The pigeons squatting in the courtyard - they didn’t live there as far as I could tell, there were no nests; but they never really seemed to leave either - formed a constant din of squawks and coos and other mildly annoying noises. They beat back and forth against each other, ever-shifting, like a foul-smelling, feathery tide.

“Ama,” little brother was saying. Ama, because he couldn’t - or wouldn’t - say Mama.

“MAma,” I corrected him. Mama said to go easy on him, that he’s just a baby. To tell the truth, if she still hadn’t named me after 13 months I probably wouldn’t try too hard to say hers right either.

But he didn’t seem to mind. He was Doodle, or Doodie, or Bubba or Bub. He was Munchkin when the mood struck, or Stinker or even Turd. He was whatever we wanted him to be, and he was happy to do it.

“June-bug,” Mama called from the other room. Her words were dipped in saccharine, which I knew meant she was going to ask for something. “Junie—can you watch Tater Tot for a few? I need to run over to Gloria’s to pick up some Nutmeg.”

I don’t remember how old I was when I first understood that Mama wasn’t really going out for Nutmeg, or whatever else she said she needed when begged off like that, but at some point I did. And then at some point not too long after that I also understood that what she was really going out for was drugs. I couldn’t have articulated it in so many words but l knew she was leaving, and that when she returned home she would be happy, and clumsy, and a little tired.

“Ok, mama,” I said. I didn’t want her to go, but in the months since daddy died, these were the only nights I didn’t hear her crying softly to herself once she thought I’d gone to sleep. So I said nothing, and smiled.

I returned to my puzzle.

“Tarka?” Lil bro said as he handed me a big blue piece.

“AntARTica,” I laughed. “It’s AntARTica, silly.” As I took the country from him, he grinned and leaned his head on me.

“Ama,” he said again.

“Yeah,” I agreed. “Ama.”