A Day Late and a Dollar Short (31 page)

"Well, try not to make any decisions right now, okay, Janelle?"

"I won't. Thanks, Paris."

I hang up and look at myself in the glass to see if I look like a housewife without a husband. I do. I'm a mess. I have on gray sweats and a pink sweatshirt that has coffee stains on it from this morning. I can't remember if I combed my hair or not. But who cares? This is the fucking gardener.

When I open the door it appears that the lump that had popped into my throat when I was talking to Janelle has come back. I can't open my mouth to utter a single solitary word. This is the first black landscaper I've ever met, and they send me one who looks like he should be on one of those sexy black-men calendars? And in my condition? A woman who hasn't so much as smelled a man this close in over a year, let alone touched one. I'll be damned. All I'm thinking is: At least I'd have something pleasing to look at for a month, or however long it takes to do this. If this works out.

"Hello, Mrs. Price, I'm Randall. I finally made it," he says, holding out his hand to shake mine. His nails are clean. His hands are full of thick veins, but they look like they get lotioned regularly, because his wedding band is dull.

I swallow. "Hello, Randall. I'm Paris. Glad you made it." I feel ugly and fat, and I should've combed my hair even if no one was coming over. That's the problem, no one hardly ever comes over except Dingus's friends. Why is that, Paris?

"I think there were a few fatalities, sorry to say. But. I'm here. You have a beautiful home," he says, looking around.

I can't even believe myself. Getting all giddy over some stranger who's here to look at my yard. Get a grip, Paris. Please.

"You want to show me your yard?"

"Sure," I say, and point toward the French doors that lead outside. "I'll be right out." I'm too hyper right now. I need to calm down. But the good news is that this hasn't happened to me in years. His being married doesn't concern me. In fact, I hope he's happily married. I'm just grateful to him for making me feel some level of excitement. I need to contain this feeling, trap it somehow. So-I pick up my purse and get out a pill and then decide to break another one in half. I take them both.

I walk out through the open doors and just stand there watching this man walk around my yard. He's up at the top of the slope, standing next to an evergreen that looks like it's got tuberculosis. He must be about six feet, maybe five eleven. Chocolate brown. Not more than thirty-four or -five at most. God knew exacdy what he was doing when he made this one. His wife is one lucky woman.

When I step outside, he yells: "You want to tell me some of your ideas, and then I'll tell you some of mine?"

"Sure," I say, as 1 stand inside a puddle of sunshine. The heat feels good. For the next hour or so, I think I'll pretend that the only thing on my mind are flowers and ponds and koi and evergreens and shrubs. But tonight, when I close my eyes, I'm almost certain that this is the man who'll be lying in bed next to me. That's how it's been. That's pretty much how it is.

Chapter 20

Puff 0n That

He beat me. But I didn't feel bad like I thought I would. As a matter of fact, it was sorta like playing myself, because my son is smart, maybe even smarter than me. But it's cool. They say each generation should be an improvement over the next, and he's living proof that it's true, which is why I guess I actually feel better about losing to him.

He's still sleep out there on the couch, and I've already been up and out this morning. I tracked down Woolery and got most of my money, enough to get the parts for my car, and even though it hurt me to pay it back all at once, I sent Miss Loretta the sixty I owed her and Luisa her forty. My buddy Silas spent all morning helping me get my car running, and now I'm just smoking a cigarette, waiting for Jamil to wake up so I can take him home. We were up till almost three o'clock, and I'm glad all I had in the house to drink was the rest of that forty, 'cause I just barely got a buzz. It was nice waking up with a clear head instead of the lead head I'm used to. I ain't got cotton mouth either, which means I could actually tongue-kiss somebody if somebody was here for me to tongue-kiss. I might have to try this more often.

A cup of instant coffee'll make these three Tylenols work faster. Early morning is tough, when I get out the bed and my feet and ankles hurt so bad I can't even think about putting no weight on 'em. This morning wasn't quite as bad, but by this afternoon, if I don't take something again, I could be mistaken for cripple. Sometimes I can't even move my fingers to hold my cigarette. Like right now, some of 'em are swollen and curving out toward my baby fingers. And in a litde while, these knots in my wrists an d e lbows'll be on fire, daring me to try to straighten 'em all the way out. I don't want my son to see me in this much pain. I don't want him feeling sorry for me, because I don't want his pity.

