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194 44 If it was time for good byes, then I owed the kids at the Y a visit too. I’d ne glected them, which is a rot ten thing to do to lit tle kids. I hadn’t even ex plained, and kids don’t sit around sur mis ing on death and taxes, so they prob ably just thought I didn’t like them any more. Noth ing could be fur ther from the truth. There’d been calls of course from Mandy, the co or di na tor of the After school Pro gram, when I’d stopped show ing up. None of which I’d an swered. I sim ply lis tened to her mes sages and then waited to call back at 3:00 a.m. a week later when I knew she wouldn’t an swer. “My boy friend died, Mandy. I can’t deal with the kids right now. Sorry. I’ll give you a call in a while.” I hadn’t heard back from her, until the very day I de cided to go visit. On my way out of the house, I checked my mail, and there was the en ve lope in Eustacia’s per fect script. In side, con do lences on some cheesy dime-store card dec o rated with white flow ers. All the kids had signed the thing, which read some thing like “In your time of grief, know that you are in our hearts . . . yadda, yadda, yadda.” There was Eustacia’s beau ti ful script again, Ivan’s name mis spelled “Ovan” for old time’s sake; Miguel’s scrawl; Win’s frus trated W and I con nec tion in cur sive; Mo’s enor mous (each let ter of a dif fer ent scale), mon i ker with first, mid dle, and last name, tak ing up half the card. Why’d you go and do that, Mandy? 195 I had to go back up stairs. On the floor, back to the wall, my knees up, face in my hands between my legs. Pull. But there was no way I could go visit after that card. I didn’t dare. Sorry kid dies. Bet ter luck next time. ...
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