A Day Late and a Dollar Short (15 page)

"Shanice," I moan.

"It's cool, Ma. But 1 cleaned up."

"What are you talking about?"

"Look at all the shit in here. Why do you think he bought it?"

I don't want to look. I know what's in here. Too many stuffed animals. Too many dolls. Too many video games and gadgets. Hundreds of trinkets. I blink and blink and blink until all of it disappears. "But, Shanice, you never gave me any sign that anything was wrong."

"My granny noticed," she says tartly.

Is this the daughter I've got to live with from now on? Is her sweetness gone? Has that son-of-a-bitch destroyed it? I have never heard my daughter swear. Nor has she ever used this tone of voice when talking to me. Her head is down and I see her shoulders droop and she starts shaking her head back and forth and then she sits back up slowly.

"I'm standing here going over and over in my head why I didn't see any signs that something was wrong."

"Because, instead of being a cop, he should've been an actor, that's why. I mean, he was this whole different person in the morning. At night he came in here. He said things. Did things. At breakfast, he was my stepdad again. He was two people."

"This is a sickness."

"Yeah yeah yeah. He's sick all right. Why do you think I never wanted him to take me to track practice, Ma?"

"Because I knew you didn't care for George."

"Didn't you ever wonder why?"

"I thought it was because he wasn't your real dad."

"I don't even remember him, Ma! I was four years old when he died."

"Oh," is about all I can say. I want to go sit next to her. I want to put my hand on her head the way I used to when she was little and pull her face between my breasts until I feel her breathe. I want to slide her head down my belly until it rests in my lap and stroke her hair until she falls asleep. The way we used to.

"What do you do in there at night?"

"What?" I'm startled not only by the question but by the fact that she's still over on the bed and I'm still standing by the door. She is not in my lap. And she's not my baby anymore. But I'm still her mother. "That's none of your business."

"He made it my business."

"I read."

"I do, too. See, here's a book to prove it." She holds it up, then drops it back in her lap.

"And then I sleep."

"Well, I learned how to sleep with my eyes open and stay awake even when they were closed."

I cover my mouth and feel tears rolling down my cheeks. She knows I'm crying. But she doesn't care. She's not even looking at me. And why isn't she crying?

"What else did you do in there?" she asks.

"What normal grown-ups do."

"Normal?" Now she gives me a cutting look. You'd think she hated my guts. "He's not normal," she says.

"I know that now."

"Granny says you read too many romance novels."

"How does your granny know what I read?"

"Because I told her."

"I read what I like to read."

"She said you're living in a dream world. And you know what? She's right."

"Stop it!"

"You stop it."

"Okay," I say, and blow my nose on my sweatshirt. I look at her again, still sitting there. I'm going to get her a new bed. This one's out of here. Tomorrow, in the trash it goes, along with anything and everything else he's ever bought her. I cross my arms and watch her read. "Shanice?"

"What?" she asks, still not looking up.

"Why couldn't you just tell me this was going on?" "I've already told you."

"No you didn't. You said I wouldn't have believed you, but that's not good enough. There has to be another reason. Why?"

"Because he said that if I ever told he would do more than what he'd been doing, and it would hurt worse."

Something thick is moving up into my throat. I reach down and grab the white trash basket and let whatever needs to come up, out. Shanice doesn't budge. She just keeps right on reading. I set the basket outside the door. I'm hot. And I'm even more confused. Since she was seven years old? My baby. That sick son-of-a-bitch. When I met George he was in the process of divorcing his second wife, a woman I'd never met, but I knew she had two daughters about Shanice's age. Had he done the same thing to them? And what about his grown daughters by his first wife? I think I have the first one's number somewhere. I need to know. I have to know. But how could he have been so clever? I'm not that stupid. And for so long? And why on earth would a grown man want to mess with a little girl? My little girl? "I'm sorry," I hear myself say again.

"I heard you the first time. Can you go now? I just got the new Goose- bumps and I really want to finish it tonight. It's called Why I'm Afraid of Bees. Hey, this should be cool, and I can relate, because I've already been stung at least a hundred times. Get it?"

"Shanice?"

"What?" she says in a clearly irritated tone now.

"This isn't the end of this."

"Probably isn't."

"No. I mean I should have you checked out."

"I've been checked out. Like they say in my dance class: I've already had my rite of passage."

I wish she would stop this. But I know why she's doing it. I don't blame her. But she's my daughter. I love her. And I need to take steps to let her know that I have her best interests at heart regardless of what she thinks or how it looks. "I should probably get some kind of counseling for you."

"I already have a counselor at school."

"I don't mean that kind."

"Oh, you mean a shrink?"

"Maybe."

"I don't need to see any shrink. There's nothing wrong with me. It's your husband who's the freak. He's the one who needs to see a doctor. Not me."

"I'll tell you what. We can think about this for a while and see what happens. How's that sound?"

"I know I'm gonna feel the same way next week, next month, and probably even next year, too."

"You don't know how you're going to feel."

"You don't either."

"You're right. But I want to know."

"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-ass 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 nobody, 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 nobody's nervous nothing. I wouldn't let no man drive me that damn crazy. Ain't no man worth losing your fucking mind over. He done got your heart. That's enough.

I finally press the talk button, 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 nobody'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 fashion 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 dealership and trade this bitch 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-bitch.

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 embarrassing, "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 shit. Not this time. There ain't enough apologizing in the world he can do to weasel his way outta this. Fishing. 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-shirts, 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 ass 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?"