"Hey, Jamil," I say kinda loud. "Wake up. Let's go get some breakfast, and then I'm taking you home. I want to talk to Todd."

His head pops up over the back of the couch. He slept in that baseball cap. "I don't like breakfast," he says.

"Well, I do. My stomach gets all messed up if I don't eat. Plus, breakfast is for champions, didn't you know that?"

He grins. The boy's got dimples. Me or his mama don't have 'em, that much I remember. Come to think of it, I don't know what it'll be like to see Donnetta after all this rime. Right now, I ain't got no butterflies in my stomach except for the mere fact that she might bring up the child-support issue, but I got a court date for that and, plus, I'll show her my hands. Maybe then she'll see why I ain't been working.

While Jamil takes his shower, I smoke another cigarette and try to think of what I'ma say to Todd. I'ma be a man about this. I ain't going out there to make a fool outta myself or do nothing stupid, but I want him to know- from one man to another-that you don't put your hands on somebody else's child. That's it. I'll let him know that if he ever touches him again there'll be consequences. I ain't never hit Jamil. Even when he was bad, I just talked to him. Jamil was hardheaded, couldn't stand sitting in one spot for more than five minutes, so I'd make him sit for ten, then fifteen, then a half-hour. By the time Donnetta filed for divorce, he was up to two hours.

"I'm ready," he says. "You need to get some new towels, Dad. Yours smell like mildew."

"I know. All things in rime. Let's go."

"How are we getting there?"

"My car's running."

"Cool," he says. "Where are we gonna eat?"

"Coco's or IHOP, which would you prefer?"

"I really don't care."

"IHOP is my favorite. My treat," I say.

"Cool."

If my back was turned, I'd swear this boy was white.

Jamil is busy changing radio stations when I get out to the car. He don't say a word about the smoke coming out of the muffler, or how old and raggedy this piece of shit is, and I don't say nothing either. I'm grateful to have transportation, even if it is twelve years old and hard to find parts for. This burgundy Riviera gets me around town when I take care of it. It's a gas guzzler, but, I bought it off this Mexican for two hundred dollars, so I wasn't all that particular about what other colors it came in. And, plus, I ain't into cars that much. Not like when I was young. I just want something that can get me where I'm going. But, hell, if I ever hit the lottery, the first thing I'd do after paying all my bills is get myself a brand-new truck.

"You all right?" I ask.

"I'm fine. I guess. I hope there's not going to be a scene."

"Don't worry about that, Jamil. All I want to do is make sure this dude never puts his hands on you again. If he does, he's going to jail. And that's that."

There goes that grin again. We don't say too much for the next forty minutes, when we get to Simi Valley and pull up in front of their house. It's the same shade as cantaloupes, one of those cheap stucco things I was building before my arthritis got too bad. I don't know why they all have to be fruity colors, and all set back at the exact same spot as the next house. If you ever came home drunk, you probably wouldn't be able to tell your house from the neighbors'. But they're new. And people like new anything: shoes, cars, and especially houses. They like the smell of new. The look and feel of new. I can't much blame 'em. If I could afford it, I'd be living in one, too.

I wonder what possessed Donnetta to wanna live way out here? What a dumb-ass question, Lewis. She's got a white husband. Which means she probably thinks like everybody else: that the further away you get from black folks, the safer you'll be. But look what happened to Rodney King, which wasn't that far from here.

Jamil opens his side faster than I thought and is out the car and at the front door before I can even turn the engine off. By the time I limp up the sidewalk, Donnetta is standing in the doorway with one hand on her hip, squinting. She looks better than I remember. Her skin is still smooth and creamy, like its been dipped in caramel. Her hair is sandy brown and wavy; now its way past her shoulders. And for somebody who just recently had a baby, she looks good: thinner than I ever remember her being.

"What are you doing here?" she asks.

"I just came to talk to you and your husband. I didn't come out here to cause no trouble, so don't worry."

"Who's out there, honey?" I hear a man's voice that sounds almost like a woman's say, but he doesn't even come to the door.

