Gumbo: A Celebration of African American Writing Part 7

"Son, I don't know . . ." Norman began, but before he could complete the sentence some thought m.u.f.fled his words. The questioning wrinkles around his eyes faded. His jaw went slack, and he seemed to pause in the middle of a breath. His gaze drifted away from Sutekh.

When Sutekh saw his grandfather's shoes step away a few paces, he looked up, his face tight, his lips quivering. "Granddad?"

The man was still, with his back turned toward the boy. His spine was crooked, one hand touching the wall, one shoulder higher than the other. His body looked broken and limp. He shook his head, said something under his breath, and placed a hand over his forehead. "Stop. Stop talking this foolishness."

Sutekh's forehead furrowed. He reached up and tugged at his lower lip, his eyes never leaving his grandfather. "He rubs on me. Sometimes in the bath-"

Norman moved. He turned and stepped forward and his hand rose, stiff as a board, and smacked Sutekh across the cheek. The force threw the boy's head sideways and knocked him from the chair.

"You dirty . . ." Norman stood above him, one hand raised as if to strike again, the other reaching down in a gesture almost comforting. He hesitated. Both hands trembled, and, when he spoke, his voice wavered. "I said stop talking that. You need to listen when I tell you a thing. You think I want to listen to-" He cut himself off and turned away. "That's enough. Your grandmother will finish cleaning the fish." Without another word, he left the room. The patio door banged shut behind him.

Sutekh lay still, with his arms wrapped tightly around his torso. There were scales on his face, but he didn't seem to notice. He had bitten the tip of his tongue, and a trickle of blood escaped the edge of his lips. He didn't seem to notice this either. When he finally moved, he did so carefully, silently. He placed his hands up to his throat, and gently probed the skin with his fingers, as if searching for some object lodged beneath the flesh.

The Way I See It.

BY TERRY MCMILLAN.

FROM A Day Late and a Dollar Short.

Can't n.o.body tell me nothing I don't already know. At least not when it comes to my kids. They all grown, but in a whole lotta ways they still act like children. I know I get on their nerves-but they get on mine, too-and they always accusing me of meddling in their business, but, h.e.l.l, I'm their mother. It's my job to meddle. What I really do is worry. About all four of 'em. Out loud. If I didn't love 'em, I wouldn't care two cents about what they did or be the least bit concerned about what happens to 'em. But I do. Most of the time they can't see what they doing, so I just tell 'em what I see. They don't listen to me half the time no way, but as their mother, I've always felt that if I don't point out the things they doing that seem to be causing 'em problems and pain, who will?

Which is exactly how I ended up in this d.a.m.n hospital: worrying about kids. I don't even want to think about Cecil right now, because it might just bring on another attack. He's a bad habit I've had for thirty-eight years, which would make him my husband. Between him and these kids, I'm worn out. It's a miracle I can breathe at all.

I had 'em so fast they felt more like a litter, except each one turned out to be a different animal. Paris is a female lion who don't roar loud enough. Lewis is a horse who don't pull his own weight. Charlotte is definitely a bull, and Janelle would have to be a sheep-a lamb is closer to it-'cause she always being led out to some pasture and don't know how she got there.

As a mother, you have high hopes for your kids. Big dreams. You want the best for them. Want 'em to get the rewards from life that you didn't get for one reason or another. You want them to be smarter than you. Make better choices. Wiser moves. You don't want them to be foolish or act like fools.

Which is why I could strangle Lewis my d.a.m.nself. He is one big ball of confusion. Always has had an excuse for everything, and in thirty-six years, he ain't changed a lick. In 1974, he did not steal them air conditioners from the Lucky Lady Motel that the police just happened to find stacked up in the back seat of our LeSabre way out there in East L.A. Lewis said his buddy told him they belonged to his uncle. And why shouldn't he believe him? All of a sudden he got allergies. Was always sneezing and sniffling. He said it was the smog. But I wasn't born yesterday. He just kept at it. Said he couldn't help it if folks was always giving him stuff to fix or things he didn't even ask for. Like that stereo that didn't work. Or them old tools that turned out to be from Miss Beulah's garage. Was I accusing him of stealing from Miss Beulah? Yes I was. Lewis was always at the wrong place at the wrong time, like in 1978 while he waited for Dukey and Lucky to come out of a dry cleaner's with no dry cleaning and they asked him to "Floor it!" and like a fool he did and the police chased their black a.s.ses all the way to the county jail.

