A Day Late And A Dollar Short Part 18

I'm shocked to hear her say this, which I know means she's got something up her sleeve. And I don't know if I want to be there for it.

"I ain't doing much drinking these days, but we can sit at the bar, if that's what you wanna do."

"How about eight, then? I'll meet you right out front of your place of employment. It's Harrah's, right?"

"Yes it is. I work in security," he says proudly. "That sounds good, baby. Janelle, you coming, too?"

"I'm too tired, Daddy, and, plus, I have to get up early and drive home."

"Then why don't you talk to him now?" Paris says and hangs up. I feel like a fool. I have nothing to say to him. Well, I do, but I don't exacdy know how to put it, so I just ask something I never got an answer for: "When are you coming home, Daddy?"

Mama hits me on my shoulder with her fist so hard I feel a lump forming, so I get off the bed and pull the cord out of her reach. She's shaking her head back and forth, and at the same time listening carefully to the introduction of all three Jeopardy! contestants as if she's going to be quizzed about their biographical information one day.

"We might have to talk about this another time," he says. "I just wanted to spend a little time with you all while you was here."

"Where do you live?"

"In an apartment."

"What kind of an apartment?"

"It's the projects," Mama interjects, her eyes still glued to the TV.

"A everyday apartment."

"Do you live alone?"

"Not exacdy." "What does that mean?"

"I live with a friend."

"Male or female?"

He clears his throat. "Female."

"She on welfare and I heard she some kinda alcoholic," Mama says, switching the channel to Wheel of Fortune, where she will never in a million years guess a puzzle. We've played together too many times.

"Are those kids I hear in the background?"

"Yeah, sure is. Three of'em."

"You're living with somebody who has kids?"

"What's wrong with that?"

"Nothing, Daddy. Nothing. I have to go."

"Wait a minute. I've got some good news, but you gotta promise not to tell your mama. Not yet."

"What is it?"

"I'm gon' be a daddy!"

"A what?"

"A father."

"You can't be serious, Daddy."

"I am very, very serious. The ole man ain't lost his touch after all, huh?"

"Who was ever concerned about that?"

"I don't want to answer that one right now. How's your mama doing?"

"She's doing just fine. And don't you dare stop by here without calling first, getting her all worked up so she ends up back in the hospital. You got that. Daddy?"

"Buy a vowel, dummy. Buy a vowel. Thank you!" Mama says in a loud whisper.

"You sound mad, baby girl, what's wrong?"

"Apparendy, I'm not your baby, Daddy. And what difference does it make if I sound mad or not? You can't do anything about it. You're part of the reason I'm p.i.s.sed, but right now I don't think I want to hear the sound of your voice another minute. Goodbye," I say and hang up.

" 'Taxpayers' Money'!" I hear Mama blurt out. She makes a loud clap with her hands. I look over at the TV. Another puzzle is about to be put on the board. Vanna White looks the same now as she did twelve years ago, when I was breastfeeding Shanice. That's what money can do. Mama presses the remote and we're back at Jeopardy! When the phone rings again, she says, "That's him again."

I answer it. "Yes?"

"Janelle," Daddy says, "I'm sorry you mad at me, and, the way things is looking, I don't think it's gon' be such a good idea for me to have that drink with Paris."

"You aren't scared, are you, Daddy?"

"He should be," Mama says. She's back to Wheel of Fortune. This is a hard puzzle. A place. Three lines. "Tell him there's another brown envelope in the mailbox waiting for him, if and when he in the neighborhood. It might hold his interest."

"I heard her, Janelle. And to answer your question, naw, I ain't scared: not of my own daughter. But I just get the feeling that y'all don't understand what's been going on over there for quite some time, and it's understandable that you would take your mama's side, but I ain't done nothing wrong and I didn't do nothing to hurt your mama on purpose. And she know that."

"So-what do you want me to tell Paris, Daddy?"

"Tell her I'll have that drink with her on the next trip," he says. "When things cool down some."

"I'll tell her," I say, and hang up without saying goodbye.

And, without taking her eyes off the screen, Mama utters: "He ain't s.h.i.+t."

