A Day Late and a Dollar Short (42 page)

"Oh, yeah. We forgot about that," Trevor says.

"Well, we'll just cross our fingers," Tiff says.

"Maybe we should pray harder tonight," Monique says.

"Now, that's a good idea," I say, and rest my head on the back of the couch and close my eyes. I wanna call Mama so bad, but I better wait till the morning. I don't wanna get her hopes up too high. Right now all I wanna do is thank God for answering my prayers. I promise to be a better person, a better mother, a better wife, a better sister-a better everything. 'Cause this is a sign. I guess the kids musta heard me say, "Thank you, God, for blessing me and everybody in this house," because, the next thing I know, I hear Trevor say, "Oh Lord, Mama's getting religion on us."

I'm the first one up. After the kids leave for school, I do everything I can possibly think of around here to make that clock move a litde faster. Just get to nine o'clock, please. When it finally gets here, and I call, it turns out that only two of us picked these numbers. But what the hell: I'm still $104,000 richer! All I gotta do now is be patient, because it takes four weeks to get the money. I can wait.

I dial Mama's number, but she ain't home. I get her answering machine. "Mama! Mama! Hi! This is Charlotte! I know you still mad at me and everything, but forget about that. Guess what? I got a present for you! Fifty thousand dollars! You heard me! Guess who hit Litde Lotto for a h undred thousand bucks? Me! Yeah, me! Call me as soon as you get this message, and don't worry, 1 won't hang up in your face. I promise. They got any room left on that cruise you going on? I ain't never been nowhere. I might wanna go. And when you moving? I wanna buy you something for your new condo. 1 do. I love you, Mama, and I'm sorry for being so nasty and hanging up in your face all them times. I swear I am. I'm sorry. Truly sorry. I love you again. I been waiting a long time to do something nice for you, and I'll finally get a chance to do it. So call me as soon as you get this message! Byeeeeee. Oh, I'm quitting the post office and selling the Laundromats, and I'm probably gon' start my own mail-order business where I sell nothing but desserts. I'll tell you all about it when I talk to you, but, no, I won't, 'cause . . ."

Beep.

The machine cut me off. I'm tempted to call back, but I'm too excited. I ain't got no choice but to call in sick, and when I do I plug my nose and cough a litde bit to make it sound good, and then I spend the rest of the day daydreaming and doing nothing. I could get used to this.

For some reason, when the alarm go off like it do every morning at four- thirty, I can't hardly move. I went to bed too early, is what probably made me tired. My body ain't used to relaxing. That's it. Get up, Charlotte. Get your rich ass up! Which I do. I can't wait to get to work to tell Belinda. She about the only one there I can tell. But I ain't quitting today, that's for damn sure.

I press the alarm off and get in the shower, but as soon as I do I swear I hear the phone ringing. Now, who in the hell would be calling me this time of morning? I know it ain't Al, 'cause he ain't had too much to say to me since I put him out. But you never know. I grab a towel and wrap it around me. This better be important, that's all I gotta say. I hurry up and pick up the portable right next to the bed. "Hello," I say, and my voice cracks, 'cause I ain't talked since last night.

"Charlotte?" somebody's asking whose voice sound worse than mine.

"Who is this?"

"It's Paris."

"Paris? What you doing calling me so early in the morning? And what's wrong, you sick or something?"

"No, I'm not sick. I'm in London."

"What you doing over there? And what's the time difference?"

"It's not important right now, Charlotte."

"What you mean? What's going on, Paris? Talk to me."

"Something's happened to Mama."

"What you mean 'something'?"

"The worse thing that could possibly happen to her," she says. I hope that ain't crying I hear, and I hope she ain't saying what I think she saying.

"Wait a minute, Paris," I say real slow. I wanna make sure I'm getdng this right. I wanna make sure I'm hearing what's coming outta her mouth through this phone, in my ear. "Okay. Now, what has happened to our mama?"

And then all I hear is her crying and making sounds like she trying to talk but she can't, and then I know. I start crying, too, and don't stop till the kids come in the room and hold me and rock me and put me under the covers, where I stay for the next two days, until Al comes over and helps me get up, and Aunt Suzie Mae comes over and tells me that she ain't going to Mama's funeral 'cause she don't care what nobody say: her sister ain't dead. I wanna tell her she crazy as hell and to get her crazy ass out my house, but Al do it forme.