For the next three years, Lewis made quite a few trips back and forth to that same gray building, and then spent eighteen months in a much bigger place. But he wasn't a good criminal, because, number one, he always got caught; and, number two, he only stole s.h.i.+t n.o.body needed: rusty lawnmowers, shovels and rakes, dead batteries, bald tires, saddles, and so on and so forth. Every time he got caught, all I did was try to figure out how could somebody with an IQ of 146 be so stupid? His teachers said he was a genius. Especially when it came to math. His brain was like a calculator. But what good did it do? I'm still waiting for the day to come when all them numbers add up to something.

Something musta happened to him behind them bars, 'cause ever since then-and we talking twelve, thirteen years ago-Lewis ain't been right. In the head. He can't finish nothing he start. Sometime he don't even start. Fortunately, he ain't been back to jail except for a couple of DUIs, and he did have sense enough to stop fooling around with that dope after so many of his friends OD'd. Now all he do is smoke reefa, sit in that dreary one-bedroom apartment drinking a million ounces of Old English, and play chess with the Mexicans. When ain't n.o.body there but him (which ain't often 'cause he can't stand being by hisself more than a few hours), he do crossword puzzles. Hard ones. And he good at it. These he do finish. And from what I gather, he done let hundreds of women walk through his revolving door for a day or two but then all he do is complain about Donnetta, his ex-wife, who he ain't been married to now going on six years, so most of 'em don't come back.

And don't let him get a buzz going. Every other word outta his mouth is Donnetta. He talk about her like they just got divorced yesterday. "She wanted a perfect man," he claimed, or, "I almost killed myself trying to please that woman." But even though Donnetta was a little slow, she was nice, decent. After I'd left Cecil for the third time, I stayed with 'em for close to a month. By the second week, I was almost ready for the loony bin. First off, Donnetta couldn't cook nothing worth eating; she wasn't exactly Oprah when it came to having a two-way conversation; cleaning house was at the bottom of her things-to-do list; and that boy needed his a.s.s beat at least twice a day but she only believed in that white folks' "time-out" mess. She didn't have as much sense as a Christmas turkey, and how you supposed to lead a child down a path when you lost your d.a.m.nself? I understood completely when that chile turned to G.o.d, got saved, and finally stopped giving Lewis dessert at night. A few months ago she sent me a pink postcard from some motel in San Diego saying she got married, is seven months pregnant and they already know it's a girl, and her new husband's name is Todd and he wants to adopt Jamil, and what do I think about all this? And then: P.S. Not that it should matter, but Todd is white. First of all, who she marry is her business, even though Lewis'll probably have a stroke when he find out. But one thing I do know: Kids love whoever take care of 'em.

Lewis been lost since she left. And he blames everybody except Lewis for his personal misery. Can't find no job: "I'm a threat to the white man," he says. "How?" I ask. "You more of a threat to yourself, Lewis." He huffs and puffs. "I'm a victim." And I say, "I agree. Of poor-a.s.sed planning!" And then he goes off and explains the history of the human race, and then black people, and then finally we get to the twentieth century and the castration of the black man that's still going on in society today because just look at how successful the black woman is compared to us! This is when I'd usually hand him another beer, which finally either shut his a.s.s up, or he'd nod off into a coma.

Tragedy is his middle name.

For years I fell for his mess. Would lend him my Mary Kay money. My insurance-bill money. Even p.a.w.ned my wedding ring once so he could pay his child support. But then it started to dawn on me that the only time he call is when he want something, so I stopped accepting the charges. Last week he come calling me to say another one of his little raggedy cars broke down on the side of the freeway, way out in redneck country, where Rodney King got beat up, and I guess I was supposed to feel sorry for him, which I did for a hot minute, but then I remembered he ain't had no driver's license for close to a year, and then he asked could I wire him $350 till his disability check came, and this time, this was my answer: "h.e.l.l, no!"

He got mad. "You don't care what happens to me, do you, Ma?"

"Don't start that mess with me, Lewis."

"You don't understand what I'm going through. Not one bit. Do you?"

"It don't matter whether I understand or not. I'm your mother. Not your wife. Not your woman. And I ain't no psychiatrist neither. What happened to Conchita?"

"It's Carlita."

