Makendra trailed loss and mess and catastrophe the way Halley’s comet trails a cloudy veil of ice and gas. She was dark-skinned and lovely, with finely arched eyebrows and sharp cheekbones. She could have been a fashion model if not for the birthmark that covered one side of her face like a pale pink shadow.
I had known Makendra since she was nine years old. She was one of a group of girls from the nearby public housing project who used to play at my house. I’d make them macaroni and cheese and tuna casserole, and they’d dress up in my clothes and necklaces and swagger around pretending to be ladies. I’d read to them and answer their questions: “How come you don’t have no TV?” “Why that man friend of yours dress like a woman and paint his nails?” When I was tired, I’d chase them home.
