Lord of California

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Daddy was a fancy man. He used to come around twice a year to see us kids. Each time he’d walk through the door hauling a stack of presents so high you couldn’t see but the point of his head over the gold and silver-wrapped packages. Jessie would work herself into a stink all year waiting for him to show up, and then once he appeared she’d get so excited about the doll or dress he brought her that she’d forget she was ever mad at him to begin with. The last time Daddy came home, Mama whispered to me that a woman ought not to be as forgiving as Jessie, or else she’ll be setting herself up to always be wronged. I’d just turned thirteen and the way Mama talked to me had changed. Time before that she’d scolded me for saying I was too big for the doll Daddy had bought me and that I’d never liked playing with dolls to begin with. Should’ve seen the look on her face then, after she’d shushed me and dragged me squirming into the kitchen. Nowadays most girls get stuck playing with knock-off Barbies from the supermarket, she’d said, and so I should be grateful to have a daddy who could afford to buy me real porcelain beauties from a specialty store on the coast. Six months without seeing him, two months without a word, and that was the lesson she decided to take from the situation. That was Mama. There was always a war waging inside her, with fear on one side of the battlefield, and self-respect on the other.

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