At eight-thirty on Monday morning, I pick up the phone and dial the number of the Child Protective Service Agency and tell them that I’d like to report a case of sexual abuse. For the next hour or so I answer all of their questions and explain what has happened. They tell me how they’ll cross-reference the information I gave them and file a report with the police. They ask if George is still in the house, and I tell them no. They ask if my daughter is, and I tell them she’s in Las Vegas with her grandmother. They’re pleased to hear this. I tell them I don’t know where George is living but I know where he works. They aren’t moved when I say he’s a police officer. They will arrest him at his job. He’ll be charged and held, pending further investigation. They say he’ll probably post bail and be released until enough evidence has been gathered to build a case against him. And the only way to do this is if Shanice agrees to undergo a physical exam and consents to being interviewed on videotape by a child advocate. I know she won’t do this. The social worker says a lot of kids don’t want to go through this, for obvious reasons. I take a series of deep breaths before blurting out the words, “I want him stopped,” and then I sit there for the next hour or so trying to figure out the best way to finally tell my family the truth.

Refills

“Hello, this is Paris Price calling to see if my prescription is ready.”

“Is that a new prescription or a refill?”

“It’s a refill. I called it in yesterday,” I say as I swivel back and forth on my kitchen stool.

“Can you hold a second while I check?”

“Yes, I can.” I look over at the clock. It’s almost three-thirty. Here I go again. Waiting. He’s late again. Something told me I should never have started to work with this Randall. I mean, I tried to show the brother some respect, gave him the benefit of the doubt, because I’m not one of those people who believe that black folks are poor at handling our business—hell, I can use myself as a good example—but it’s guys like this who give the rest of us a bad name. He has called and canceled the last three appointments and all he had to say was it was an emergency and he was sorry, could he reschedule. Reschedule? My backyard looks like a battlefield. And this of course is after I’ve already paid him a third of his megafee because he had me drooling over the plans, fantasizing about how lush and beautiful it was going to be when he finished. Hah!

He was supposed to be here between one-thirty and two. This time, I didn’t even get a phone call. I guess when he met me he saw “fool” written all across my forehead. He’s probably partying his ass off with my money. But he will finish my yard. He will fill and refill those damn trenches with all that expensive dirt and shit he insisted I buy. If he doesn’t, I’ll take him to court so fast it’ll make his head swim.