Over My Dead Body

Chapter 3

I'm not small. I'm six feet tall and weigh just over two hundred pounds. My years of martial arts training have left my own oversized hands gnarled, but my right hand was lost in Winston's huge mitt.

I hadn't been called 'Little Al' in a long time. Winston was about the only relative I remembered who never saddled me with the name my mother gave me. Alfred Einstein, because of her adoration of the German scientist, combined with my father's family name, Pennyback, made me the target of more ribbing growing up than the school nerds—at least, until I got my growth spurt and learned to fight. After that, except for a few holdouts in my family who insisted on the southern custom of addressing people by their full first and middle names, I was 'Al' to everyone, except Winston, who called me 'Little Al' until I graduated from high school and left to join the army. Of course, back then, at nearly seven feet and over three hundred pounds, everyone else was 'little' to him, and even with my prowess at fisticuffs I wouldn't have lasted ten seconds in a confrontation with him.

"I'm not so little anymore," I said, as I extricated my hand from his grip.

"Naw, you ain't." He ran a hand over his shiny skull. "I could never figure out why Aunt Rachael wanted to name you Albert. You had signs of muscles even when you was a baby. Hell, if she wanted one of them historical names, she ought to have named you Hercules.

Right, I thought, like that would've made my life so much easier.

"Anyway," he continued. "I'm glad you come. Whyn't you grab your stuff and come on inside. I was just about to put supper on the table. I whupped up a mess of pork chops and collard greens . . . I assume livin' up north ain't kilt your taste for home cookin' . . . and I got me a blackberry pie for dessert."

I smiled and wiped at my mouth, afraid the drool would show. My favorite place in DC to eat is called 'Mom's', a soul food joint that prepared food the way people down south have prepared it for a long time, fried in lots of grease—Mom took to using vegetable oil instead of lard in the late 1990s, but is still liberal with it—resulting in mouth-watering dishes that remind me of my childhood. It's not good for cholesterol levels, but, like chicken soup, is great for the soul.

"I've never been known to say no to pork chops and collard greens," I said. "Provided you have cornbread to go with 'em."

"It ain't Thanksgiving or Christmas, so we sure 'nuff ain't gon' be havin' dinner rolls, so cornbread's the only logical choice left."

"Well, just set me a place at the table."

His smile broadened, and he dropped one of his large hands on my shoulder. He didn't squeeze, but I felt the weight of that appendage. I could just imagine what it would feel like if he'd had hostile intent, and winced inwardly. Did I mention that my Cousin Winston weighs over three hundred pounds and is nearly seven feet tall? The fact that he was closer to eighty than seventy didn't make a bit of difference. He was still as intimidating as I remembered from my childhood. His ever-present smile and sunny disposition did nothing to soften that feeling.

"Good to have you here, cousin," he said. "Now, you grab your stuff, and I'll show you where you're bunkin'."

I had no idea how long I'd be in Texas, but had nonetheless packed light. Six pairs of durable and washable pants, four pairs of black cargo pants, one pair of jeans, and one khaki—along with the khaki pants I was wearing, six pair in all—a shirt to go with each pants, black pullovers for the cargo pants, and cotton plaid (red and black) long sleeve shirts for the others, a black nylon jacket just in case it got cool at night and I was outside, and six (seven with what I was wearing) sets of underwear and socks, my black, soft-soled, canvas commando boots, a pair of tattered running shoes, and the black leather slip-on loafers I wore for travel made up most of the black duffel bag. I'd stuffed a toilet kit, my gray cotton running pants and top, and two John Ludlum paperbacks in with the underwear, and that was it. No suit, no ties, and no dress shirts. I had no plans to go anywhere or do anything requiring such attire.