“So how was it seeing your kids, Cecil?”

I take a sip of my water. “It’s hard to say, Howie.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, I thank they mad at me.”

“For not being over there with Viola?”

“That, and for being with somebody else.”

“They just have to get used to it, then, don’t they?”

“I guess.”

Howie lights a cigarette and blows the smoke away from me. He know I’m allergic to it, but I’m so used to it now I don’t know if it even bother me no more. He ain’t got no wife or no steady woman in his life—just visitors, as he call ’em—and nobody but me for a friend. But he got a dog: a German shepherd he call Lassie, which I told him when he got him was a stupid name for the dog—considering—but Howie said he always loved that TV show and how much that dog could do, and he was naming his Lassie, he didn’t care what I said. This Lassie’s a mean son-of-a-bitch, too. The last thang he would even thank about doing is giving you his paw. This dog ain’t never in a good mood, but I thank God he like me. Howie musta told him I’m his best friend.

“Did you tell ’em about Brenda?” he asks.

“I told my youngest, Janelle, but I betcha Viola had already heard something and probably told Paris and Lewis.”

“You ain’t committed no crime, Cecil.”

“I know that, Howie.”

“So what’s the problem?” he asks, scratching the top of his bald head, which is so shiny it look like a varnished hardwood floor. Howie’s eyes is the same color as his head: light brown, and his skin, which always smell like stale tobacco, probably used to be a golden color, but now he done gotten older and ain’t kept hisself up like he shoulda and so his face and hands—in all fairness—ain’t but two or three shades above me, and everybody know I’m darker than burnt fried chicken. Me and Howie done spent so much time outside in this hot desert sun we done both changed colors, although I can’t see how I can get no darker.

“You just don’t want your kids mad with you,” I say.

“Mine been mad with me for a long time,” he says, putting his cigarette out and motioning for the waitress. I know he wants a drink. He usually do it the other way around, but it’s ’cause we on empty, he don’t wanna be stupid. Howie got a weak stomach. We learned that years ago.

“That’s different,” I say.

“Mad is mad,” Howie says.

“But it feel more like they don’t like me, not that they just mad. I thank this got more to do with losing respect. At least that’s what it sounded like I was hearing when we was talking on the phone. It don’t feel good, Howie.”

“Well, what you gon’ do, run back home to Viola to please your kids?”