A Day Late and a Dollar Short (28 page)

"I got hit in it."

"Do it hurt?"

"It's throbbing."

"I'll get some ice for it. Who hit you?"

"My dad."

"Wait a minute. I'm your dad."

"I meant my stepdad."

"That white boy hit you in your eye hard enough to do this?"

"Yep."

"Why?"

"Because he found some weed in my backpack."

"You smoke marijuana?"

"Sometimes."

"That stuff ain't no good for you."

"Whatever."

"I thought you was into that R. OTC junior-army stuff and everything." I get a cigarette out the pack and light it.

"I was. Those aren't any good for you." "I know. Was?"

"I only did it because they made me."

"Who?"

"My parents."

When I hear the words "my parents" I know he ain't talking about me and his mama. Damn. "What grade you in?" "Eighth."

"And how old are you again?" "Thirteen and a half."

"That's what I thought. But what exacdy made him haul off and just punch you in the eye?" "I sorta got smart with him, I guess." "Where was your mama?"

"Standing right there, holding Heather, watching." "What?"

"She never says or does anything. He runs the show around our house. She's like his puppet." "Did you hit him?" "After he hit me, of course I did."

"Really?" I'm trying not to let him see the smirk on my face, but right now I'm feeling proud that he's got enough balls to stand up for hisself. "What'd you hit him with?" "My fist."

"No fooling," I say, but I'm thinking, Wow, that shoulda really put a hurting on him. "Did he hit you with his fist?" "Yes he did. Quite a few times." "Where is he now?" "At home."

"And did they know you were coming here?"

"No. They don't know where I am."

"So have you, like, run away or something?"

"Exactly," he says.

"And where you running away to?"

"Right here. 1 wanna live with you."

"Damn," is all I can say, but what's really on my mind is how I'ma get out to their house to put my foot in this motherfucker's ass. I swore if he ever laid a hand on my son I was gon' hurt him, and I meant it.

"Aren't you glad to see me?" he asks.

"Yeah. Of course I am. Just not under these kinda circumstances. I wasn't expecting you tonight."

"I can sleep on the couch. I don't mind."

"Wait a minute, Jamil. First of all. It's a little more complicated than you just coming over here to move in and sleeping on my couch. Your mama got custody of you. You're a minor. You can't just move in here with me 'cause you feel like it."

"Then why don't you get custody of me?"

"What's he do?"

"Todd?"

"Yeah, Todd."

"What do you mean?"

"You sure talk proper. Just like a litde white boy."

He swerves his head around like Stevie Wonder. I guess he's tired of hearing this. "But it's cool." I say it like I'm apologizing. "You sound smart."

And he do, and it wouldn't kill me to talk like I graduated from high school. Especially in front of him. I know better. And I know he can't be too impressed by the way I talk.

"Yeah, well. . . anyway, what do you mean about Todd?"

"What kind of work do-I mean-does he do?"

"He works for UPS but he had to have shoulder surgery, so he's been off work for a few months."

"What happened to him?"

"Well, because of all the lifting he does, the doctor said he tore about ninety percent of his rotator cuff. He was pretty messed up."

"Is that so?" "Yep. He has to go to physical therapy twice a week, but the rest of the time, after Mom gets home from work, they're at church. They go three nights a week and twice on Sunday. I baby-sit Heather. The whole routine is driving me crazy. They even make me sing in the choir and I can't sing a lick."

I snort a little. " When's he going back to work?"

"In another month or so. But he said he'll have to be on limited duty for a while."

"But he was strong enough to punch you?"

"I guess so."

I grit my teeth. Try to regroup. Lighten up. "Can your mama cook yet?"

"Nope. Todd does almost all of the cooking and cleaning."

"No shit?"

"I kid you not."

"Does he do the laundry, too?"

"Only his and my mama's."

"Well, who washes yours?"

"I had to learn. I go to the Laundromat once a week. I have to buy my own soap powder and use my paper-route money for the washer and dryer."

"You're shitting me. Why they make you do this?"

"So I'll be responsible."

"That's bullshit."

"I agree."

"So-why you smoke weed?"

"I don't know. So I won't have to think so much."