My mama is dead. And I won't ever be able to talk to her again. I won't ever get to make her proud. I won't ever get a chance to tell her how sorry I am for all the times I said things I had no business saying to her. But I'm sorry, Mama. I'm sorry for cussing at you and raising my voice. Sorry I accused you of playing favorites when I know you didn't do it on purpose. I'm sorry for competing with the other kids for all your attention. Sorry for hating Paris all these years when she ain't done nothing to me but try to be my big sister. And I'm real sorry for not going to college like you wanted me to. For not listening when you told me not to be in such a hurry to grow up. Look at what's happened 'cause I didn't listen to you. Eighteen years at th e p ost office and a husband who cheats. I love my kids, but this ain't what you dreamed for me, is it, Mama? It ain't what I dreamed for me either. I know that now. I'm so sorry. But what I'm even more sorry about is that I won't get another chance to tell you just how sorry I am. I hope you listening. I pray you can hear me. Can you? Can you hear me, Mama?

Chapter 28

Dreaming in Black and White

"Espera momenta!"

All I do is grit my teeth.

"Okay. Aqui estoy. Hola."

"Collect, from Lewis," I say.

"Si. I mean, yes. I will."

"Hi, Luisa. This is Lewis."

"I know that, Lewis. You must be in jail, too, hey?"

"Too? Who else you know is in here?"

"Just my little brother, my cousin, and two of my uncles. That's only the boys. W'az up with you, Papi?"

I turn toward this cold brick wall so none of these dudes waiting behind me can hear what I say. "Look, Luisa. I only have about ten minutes, okay, and I need you to do a few things for me if you can. I know I haven't called you in a while, but I've been in Vegas since my mama got sick, remember?"

"Yes, I remember. Is she better?"

"Much better. Thanks for asking."

"Es good. Sii mama es a muy importante part of you. Glad to hear she's doing well. Maybe I'll meet her one day, Papi, hey?"

"We'll see. Say, you got the forty dollars I mailed you in that Easter card, didn't you?"

"Si. I couldn't believe you didn't forget. So why are you in there, Papi?"

"It ain't important, it was just a misdemeanor." "Honestly?"

"I don't have to lie about it."

"True. So you already went to trial and everything?"

"Yeah."

"You should've called. I would've come. I love going to trials."

"You and every old lady in the Valley with silver hair who ain't got nothing better to do than sit in on hearings of people they don't know."

"I know. But you learn so much, Papi."

"Like what?"

"You see what's important to people. What they steal. Who they rob. Who they kill. You see that they don't value human life except when their own is on the line. Then it's get out the violins, hey, Papi?"

"Everybody in jail ain't necessarily a criminal."

"You're right. But when you do something wrong and you get caught, you should be punished. God is fair."

"Yeah, well, that's a matter of opinion."

"You're not saying nothing against God, are you, Lewis?"

"No-hell, no. I believe in God as much as you. All I'm saying is that it just makes you feel like a spectacle, or free entertainment, with strangers sitting in the courtroom learning stuff about you they don't need to know. But, anyway, that's not why I . . ."

"How long you in there for?"

"They only gave me ninety days, but I thought I might be in here for a year, so I got lucky. I gotta go to anger management once a week for three months, and AA once a week for six months. But with work-time/good-time, I could be out in a few weeks."

"I know from work-time/good-time so much I'm sick of work-time/ good-time. So why you took so long to call me?"

"I haven't exacdy been in the mood for chitchatting, Luisa. I ain't even talked to my sisters. Look, my time is almost up. Hold on a minute."

I turn to the dude behind me and say, "One Top Ramen for five more minutes?"

He nods his head. "Shrimp, chicken, or beef?" "What kind you like?"

"Shrimp," he says.

"Then I've got shrimp."

He goes over and sits down and starts watching TV.

"Luisa?"

"I'm still here."

"Can you go over to my apartment and check on my car to make sure it's all right?"

"Si. You mean, see if it's still there?"

"Yeah. Do you remember meeting Woolery, the guy I work for sometime?"

"The one with that nose?"

"Yeah, him. You remember where the place was?" "Si."