"The answer is 'San Juan Puerto Rico,' Mama. And he's certainly not alone."

Chapter 14.

Bingo " What Movie y'all going to see?" I ask the kids ftom the laundry room.

"We wanna see Above the Rim with Tupac and Leon," Tiffany yells, and then all three of 'em appear in the doorway. They wearing the ski jackets I got 'em that they ain't supposed to be wearing until next year, but I don't feel like saying nothing.

"There's no way I could sit through that," Trevor says.

"We're too shocked!" Monique says, rolling her eyes up in her head. One day they gon' get stuck up there.

"Well, which one do you wanna see, Trevor?" Tiffany asks.

"Actually, I was planning to drop you guys off and meet a friend at the fabric store and just hang out until your movie's over," he says, turning to me. "If that's okay with you, Ma."

"Why you need more fabric?" I ask. A whole corner of the bas.e.m.e.nt ain't got nothing but stacks and stacks of material, just sitting there, dry- rotting, right next to my treadmill, which is doing the same thing. "Can't you think of something else you wanna do today?"

"This is what I want to do today."

"All we wanna know is when you ever gon' make me and Tiff a pair of them s.h.i.+ny Janet Jackson pants like you promised us for Christmas that wasn't nowhere to be found under the tree?"

"Soon, soon, soon," he says. "I've got a few other orders I have to finish first."

It's hard for me to even believe this conversation, but when you ask your one and only son what he wants for Christmas and he says just one thing, a Surger so he can finish off his seams like a professional, you shouldn't be shocked to hear this. I just keep separating what looks like two tons of dirty clothes into three or four piles: dark, medium, whites, and filthy.

Trevor done put some kind of perm in his hair, 'cause it's all wavy and brushed forward. Looking like a black Beatle. He's worse than the girls when it comes to fooling with his hair. And even though he's got the scoop on the fas.h.i.+on scene in Paris and New York, he dresses like what the kids call a "nerd." He's wearing navy-blue Dockers, a white turtleneck underneath his yellow, white, and blue Nautica jacket and navy suede boots.

I haven't had the nerve to just come out and ask him, and Al says leave him alone, he ain't hurting n.o.body, and if he is you can't blame him for it, 'cause they say it's in their genes or something. But n.o.body on either side of our family's got these kind of genes, at least not that I know of. He even got the girls giving him manicures and pedicures. Made 'em swear they wouldn't tell, but I ain't blind. His nails look better than mine, his heels smoother than most women's. Just the thought of him kissing on some other boy-and Lord knows I don't wanna think of nothing else they might do-makes me wanna gag.

"Get out the mirror, Tiffany," I say, and pick up a pair of panties that smell too strong for girls their age, and when 1 look closer I see a dark-red stain where ain't supposed to be one. I ball 'em up and toss 'em on they own separate pile. How come she didn't say nothing to me? I'm her mama. I'm supposed to be the first to know this. Who told her what to do? And when did it happen? I certainly don't feel like embarra.s.sing her right now, so I just keep my mouth shut.

Apparently, Miss Tiffany is on a Cindy Crawford kick today, 'cause she's wearing a blue "North Carolina" baseball cap turned backwards with a whole bunch of reddish-brown hair that ain't hardly hers flowing past her shoulders. Her jacket is powder blue; Monique's is cotton-candy pink. Tiffany's is zipped all the way up to the throat, which mean she ain't wearing nothing close to no turtleneck underneath it, but I ain't in the mood for arguing and I want all three of 'em to hurry up and get the h.e.l.l outta here. Al left yesterday on his fis.h.i.+ng trip, and even though I was mad at first, I was surprised at how relieved I felt not five minutes after he was gone. Now , when these kids leave, the whole house will be mine, something that hardly ever happens.

They should be gone at least three or four hours, which should give me plenty of time to look under beds, go through closets, and empty out overstuffed drawers. I do this two or three times a year to get rid of things they done either outgrown or just never got around to wearing. Some of the stuff needs to be thrown out, but these the clothes and shoes I usually look at twice, 'cause like they say, one person's trash is another person's treasure. I usually give some to the church and take the rest down to one of the shelters for them women with kids. I ain't chintzy when it comes to giving away me and Al's stuff either, but I already did him and me this morning.

