A Day Late and a Dollar Short (16 page)

"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 nobody 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 sweatshirt up and can't believe when I see at least a thousand tiny bumps covering my arms. What the hell is this shit? 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 bumps. 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 fucking hives!

I pretend like there ain't no bumps 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 damn 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 fishing pole with you on Friday when you leave. Take all your shit. And I hope you catch more than you bargained for. I've had it, Al. In damn near twenty years of marriage, I ain't never even thought about cheating on you. Even when we been pissed 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 fishing 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 fishing. What you think about that, Albert Toussaint? Who you gon' go fishing 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 fishing, 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 fishing?"

"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."

I open the car door and he backs away to make room. "What's that on your finger?"

Shit. I didn't want him to see this. I'll take it back. Tomorrow. Didn't need it. Got enough diamonds. "Nothing."

"Let me see." He takes my hand but I don't want him to see the splotches. It's too late. Now I feel stupid for spending all this money on a ring I didn't need, not to mention this hat. Which apparently he ain't noticed. "It's pretty."

"What?" He must not be able to see in this light. Good.

"So-was this a revenge ring?"

"Kinda. But I can take it back."

"Why?"

" 'Cause I don't need it."

"We got a house full of stuff we don't need, don't we, Charlotte?"

"Yep."

"So you still don't trust the old man?"

"I want to, Al."

"You should. You really should."

I get out the truck, and since the windows are tinted he don't even see the bags in the back seat and I don't bother to get 'em. When we get inside, the kids have left the pizza boxes on the kitchen counter and a few dried-up slices for me, I guess. But I don't eat nobody's pizza.

"Come on," I say to Al, and lead him upstairs to our room.

"Don't get no ideas," he says.

"I'm full of ideas," I say.

When we get to our room, I go in the bathroom to find the calamine lotion, and decide to take a shower. Al gets in the bed. "I called Mama," I yell.

"And how she doing?"

"I didn't get to talk to her. But I left a message."

"That's good. I'm glad to hear it, Charlotte. Now, didn't it feel good?"

"Yep," I say, and stand in front of the mirror butt naked. I hold out my hands and arms and they're completely smooth. No welts. No redness. No bumps. Just a i8o-pound dark-brown body. After lathering all over, I'm wondering if I'm feeling good because I made the call or because I know my husband ain't cheating on me. I don't really care right now. I feel so good I decide not only to wash my hair, but shave my legs and underarms, too. I splash St. Ives Apricot Splash all over my body, then sprinkle a litde talcu m p owder between my breasts and the inside of my thighs and slip on my light-pink gown hanging behind the door. When I prance out to the bedroom to give my husband the best part of me, he's sleep. But it's all right. I ease on in the bed and slide under the covers next to him. I kiss his warm hands and am staring at him when the phone rings. I know I should trust him. He's a good man. The phone rings again. I'm wondering why nobody's getting it. I look over at the clock. It's ten to ten. The kids are already in bed, and, besides, they don't have a phone in their rooms. I kiss Al's thick eyebrows and then pick up the phone.

"Yeah," I say, in a voice that will make the person feel like they woke me up.

"Is Al there?" Loretha asks.

This bitch was his first wife. It's been seventy-two whole hours since she last called. She must be trying to break her own record. "He's sleep, Loretha."

"It's important."

"Isn't it always?"

"Look, Charlotte. It's late. I don't wanna go through this tonight. Just tell him Birdie's tuidon for summer school is still due next week, and for him not to forget it."

"I thought she was graduating from that beauty school?"

"She is, after this summer. She needs a few more courses."

"I bet. Didn't she go last summer?"

"Don't you remember when she took sick and couldn't finish?"

"No, I don't."

"Look, Charlotte, Birdie is Al's daughter, too, just like Tiffany and Monique, okay? Except she got here first, so don't hold it against her."

"I ain't got no problems with Birdie, so don't try to twist this shit around, Loretha. It's you that irk the hell out of me."

