A Day Late And A Dollar Short Part 8

"Well, right now I'm just glad he finally got caught and thankful he's gone. I hate his ugly guts."

"I know."

"No you don't."

"I hate him, too," I say, leaning against the molding because I need something to support me.

"You don't hate him."

"Yes I do."

"You hate what he's done to me. But you can't hate him, because you love the ground he walks on."

"There's a very thin line between love and hate, and he crossed over it."

"But what are you gonna do without him?"

"What do you mean?"

"What are you going to do without him?"

"Do?"

"I'm not repeating it."

"We'll be fine."

"We'll see, won't we?" She tosses the book onto the pile, grabs another one, opens it to the first page, and looks as if she's already totally engrossed. "Would you close the door behind you?" she asks, not looking up.

"Are you sure you're all right?"

"I'm fine," she says, flipping what looks like five or ten pages.

"You think you'll be up for the drive to see your granny?"

"Of course I will." She sighs. "Why wouldn't I?"

I'm sorry for asking. I close the door slowly and stand outside it, listening for some sign, a sound, anything that might let me know she's feeling something besides anger. I hear more pages turn. And more still. And although I know my daughter is the real victim here, the sad thing is, I feel quite wounded, too.

Chapter 8.

Hives The portable falls out my lap and hits the floor. I bend over the arm of the recliner to get it and all the blood rushes straight to my head, 'cause when I come back up I get the spins and then feel lightheaded. I let the phone rest in my lap until I get my bearings. What am I gon' say to her? "Hi, Mama, heard you had a asthma attack and sorry you had to be rushed to the hospital but I'm glad you didn't die and I'm sorry for not calling before now and I wish I could fly out there to help you get well but I can't 'cause I just found out my husband is cheating on me for the second time in ten years and when I get up out this chair most likely I'ma go upstairs and tell him to get out. I don't wanna hear none of his weak-a.s.s explanations this time. He can't talk his way outta this divorce. Mama, please tell me if you think this is the right way to handle it? I got these kids and so many responsibilities; I don't know how I can handle all this without no help. But I won't let him, or n.o.body, use me. What did you do when Daddy did this? Why didn't you make him leave? Why didn't you divorce him? Ain't it hard pretending you don't care? Ain't it hard acting like it don't hurt? How do you get brave enough to face the pain and hold your head up and get on with your life? How do you do it, Mama?"

I could start there. But I better hurry up before I forget everything I'm thinking in the order I'm thinking it, and then it won't make sense and she'll think I'm having a nervous breakdown, like she always think as soon as any of us kids get in a fix and ain't quite sure how to deal with it. But I ain't having n.o.body's nervous nothing. I wouldn't let no man drive me that d.a.m.n crazy. Ain't no man worth losing your f.u.c.king mind over. He done got your heart. That's enough.

I finally press the talk b.u.t.ton, but as soon as I do, I hear Tiffany on the other end. "I need to use the phone," I say.

"Ma, it's my tutor. Did you forget? I've got a big math test tomorrow and we got a lot to cover in forty-five minutes."

"Sorry," I say, and hang up.

Now what? I recline the recliner and press the remote for the TV. My mind ain't hardly ready for n.o.body's sitcoms and I think I got enough news for one day. I gotta get outta here. Go somewhere. Anywhere. I flip the lever forward and come up so fast it almost don't take nothing for me to keep going and end up standing. I look around for my purse. It's over by the door. I grab it and head for the garage. I hope the keys is in it. They should be. I hear 'em jingle, and I'm so glad Trevor didn't close the garage door I don't know what to do. This way Al won't have to hear me leave. All he'll hear is me burning rubber.

I grab my burgundy ski jacket off the hook, and when I slide my arms in, my white ski cap falls on the floor. I pick it up and pull it down on my head and then put on my brown snow boots that roll down so the creamy knots of fur show. My blue jeans ain't wide enough to go over it, so I tuck 'em inside. Now my knees is sagging low and look three times their normal size, but I don't care. I ain't trying to win no fas.h.i.+on contest tonight.

