9,600 Dollars a Year
A Conversation about Poverty and Fortitude with a Single Mom in Arkansas
There is no shade to be found near the trailer house. The soil is still muddy from the last rainfall and children’s toys are scattered across the dead grass lawn.
“She’s finally asleep.”
“She was tired from the trip.”
“She sure was. Can I offer you a drink? A beer maybe?”
“A beer would be nice.”
The woman opens the fridge and hands me a bottle of Bud Light. She puts a box of powder formula on her kitchen counter then comes sitting on the green couch in front of me.
“We do that every Tuesday. I need a routine because it’s easier for the baby. So we have our schedule.”
“Groceries on Tuesday.”
“The ALCO store has specials on Tuesdays. We always go to the consignment store first. It depends on when Sophia wakes up, you know.”
“Where is the consignment store?”
“In the old water works building near the courthouse. They give canned food and bread for free so that’s always my first stop, otherwise everything’s gone in a matter of hours. One time I got there in the afternoon because my daughter was sick and there was nothing left for us. Poor baby was crying out loud and I had nothing to eat for the day.”
“What did you do?”
“The fine lady at the store gave me a little money to buy food at the grocery. I wanted to repay her, you know.”
The AC starts up and whizzes in the window frame.
“I also go to the foster home’s thrift shop in the former Westside school. They have all kind of clothes to give away and I can sometimes leave Sophia there for a couple of hours. They have a room full of toys for young children. A slide and even swings.”
“Do they have a lot of foster kids there?”
“They come and go. It ain’t a large facility. But with the abuse and the neglect, there’s always some. There’s a six months old, a real cutie mind you, he’s been there since January. His parents weren’t able to pay for heat so they had him placed here.”
“How old is your daughter?”
“She’ll be nine months at the end of the week.”
I take a sip of my beer.
“I’d die if they’d remove her from me.”
“You’re a good mom.”
“They don’t see it that way, sweetie.”
“Because you’re unemployed?”
“Because I’m a single mama who lives on disability support and petty jobs. The government’s help only helps so far. I get the check and the money’s gone after three days, you know. The neighborhood is piss-poor too and there’s a man up the street who’s cooking meth in his trailer. I’ve seen the fumes from my bedroom.”
“Disability support?”
“My parents got me in special education when I was fifteen. Behavioral disorder. I was unstable.”
“Unstable.”
“I was just high on drugs most of the time. It left sequels. Headaches, mainly. Blurred vision when I get tired. And my mood — I can get moody, you know. So I’m on disability care. With this plus the other government programs, I make about 9,600 dollars a year.”
“Do you own the house?”
“I wouldn’t dream of it. The rent is 450 dollars per month, not counting utilities. It leaves me with about two hundred bucks after all is paid. And I have to put gas in the car for when I find a cleaning job around.”
She stands up and presses her ear against the baby’s bedroom door. She looks at me and sighs in relief.
“She woke up at six this morning. I need a little rest,” she says.
“What is this tattoo on your shoulder?”
“It’s my — it’s for my son.”
“Your son?”
“Long time ago.”
We stop talking as she searches for a photo album in a drawer. She gives me the picture of an infant boy in a blue outfit.
“I was still using oxy when I got pregnant.”
She stares into space.
“My boy, he had — he had problems, you see. He didn’t breathe well. The doctors said it was because of the drugs. We didn’t even leave the hospital. That’s how short it was.”
I keep silent.
“Isn’t he beautiful?”
“He is.”
“The cemetery’s behind the road, over there. I got him a space under a pine tree. It looks like a field.”
“What was his name?”
“I’d rather talk about something else if you don’t mind.”
“Of course. I’m so sorry.”
“I don’t get to speak with many people.”
“It’s a small town.”
“I go to the Methodist church every Sunday. All them black ladies with big hats, it makes me think of the old times. There’s a lot of farmers coming from other counties. In summer we have lunch in the gardens with the pastor and his wife. They love Sophia.”
“It sounds great.”
“It is. That’s where I usually find work. Selling jams and fruits on the roadside. I leave my daughter in the car with the air conditioning so she doesn’t get hot. When I’m done I can bring a few pots home. It’s better than cleaning houses.”
“How much can you make in a day?”
“It depends. Not more than twenty.”
“That’s not much.”
“I tried to do other things, you know.”
“Other things.”
“I wasn’t very good at it.”
She smiles and laughs.
“I ain’t proud of myself. I thought I didn’t have a choice. A little blowjob ain’t going to kill me, I thought. But I ain’t that kind of girl.”
“What kind?”
“You know. It gets easier for some women. They get used to it. I just couldn’t. I found it awkward and sick. Putting Sophia to bed, texting the man, pretending to like what he did. Jesus. There was so much pretending, and they didn’t even care! I could have said and done nothing, they would still have paid for it. But I wasn’t able.”
“It could have been dangerous.”
“Most of them guys were okay enough. Regular guys. Husbands. Old ones. They brought gifts and flowers. The house smelled like flowers, I liked that. I don’t get to buy flowers.”
“Most of them?”
“There was this farmer who always wanted me to dress like a school girl. He stank so bad I had to do him under the shower to help get rid of the odor.”
“How long did you do it?”
“Just a summer. I saved up the money to fix the car. I cooked myself a good meal.”
I finish my beer and put it on the coffee table.
“You must think I’m a mess,” she says.
“I don’t. I think you make do with what you have.”
“I try to be a good mama, you know. I’d do everything I could to keep my baby safe and comfortable. I don’t want to lose her.”
“You’re doing good.”
“I pray the Lord every night. I don’t know if he listens, but I pray. And I give my daughter all the love I can. It’s just that love is hard to find in this life. I hope one day she’ll leave Arkansas.”
“You will visit her in her house.”
“She will have flowers everywhere. And a nice husband. And a freshly mowed backyard.”
“You will talk about her childhood, and she won’t be able to recall the bad times. Children are like that.”
“It would be so nice.”
We look at each other and we don’t say anything for a moment. We’re just two humans with smiles on their faces.
“When does Sophia get up?”
“In an hour. Why do you ask?”
“Is there a restaurant in the area?”
“There’s the Chinese.”
“Do you want to join me for dinner, later? I need to be back on the road by the end of the day and I haven’t eaten yet.”
“I won’t have enough cash to repay you.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Will you say I’m pretty when you’ll write your book?”
“Do you want me to?”
She laughs again. We leave the room and go outside to watch birds flying under the dark sky.
A rusted truck stands on cinder blocks, with discarded tires and metal parts lined along the neighbor’s fence. Sun rays break the clouds and light up the plain as thunder rolls away.