"Well, he owes me some money. And I need you to go get it and pay my rent so I don't get evicted. Right outside my doorstep, on the left-hand side, is a piece of crumpled-up rawhide under a bush that looks like trash but my key is inside it. Use it, and check to see if everything in my apartment is okay. I've got some important documents in there I don't want nobody to steal."

"Like what, Papi?"

"Formulas and ideas."

She starts laughing. "You're not just a criminal but a sciendst, too?"

"Fuck you, Luisa."

"Can't you take a joke, Lewis?"

"Yeah, but I ain't in no joking mood. Anyway, can you do this for me or not, Luisa?"

"Si, Papi. But not today. Tomorrow. I gotta take my kids to the doctor today."

"Thanks, okay? I mean it. And I'll take care of you when I get out, don't worry. I really appreciate this."

"You're a good guy, Lewis. But stay out of jail. I'm getting tired of these collect calls. Can you call back tomorrow night after Jeopardy!?"

"What time does Jeopardy! come on, Luisa?"

"Do you have cable in there?"

"I'll call somewhere around eight, all right?"

"Muy bien. And I'll give you the scoop. Like that? The scoop?"

"I gotta go, Luisa. Thanks. And say hi to your son for me."

"Remember there's three!" I hear her say, but I'm already hanging up, even though I pick the handset right back up and wave it to the dude who's been waiting for me. When he gets up, I go get his Top Ramen from the vending machine and give it to him. I go sit back down and pick up a GQ magazine, then toss it back on a pile and pick up Life. I flip to a picture of some gold hills that look just like a desert, and then to a whole page of fog, and then comes an emerald-blue sea with a boat sitting out in the middle of it, just sitting there, doing nothing but floating. I betcha that would be nice. To be out in the middle of some water in a boat, rocking back and forth to the rhythm of nothing but waves. I bet I could sleep like a baby and dream in color instead of black and white, like I've been doing in here.

I look around our unit at all these black and brown men. Only about thirty of the 170 dudes are white. But all of us are in here for doing stupid shit like stealing and driving drunk and getting caught with a little dope but not enough to be considered a felony. And then there's people like me that they don't consider violent enough to put in a maximum-security pod with murderers and people who shot somebody and shit, but we're still guilty of domestic violence, so they put us here in minimum security. One deputy even calls some of these dudes "felony stupid"-things they shoulda taken care of or they wouldn't be here: driving without a license, warrants for unpaid parking and speeding tickets, and failure to appear in court. I just keep my mouth shut, 'cause all my numbers ain't up yet.

Everybody's watching the NBA playoffs. I don't even know who's in it. And don't care. I'm trying to strengthen my mind while I'm here and figure out what to do when I get out. I can't keep doing what I've been doing, that much I do know, 'cause I ain't getting nowhere fast. Except here: and this ain't exacdy a hotel. It could be worse, that much I can say. A lot of people would be shocked if they were to come in here, if they've never been inside a jail. Everybody thinks it's these litde cells with bars on 'em. But not here. Not in this day and age. We're in dorms. And instead of bars, it's Plexiglas that faces out here where I'm situng. We've got two TVs and they're mounted up on the wall in metal boxes. But, hell, everything in here is metal and mounted to something: our bunk beds are molded into the wall; the sinks and toilets are stainless steel; the tables and stools we eat at are metal and drilled into the floor. At least the walls are off-white, so it ain't as depressing as it could be. Volunteers come in here twice a week with a cart full of books, and then a few of these dudes that're in here for a year or more get magazine subscriptions to Playboy and Penthouse, but they won't let Hustler in here, 'cause they say it's too freaky, but, for a pack of cigarettes and a Top Ramen, sometimes a dude might let you "rent" a few pages of something for a half-hour.

It ain't home and I'm not trying to make no new friends in here, but I'm friendly. I've just been making a list of all the things I'm going to try to do, once I'm free. I hope nobody don't find it and take it.

"Here you go, Lewis. You said you wanted to read some of these when I finished, right, man?"

This dude named Hector, who happens to be black and Puerto Rican but looks plain black to me, is handing me two entrepreneur magazines that tell you how to develop a business plan and what to do with your ideas. He's in here for two thousand dollars' worth of parking tickets. "Thanks, Hector. I'll give 'em back in a couple of days."