“Hi,” I say, dropping the hot-boxed butt back in the ashtray, picking up the towel, and wrapping it tighter around me. I’m grinning wide, but the little boy just sits there like I’m some kind of wind-up toy, which is pretty much how I’m feeling. Those days of being ashamed to see my son on Christmas are over. Now I’ll go out there sober as a preacher, with boxes and boxes of presents. And I’ll drive my new truck. That 1994 F-250 with the stretch cab. And I think I’ll talk to Woolery about that hardwood-floor offer, see if the white boy was really serious. If not, fuck him. I got a real partner, my homeboy Silas. Everybody call him Simple Sam, and we been talking about buying a big rig. It’s mucho money to be made in trucks. And I’ll give Mama and Daddy a hand, ’cause it don’t take no rocket scientist to see that the last Shack ain’t doing as good as it used to. People don’t eat that much barbecue no more. They need to fix up that house, at least get a new roof, make a Arizona room in the back or something. They could also use a vacation. Hell, I could use one, too. But where would I go? Acapulco. Naw. Half of Mexico live right here in southern California. We’ll see. And then there’s my wonderful sisters. I think I’ll do something nice for the three of ’em. Blow their little minds. I don’t know what it’ll be, but whatever it is, they’ll get a charge out of it.

“I’m Lewis,” I finally say to the little boy. “And I’m rich!” I decide now would be a good time to open this envelope, since I’ve gotten used to the idea of being loaded, but as soon as I flip it over to slide my index finger under the flap, I recognize the logo for Family Court from the County of Santa Rita. “Kiss my black ass!” I say, then catch myself when I look at that little boy. “I’m sorry.” We both look like we about to cry. He slides down behind the brown plaid couch so I can’t see his eyes, just the crown of his head.

I don’t need to finish tearing this fucking envelope open but I figure I might as well see how much I owe. It’s a summons all right. To appear in court for delinquent child support. The figure is humiliating and embarrassing: $3,268. Half of it’s interest.

“Where’s my mommy?”

What a bitch Donnetta is. She know I ain’t working. She know I been living off disability, and I told her I’d send what I could when I could. The problem was, I couldn’t. And I haven’t. Shit, after I pay my rent and electricity, squeeze in a meal here and there, that’s it. This is why I don’t have no phone.

“Where’s my mommy?” the kid asks again.

“I’ll get her,” I say, turning toward the bedroom, and then I stop dead in my tracks. “What’s your name?”