A Day Late and a Dollar Short (35 page)

"Why won't she do that?"

" 'Cause she still swear up and down he didn't."

"But you all know that she knew."

"Oh, hell, yeah. She knew."

"Don't you hate him?"

"More than burnt toast."

I nod my head up and down in agreement.

"How old is your daughter now?" she asks.

"Almost thirteen."

"She's gon' be fucked up, I can tell you that right now. Ain't no getting around it."

"Oh, I wouldn't be so sure about that. But I'll tell you something, JaDonna," I say, rising to my feet, "I'm going to do everything I can to make sure she doesn't get fucked up, and I'm going to start by stopping George from doing this to someone else."

"You do that," she says, picking up the remote and flicking the channels.

"Can I ask you something else?"

"Don't stop now."

"When you got older, did you ever confront him?"

"No."

"Why not?"

" 'Cause he's a good pretender, too."

"Why didn't you or your sister just report him?"

"To who?"

"The police." "He was the police!"

"I know that, but that doesn't mean he couldn't go to jail."

"You really believe that shit?"

"Oh, you just watch and see," I say.

She looks at me like she believes me. "Mama said me and my sister woulda ended up in foster care if somebody hadda believed us. And we wanted to stay together."

"Look, do me a favor, JaDonna. Tell your mother I said thanks for her time, and you try to take good care of yourself."

"I will," she says. "Mama wasn't even going to no Ross store."

"No?" I say as convincingly as I can.

"Hell, 110. She ain't got nothing on hold nowhere. She beelined it outta here 'cause she was scared a what you really came here for. I mean, it ain't like you drop by to kick it with us all the time, now, do you?"

"No I don't."

"Look, before you go, would you mind grabbing me a beer out the 'frig- erator and then make sure you pull that front door tight, or else it won't lock, and Lord knows I do not feel like getting up to do it."

"No problem," I say, and head out toward the kitchen to get her beer. Before I get back, I wipe the smirk off my face. It was no accident that Arlene sent us those Christmas cards. And Arlene knew JaDonna would tell me the truth. Because she couldn't. She's probably been waiting a long time for her daughter to tell her story to the right person. For a moment, I'm tempted to hang around just to wait for her. To let her know that I appreciate what she's done. That I understand how hard it's been for her all these years. But I know she won't come back until my car is gone.

When I get back to the room, JaDonna has actually sat up. She has on a light-blue sweatsuit. I feel so sorry for her. She looks like a giant baby. And that's when it occurs to me that I haven't seen any sign of her child. "Where's your daughter?" I ask.

"In foster care," she says. "Where else?"

I turn to leave, and when I get outside the front door, I pull it so tight that I actually scrape the knuckles on my hand against the doorframe. I look up and down the street. A new set of children are racing. If Jimmy were here, he'd walk right over and ask if they'd like to try running on a real track. On a team. He would tell them that they look fast enough to win medals. Even if they weren't he'd make them believe they could. I wish he were here to help me believe that all of this is going to work out.

At eight-thirty on Monday morning, I pick up the phone and dial the number of the Child Protective Service Agency and tell them that I'd like to report a case of sexual abuse. For the next hour or so I answer all of their questions and explain what has happened. They tell me how they'll cross- reference the information I gave them and file a report with the police. They ask if George is still in the house, and I tell them no. They ask if my daughter is, and I tell them she's in Las Vegas with her grandmother. They're pleased to hear this. I tell them I don't know where George is living but I know where he works. They aren't moved when I say he's a police officer. They will arrest him at his job. He'll be charged and held, pending further investigation. They say he'll probably post bail and be released until enough evidence has been gathered to build a case against him. And the only way to do this is if Shanice agrees to undergo a physical exam and consents to being interviewed on videotape by a child advocate. I know she won't do this. The social worker says a lot of kids don't want to go through this, for obvious reasons. I take a series of deep breaths before blurting out the words, "I want him stopped," and then I sit there for the next hour or so trying to figure out the best way to finally tell my family the truth.

Chapter 23

Refills

"Hello, this is Paris Price calling to see if my prescription is ready."

