Chapter 12

“You’d lose that bet, honey,” Mother said. “Phil lived in Africa for a long time many years ago. He taught school there.”

“Right.” Ambrose gave the impression he didn’t believe a word.

“I did,” Philip said. “Mom was there, too. For a while.”

Ambrose considered this. “Mother, too. Uh—uh. No way.”

“Mother came to visit,” Philip said. “And liked it so well she stayed a while.”

“You a do-gooder? A missionary?”

“Not a missionary. A Peace Corps teacher,” Philip said.

“Turn left at the next corner,” Ambrose said. “By the Rexall.”

“It was beautiful there,” Mother said wistfully.

“At the riot?” Ambrose said.

“She’s talking about Africa,” Philip said.

Mother continued on in a kind of dream. “The sky so blue you could get lost in it. We had a cook, too.” She put her hand on Ambrose’s shoulder as they walked. “When Phil was teaching, the cook and I’d go to the market. Mercado, they called it. She’d pick out the plumpest, juiciest chicken and carry it home by its feet.”