Something Noble by William Kowalski Page B

plate or a fork, you wash it. Just because we’re poor doesn’t mean we have to live in filth. You can be poor and clean at the same time.
    Marco, my other son, is six years old. He’s taking a nap on the couch. His digital camera is on a cord around his neck. Marco loves to take pictures of anything and everything. My dream for him is that someday he’ll work for National Geographic .
    Ernest, his dad, is waiting for me. Ernest’s parents are both from China, which means Marco is half Chinese, a quarter Latino, and a quarter white. The white comes from my dad, the Latino from my mom. Dre’s father was black, so Dre is African, European and Latino. When we’re all together, the house looks like the lobby of the United Nations.
    â€œYou let him sleep with this thing on?” I say. “He’ll strangle to death.” I take the camera off Marco’s neck.
    â€œThat’s an old wives’ tale,” says Ernest. “If he started choking, he’d wake up. Besides, I tried to take it off him and he wouldn’t let me.”
    â€œSometimes those old wives were right,” I say.
    Ernest is wearing the kind of clothes I hate on him: a tight muscle shirt and jeans that show off how much he’s been going to the gym. He never worked out once during the years we were married. Sometimes I wonder if he’s trying to get me back, making me jealous by showing off his new body. It ain’t working.
    I keep him waiting while I go with Dre to his room and help him take off his shoes. I make him lie down to rest. Then I go back out into the living room.
    â€œWhat’s going on?” Ernest asks me. He crosses his arms and waits. Ernest is mostly bald, and when he’s concerned, he doesn’t just wrinkle his forehead. He wrinkles his whole scalp.
    I fill him in. He nods.
    â€œWell, you just let me know if there’s anything I can do, baby,” he says. “Anything at all, I’m there for you.”
    I hate it when he calls me baby. That’s another thing he never did when we were married. I would like nothing better than for him to just go away and leave me alone. But we have a son together, and I need his support.
    And at least Ernest isn’t in jail, which is more than I can say for some people’s fathers. Ernest has a decent job, and he believes in taking care of his kid.
    â€œI’ll need you to help with Marco,” I say. “And I hate leaving Dre alone while he’s this sick. I know he’s not your kid, but if you’re here with Marco anyway, it doesn’t matter, right?”
    Ernest nods.
    â€œNo problem,” he says. “Dre is a great kid. We always got along well.”
    â€œI have to go to work now,” I say. “Can you stay with them until I get back?”
    â€œSure thing, baby,” says Ernest. He starts moving in closer, for what reason I am afraid to ask, so I dodge him and go into the bathroom. It’s going to take a lot more than this to make up for what he did. But I don’t even want to think about that right now. I need to start getting ready for work.
    I’m trained as a continuing care assistant. I go into people’s homes and do some nursing and some light housekeeping as they recover from illnesses. Or sometimes I just sit with them while they die. I feel like it’s important work. So do my clients. The only ones who don’t seem to feel that way are the ones who sign my paycheck. When the work is steady, it’s not a bad living. It’s enough to pay the bills. But it hasn’t been steady for a long time. This economy is destroying us.
    I could drive to work. But I decide to leave my car at home to save gas money. I take the bus a few miles down the road to a senior citizen’s apartment complex. This is where I’m working right now. I let myself into the apartment and call out:
    â€œMiss Emily! It’s Linda Gonzalez.”
    I don’t hear