah, Michelle said she came from a really poor family and never got over it. She was really into poverty.”
    With an inscrutable expression, Sloane rolled her toothpick from one side of her mouth to the other as she studied me. “Poor? You don’t know shit.”
    “Really terrible, huh? Like South Central? Compton? Worse?” I asked, trying to picture soul-numbing, never-ending poverty in this clean, pretty toy town.
    “Michelle? You got her all wrong.”
    “How’s that?” My mind creaked back painfully to our relationship and late-night confessions and after-sex storytelling.
    “She really sold you a bill of goods, didn’t she?” Sloane shook her head, laughing huskily.
    “What do you mean?” I asked, feeling like kicking something hard. We were together three years. Not long, but long enough to learn a few things about each other.
    “Y’all ever come back here to visit?”
    “No, why would we? She’s from Oakland. I never knew why she came here after our breakup.”
    “Where’d she say she grew up?”
    “Madison.”
    “ Wisconsin? Oh, Lord.” Sloane slapped her knee.
    “What? Sloane, tell me.”
    Sloane got serious. “Listen, I don’t know you and all and I don’t know if I should be the one to tell you, you get me?”
    I nodded.
    “Okay, but since you’re here now with all your questions, I’ll do it.”
    I pushed my plate away and leaned forward, tense. A large family entered: grandparents, parents, aunties, uncles, sisters, brothers, and cousins. They were evidently familiar to the counter woman and the cook in the back because suddenly the little house rang with happy shouts. There was much hugging and laughing and slapping. The high-pitched greetings of the women rolled away from them in concentric circles, rippled through Sloane, me, and the other customers, touched all four walls, doubled in volume, and rolled back. Sloane and I watched, Sloane smiling sleepily, me irritated. The family’s order was placed, with a lot more loud joking and joyful patois.
    After a couple of minutes, against my better judgment, I was just getting ready to stand and take Sloane outside when Sloane touched my sleeve. Eventually, the group settled, dragging tables and chairs to form their tribal table.
    In a fever of impatience, I turned back to Sloane to demand information when I