"Comosita, Consuela, Conleche . . . whatever."

"We broke up."

"I'm shocked."

"I need your help, Ma. For real."

"So what else is new? You ain't even supposed to be driving, Lewis."

"Then how am I supposed to look for work or get to work?"

I decided to just pretend like I didn't hear him say the word "work." "I don't know. Call one of your friends, Lewis."

"I ain't got no friends with that kind of money. It's tough out here for black men, Ma, and especially if you handicapped. Don't you know that?"

"I didn't know you was handicapped."

"I got arthritis."

"Uh-huh. And I'm three months pregnant with triplets."

"How come don't n.o.body ever believe me when I tell the truth? I can't hardly ball up my fist, my knuckles is so swollen. And on my right wrist, the bone is sticking out. . . . Oh, never mind. Ma, please?"

"I have to go now, Lewis. I ain't got no three hundred and fifty dollars."

"Yes you do."

"You calling me a lie?"

"No."

"I'm telling you. All my money is spent."

"Where's Daddy?"

"Barbecuing. Where you think?" I say, lying my b.u.t.t off.

"Could you ask him? And tell him it's for you?"

I just started laughing. First of all, I ain't seen Cecil in over a month, but I didn't feel like getting into it right then.

He groaned. "How about two hundred dollars, then?"

That's when I slammed the receiver down, because I couldn't stand hearing him beg. My hands was shaking so bad and my heart was beating a mile a minute, so I reached in the kitchen drawer, grabbed my spray, and took two or three quick puffs. Seem like he ain't gon' be satisfied till he use me up. That thought alone made me start crying, and I don't like to cry, 'cause it always do me right in. I couldn't get no air to come through my nose or mouth, and I clenched my fist and said in my head, "G.o.d give me strength," as I made my way to my room and sat on the edge of the bed, turned on my machine, grabbed that plastic tube, and sucked and sucked until my palms got slippery and my forehead was so full of sweat that I s.n.a.t.c.hed my wig off and threw it on the floor.

I love Lewis. Would give him my last breath. Lord knows I don't want nothing bad to happen to him, but Lewis got problems I can't solve. It's some things love can do. And it's some things it can't do. I can't save him. h.e.l.l, I'm trying to figure out how to save myself.

Now, Charlotte. She a bull, all right. And I wish I didn't feel like this but I do: Half the time I can't stand her. I don't know how her husband can tolerate her a.s.s either. I feel sorry for Al, really. He's one of them p.u.s.s.y-whipped, henpecked kinda husbands but try to pretend like he Superman in front of company. Everybody know Charlotte is a bossy wench from the word go. We ain't spoke this time going on four months. I think the record is five or six. I can't remember. But, h.e.l.l, all I did was tell her she need to spend more time at home with them kids and she went off.

"When was the last time you worked full-time, took care of three kids and a husband, ran a household and three Laundromats, Mama, huh?"

"Never," I said.

"So how can you sit there on your high horse telling me what you think I should be doing?"

"Get some help and stop trying to do it all yourself."

"Do you know how expensive housekeepers is these days?"

"Oh, stop being so d.a.m.n cheap, Charlotte. You don't have no trouble spending it."

"Cheap? Let me . . ."

"I heard Tiffany got expelled and Monique is running her mouth so much in cla.s.s that she might be next."

"Who told you this-Janelle? With her big mouth? I know it, I just know it. Well, first of all, it ain't true."

"It is true, and it's your fault for not being there to keep their behinds in line."

"I'ma pretend like I didn't hear that. But let me tell you something, Mother. Tiffany did not get expelled. She got sent home for wearing too much perfume, 'cause half the cla.s.s-including the teacher-started getting nauseous. And for your information, Monique just told a joke that made everybody laugh."

I knew she was lying through her teeth, but I didn't dare say it, so I just said, "Un-huh."

"And since Janelle's running her mouth so much, did she bother to tell you that Monique is also having a tough time 'cause we regulating her medication?"

"I got her medicine, all right."

"Mama, you know what? I'm so tired of your sarcastic remarks I don't know what to do. Sick of 'em! You never have nothing nice to say about my kids!"

"That's bulls.h.i.+t, and you know it!"

"It ain't bulls.h.i.+t!"

"When they do something good, then I'll have a reason to say something nice."

