A Day Late and a Dollar Short (8 page)

"I'm Lewis," I finally say to the little boy. "And I'm rich!" I decide now would be a good time to open this envelope, since I've gotten used to the idea of being loaded, but as soon as I flip it over to slide my index finger under the flap, I recognize the logo for Family Court from the County of Santa Rita. "Kiss my black ass!" I say, then catch myself when I look at that little boy. "I'm sorry." We both look like we about to cry. He slides down behind the brown plaid couch so I can't see his eyes, just the crown of his head.

I don't need to finish tearing this fucking envelope open but I figure I might as well see how much I owe. It's a summons all right. To appear in court for delinquent child support. The figure is humiliating and embarrassing: $3,268. Half of it's interest.

"Where's my mommy?"

What a bitch Donnetta is. She know 1 ain't working. She know I been living off disability, and I told her I'd send what I could when I could. The problem was, I couldn't. And I haven't. Shit, after I pay my rent and electricity, squeeze in a meal here and there, that's it. This is why I don't have no phone.

"Where's my mommy?" the kid asks again.

"I'll get her," I say, turning toward the bedroom, and then I stop dead in my tracks. "What's your name?"

"Miguel. And I'm hungry. You have Cocoa Puffs?"

"Navv, but we'll get you something in a minute."

When I walk into the bedroom, Luisa is still sleep. I want her and her soil outta here as quickly as possible, but I know I need to be nice. My car ain't running-I blew a head gasket over a month ago-and in order to go see Mania, I gotta catch a Greyhound. I know they got a 1135 to Vegas. My only glitch is I gotta borrow the money from Luisa to catch it. I bend down to kiss her on the lips, but her breath stinks so bad from last night that I let my mouth press against her cheek instead. She kinda stirs. "Wake up, baby," I say. "Your son wants you and I ain't got nothing in here for him to eat."

She struggles to sit up. Her long black hair floats over her shoulders. Her skin looks like gold. She's a pretty woman-about twenty-something-but her body looks much older than she is. She's built like a round square. I met her at a bar a few weeks ago. She asked me to dance, but I don't dance, so we had a few beers and by the fifth or sixth one she asked if she could go home with me. Hell, I was relieved. I don't like sleeping by myself if I don't have to. My mind is too active, and no matter what kind of mood I start out in, I can think or drink myself straight into being depressed. A lot of times when I'm by myself, drunk, I cry. Sometimes I cry in front of women, too. Not on purpose. All I want is a litde empathy, somebody to feel my pain, somebody to listen, to understand my disappointments, my desires-hell, my dreams. Women love men who cry, which is why I've cried in front of a whole lotta different ones. They feel closer to you after you let 'em see you like this. But it ain't no act I'm putting on. It ain't no performance, and most of the time I don't want nothing except their undivided attention, or maybe some pussy to finish off the evening.

I won't lie. I miss being married. I miss being a father. I miss my son. And I wish I had more than one. I know it's been almost a year since I seen him. And I can't blame nobody but myself for not going out there, but I can't stand the sight of Donnetta these days. It's true I was a litde drunk the las t t ime I went out there and I did cuss her out in front of Jamil, but that's only 'cause she wouldn't let me in since I forgot to call first, and she sent Chuckaluck-her big brother who makes my six-one ass look like a dwarf1-to the door and I did not feel like fucking with him. But I was still fuming, so I broke the windshield outta her car, and she went and got that restraining order and I ain't been back since.

Sometimes I hate women. Maybe "hate" is too strong a word. I resent their power. Growing up in a house full of nothing but girls helped me see just how manipulative and slick they can be. How far they're willing to go to get their way. How we fall for the okey-doke every single time. My only problem is, they're also my weakness. They're necessary for my survival, which is why I'm rarely without one. I don't care what color they are, except I ain't never slept with a white woman, but that's mosdy because Mexican and black women been keeping me pretty busy. I know how to make women surrender, can talk 'em into just about anything, because I guess I'm handsome, been told I got sex appeal-whatever that shit means-but I'm also intelligent, and on top of everything: I'm a good lay.

Little Miguel charges into the bedroom and Luisa pulls the covers up to hide her long breasts. "Hi, sweetie," she says as he jumps on top of the bed. "We're going to get you some breakfast and then we go home, okay?"