"You still getting good grades?"

"Sorta. I was getting almost straight As, but I got two B's and a C last grading period."

"It's the weed, Jamil."

"I don't smoke it that much. I was just stressing. Didn't really care what I got on my report card for a minute, but then I cranked it back up."

"So Todd hit you and your mama just watched?"

"She asked him to stop when she saw that he'd hurt me." "He ever hit you before?"

"He threw something at me once."

"Really?"

"Yeah, but he missed."

"What'd he throw?"

"A bat."

"A bat, huh?"

"Yep. What's wrong with your hand?"

I try to ball it up into a fist but it won't go. "I got a little arthritis."

"But your fingers are really crooked."

"I know."

"Is that why you limp?"

"Afraid so."

"What can you do to get rid of it?"

"Nothing, really. Just take pills that make the swelling go down."

"Does it hurt?"

"Yes. It sure does, but I can deal with it. I've been dealing with it. Don't have no other choice but to deal with it."

"Do you have anything to eat?"

Fuck. I wasn't expecting no company. I'm almost scared to go over there and open the refrigerator. But I do, just to put on a front, like I'm surprised not to find nothing when I open it. "I just got back from Vegas and ain't had time to get to the grocery store. Your granny was in the hospital. She had a bad asthma attack. But she's doing pretty good now. I don't know what's around here to eat." When I open the refrigerator, it's sad. It is empty. Not so much as a stick of butter, a slice of bread, no kinda drinks whatsoever. I should be ashamed of myself. I know it. I feel it right now. I open the freezer. I got plenty of ice. I get a dish towel and wrap some cubes inside and ball it up.

"Well, I've got close to two hundred dollars. We can go get something."

"You got two hundred dollars on you right now?"

"Yeah."

"Where'd you get that kind of money?"

"I work-I told you, I deliver papers. But I'm not allowed to spend it. I lie about how much I make and hide some of it. This is my stash."

Just like his daddy for the world.

"Well, this is good that you have a job. It do teach you how to be responsible, I guess."

"I'm thirteen, Dad."

"Yeah, you told me."

"Is there a Tony Roma's anywhere around here?"

"A who?"

"Tony Roma's? It's a barbecue place."

"No, but we got a Arby's?"

He frowns up his face. "How about McDonald's?"

All I'm thinking is, I already had McDonald's once today, and here's a opportunity to eat a real meal. I don't wanna pass this chance up, even though I have every intention of giving back whatever my son spends. I mean that. I hand him the ice and he puts it up to his eye and then I hear myself say, "You don't wanna eat that junk tonight, do you?"

"Well, what else good is within driving distance?"

"We got Marie Callender's. That's a nice, classy kinda place, and they got the best pot pies. How does that sound?"

"Good."

"But we have to walk. My car is out of commission right now. It's in the shop. Being fixed. Won't be ready for a few days, but could be tomorrow."

"I don't mind walking. What about you?"

"I can make it, but ain't it still raining?"

"It wasn't when I walked from the bus stop."

"How'd you get out here anyway? And who told you where I lived?"

"I took two Greyhound buses. It took four hours, but it was kind of cool. I've never been on a Greyhound bus before. Aunt Janelle gave me your address, because she said you didn't have a phone. Do you still play chess?"

I'm shocked that he remembers. It's nice that he do. That he got something good stored in his memory about me. "When I have a worthy opponent," I say.

"You've got one," he says, and heads for the door.

I hope he ain't too good, is what I'm thinking when I grab my jacket, but then I feel ashamed for even allowing this kinda thought to enter my mind. This ain't even about him. It's about me. I'm just tired of losing. Want to win for a change. Want him to see that I'm smarter than he is. I may not sound like it, but I am. I want him to gain a different level of respect for me when he sees how fast I move, how good I am at battle. I want him to watch his father think and act, and make sharp, intelligent decisions. I don't care if it's only on a board. Because victory can transcend. And victory is power. And if I had to lose to anybody, I just hope it ain't to my own son.

