Papa sends us money to buy food and pay bills,
Not every month but most.
He says that he does it out of love but
it seems to me that he does it only
so he can stay away longer,
jumping from one Hollywood hotel to the next and
eating at sit-down restaurants while
Mama and I are stuck at home,
taking care of my little sisters
and my older brother when he needs it.
We’re not starving  like we used to be but
sometimes we just can’t bring ourselves to eat because
we’re so worried sick that he hasn’t come home yet.
But then we get a check in the mail and
we know he’s okay but
we still can’t eat because
family dinners just aren’t the same without him.
And he says one day he’ll get us over there and
we’ll be a family again.
But Mama cries at night,
thinking he’s found another woman over there.
I don’t think it’s a woman he’s chasing
but freedom from the stress of being here,
and I know he wouldn’t mind being
a little freer from us too.

I sent him letters for the first six months,
but I can only write with no response for so long
before I give up.
If there’s anything he’s taught me,
it’s that nobody will look out for me
if I don’t.
So I do.
I look out for myself
and I look out for my sisters
and Ricky too when he lets me.
And I want to look out for Mama too
but she says she can take care of herself
and she doesn’t need my help.
That I need to spend more time thinking about my future
and less time thinking about her health.
Because if I don’t I’ll end up just like her.
And she doesn’t want me to be
a sad old pair of used shoes
forgotten at the bottom of the trash pile
like she says she is.

Ricky is growing up and
he teases the other boys and makes dangerous advances
at the prettiest girls in school.
And I think it’s because
nobody ever told him not to.
He drinks too much,
but then again
so did Papa.
Mama said she never touched the bottle.
She said she saw what it did to her Pop
and she would never do that to herself or her children,
but I’ve seen how she unscrews those little orange caps
of those little orange bottles
and tosses back those little white pills
like they’re saving her from something.
She knows they make her eyes go a little glassy
and that they won’t make Papa come back to us,
and that they won’t keep Ricky out of trouble,
but in a way I get it.
Everyone needs something to hold on to.
And just like Papa clings to his independence,
Mama clings to those little white pills.

Papa sent us less money this month,
and no note but I didn’t expect one anyway.
Maybe he lost his job or
maybe he’s coming back soon
and he has to save up to come get us
and take us to where he is.
Either way, the money didn’t go very far
what with Mama sick in the hospital
and Ricky being in prison
because of hitting that girl.
Mama’s face is always a little white now,
and she’s keeping the rumors about Ricky real hushed,
but I’ve heard the stories at school.
They say Kathy Tines showed up one day,
both eyes shimmering with tears.
Warm bruises and wet cuts on her skin.
Finger marks around her neck,
with dark gray stripes pressed so hard
into her skin that
red spider webs snaked around her jaw,
and they blamed it on Ricky because
that’s his girlfriend and it’s his job to take care of her.

I never saw Papa hit anyone,
but I guess Ricky thinks he has a right to.
And maybe he does.
He told me once when I visited him at the prison
that she did something
really bad.
He wouldn’t tell me what,
only that she deserved it.
And anyway,
I think it’s better that he hit her
than if he left her altogether,
because Mama told me that
Kathy might have a baby on the way,
and I guess that means it might be Ricky’s.
But now that he’s in prison
he can’t look after that little baby anyway.
And maybe that baby will grow up to be
just like him.
Maybe that baby will have dark brown hair
and light brown eyes
and bloody red knuckles,
wet with a mixture of his own blood
and his girlfriend’s.

But it’s not my job to worry about that baby,
and I can’t even worry about Ricky anymore
because Mama’s getting worse
and Papa’s sending less and less money every time
but Mama says to stay positive,
that Papa will come home soon
and that when he does
everything is going to be okay.
But I saw a man who looked just like him
down by the pharmacy around two weeks ago.
He had wavy brown hair
tucked under a worn gray hat,
just like Papa.
And he had a checkered shirt
pushed into a big brown belt,
just like Papa.
And soft brown shoes, worn down on the outsides
because his feet turn inward when he walks,
just like Papa.
But the man by the pharmacy couldn’t have been Papa,
because the man had a watch.
It was older and less shiny
than the watches that rich people wear,
but heavier and golder
than any watch Papa would have.
And if Papa did come home
he wouldn’t have that watch,
he would never spend money
on something like that.
Because he always used to talk about
how we should never buy anything that doesn’t have a use.
He said that looking at the time was something
only lazy people did,
because us hardworking folks
always knew what time it was.
It’s either work time, or rest time,
and there is no in between.
And it got me thinking
that if Papa hasn’t come back yet,
maybe he never will.
Because I think that maybe
he finally has a little more
rest time
now that he doesn’t have to worry about us.

We didn’t get money this month,
we got a letter instead.
It was written with Papa’s heavy-handed, inky lettering in pen,
with smudges all over it
and rips along the edges.
It said,
“I can’t bring you here now,
and I can’t come home yet.
I don’t have anything but this letter to send this month,
or next month,
but I hope you understand.
Things aren’t easy out here,
and I won’t bring you into this life
of never resting,
and always travelling with no destination.
Lots of love,
Papa”
I think he forgets that we don’t rest over here either,
he’s forgotten that we
don’t have a destination either.
That we’re stuck in the same dusty neighborhood
that he left us in two years ago.

I wrote back to him,
told him that Ricky was in jail
and Mama was dead;
had been for three days.
I told him that Mama was in the hospital
for weeks before she passed.
The doctors told me she would walk out
but she never did.
And I asked him to come help us,
help us figure out what to do without Mama,
figure out how to help Ricky,
and figure out what to do with ourselves.
I asked him to come to Mama’s funeral.
To take a few days off of whatever he’s doing
all the way over there,
and come home for just a bit to be with us.

He wrote back four weeks later.
No check again,
just a little note,
saying he’ll miss Mama forever
and he’ll talk to Ricky when he brings us to California,
but he can’t leave now,
he’s just getting into something,
something that could make him successful.

Then one month later,
we got another letter in the mail,
saying he’s doing well,
making more money,
that he’s finally making a name for himself.
But after that we didn’t hear from him again.

So I’ve been working at the neighbor’s laundromat
to make as much money as I can for us,
to buy Mama good flowers for her grave,
and pay off Ricky’s debts.
And Papa hasn’t sent a letter in two months,
and he hasn’t sent money in five,
but I’m starting to think that’s okay.
I’m starting to think we don’t need him anymore.