He looks at her like he don't believe her.

"Now, go, go, go, so Mommy can get dressed. Watch cartoons for a few minutes and I'll be right out."

"He's a nice little boy," I say.

"Thanks," she says, and gets up. When I look at her in broad daylight with no clothes on, I realize that her body is jacked up. But who am I to complain? Shit, she's still nice. She ain't no crackhead (like a lot of 'em I've run into at the bar). She ain't no diehard alcoholic. And she ain't on welfare. Wait a minute. Yes she is. But she definitely ain't married, and she ain't vulgar or nasty or some ignorant high-school dropout. She takes night classes in continuing ed, too; besides, she likes me. She kept me company last night, fucked me good-at least I think she did-and I'll keep her around until I get bored or find somebody better, whichever happen first.

In a way, what I'm hoping to do is stumble upon a wife. I been trying to replace Donnetta for years, but it ain't easy to fall in love. It ain't something you should have to work at. I think I'm still making the transition from being married to being divorced. It's only been six years. If I tell the truth, on some days, when Donnetta might be washing clothes or drinking iced tea with her BLT or sitting in rush hour traffic, I pray that she'll come to her senses and realize she still love me as much as she love God, that she'll beg me to come home and we can be a family again. I can make myself remember how much I used to love her, when her faith was in me instead of just God, when she made me feel like a king. I'm sure I could love her again. It would be so nice to have my life back. But this is all bullshit, and I know it.

I follow Luisa to the bathroom and close the door behind us. "I need to ask you a favor, baby."

"What's that?" she asks while turning on the shower. She's looking for the soap, but there's only three white curled-up slivers left, which she's gotta set- de for. The blue towel she's gon' have to use already been used by Melody three or four days ago. I need to go to the Laundromat, that much I do know.

"Did I tell you my mama's in the hospital?"

"No you didn't. Is she all right?"

"Well, sorta. She lives in Vegas, and I need to go see her today. She's got asthma real bad." I let out a long sigh. "Anyway, I had to pay my child support last week, and you know my car ain't running, and all I got is $4.52 to my name and I was wondering if you could lend me forty or fifty bucks so I can catch the bus up there this afternoon. I'll pay you back next week, I swear it. I got a little job loading furniture for a few weeks, so I'll have some cash."

"Don't worry, since it's for a good reason, I'll lend it to you, Lewis. But just remember, Easter's coming up, and I've got things in layaway at Kmart, and if I don't get them out by the seventh, they'll put them back. Comprende?"

"Comprende. And don't worry. I wouldn't do that to your kid."

"Kids. Did you forget about Elesia and litde Rocky?"

I had. But, hell, most of the women I deal with got at least one, so why should I be so surprised? "Naw, I didn't forget," I say. "I just ain't met 'em yet, that's all."

"Don't worry," she says, stepping into the bathtub and pulling the shower curtain closed. "You will."

"I can't wait," I say. I leave the steamy bathroom and go sit on the edge of the bed, praying she'll be quick. My head is tight. Burning. Like I got a baseball cap on too tight. I look down at the floor and spot her black vinyl purse. I would love to go in it and get the money and walk to the corner to get her kid a box of cereal, buy a newspaper, a new crossword book to do on the bus, a pack of Kools, and just one forty-ounce to get my day started. But that wouldn't be too cool. And, besides, I ain't that desperate. So I just fold my hands. And sit here. And wait.

Chapter 4

Track

"Why're you SO quiet?" Shanice is sitting in the back seat of the Jaguar with a book up to her face, which is also pressed snugly against the window. She's already cracked and devoured at least two hundred sunflower seeds on the drive here. The bulk of the shells are piled on top of the plastic bag in her lap. I keep telling her these things are full of fat and high in sodium, but she doesn't care. For somebody who runs track, she eats way too many of them. It's a nervous habit. Like a chain smoker. But I can't stop her. She sneaks and buys them. Sits up in her room and reads book after book and cracks and sucks on those nasty things until her trash can is full of crumpled-up paper towels.

She's not talking today, and when Shanice doesn't feel like talking, nothing I say or do can make her. She can be an evil litde wench, just like her Granny Vy at times. They're cut from the same cloth. Stubborn as hell.

