So simple—but for her not much of a care.

—Grace

You steal one day off from no days off.

And laze.

Unplug the phone and carry in a radio. Tune it to a station that dulls the noise—a tantruming baby, neighbors barking back and forth, the thumpety-thump-thump of a neighbor that keeps his beat box blasting—that seems to never cease. You run the hottest tub you can, a temperature that steams, and, if you’re short on essentials, dump capfuls—shampoo, dishwashing soap, liquid detergent—of something to bubble and foam. No one’s home, but you close the door and seal off the world. Light a candle and place it close, and by candle flame pin your hair off your neck and take your time stripping out your clothes. Climb in one foot first to test if it scalds, then full in. Roll a bath towel and prop your neck. Fold a facecloth and lay it across your eyes.

Be who you want, where you want, for as long as you want.

Forever.

Soak, and when you’re done, dry and rub down—cocoa butter and cream that’s sweet—and get dressed, make a mug of hot tea or hot cocoa or warm milk, and saunter into the front room to be still with yourself.

The door.

The door and a voice I can’t make out behind it calling my name.

I walk to the curtains and crack a slit and peek to see who it is. It’s my caseworker here unannounced, which, pursuant, as they’ve told me, is well within her rights. I don’t so much let her in as she rambles past as if she owns the place and leans her tall umbrella against the wall. She’s dressed in a wool coat, checkered wool scarf, and the kind of low-heeled heels that—forgive me, God—they sell at stores for old hags. She tells me to help her out of her coat, that she prefers it hung on wood, and I scuttle off to the closet with it over my arm. She tells me to have a seat when I come back, that this will take as long as it takes. Then she’s off down the hall and into the bedroom and I can hear her slamming drawers, hear her dragging open the sliding closet that never stays tracked; if she wanted, she could turn the pockets of my old coat inside out, shake my pants wrong side up, snatch the lid off my precious few shoe boxes. She’d be justified tearing off my sheets, shaking the pillow from its sham, flipping the mattress, and with the time she spends, this could be what she does. She stomps into the bathroom next, creaks open the cabinet, and rattles bottles and bottles of pills and makes a fracas of restacking them on the metal shelves. She uses the toilet and runs the faucet twice as long as anyone should. Then you can see her in the hall, rustling through the hall closet, a cubbyhole understocked with secondhand towels. She passes through the front room and into the kitchen, where she slams the cupboards, clangs the silverware, clashes the pots and pans; where she hounds through a drawer I keep stuffed with pens, papers, broken knickknacks, condiments from work. She opens the fridge and it grunts on cue. If the fruit and vegetable bins weren’t empty, she’d probably hunt them too.

It hasn’t dawned on me until now what a former tenant might’ve left. That this woman could happen upon that last person’s loose pill, empty gram packet, that she might find an ancient antenna pipe, a scorched spoon, a burnt pop can with a pencil hole punched through it. And if she does, it’s trouble—a bench warrant, increased fines, a mandate for day-reporting, jail time that lasts for months, a possible request for revocation, a brand-new charge. She makes her way back into the front room. She takes my picture off the wall, snoops the seams of the curtains, kneels to check the innards of the baseboard heater. She ask-tells me to stand and pulls the couch cushions one by one. Not until all of this is done does she settle, take a steno pad—you can see the handcuffs attached at her waist—out her purse and start to scrawl. Looks like everything checks out, she says. Impressive.

Thanks, I say, and cinch the tie on my robe. So I’ve been wondering, is there a chance of me being cut loose sooner than my contract date? I say.

To be honest, I’m not a big fan of that, she says. But I’d listen. Where are you on fines and fees?

Caught up, I say. And I’d work to pay them early if need be. There’s plenty hours down at my job.

She tells me I’d have to be finished, that we can discuss the prospect at my next scheduled check-in. She says it, too, as if it’s so minute. The strings on my life low on her list of concerns. Makes you wonder if she’s ever needed permission to come and go, if she’s ever been afraid of what comes next.

The door. The door—again!

This time a bam, bam, bam that cracks it from half cracked to half open. It’s who else? Seeing his face I could lie down and die.

MCA, don’t act all like that, he says. I came to make amends.

Now’s not the time, I say. Not now.

C’mon, now, thought it was Christian to forgive. It been bothering me ever since, he says. He huffs a facsimile cloud and shivers and rubs the sleeves of his stretched knit sweater. He jokes he’s far from weatherproofed and asks to come in. The man smells as you’d expect he would.

My caseworker appears at my back, exhaling what must be stones.

Oh, you got company, Michael says. He pats his misted afro. There’s a cake cutter stabbed in it.

The way she says my name. Oh God, the way she says my name.

Michael beams that jagged yellow puzzle. He swaggers in and introduces himself. But pretty as you is, he says, call me what you damn well please.

May I ask how you and Grace are acquainted? she says.

He scratches his beard. Sheeit, me and baby girl go way back. Ain’t that right, MCA? He stoops to tie his shoe. He gets upright and brushes the knees of his corduroys.

Interesting, she says. She tells him her name, her first name.

Beautiful name, he says. And biblical too. Now, if you don’t mind me askin, how you know old MCA?

This is my caseworker, Michael, I say, and feel sparks in my chest.

Oooooh, Michael says. Oh, I see. You mean as in an outstanding member of our county’s fine, fine Department of Community Justice.

Yes, that’s correct, she says. And can you clarify when you and Ms. Thomas last convened?

Michael jabs his cake cutter into another spot. He turns to me—slow; he turns to her—slower. Now, that’s a damn good question, he says. Hmmmm, let’s see. Well, if I’m not mistaken . . . No, no, no, as a matter of fact, your forgiveness, please. The date seems to have escaped me. These days a brother’s mind ain’t worth a quarter, he says, nor nickels, he says. But I can vouch it’s been a good minute. A good little minute, indeed.

She asks for his full name.

He gives her a false surname and bows and backs away.

Look like you two tendin official business, he says. Think that’s my cue to get the hell outta Dodge.

I close the door with strength, and twist the locks back and forth, back and forth, and turn by increments to face her and all of what she is. She moseys over to where she left her purse and roots through it. She culls a pad and scribbles in the pad and packs it away. She touches the cuffs at her waist. Ms. Thomas, I take it you know the rules of your contract, she says. And the penalties for breaking them.

Wait, I say. Please let me tell you the truth.

She crosses her arms and cocks her neck. The truth, is it? she says. Let’s hear this.