"It's Lewis," she says, and I'm surprised when she backs away to let me in. "Please don't make me have to get another restraining order," she mumbles.

When I walk in, I realize some things don't change. The house may be new but the stuff in here is old and out of style, with the exception of that big-screen TV. She's got that same J. C. Penney s couch we bought right after we got married and the La-Z-Boy, too. The tables weren't even real wood, but I didn't care back then, it was all we could afford. I see what must be four years of trophies and pictures of Jamil in his soccer and Litde League uniforms on three glass shelves. It smells like Glade air freshener in here, but that's about it.

"How're you doing, man?" I hear that voice say, and when I turn, here goes Todd, the tin man. No wonder he punches kids. That's probably all he could get away with hitdng. He ain't even close to handsome, and he's downright lanky to be about my height, he can't weigh more than 140, 150 tops. And his head looks too small for his body. He's clean-shaven and got beady litde eyes. When he reaches out to shake my hand, I just look at him.

"I'm not staying long," I say.

"What brings you out here?" Donnetta says. "And where'd you run into Jamil?"

"I didn't run into him. He came over to my house yesterday."

"He probably told you a bunch of lies, then," Todd says.

"I don't know how many lies he told, but I've got some questions I want answers to." "Like what?"

"Like why would you hit a thirteen-year-old kid in the eye with your fist?"

Todd starts walking around the dining room like he's trying to think of a good answer. Jamil, who ran straight upstairs when we got here, is now standing at the top of the steps looking down at us, like this is some kind of show he's about to watch.

"Look, Todd. This is the deal. I do not appreciate you putting your hands on my son and I do not think it's appropriate for you to be punching on a kid like he's a grown man."

"Hold on a minute, buddy. First of all, did he tell you what he did?"

"I ain't your buddy, Todd. Let's get that straight right here and now."

"Did he tell you what he did?"

"What did he do that was so bad besides smoke a little marijuana?"

"I don't believe my ears. Are you a God-fearing man or not?"

"What's God got to do with this?"

"There is no way I'm going to allow a. Thirteen-year-old child living under my roof to indulge in any kind of drugs. Not in this house."

"But he's not your son!"

"Well, I'm the one who's been taking care of him for the last four years."

"Oh, is that right?"

"Lewis, please," Donnetta says, getting up from the dining-room table where she been sitting with her hands folded. "This is getting a litde out of hand and I don't feel comfortable. Let's just deal with this over the phone."

"Why don't you be quiet, Donnetta," Todd says.

"Yeah, shut up, Donnetta."

"Don't tell my wife to shut up."

"She used to be my wife and I can tell her to shut up if I feel like it. If you can hit my son in the face with your fist, I can tell her to shut the fuck up ten thousand times if I feel like it."

"Not in this house, you can't."

"Look, I just want you to know that if you've got a problem with anything Jamil does, before you raise your hand to hit him again, you better think twice, because I'll be on your ass like white on rice."

"Are you threatening me?"

"What does it sound like, motherfucker?"

"If he disobeys me, if he disrespects me, I will discipline him the way I see fit and considering the fact that we can count on one hand how much you've contributed to his well-being in the past four years, I don't think you have much say-so here. Now would you kindly leave this house?"

Before I even know what I'm doing I haul off and sucker-punch this blond motherfucker so hard he falls past the dining-room table and into the kitchen, and I hear Jamil yelling: "Kick his ass, Dad!" and I'm assuming he means me, and then I hear Donnetta scream, "I'm calling the police!" and when I look up Todd is coming at me with a sponge mop and I snatch it out of his hand like I ain't got arthritis and start whopping him all over his body with it until the wooden part cracks in two and my hand is bleeding and everybody's screaming and yelling and all I can think is that I bet he won't hit my goddamn son no more.

When the police get here, they handcuff me, put me in the back of their car, and take me to jail. I don't really give a fuck. I made my point. Donnetta ran and got her litde half-white baby she kept hidden from me the whole time and just stood there with it in her arms, shaking her head. Todd was still on the floor, acting like he was half dead. I didn't hurt that motherfucker, not with that skinny-ass handle, but he still pretended like he couldn't get up when the cops pushed me out the doorway.