"Is that a new prescription or a refill?"

"It's a refill. I called it in yesterday," I say as I swivel back and forth on my kitchen stool.

"Can you hold a second while I check?"

"Yes, I can." I look over at the clock. It's almost three-thirty. Here I go again. Waiting. He's late again. Something told me I should never have started to work with this Randall. I mean, I tried to show the brother some respect, gave him the benefit of the doubt, because I'm not one of those people who believe that black folks are poor at handling our business-hell, I can use myself as a good example-but it's guys like this who give the rest of us a bad name. He has called and canceled the last three appointments and all he had to say was it was an emergency and he was sorry, could he reschedule. Reschedule? My backyard looks like a battlefield. And this of course is after I've already paid him a third of his megafee because he had me drooling over the plans, fantasizing about how lush and beautiful it was going to be when he finished. Hah!

He was supposed to be here between one-thirty and two. This time, I didn't even get a phone call. I guess when he met me he saw "fool" written all across my forehead. He's probably partying his ass off with my money. But he will finish my yard. He will fill and refill those damn trenches with all that expensive dirt and shit he insisted I buy. If he doesn't, I'll take him to court so fast it'll make his head swim.

"I'm sorry, but the doctor hasn't called to okay your prescription yet."

"What? Why not?"

"I don't know why. You should call your doctor. Sometimes they forget."

I hang up. "It's my dentist!" I say into the phone as I speed-dial his number. "Hello, Sylvia, this is Paris Price. I was hoping to get a refill on my prescription, but the pharmacist said that Dr. Bronstein hasn't called it in. Is there a problem?"

"Hold on and let me put Doctor on."

More waiting. I'm waiting for Dingus to walk through that door, because last night I decided to ask him if this girl is pregnant by him or not. I'm tired of walking around here like everything is just hunky-dory. I'm also waiting for a client to fax me directions to her home, which is at least an hour's drive from here, all the way in Hillsborough, somewhere up in the hills, off a windy road. She's the CEO of one of the top advertising agencies in San Francisco. And throwing quite the shindig for Lord only knows who. What I am sure of is, she's willing to spend the hundred thousand plus that I quoted her. I just need to see the place in person.

"Paris, this is Dr. Bronstein. I didn't refill your prescription because I'm wondering why you're still experiencing discomfort with your gums after all this time. If you are, then you need to come in and see me right away and let me take a look to see what's going on."

Without even thinking, I hear myself lie: "It's not my gums, Dr. Bronstein, I think it's my tooth, the one in the bridge that we talked about before."

"Oh, yes. It's starting to give you trouble, huh? Is there any way you could come in to see me today?"

"I can tomorrow, but not today."

"Okay, then. Hold on and I'll put Sylvia back on to set it up, and I'll see you sometime tomorrow."

"Wait! But what about today?"

"Are you in that much pain?"

"Yes I am."

"Have you tried Tylenol or Advil?"

"They don't work."

"I'll call in six Vicodin. That should get you through until tomorrow, and we'll see if we can't get you fixed up. Take care, Paris. Here's Sylvia."

After scheduling the appointment, I know full well I'm not going to see him tomorrow, because there's nothing wrong with my tooth. The kind of pain I'm feeling doesn't ache or throb. In fact, I think I'm finally starting to catch on that it's not pain at all. I want to be distracted. I want not to care what happens one way or another. I want things not to bother me. I would like to be more nonchalant, less emotionally charged up. The problem is, a lot of things bother me that I wish didn't. Things I can't control. When I take one or two pain pills, it helps me pull back, hand the reins over to the gods in charge.

Fortunately and unfortunately, I happen to care whether or not my son is going to be a father at seventeen. I care whether or not my mother is going to be happy living in her new condo, alone, without Daddy there to irk her, but with her new teeth, driving her new car. I know that's not going to be enough. Even though I'm pissed at Daddy for what he's done and how he left, I'm worried about him, too. I'm worried that this young chick is using him, and what'll happen when she's through with him. I don't want to see him hurt either. Don't want to see him kicked to the curb. He doesn't deserve that. Not at his age. He's worked too hard for too long. All of us know that Mama shut him out a long time ago. We all saw it. But what can you do to fix your parents' lives when yours isn't perfect?