"See, that's what I mean! Has Dingus thrown a touchdown pa.s.s lately? And what about your darling Shanice: Did she get straight A's again? Go ahead and throw it in my face. I could use some more good G.o.dd.a.m.n news today!"

"You better watch your mouth. I'm still your mother."

"Then don't call me until you start acting like a mother and a grandmother to my kids!" And-bam!-she hung up.

The truth always hurts. This ain't the first time she done slammed the phone down in my face or talked to me in that nasty tone: Like I'm somebody in the street. I ain't gon' lie; It hurts and cuts into me deep, but I refuse to give her the satisfaction of knowing how bad she makes me feel. To be honest, Charlotte just likes people to kiss her a.s.s, but I kissed their daddy's behind for thirty-eight years, I ain't here to pacify my kids. No, Lordy. Them days is over, especially since they're all d.a.m.n near middle age.

Charlotte came too quick. Ten months after Paris. I did not need another baby so soon, and I think she knew it. She wanted all my attention then. And still do. She ain't never forgiven me for having Lewis and Janelle, and she made sure I knew it. I had to s.n.a.t.c.h a knot in her behind once for putting furniture polish in their milk. Made 'em take a nap in the doghouse with the dog and fed 'em Alpo while I went downtown to pay some bills. Had 'em practice drowning in a bathtub full of cold water. How many steps could they jump down with their eyes closed without falling. The list goes on.

Now, all my kids is taller than average, as good-looking as they come and as dark as you can get, and I spent what I felt was a whole lotta unnecessary time and energy teaching 'em to appreciate the color of their skin. To not be ashamed of it. I used to tell 'em that the blacker the berry the sweeter the juice, 'cause everybody know that back then being yellow with long wavy hair meant you was automatically fine, which was bulls.h.i.+t, but here it is 1994 and there's millions of homely yellow women with long straggly hair running around still believing that lie. Anyway, no matter what I did or said to make my kids feel proud, Charlotte was the only one who despised her color. Never mind that she was the prettiest of the bunch. Never mind that she had the longest, thickest, s.h.i.+niest hair of all the black girls in the whole school. And nothing upset that chile more than when Paris started getting b.r.e.a.s.t.s and learned how to do the splits and Charlotte couldn't. She was the type of child you couldn't praise enough. Always wanted more. But, h.e.l.l, I had three other kids and I had to work overtime to divide up my energy and time. What was left, I gave to Cecil.

Where's my lunch? I know this ain't no hotel, but a person could starve to death in this hospital. Would you look at that: It's raining like cats and dogs and here it is March. This weather in Vegas done sure changed over the years. It sound like bullets. .h.i.tting these windows. I wish they would turn that d.a.m.n air conditioning down. My nose is froze and I can't even feel my toes no more. I hope I ain't dead and just don't know it.

Anyway, it ain't my fault that right after we left Chicago and moved to California, Charlotte didn't like it and put up such a fuss that we sent her a.s.s back there to live with my dinghy sister, Suzie Mae. She forgot to tell me and Suzie Mae she was d.a.m.n near four months pregnant when I put her on the train. Young girls know how to hide a baby when they want to, and I'm a hard person to fool. I pay attention. Don't miss too much of nothing. But Charlotte is good at hiding a whole lot of stuff. She snuck and got married, and wasn't until another two months had pa.s.sed when Suzie Mae come calling me saying, "You could send your daughter a wedding present or at least a package of diapers for the baby." What baby? Did I miss something? But I was not about to ask. I sent her a his-and-her set of beige towels from JC Penney, even though I didn't know nothing about the boy except his name was Al and he was a truck driver whose people was from Baton Rouge, so I couldn't get no initials put on 'em. I bought a mint-green booty set for the baby, 'cause they say it's bad luck to plan so far ahead, and right after her honeymoon (they didn't go nowhere except to spend the night at the Holiday Inn two exits off the freeway from where they live), Charlotte woke up in the middle of the night in a puddle of blood. She was having terrible cramps and thought she was in labor, except later on she tells us that the baby hadn't moved in two or three days. The doctors had to induce labor, and the baby was stillborn-a boy. I asked if she wanted me to come there to be with her, and she told me no. Her husband would take care of her. And that he did.

With so much going on, college slipped her mind altogether. She got that job at the post office and worked so much overtime I don't know when they found time to make anything except money, but somehow they managed to generate three more kids.