I get in the Suburban. I hate this truck. It's too big and too blue, even though blue is my favorite color. But not this shade of blue. Too much green is in it, and as soon as Al is gone, I'm trading it in for a black Tahoe, which is what I wanted to get in the first place. See what happens when you compromise? If it wasn't so late I'd head straight for the dealers.h.i.+p and trade this b.i.t.c.h in right now. Tomorrow won't be too soon. I back the truck out into the street without knowing where I'm going and just start driving. Before I get to the first stop sign, I slow down, pull over to the curb, reach in the glove compartment, and get a little botde of Beefeater's. A friend of mine at work, her husband works for a company that supply the booze for a lot of airlines, and she brings us grocery bags full of all different kinds. We just take our pick, but I ain't picky. Free is free. And, besides, at times like this, it's nice to have a stash for the road. I break the paper around the neck and twist the top, swallowing this nasty stuff in one gulp, then I drop th e e mpty bottle in my purse. I'm feeling warm. Mellow. Better. That son-of- a-b.i.t.c.h.

I jerk the gear into drive, and that's exactly what I do until I find myself turning into the parking lot of the mall twenty minutes later. This makes sense. Being away from him and the kids. It's nice and bright in here. Full of strangers who don't know that my husband is cheating on me for the second time in ten years. I try to smile as I walk in Zales Jewelers and find myself standing at one of the ring counters, where I spot a diamond that looks like it's got my name on it.

"May I show you something?" The saleswoman is black, and her hair is parted down the middle in two thick silver braids.

"Yes, that one right there," I say, pointing.

"This is a gem. Half a carat. Pricey. But. Well, is it for you?"

"Yes," I say, as she hands it to me.

"Engagement?"

I cut my eyes at her. "Not quite."

She says a soft and embarra.s.sing, "Oh." The ring fits perfecdy, which I take as a sign that I'm supposed to buy it.

"Would you like to know the price?"

"Is it in under a thousand?" I know I'm close to or up to my limit on my Zales charge, so I cross my fingers.

"Just a smidgen over."

"I'll take it." I hand her my card and notice red welts on my right hand. The lady goes over to the cash register. I scratch my hand, which all of a sudden is itching.

"Shall I wrap this for you?"

"No. I think I'll wear it. You can put the box in a litde bag, if you don't mind."

"Don't mind at all," she says. I can't stand the sound of her voice. It's too soft. Like she thinks she's doing a commercial or something. When she hands me the credit slip, I sign and head back out into the mall. I feel better. I did something for Charlotte. Something extravagant. Now. The kids need some things, too. But what?

I head down toward all them new hip-hop stores that seem to be side by side. I'ma divorce him. 1 ain't letting him get away with this s.h.i.+t. Not this time. There ain't enough apologizing in the world he can do to weasel his way outta this. Fis.h.i.+ng. Me and the kids'll be just fine.

Tiffany and Monique get two pair of blue jeans and some turtlenecks that's on sale, and since their ski jackets'll be too small next year, I buy one for both of 'em. Trevor don't never like nothing I buy him, so I just get him a few of them "No Fear" T-s.h.i.+rts, a bag of socks, and some Jockey underwear. I wonder how fast Al can pack his stufF and get out? Leave. Go. Anywhere. He don't deserve me. Or the kids. I work my a.s.s ofF trying to be a good wife and mother, and this is the thanks I get? I don't think so.

Now my left hand is itching, and these bags is heavy, so I sit on a bench, but realize I have to go to the bathroom. I look in both directions to see where the closest one is, and my eyes stop on a telephone. The next thing I know, I'm standing at it dialing the hospital, since I know the number by heart now. Maybe she's watching TV. Or maybe she's just laying there in the dark waiting for one of her kids to call to say good night or something. When the operator comes on, I'm a little stunned at first. "Yes, Viola Price's room, please?"

"I'm sorry, dear, but your mother's sound asleep and she asked that she not be disturbed. She could use a solid night's sleep. I can take a message if you'd like."

"Okay. Would you just ask her to call her answering machine at home? This is her daughter Charlotte."

"I sure will," the nurse says. "She'll get this message first thing in the morning."

I say thank you and then call her house. I hope Cecil ain't home. Good. He's not there. I get that computer voice that says Mania's name and not Cecil's, and after the beep I say: "Hi, Mama. I know you ain't home yet. This is Charlotte. I keep missing you and just wanted to see how you was feeling. I hope you doing okay. Me and the kids is good. Al ain't in the best of spirits. He's going on a long trip. Don't know for how long. Anyway, I would really love to come out there if you need me to, but I'd have to take a train, and right now I don't have n.o.body to watch the kids, but just let me know what you want me to do. I love you, Mama. You take care, and let me know when you gon' be home. I wish I could send you some flowers, but remember what happened last time? You were allergic to 'em. Anyway, you take care. Get well. And don't worry about me. I'm fine. Couldn't be better. Love you again. I'll call you back tomorrow."