I'm lonely. I admit it. But it's not something you want to go around broadcasting-don't want to share it with the world-especially your family- world. It's embarrassing, really, to be lonely. It makes you feel inadequate in some way. Like you don't measure up in this area of your life. It doesn't even seem to matter that I'm successful, because I feel like a failure as a woman, and I hate feeling like this. I know it doesn't make any sense, and I've tried to trick myself into believing that it's okay to be lonely, that it's not the end of the world, that I'll survive, but it still makes me feel like I'm lacking in something. Missing out on what other people have. In some ways, it even seems like a form of punishment, except I can't figure out what crimes I've committed.

This is just one more reason on the list I can think of as to why I've been taking so many of these stupid pills. They're no panacea, I know that, but they have helped me not think about how long it's been since I've been kissed and held. They help me forget all about passion. I honestly wish that my son's love was enough to sustain me. Wish my work was enough, but obviously they're not. And until I can come up with better, smarter solutions, this is just a temporary thing.

"Hi, Ma," Dingus says, coming through the door with the mail. He bends over and kisses me on the cheek and drops the pile on the kitchen island, then lets his backpack crash to the floor. He goes through each envelope, magazine, and catalogue and pulls out what apparently are eight or nine more letters from colleges. I think he's up to about eighty of them now. He keeps them in shoe boxes under his bed.

"Hi," I say, not budging from the stool I'm still swiveling on.

As usual, he opens the refrigerator to see what he doesn't want, closes it, then changes his mind and grabs the gallon carton of orange juice and goes into the pantry to find a bag of cookies or chips-it doesn't matter-and comes out and heads toward the hallway. But before he reaches the doorway, I say, "Hold it!"

He stops dead in his tracks. "Yes, Mother Hubbard," he says, turning to face me.

"Would you look and see if there's a fax in there?"

He disappears and immediately returns, holding it between his teeth. "It looks like directions," he says.

"Thanks. Now sit," I say, taking the paper from his mouth.

"But I've got tons of homework and I need to clean my room."

"I said sit. Your room was dirty yesterday, it can wait. And homework isn't that important."

"What?"

I knew this would get his attention. "I want to know what's going on with you and Meagan."

"Nothing. Absolutely nothing."

"I overheard something on the phone a while ago that didn't sound like it was about nothing."

"Oh, you mean about her maybe being pregnant?"

"That would be it."

"She made it up."

"What do you mean, 'made it up'?"

"She was faking. Scheming. Trying to run a game on me."

This is a relief, but something's still not right about this whole thing. I have a sour taste in my mouth. "Okay, so, Mr. Sex Machine, she 'faked it' this time, but what about the next time you decide to get on top of her without a goddamn condom? What if it's when you're about to head off to Stanford or UCLA or US-fucking-C! Do you think she'll fake it then?"

"Ma, settle down. It's okay. I'm not seeing her at all anymore. Bet."

"Bet, my ass. Don't be so stupid, Dingus. Girls do this shit every day of the week. Back in the seventies and eighties . . ." And then he gets that "here-we-go-again" look on his face, but I really don't care. "Look, this is the little game pretty girls played who didn't have a future of their own mapped out. They'd get these jocks who were headed for the NBA or the NFL or the major leagues all strung out and so grateful to have them as trophies that they'd marry them, and these girls would be set up for life. The point I'm trying to make here Dingus is this: love who you want to and I don't care what color she is really, but know that the ones who don't have at least a two-point-seven grade point average-and aren't thrilled about the idea of going to college-are the girls who usually have an agenda. They want to marry up and they want to marry well. But when and if they ever divorce you, it's pretty much bankruptcy for you. So you won't have too much left to offer the next wife and new batch of kids. It'll be a struggle, even though you might be making millions. Get the picture?"

"I get it, Ma! Dag. I get it! Why don't you take a chill pill?"