It takes me close to a hour to clean out this room, and some little kids gon’ be happy as hell when they get all this stuff, some of which ain’t never even been worn. I should have my own ass kicked for spending this kinda money on these kids. I fill up three of them big green trash bags that’s made for leaves and grass and push ’em out in the hallway with my foot, and then kick ’em one by one down the steps till they in the middle of the entryway. I walk around ’em and go pour myself another drink. I wonder if Al caught any fish? I ain’t calling him, that’s for damn sure. I don’t wanna get my feelings hurt if he ain’t in his motel room. And I ain’t in the mood for jumping to no conclusions. I shoulda told him Loretha called. I know it. But I didn’t want him to be depressed while he was gone.

My recliner is waiting for me to bring my drink on over and sit down. It feel like somebody just took a vacuum cleaner and sucked all my get-up-and-go outta me. To hell with them Laundromats. They still as raggedy today as they was last week. Washers don’t spin. Dryers don’t dry. Everybody always want their money back. I don’t know what we pay Pop-eye and Flozena for. They don’t know what the word “upkeep” mean. And I sure don’t feel like smiling at no drug dealers pretending I don’t know they drug dealers who come inside to keep warm, ’cause whenever they see me—they know who I am by now—they always walk over and press their face against the window of a warm dryer, trying to act like they checking on they clothes. No. I think I’ve done enough for one day.

When the phone and doorbell ring at the same time, I damn near jump out this chair. “Hold on a minute,” I grumble and stumble out to the front door. The mailman’s truck: must be our checks. Probably too much mail to put in the box, so he’s bringing it to the door. I open it. It ain’t our normal guy, and this one just says, “Good afternoon, ma’am. Certified mail, if you would sign here, please.”

And I do, and he hands me a brown envelope addressed to Albert Toussaint, and it’s from the IRS. I want to open it, but my name ain’t on it. Just his. I lay it down on the side table and go on back in the family room and pick up the portable. “Yeah,” I say as I walk over to the sliding glass door and look out into the backyard. What a dreary day. Patches of gray snow look like dirty clouds on the ground.

“Did I wake you up, baby?”

“Aunt Suzie?”

“Yes, it’s me. Was you sleeping?”

“Naw, I just dozed off for a minute. How you doing?”

“I’m blessed and highly favored, if I do say so myself, although everybody keep telling me they swear I got a touch of Alzheimer’s. That may be, but I won a hundred and forty-six dollars at Bingo yesterday. Or maybe it was two days ago. It don’t matter. I won it.”