It depresses me when I go into them shelters-there's two or three of 'em I take turns going to-but it do remind me how truly fortunate and blessed we are to have as much as we do. Every now and then, when I'm just bored and wanna get outta the house, I'll go through my credit cards and pick out one or two that's got real low balances and head for the mall, knowing ain't a d.a.m.n thing me or the kids need, and I think about them kids at the shelter and go berserk. I pretend like they my kids, or at least my nieces and nephews, who can't help it that they got stuck with crackheads or alcoholics or dumb a.s.ses for parents, or whatever the reasons are that they ain't got no place to live.

Is that lipstick on Monique's lips? I hope it's just Vaseline. When I look a little closer, I realize that's all it is. But Tiffany is a whole 'nother story: she got black pencil inside the bottom of her eye. Lip liner and a pretty pale- pink color inside. Who taught her how to do this? She looks nice, even though I don't know if this is the right time for her to be wearing makeup yet, but, what the h.e.l.l, times have changed from when I was their age. Girls is doing all kinds of things at thirteen we didn't even think about until we was almost out of high school.

"Let's go," Trevor says, heading out the garage door. He's so impatient. I don't know how he sews as good and as much as he do. But he can make d.a.m.n near anything he sees in those magazines he gets: that one with a "W" on it, and some European ones that ain't even in English. Half the time h e d on't even use no pattern. I sure can't fault him for having talent. If I ever lose these thirty pounds, I want him to make me a slinky dress, but not until I can get into a ten again.

"Hold up, Trevor!" Tiffany yells. "Ma, would it be okay if we went to the mall after?"

"For what? You don't have no money, do you?"

"Nope. We was just about to ask if we could get our allowance early?"

"For what?"

" 'Cause we wanted to look for your birthday present."

I'm shocked they even remembered, considering it's two whole weeks away.

"I don't want nothing."

"I'm getting you something anyway," Monique says. "But this time, it'll be something I know you like."

"Me, too, Ma," Tiffany says.

"My lips are sealed," Trevor says.

"I told y'all I don't want nothing and I meant it."

"We heard you the first time, Ma. What about Granny? What you think she might like?" Monique asks.

"I don't know! Call and ask her."

"It's weird you guys got the same birthday and y'all ain't nothing alike, huh, Ma?" Tiffany says.

"Yeah, it's a trip all right. Would somebody get my purse off the kitchen counter, please?"

Monique dashes off and is back before I take a breath. There's $i 32 in my wallet. I give them forty apiece. Their eyes light up.

"Thanks, Ma!" Monique says.

"Wow, yeah, thanks," Tiffany says.

"I'm covered," Trevor says, refusing his, and his sisters look at him like he's crazy, especially after I take it back.

"You're welcome. If I ain't here when y'all get back, I'll probably be making my rounds at the Laundromats. Now, go on, get out of here. And have fun." As soon as I hear that door slam and the car back out the driveway, I feel myself grinning. I'm so glad they're gone I don't know what to do. I don't care how much it cost to get rid of 'em. Sometimes I ask myself why I had to have three whole kids when one probably woulda been plenty. It's too much work, too many different personalities to deal with, and, h.e.l.l, don't add a husband to the mix.

I pour a little Clorox in the water, add some Cheer and Biz, and then throw in three or four handfuls of white clothes. It must be about three o'clock. It's definitely Sat.u.r.day, and I feel ent.i.tled to something that'll give me a little more enthusiasm, so I walk over to our little makes.h.i.+ft bar and pour myself a Tanqueray and tonic. When I get upstairs, the girls' room is a disaster of pastels: clothes, socks, towels, sheets, panties-all kinds of s.h.i.+t is everywhere except where it should be.

Trevor's door, as usual, is closed, and even though he's got a lock on it he don't know that I know where he hides the spare key. He always locking hisself out, and I saw him get it from under the cus.h.i.+on of this old fat chair he said he would re-cover one day. Sure enough, it's here. I set my drink down on the floor, but as soon as I do, the piling of the carpet is so high the gla.s.s tips over. s.h.i.+t. I'll clean it up later.