I go in the bathroom, and when I look down at my hands they're covered with more than just red splotches. I take my coat off and pull the sleeves of my sweats.h.i.+rt up and can't believe when I see at least a thousand tiny b.u.mps covering my arms. What the h.e.l.l is this s.h.i.+t? Nerves. That's all. Nerves. I look in the mirror. My face is clear but my neck is getdng red. I lift my pants up but my legs is so dark I can't hardly see these b.u.mps. I feel 'em. Calamine lotion should do the trick. I shake my head back and forth in the mirror: See what men can do? Make you break out in f.u.c.king hives!

I pretend like there ain't no b.u.mps on my body when I come out of that bathroom and head toward the parking lot, but then I see this purple velvet hat staring me in the face that would go perfect with a purple-and-orange suit I been wanting to wear to church. I buy it. But I can't carry no hatbox, so I take off my white ski cap, stuff it in my purse and put the other one on my head. I know I must look like a d.a.m.n fool, but I don't care.

I throw the bags in the back seat of the truck and get another botde out. This one is Stolichnaya. They all do the trick. I finish it, take my red leather gloves outta my pockets, and put 'em on. On the way home, I take 'em off, 'cause they're irritating my skin, even though I keep telling myself I don't itch, and at the same time I'm trying to figure out the best way to tell Al he's gotta go: "You can take more than your fis.h.i.+ng pole with you on Friday when you leave. Take all your s.h.i.+t. And I hope you catch more than you bargained for. I've had it, Al. In d.a.m.n near twenty years of marriage, I ain't never even thought about cheating on you. Even when we been p.i.s.sed off at each other the thought never even crossed my mind. Why do men have to cheat? Why ain't one woman enough?"

And I'll walk away, 'cause I know he ain't gon' have no answer. But, then again, maybe I just shouldn't say nothing. No. Gotta say something. Oh. I know: "Talked to Smitty's wife and looks like he's not doing any fis.h.i.+ng this weekend. Did you know that?"

And he'll play dumb. And I'll say: "Turns out, Smitty's uncle died and he's building a shed in the backyard this weekend, so looks like he ain't never had no plans to do no fis.h.i.+ng. What you think about that, Albert Toussaint? Who you gon' go fis.h.i.+ng with now? Tell me that."

And he'll stand there looking like the Creole he is, and I'll have to stop myself from picking up something and hurting him.

When I pull into the garage, he's standing in the doorway, waiting for me. This is good. Perfect. 'Cause the kids won't have to hear. I hope he comes out to the truck. That would be even better. My hands grip the steering wheel. As a matter of fact, I have to stop myself from squeezing it. Here he is.

"Roll the window down, Charlotte."

I do. But I look straight ahead at the skis stacked against the wall and the bikes hanging from the ceiling. I count 'em. One two three. One two three four.

"Where'd you go?"

"To the mall."

"Why didn't you tell somebody you was going?"

"Who cares where I go?"

"I do. You scared me. And the kids."

"My heart goes out to all y'all."

"What's wrong?"

"You know what's wrong."

"No I do not."

"Think about it for a minute or two."

"Hold on, now. Smitty called a half-hour ago cussing me out."

Now I look at him. "Go on. You getting warmer."

"Why'd you call over there?"

"Because." "Because why?"

"I felt like it."

"Charlotte, you done got Smitty in a heap of trouble."

"How'd I get Smitty in trouble?"

"First of all, I didn't know he hadn't told his wife he was going fis.h.i.+ng, but he said you told her."

"I thought she knew."

"Well, apparently she didn't know, and it wasn't your place to tell her."

"It wasn't my intention to. When she told me about Smitty s uncle's funeral, I thought you was lying to me."

"Smitty said he didn't even know his uncle that good, and, besides, he's sick of funerals. This would make his fourth one this year and it ain't even April."

"So what are you telling me, Al?"

"I'm telling you that Smitty lied to his wife."

"So-you saying you are going fis.h.i.+ng?"

"I told you that's where I was going. Oh, so you didn't believe me?"

"No."

"I said it was gon' be me and Smitty, and a group of other guys."

"Yeah, but what other guys?"

"Bill Carson, Willie, and Buffalo."

"For real?"

"Well, we can forget about Smitty. He ain't going nowhere now. He's grounded."

"How can he be 'grounded'?"

"You know how his wife is, Charlotte."

"I'm sorry, Al."

"Don't apologize to me. Smitty s the one who's mad. You can take it up with him."