Now, Tiffany-that's her oldest daughter-got those big gray eyes and that high-yellow skin and that wavy plantation hair from her daddy's side of the family-they Louisiana Creoles-which is why she walk around with her a.s.s on her shoulders thinking she the finest thing this side of heaven. She is. Ain't big as a minute, and prettier than a chile is supposed to be. But folks been telling her for so long that sometimes I can't hardly stand her behind, either. She thirteen going on twenty. Can have a nasty att.i.tude. Just like her mama. Ask her to do something she don't wanna do and she'll roll them eyes at you like a grown woman. I threw a shoe at her the last time I was there and accidentally hit her in the eye, which is probably one more reason why me and her mama ain't speaking. The child stays in the mirror. Change her hairstyle at least two or three times before she leave for school, which is apparently the reason she don't have no time left to do her homework. Every time I see her she was.h.i.+ng and rolling a ponytail or cascade and putting it in the microwave to dry, which is why the whole upstairs smell like burnt hair. I told her, Being pretty and dumb won't get you nowhere in this day and age. There's millions of pretty girls in the world. You just one. Put something else with it.

Now, Monique is on the verge of being sweet, but something stops her. She supposed to have some kind of learning disorder they giving out to every other child who don't pay attention, but let one of those music videos come on BET and she'll drop whatever she doing and go into a trance. Know the words to every rap record and hippity-hop song that come on the radio. And can move her behind so smooth she look like a pint-size woman practicing what she gon' do to her man the next chance she get. But I give her this much credit. She can play the flute so sweet it make you close your eyes and see blue. She know how to read all the notes, too. She taught herself how to play the piano. But once she get up off that bench, she too grown. I bought some videos for both of 'em when I was visiting last year and just slap me for buying PG-13s. "Granny, don't you know that all the best movies are rated R?" she asked me. Monique had her hands on what one day might be hips. "If ain't no s.e.x, blood, or don't n.o.body get killed, it's boring, huh, Tiff?" And Miss Thang put the glue down and started blowing on her $1.99 Fancy Nails and said, "Yep." I couldn't say s.h.i.+t. At the rate they going, if these two make it outta high school without a baby, it'll be a miracle. This ain't wishful thinking on my part, it's what I see coming.

Now, Trevor is the only one in the house with a ounce of sense, but it's hard to tell what he's gon' do with it. He smart as h.e.l.l-get straight A's and everything-but he don't seem to be interested in too much of nothing except his sewing machine and other boys, and not necessarily in that order. His mama refuse to believe that he's like that, but I saw it in him when he was little. He was always a little soft. Did everything lightly. But he can't help it. And even though I don't like it, Oprah has helped me understand it. He has a right to be who he is, and I'll love him no matter where he put his business. I just hope he don't grow up and catch no AIDS. He dance better than both of the girls, like ain't a bone in his body, and he been blessed with more than one talent. Besides clothes designing, the boy can also cook his a.s.s off. It wouldn't kill his mama to take a long hard look in his room to get a few decorating ideas either, 'cause her mix-and-match taste ain't saying nothing. One minute she Chinese and the next she Southern Gothic or French Provincial. Some rules ain't supposed to be broken. Cla.s.s is one more thing Charlotte think she can buy.

Trevor call me collect from time to time. "I can't wait to get out of here, Granny," he say each and every time we talk. "But it's okay. Two more years, Granny. And I'll be free."

Is that a real-live nurse coming in here carrying a tray? Yum yum yum. More babyfood? Who can swallow when you got a tube going down your throat and through your nose? I done already had two breathing treatments since this morning, what she want now? Nothing. All she do is look up at the numbers on those machines and then smile at me. "Comfortable?" she ask, and I shake my head no, since she know good and d.a.m.n well I can't hardly mumble, but she just kinda curtsy and say, "Good," then turn around and walk out! If I was able to open my mouth I'd say, "Huzzy! I'm hungry as h.e.l.l, cold as h.e.l.l, and I could sure use a stiff drink." But I can't talk. And Lord knows I'm scared, 'cause I'm still here in ICU and I'm bored and I wanna go home, even though I know ain't n.o.body there waiting for me. Cecil been gone since the first of the year, but I don't feel like thinking about his old a.s.s right now. That's another reason why I'm glad I got kids.