I never knew there was so many different shades of blue. Trevor painted this room hisself, and ain't nothing out of place. Nothing. He makes his bed every morning, even if he's running late. He shares the bathroom with the girls but keeps his towel and washcloth on a hook he put right next to his closet. He made some kind of giant picture which ain't nothing but cutouts of men and women from them magazines and pasted 'em so close together you can't even see the corkboard. He calls this his "Fas.h.i.+on Collage" or something. I don't get the point, really. He's had that same dresser since he was ten, and it's looking like it. I don't even know if it's real wood or not, but he keeps it polished. His cologne botdes are on a swivel thing, and all his jewelry in a blue velvet box. I stand here for a minute wondering if this really looks like a boy's room. It do, sort of. Ain't nothing frilly about it. But, then again, there's all different kinds of h.o.m.os.e.xuals, from what I understand.

I open one of his dresser drawers real fast. Underwear sucked neat. Next drawer. Unders.h.i.+rts. Next. Socks. And then pajamas and T-s.h.i.+rts. I'm tempted to just slide my hand under some of 'em, like they do in the movies, but I'm too scared. Plus, everything is so organized, 1 can't see how he could hide anything.

His closet could pa.s.s for two racks at a department store. This is ridiculous. On the shoe boxes he done actually wrote the type and color of shoe in each box. His bed looks like n.o.body ever sleeps in it. Before I know it, I'm sliding my hands between the mattress and box spring and-bingo!- magazines. I pull one out and flip through it, and-Lord have mercy!-men doing all kinds of things to each other. Things I do to my husband. I close it fast. The next one is Playgirl. Mostly young white guys with big thick p.e.n.i.ses. It becomes very clear that the s.h.i.+t they been saying about white men having little ones ain't hardly true no more. I don't even realize I done got comfortable sitting on the floor, and taking my sweet time looking at these pictures, especially when I find myself reading about Jim and Bill and how they're on some soap opera. These is some good-looking, s.e.xy young men, I swear to G.o.d they are. But then I snap the magazine shut, slide both of 'em back where I found 'em, and smooth the bed back the way it was, and then get the h.e.l.l outta here. After locking the door, I put that key right where I found it.

Okay. So it is true. What the f.u.c.k can I do about it? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I can forget about my son getting a football or basketball scholars.h.i.+p; forget all those fantasies of seeing him play in the NFL or the NBA; forget about him ever giving us any grandbabies or, h.e.l.l, what about his wedding? The part I hate the most about this whole affair is everybody in my family finding out that what they been saying about Trevor all along is true. I don't think I can handle it, really. So-I'ma just keep my mouth shut.

In the girls' room I just start throwing s.h.i.+t into piles, but it don't take me but a minute to realize that every single piece belong to Tiffany: clothes she don't f.u.c.king appreciate, 'cause if she did they wouldn't be on the G.o.dd.a.m.n floor. They just gotta have all this hip-hop s.h.i.+t these rappers who done all become designers overnight is selling and my kids and everybody else's kids is buying as fast as they can make it. Correction: I'm the one buying it. I open Monique's side of the dresser, and all of her things is folded. She always complaining that Tiffany is the slob, and she ain't never lied. And just look at all these sneakers: we should own some stock in Nike, 'cause that's all they wear. And if that Michael Jordan comes out with one more sneaker, I'ma kick his a.s.s myself.

It takes me close to a hour to clean out this room, and some little kids gon' be happy as h.e.l.l when they get all this stuff, some of which ain't never even been worn. I should have my own a.s.s kicked for spending this kinda money on these kids. I fill up three of them big green trash bags that's made for leaves and gra.s.s and push 'em out in the hallway with my foot, and then kick 'em one by one down the steps till they in the middle of the entryway. I walk around 'em and go pour myself another drink. I wonder if Al caught any fish? I ain't calling him, that's for d.a.m.n sure. I don't wanna get my feelings hurt if he ain't in his motel room. And I ain't in the mood for jumping to no conclusions. I shoulda told him Loretha called. I know it. But I didn't want him to be depressed while he was gone.