"Well, get over it. We been going through this too long, and we only got one more year left to tolerate each other. You sure Al is sleep?"

"I won't dignify that with a answer, and for your information, I don't need you to remind me when and for how long Birdie been Al's daughter.

I'm very much aware of it. All I'm saying is that I ain't never seen nobody go to a two-year program and it takes three. You shoulda never let her drop outta high school in the first place."

"That really ain't none of your business, now, is it?"

"I'm making it my business. Al's money is my money."

"Since when?"

"How much is the deposit, Loretha?"

"Three hundred and sixty-two."

"Dollars?"

"That's what I just said. Please make sure he gets this message, would you?"

"I guess child support don't cover tuition, then, huh?"

"Don't seem like it, do it?"

"I'm hanging up now, Loretha."

"Good night, Charlotte. Sleep tight."

I hang up. I hate that bitch. It never fucking fails: as soon as I start feeling good, can't ten seconds go by without some bullshit popping up. Why can't she just disappear? Birdie! Birdie is getting on my last nerve, too. I prayed for the day to come when that girl graduated from high school, turned eighteen, and them child support payments would finally stop. Loretha been nickel-and-diming Al to death, and it seem like Birdie been seventeen for the last three years. Loretha didn't get pregnant till she found out Al was divorcing her. Loretha always was a sneaky whore, everybody knew it except Al, and once he found out she'd been sleeping with his so-called friend Scratch, he cut him loose, and to this day Al still don't know for sure if Birdie is even his. She didn't use to look nothing like him, but he been paying for her so long that she done finally started to favor him.

My head falls into the middle of my pillow. It's cool when I turn my face toward Al. A few minutes ago, I wanted to wrap my arms around him so tight until wasn't no space between his body and mine, but now all I wanna do is go to sleep.

In the morning I make him some cheese grits, hard-fried eggs, bacon, and biscuits. When he walks in the kitchen, I'm just finishing up the gravy. He comes over and gives me a wet kiss. "Good morning, baby," he says.

"Good morning yourself, sweetheart," I say.

"Who was that you was talking to on the phone so late?" he asks, dipping his finger in the hot grits.

"It was just Janelle," I hear myself say.

"Well, is everything all right?"

"Yeah, same old, same old."

"Then why she call so late if everything is all right?"

"Shanice and George is at it again."

"Yeah? I don't trust that old guy," he says, pouring me and him a cup of coffee. "Something's missing in him. I can't put my finger on it, but the few times we been around him, he seem like he two different people: the one he want us to see, and the one he don't. You know what I mean?"

"No, I don't. But it ain't our business and it ain't our problem: it's Janelle's. Now, come on and sit your butt down and let's eat."

"I'm coming, I'm coming. And since you ain't mad with me no more, what do I get for dessert on Sunday?"

"Me with a raspberry glaze."

"Oh yeah? Well, I guess it don't never hurt to try something new," he say. And we leave it at that.

Chapter 9

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"What W0ulda happened if she'da died?" Brenda asks me.

"What you mean, 'What woulda happened'?" I'm buttering six slices of white bread. The kids like white bread with butter on it, even though this is margarine. They don't know the difference and they eat it every single day. Sometimes Miss Q even put salt on hers.

Brenda's fiying some hot links in a big skillet with no handle. They was half-price, 'cause the expiration date to sell 'em was today. She done already cussed me out for taking too long to get back. She said the kids was so hungry they was having conniptions waiting for me and the Sloppy Joe meat, which was why she left 'em in here for ten quick minutes to run to the corner and get something on credit. I told Brenda I didn't thank it was such a good idea leaving them kids in here by theyself. For no amount of time. She just said Quantiana got good sense. But Miss Q ain't but five years old. How much sense could she have? I told Brenda that this is how kids end up on the six o'clock news, but she swore up and down that this was the first and last time she ever done it. All it take is one time, don't it?