Now, Paris is the oldest. And just the opposite of Charlotte. Probably too much. Never gave me no trouble to speak of. And even though you love the ones that come afterwards, that first one'll always be something special. It's when you learn to think about somebody besides yourself. At the time, I was sixteen and watched too many movies, which is how I got it in my mind that one day I was going to Paris and become a movie star like Dorothy Dandridge or Lena Horne and I'd wear long flowing evening gowns and sleep in satin pajamas. I wanted to speak French, because Paris, France, seemed like the most romantic place in the world, and back then I craved romance something fierce. But I didn't expect it to come in the form it came in: Cecil. I used to close my eyes, laying right between my sisters: Suzie Mae on one side and Priscilla on the other. I'd smell bread baking and see red wine being poured in my gla.s.s and pale-yellow cheese being sliced and I could see the mist through those lace curtains and feel the cobblestone beneath my spiked heels. I heard accordions. Saw small wooden boats in dark-green water. But by the time I married Cecil and got pregnant-or, I should say, by the time I got pregnant and married Cecil-I knew the chances of me ever getting on a airplane going anywhere was slim to zero, so I named my daughter after the place I'd probably never see.

I made two mistakes: Married the first man who was nice to me, who showed me some unfiltered attention and gave me endless pleasure in bed. But because of my particular kind of ignorance, my second major mistake was dropping outta high school at sixteen to have a baby. It wasn't until five or six years down the road, when I was watching Casablanca on TV one night-alone-that I had to ask myself if I really loved Cecil. Would I go this far for him? Long before Humphrey and Ingmar even made it to the airport I knew the answer to that question was no. What I felt back then was comfortable-not comfort-just comfortable. There was no guesswork to our lives. But over the years all of it melted and turned into some kind of love, that much I do know.

Speaking of heat. All my kids are too hot in the a.s.s-which they got from their daddy's side of the family-and Paris ain't no exception. It's probably the reason they all been divorced at least once (except for Charlotte, of course, but that's only 'cause she just too stubborn to admit defeat). All four of 'em married the wrong person for the wrong reasons. They married people who only lit up their bodies and hearts and forgot all about their minds and souls. To this day I still don't think they know that o.r.g.a.s.ms and love ain't hardly the same thing.

Paris sure don't know how to pick no man. Every one she ever loved had something wrong with him. Nathan-that's my grandson's daddy-scores very high on this test. I don't know why, but she seem to pick the ones that's got major wiring problems. They should've been wearing giant signs that said: "Defective" or "Lazy" or "r.e.t.a.r.ded" or "Not Father Material" or "Yeah, I'm Good-looking but I Ain't Worth s.h.i.+t." I guess she think her love can fill in their blank spots, 'cause for some strange reason she gravitate to these types. The kind of men that drain you, drag you down, take more from you than they give, and by the time they done used you up, got what they want, they bored, you on empty, and they ready to move on to greener pastures.

She love too hard. Her heart is way too big and she's too generous. To put it another way: She's a fool. Ain't nothing worse than a smart fool. And she's smart all right. Got her own catering company. Well, it's more to it than just cooking and dropping the stuff off in those silver trays with little flames underneath. No sirree. This ain't no rinky-d.i.n.k kind of operation. First of all, you need some real money if you want to eat Paris's food, 'cause she's expensive as h.e.l.l. Say you having a big party-not just your regular weekend type of bash, I mean the kind you see in movies: like The G.o.dfather Part I, for example, when the food don't look real, or too good to eat, and you too scared to touch it. Give her a theme: She'll cook around it. Give her a country: She'll transform your house. Make it look like you in Africa or Brazil or Spain or, h.e.l.l, Compton. All you gotta do is tell her. She make all the arrangements: from the forks and tablecloths, to the palm trees, hedges, and flowers, to the jazz band or DJ. One of her a.s.sistants, and she's got a few of 'em, will even make hotel arrangements for the guests and have folks picked up in limousines at the airport.

Anyway, she got cla.s.s, and she got it from my side of the family. She been in the San Francisco newspaper, and I think the L.A. Times, too. Been on a few of them morning talk shows, where she pretended to cook something in a minute that she really made the night before. One of the local TV stations asked her about doing her own cooking show, but like a fool she said no, because she said she had enough on her plate. Like what?

