Lewis been lost since she left. And he blames everybody except Lewis for his personal misery. Can’t find no job: “I’m a threat to the white man,” he says. “How?” I ask. “You more of a threat to yourself, Lewis.” He huffs and puffs. “I’m a victim.” And I say, “I agree. Of poor-assed planning!” And then he goes off and explains the history of the human race, and then black people, and then finally we get to the twentieth century and the castration of the black man that’s still going on in society today because just look at how successful the black woman is compared to us! This is when I’d usually hand him another beer, which finally either shut his ass up, or he’d nod off into a coma.

Tragedy is his middle name.

For years I fell for his mess. Would lend him my Mary Kay money. My insurance-bill money. Even pawned my wedding ring once so he could pay his child support. But then it started to dawn on me that the only time he call is when he want something, so I stopped accepting the charges. Last week he come calling me to say another one of his little raggedy cars broke down on the side of the freeway, way out in redneck country, where Rodney King got beat up, and I guess I was supposed to feel sorry for him, which I did for a hot minute, but then I remembered he ain’t had no driver’s license for close to a year, and then he asked could I wire him $350 till his disability check came, and this time, this was my answer: “Hell, no!”

He got mad. “You don’t care what happens to me, do you, Ma?”

“Don’t start that mess with me, Lewis.”

“You don’t understand what I’m going through. Not one bit. Do you?”

“It don’t matter whether I understand or not. I’m your mother. Not your wife. Not your woman. And I ain’t no psychiatrist neither. What happened to Conchita?”

“It’s Carlita.”

“Comosita, Consuela, Conleche . . . whatever.”

“We broke up.”

“I’m shocked.”

“I need your help, Ma. For real.”

“So what else is new? You ain’t even supposed to be driving, Lewis.”

“Then how am I supposed to look for work or get to work?”

I decided to just pretend like I didn’t hear him say the word “work.” “I don’t know. Call one of your friends, Lewis.”

“I ain’t got no friends with that kind of money. It’s tough out here for black men, Ma, and especially if you handicapped. Don’t you know that?”

“I didn’t know you was handicapped.”

“I got arthritis.”

“Uh-huh. And I’m three months pregnant with triplets.”

“How come don’t nobody ever believe me when I tell the truth? I can’t hardly ball up my fist, my knuckles is so swollen. And on my right wrist, the bone is sticking out. . . . Oh, never mind. Ma, please?”

“I have to go now, Lewis. I ain’t got no three hundred and fifty dollars.”