Chapter 18

Credit

I didn't wanna be here when AJ got home, so, right after work, I stopped by the liquor store and got my lottery ticket and then went to the mall to take back that stupid hat and that ridiculous diamond ring and got the money credited back to my credit cards. Then I went to Red Lobster and treated myself to a steak-and-lobster dinner and three Margaritas. They was weak. I still didn't feel like going home, so when I saw a movie theater I just parked, got a ticket to a movie I ain't never heard of, and went in and sat down to watch it, even though all I saw was the last twenty minutes, so I don't even know what it was about, but it was good enough to keep my mind occupied. I ain't said but two words to the kids these past few days. They know when something is wrong: I'm usually real quiet and then I explode. They been walking around on eggshells, just waiting. But I'ma fool 'em this time: I ain't blowing up. I'm keeping my cool.

When I get in the house the kids is eating the leftover oxtails I made last week, and I guess Tiffany called herself making some yams that ain't nobody eating but her. The kitchen is a mess, as usual, but I ain't saying nothing. I don't care if the fucking house collapse.

"Hi, Ma," Tiff says. "Don't worry. We're cleaning up as soon as we finish. Where you been?"

"Out," I say, and go sit in my chair. "Why y'all eating so late? It's eleven o'clock."

"We was waiting for you to get home."

"I'm touched," I say. "Leave that stuff and go on upstairs and get ready for bed. Right now."

They all scurry like mice, even Trevor, who ain't said a word to me except, "Ma, have you been in my room going through my personal belongings?" and I said, "No. Why? You hiding something?" and he said, "No, I'm not hiding anything, but some people want to keep things hidden because it's easier. But it's not." And on that note he closed his door in my face.

Al is watching the news. "Hi, baby," he says. "I was worried, wondering where you were. You work late?"

"No, I didn't work late. I had some errands to run."

"Is that right?" he says, not taking his eye off the TV. "They fixing to finally let them black Africans vote down there," he says.

"Down where?"

"In South Africa. They had this Mandela locked up for twenty- some-odd years for some stuff he tried to do, sorta like what Dr. King was trying to do here, and now he out, and people is turning out in droves to vote, and they didn't thank this many would come. Black people is something else," he says, chuckling.

"I'm happy for 'em," is all I can think to say.

"What's wrong, baby? Something happen at work today?"

"As a matter of fact, it did."

"Yeah," he says. He ain't listening. His eyes is glued to that TV, so I just say, "I quit my job today, 'cause I wanna be a full-time prostitute and make babies and then go find the daddies and make 'em pay up their asses in child support."

"Come again. What you talking about over there, girl?"

"I said, 'I want a divorce.' "

That shit gets his attention. He picks up the remote and turns the volume down and looks at me. "What?"

"You heard me, Al."

"Come on, Charlotte, not tonight."

"Why not tonight?" I say, and reach in my purse and get out that letter and throw it at him. He picks it up and starts reading it, and then let it drop in his lap. He don't say one fucking word, just sit there like all the bones in his body is leaving. His shoulders start drooping, and the next thing I know he slumped over like he about to fall.

"Sit up," I say like it's a order.

But Al don't sit up. His hand is cupped on his forehead to cover his eyes.

"I was praying this day would never have to happen," he says. He's crying. Al is crying. But I don't really care.

"Well, it's happening," I say.

"I didn't wanna hurt you, Charlotte."

"Hurt me?"

"Yeah."

"I'm confused, Al. Some woman serves you papers for back child support and they take our income-tax checks and you sit here and expect me to believe that you didn't wanna fucking hurt me? Spare me, would you? You're too kind, Al. Who the hell is she?"

"You know who she is."

My heart feels like somebody's sticking darts in it. I know who she is? I'm scared to go over the women I know, and I ain't about to sit here and have no stroke trying to guess. "Who is it, Al?"

"Remember a long time ago when you found that note in my toolbox?"

"Her?"

"She went and had herself a baby on me, and 'cause me and you didn't break up, she told me as long as I sent her some money every month she wouldn't bother me."

"She had your baby?"

"Yeah, she did. A boy. His name is Raynathan. He nine going on ten. They live in South Carolina, which is where her people from."

"What's her name?"

"Alice. Charlotte, she didn't tell me about this rill it was too late to do anything about it."