Food must run in our family. Me and her daddy opened our first barbecue joint, which we named the Shack, fifteen years ago. But Vegas ain't the same no more. With all the violence and gangs and drugs and kids not caring one way or the other that you the same color as them while they robbing you at gunpoint and can't look you in the eye 'cause you probably favor somebody they know, we had to close two down and ain't got but one left. It's been a struggle trying to make ends meet. Paris stopped cooking like us years ago. She think our kinda food kill folks. She right, but it's hard for black people to live without barbecue and potato salad and collard greens with a touch of salt pork, a slice of cornbread soaked in the juice, a spoonful of candied yams, and every now and then a plateful of chitterlings. Her food is so pretty that half the time you don't never know what you eating until you put it in your mouth, and even then you gotta ask.

In spite of all the money she make and that big house her and my favorite grandson, Dingus, live in-yes, I said favorite-she ain't happy. What Paris need ain't in no cookbook, no house, or no garage. She need a man quick and in a hurry, and Dingus need a daddy he can touch. Another baby wouldn't be a bad idea. She ain't but thirty-eight but swears up and down she's too old to be thinking about a baby. I said bulls.h.i.+t. "As long as you still bleed, you able." She rolled her eyes up inside her head. "And just where am I supposed to find a father?" Sometimes she make things harder than they really are. "Pick one!" I said.

I don't know how she's survived over there all by herself. h.e.l.l, it's been six years since her divorce. To my knowledge, Paris don't love n.o.body and don't n.o.body love her. She put up a good front, like everything just so d.a.m.n hunky-dory. Only she ain't fooling me. I know when something wrong with any of my kids. They don't have to open their mouth. I can sense it. Paris spend so much energy trying to be perfect, trying too hard to be Superwoman, that I don't think she know how lonely she really is. I guess she think if she stay busy she won't have to think about it. But I can hear what's missing. She too d.a.m.n peppy all the time.

I'm here to testify: Ain't no time limit on heartache. Cecil done broke mine so many times I'm surprised it still know how to tick. But forget about me. Paris been grieving so long now for Nathan that she done pretty much turned to stone. I think she so scared of getting her heart broke again that now she's like the Ice Queen. Can't n.o.body get close to her. They say time heals all wounds. But I ain't so sure. I think they run around inside you till they find the old ones, jump on top until they form a little stack, and they don't go nowhere until something come along that make you so happy you forget about past pain. Sorta like labor.

What time is it? I know my stories is off. I watch Restless and Lives and occasionally World, but some days they p.i.s.s me off so bad that I can't hardly stand to watch none of their simple-a.s.ses. Ha ha ha. I'm "trippin'" as Dingus would say, laying in a hospital bed in intensive care thinking about some d.a.m.n soap operas when what I should be doing is thanking the Lord for giving me another shot: Thank you, Jesus.

To be honest, I didn't trust Nathan from the get-go. Paris hadn't known him but two months when they got married. He was in law school for seven of the eight years they was married. Even I know it only take three. I just bit my tongue and gritted my teeth when she told me she wasn't taking him to court for no child support. "I don't want the ha.s.sle," she said. That was what, 1987? Here it is 1994 and I can count on one hand how many times he done seen his son since he went back to Atlanta. He don't hardly call. I guess he forgot how to write, and ain't sent nary a birthday card and not a single solitary Christmas present in the last three years that I know of. I ain't heard her mention nothing about no surprise checks either-not that she need 'em-but that ain't the point. She handled this all wrong. If a man ain't gon' be there for his kids then he should at least help pay for 'em. It's the reason we got so many juvenile delinquents and criminals and gangs running through our neighborhoods. Where was they d.a.m.n daddies when they needed one? Mamas can't do everything.

The one good thing that came out of that marriage was my grandson Dingus. He's turning out to be one fine specimen. Just made the varsity football team. The first black quarterback in the history of his high school. He in the eleventh grade and I ain't never seen a C on his report card. He ain't never come home drunk and he told me drugs scare him. He say he gets his high from exercising and eating vegetables and drinking that protein stuff everyday. I got my money on him. That he gon' grow up and be something one day. Putting the boy in that Christian school all them years was the smartest thing Paris could've done. Going to church at least one Sunday a month wouldn't kill her though. I just hope I live long enough to see him in college. And mark my words: if he wins a scholars.h.i.+p or goes on any kind of TV, watch and see if his daddy don't come rus.h.i.+ng out of nowhere to claim him then.