“I’m listening.”

“First of all, sometimes people have reasons why they can’t do certain things.”

“That’s why I’m asking, Miss Charlotte. I wanna know what kind of reasons you got that would stop you from going to see your own mama when she coulda died for all you know.”

“But she didn’t die!”

“She coulda. It ain’t over till the fat lady sing. Ain’t you heard that?”

“I couldn’t afford it! There! You satisfied now?”

“Look, don’t go raising your voice at me, missy. If you can whip out them damn credit cards to go to the mall when the spirit move you, how come you can’t use one of ’em to get on a airplane?”

“I don’t fly,” I say.

“Then you need to learn,” she says. “Goodbye, Charlotte. Have a nice day. And tell Al don’t forget my fish. I ain’t forgot.”

Aunt Suzie always call at the wrong time. It never fail. I put the phone up and walk over and look at that envelope. Shit, I’m his wife. I got a right to open his mail. I do it so fast I get a paper cut. First of all, it definitely ain’t no check. Not even close. It’s a letter. I don’t believe my fucking eyes, and my ears start ringing when I read that the IRS is keeping our income-tax checks in order to start paying off his back child support. But he’s paying child support! Loretha been getting money taken outta his check for years. What is this shit about? This gotta be some kinda mistake. And when Al get home tomorrow, we gon’ find out whose mistake it is.

Housecleaning

I never bothered to call. What would I have said to him over the phone, anyway? “Do you miss me, honey? Or do you miss my daughter more? Why aren’t you gone? You were supposed to be gone.” Even still, I knew he’d probably be there when I got home. I just knew it. In fact, the more I drove, the more I prayed that he would be. I needed to see him face to face. Look him in the eyes to see if I saw any remorse, any signs of regret or shame.

The drive from Las Vegas was long enough to help me sort out some things. Not everything, but enough. Even though I’m afraid, I’m going to pretend I’m not afraid of what will happen when I file for divorce Monday morning. I’ve been married to this man for six years. I shouldn’t have to worry about how I’m going to manage once he’s gone. After all, he adopted Shanice. She has his last name: Porter. He’s legally responsible for her until she’s eighteen. I’ll get a real job. I don’t care if it pays minimum wage. That’s a lie. I need to make more than that. Right now, I almost don’t care what I have to do.

When I turn onto our street, George has put all the Easter things in the front yard. But it’s all wrong. First of all, the big blue bunny isn’t supposed to be so far away from the eggs; the nest is supposed to be inside the basket. The flag shouldn’t be stuck in the ground; it goes in the flagpole on the porch. I’ve only been hanging them at this house for the past five and a half years. And where are my baby chicks? Why didn’t he put my miniature eggs out? They’re the prettiest: all robin’s-egg blue. The yard looks so amateurish and sparse. He should’ve left it alone if he didn’t know what he was doing or couldn’t do it the right way. I can’t imagine what the neighbors are saying. I’ll fix it later.