George, who is sitting on the passenger side, dare not say anything to her when she's like this. He knows better. She's been so short with him that I had to ask him not to question, criticize, or chastise her outside of my presence. The reasons stem from that time Shanice went and told that lie on him to Mama, and ever since then I've been watching his every move-much too close for George's comfort-which has also created a circle of constant tension in our household. He doesn't have two words to say to Mama when she calls, but this of course is because he claimed she threatened him. Knowing Mama, she probably did, but he wouldn't tell me what she said. Whatever it was, George doesn't answer the phone anymore when it rings.

"If you eat too many of those things you won't want your lunch," George is saying to Shanice.

"She's fine," I say, as we turn in to the Sizzler. We're treating Shanice to her favorite restaurant, since today and tomorrow are some sort of in- service days for teachers and she gets out at twelve-thirty.

When we get out of the car, my daughter walks up ahead. She's filling out too fast. If I'm not mistaken, the cheeks of her behind are peeking out where her jeans are slit. She's in a tight tube top, but thank God she's not filling a li-cup yet. At least I don't think she is. She could be me, twenty years ago. At thirteen, I was dangerous, and at fifteen, according to Mama, lethal. I had the body of a grown woman. At thirty-five, I don't look too shabby. A lot of people swear I'm twenty-eight or twenty-nine.

Of the three girls in my family, I'm the smallest. I should say, the most fit. I'm the only one who works out, but I got the habit being married to Jimmy. He was not only a high-school track coach but, in his day, a decath- lete. He believed in taking care of his body, and it certainly rubbed off on me. I've been trying to persuade Mama and my sisters-particularly Charlotte's big butt-to at least try walking. But they're too lazy. Paris has been lucky. She looks good in her clothes, but I know she must be getting soft under those jeans, because she doesn't do anything with any consistency except cook. Her mind's on it but her heart isn't, otherwise she'd find time to fit it in. I don't care what's going on, I make sure I get to the gym. I'm even entertaining the thought of becoming a personal trainer, but under the circumstances, of course, I wouldn't dream of doing it right now. We'll see how things evolve over the next few weeks. Regardless, I still might take some certification classes if this real-estate thing doesn't work out. I believe it's best to leave the door for options open.

I tend to give George-the human incinerator-the evil eye every time I see him inhale a Twinkie or watch him slurp up a bowl of Dreyer's Butter Pecan or devour a chunk of carrot cake. This would be every night before bed. He eats teriyaki anything, and if he can't watch the butter drip onto his plate, it means it's not enough. He doesn't believe in exercise. Says we were given the bodies we were destined to have. I have a hard time accepting this, especially since he's got a little inner tube forming around his waist, and pectorals that sag worse than mine. I told him this is called fat. It can be burned off. A few crunches and handheld weights could help get rid of it. He thinks he looks good, which must be the reason why he always wears pajamas to bed. I can count how many times I've seen him naked. We bathe separately. I have to leave the bathroom when it's his turn. He says it's about privacy. I can respect that most of the time. When we make love-if you can call it that-he takes everything off under the covers. He's quick about his business, too, but sometimes I can beat him, depending on how tired I am. He doesn't even like to put it in very often, and when he does, it's not for very long, which is why I was so shocked when I found out yesterday that I'm seven weeks pregnant. I have not told George, because I don't know how to tell him. Or when. He's the first man I've ever met that can get off just by rubbing up against me. He says it's about friction. I just say whatever works. Other times he likes me to pretend it's an ice-cream cone or begs me to use my hands like I'm trying to start a fire by stroking up and down. It's been like this for a while, but I figure every man has pet things he likes, and these are George's. One thing he refuses to do, however, is put his mouth down there. I've pleaded with him to try, but he said he just can't do it. It's unsanitary. He can't stand the smell. But we have a ritual: I bathe every single night at nine o'clock, because I read at least an hour before I go to bed. He goes in right after me. I've tried everything, but all he'll do is use his finger, and sometimes, when we're sitting in bed watching a video-not necessarily a porno-and both of our hands are working, I feel really stupid. Really stupid.

To be on the safe side, when Shanice came home from Mama's after the New Year, I sat her and George down in a room together so we could get all this ugly business cleared up and behind us.