I have a cell phone number. I have Internet at my fingertips.

Because of me. Because of the two jobs I work.

I want to call Mama and tell her, give her my number, but I’m too ashamed of getting kicked out of the house. I’m sure Julio has already told her what’s happened, but calling her myself would force me to present my side of the story, and the more I think about it, the more my side of the story falls infinitely flat when told in things as common and ordinary as words. I wish I could explain with feelings instead, because then I think maybe she’d understand. Maybe.

So I dial the only number I can dial, who also happens to be the only person who doesn’t want to talk to me. Julio doesn’t pick up.

It’s after five o’clock, so he’s probably at the restaurant working. He hates when I call the restaurant to tell him anything. He thinks it reflects poorly on his work ethic. My guess is that Julio is the best employee they’ve got and that if he needs to take a call, they’ll be more than willing to let him. So, against my better judgment, I dial the restaurant.

He picks up, after about two minutes of waiting for him. “Hola,” I say neutrally.

“Hola.”

“I have a new phone number to give you so you can reach me.”

“That couldn’t have waited until I got home?”

“I just wanted to make sure you have it, is all. It’s a cell phone. Do you have a pen and paper?”

“Oh. Now I see. You just wanted to call and gloat about having a cell phone. Well, congratulations, Carly.”

I knew he would read something into this call. The problem is, he has every right to. Because I am bragging. I’m proud. But there is another real purpose to my call. “I need a way to get a hold of you. You’re still my brother.”

“You can’t just use that old white man’s phone you’re staying with? Or the help’s not allowed to use the phone?”

“I’m not the help, Julio, I’m his guest. Because, you might remember, my own brother kicked me out of the house.” That’s a low blow and I know it.

Silence. I know it bothers him, that he kicked me out. No matter how much he thinks I deserved it, it goes against everything he believes in: family, unity, sticking together. I wonder how he explained my absence to our neighbors. To his friends. It must have been hard for him.

“What do you want, Carly? I’m working.”

“I just wanted to give you my cell phone. In case you needed to get in touch with me.”

I hear shuffling on the other end of the phone. “Okay, what is it?”

I tell him the number. “If you don’t reach me, leave a voice message and I’ll—”

“Fine. Anything else?”

“No.”

“I have to get back to work now, Carlotta. Good-bye.”

“Bye.”

I hang up and toss my phone on my bed. It feels weird to call it my bed, since my bed is still in the trailer I used to share with Julio. This bed used to belong to Cletus’s niece—Arden’s mother—and this used to be her room when she visited over the summer months. It’s all white frilly lace turned slightly yellow with age and silk comforter and brass bed and furniture complete with a vanity and a book nook in the window. I wonder what it was like to live in such a magical little room, to play dolls in here and take breaks to snack on lemonade and cookies. I imagine the echo of childish laughter that must have once resounded through the mansion.

I make my way down the servants’ stairs in the back; it’s the quickest way to the kitchen. Cletus refuses to let me pay rent, so I earn my keep by cleaning and cooking. I’m no chef, but as far as I can tell from the stacks and stacks of Hungry Man meals piled in his chest freezer, he’s not either. I pull out the fixings for a homemade sauce, skimming the cavernous pantry for all the spices I’ll need (Miss May gave me the recipe and I nailed it the first time, thankyouverymuch).

As the sauce simmers, I hear a yawning moan. I can always tell when Cletus is stirring because he sleeps in the ballroom, and it carries his grunts and stretching sighs all the way to the kitchen. I begin to boil the water for the noodles and remove the sauce from the heat. I went to the grocery store after my shift at the Uppity Rooster so I have fresh French bread for him to munch on, to help him absorb some of the alcohol I know will make his trip to the kitchen table a wobbly one. At best, he’ll need my help. At worst, I’ll have to deliver dinner to the ballroom.

But at least he’s not driving anymore. I’ve persuaded him to let me run his errands for him, and take him with me if he’d like, so that he doesn’t have to drive anywhere. He’s persuaded me to drive his big truck to all my work shifts, because for some reason me riding my bike everywhere makes him nervous.

Which is nice. Nice to be appreciated, nice to be needed. And it’s nice to take care of someone who cares about me. I wonder if Julio had the same sense of accomplishment, knowing he was taking care of me. Maybe I wasn’t a burden after all. Maybe I was just family—and to Julio, family could never be a burden.

I want to convince myself that Julio is the exception. That not everyone in my family is as accommodating, as hardworking as Julio. But I have a strong suspicion that they are. I have uncles back in Mexico on my mother’s side whom I’ve never met; they’re practically strangers to me. Would they be as good to me as Cletus is?

The answer is probably. You can’t unweave generation after generation of a family.