Getting to Happy (21 page)

“No worries. Promise you won’t tell him I drove over here?”

“Are you trying to blackmail me?”

“No, it’s called being fair. So, do you think I can live here with you? I promise not to get on your nerves.”

“It’s more complicated than that, Taylor.”

“That’s all I’ve been hearing for the past year. When are things ever simple, MomMom? That’s what I wanna know.”

When Bernadine hears the phone, she answers it before the first ring is finished. It’s John. “How are you, Bernie?”

“Fine, John. And you?”

“Have you seen Taylor, by chance? She’s not picking up at home, not answering her cell phone, and I just want to make sure she’s okay.”

“She’s here.”

“Thank God. Is she okay?”

“She’s fine.”

“How’d she get over there?”

“Wait, are you still at work?”

“Yes.”

“How much longer are you going to be there? Because I’ve made gumbo and I was going to send some home with Taylor.”

“There is a God. We were having pizza again. Anyway, I’ve got a few more hours of paperwork but I should be out of here by seven. I can pick her up?”

“Either I or Onika will drop her off. But she’s fine.”

“What time is O expected?”

“Probably in the next hour or so.”

“Can I speak to Taylor for a second?”

“She’s in the bathroom, John. She’ll see you when you get home if that’s all right.”

“It’s fine. And thanks, Bernie. I’m looking forward to seeing Onika.”

Bernadine hangs up and sits back down on the stool.

“Thanks for not turning me in, MomMom.”

They hear the front door slam.

“You had no right to say any of those things to Josie, Shy! I don’t care how long you’ve known her. It was way out of line and you know it!”

“I said I’m sorry a million times, O.”

“You seem to say that a lot.”

Bernadine holds her hand up to stop Taylor from running out to the foyer to greet them, especially after she hears those backpacks hit the hardwood floor. “I smell gumbo,” Onika says before the two of them enter the kitchen.

“Hey, Sis,” Taylor says, and she gives Onika a kiss and a hug. Taylor towers over Onika by four or five inches. She turns to Shy. “And you must be the girlfriend. Welcome, Shy. I’m Taylor. And I’m going to be living here soon.”

“No fooling?” Onika asks. “Since when? Too bad we’re leaving tomorrow.”

“Don’t listen to her,” Bernadine says. “I thought you guys didn’t have to be there until Sunday?”

“We looked at the schedule wrong. We have orientation and all that.”

“Oh yeah, you guys are going to be camp counselors and sleep outside and get eaten alive by bugs, right?”

“No,” Shy says, laughing. “We sleep in cabins, where we’ll be eaten alive by bugs.”

“And for the record, it has not yet been discussed whether Taylor’s going to be living anywhere but with John, and there are a lot of things to consider.”

“Like what?” Onika asks. “I mean Dad can’t be much fun. And since Kathleen split, it’s not fair to Taylor, I don’t think.”

“My feelings exactly. I’m a perfect example of the so-called new nuclear family. I’m a product of a broken home. I’m bi-racial—but isn’t everybody these days? I’m not stupid. I know none of this shit is my fault, but it’s still very F’d up that my mother bailed on me and my Dad. Even though I’m a teenager, I’m still a child and I don’t want to grow up and become a totally twisted grown-up just because I was deprived of some basic shit they say we need as children—like love and attention. Is that like asking for too much?”

“Hell no!” Onika gives Taylor a high five. “I totally hear you.”

Shy looks like she wants to agree, but decides against it.

“You should both watch your mouths,” Bernadine says.

“Sorry, MomMom. That slipped.”

“Anyway, I would love to just say yes, but I may be going back to work if I decide not to reopen the restaurant.”

“Work?” Onika asks.

“What restaurant?” Shy asks.

“It’s none of your business, Shy,” Onika says.

“Stop being rude,” Bernadine says.

“Yeah, and you’re probably embarrassing Shy. Have your little lovers’ quarrels in private,” Taylor says.

“Who said anything about anybody being lovers?”

“Yeah,” Shy says.

“Nobody had to tell me anything. I’ve known you were a lesbo since like forever, O, but it’s no big deal. Gay is the new straight, in case you haven’t noticed. At least be a nice lesbian or you’re going to give the rest a bad rap. You’re a fox, Shy, and if my sister mistreats you, kick her ass to the curb and move on.”

“Shut. Up!” Onika says.

Shy is grinning.

“Swear one more time, you won’t even be visiting.”

Taylor covers her mouth, apologizes with her eyes.

“Isn’t that Dad’s Beemer in the driveway?”

“That it is,” Taylor says. “I drove it over here without a license and I will probably get arrested and go to prison for life. You two feel like helping a sistah out?”

“I could really stand a nice long shower first,” Onika says.

“Me, too,” Shy says. “We actually did some hiking this morning.”

Taylor winks at them, and they look at her like she’s reading more into this than is necessary.

“Would you mind driving Taylor home as soon as he gumbo’s ready?”

“No problem.”

The house phone rings and Taylor answers it. “MomMom, it’s some guy with an accent. I think it’s a telemarketer?”

“I’ll take it in the other room,” Bernadine says, and she picks her purse up off the floor. “Just don’t go near that pot!”

“What time will the gumbo be ready, Mom?” Onika asks as she and Shy head toward the stairwell.

“In about an hour. I just need to put the rice in the cooker and make the cornbread.”

“Great! We’re starving.”

Bernadine is already noticing how much Onika uses “we” and prays her daughter doesn’t get her heart broken or ends up doing the breaking. She goes into the parlor bath, closes the door and sits down on the toilet seat. “Hello,” she says, trying not to sound nervous. She wasn’t expecting to hear from the lender until Monday. She worked in finance long enough to know how this works.

“Mrs. Harris?”

“This is she.”

“David Osborn from Sherman and Lynch Loan. If I’ve caught you at a bad time . . .”

“No,” she says and gets up from the toilet seat, which makes a loud suction sound. “This is fine. Is everything all right?” She already knows it isn’t.

“Well, I wish I had good news, Mrs. Harris. We’ve gone over these figures and I’ve tried to crunch the numbers in every possible configuration that I could. However, it’s just not panning out the way I’d hoped. You’re somewhat overextended on the debt-to-income ratio and even though you’ve had an excellent credit rating in past years, your score has dropped considerably because of outstanding balances on credit card bills, and as much as our institution appreciates and respects your entrepreneurial background, you’ve only got about forty percent equity left in your home and we don’t think it would be wise for you or us to get it any lower. Otherwise, should the time come and you wish to sell, you’re not really going to walk away with much.”

“What about a lesser amount?”

“We think you might want to try a different lender or, if possible, pay down some of the cards and get that score boosted up a bit and then give us a call back in a few months. I’m sorry, Mrs. Harris. I wish we could’ve helped. And good luck to you.”

Without thinking about what she’s doing, Bernadine digs inside her purse until she finds the pill box and takes out a small orange pill. She pops it into her mouth dry and then turns on the faucet and fills a Dixie cup with hot water. She swallows it, hoping it will explode inside her belly immediately. She sits there and waits, tapping her feet: heel toe, heel toe, heel toe. And then she starts wondering: How would Marlena get out of this one?

You Can Never Be Too Sure

“Slow down, Sparrow! You’re speeding!” We’re on Interstate I0, on our way to Tucson. I’ve been a nervous wreck since she got behind the wheel thirty-eight minutes ago. If it wasn’t for the vast backdrop of mountains, John Legend’s CD, and the outlet malls, I probably wouldn’t be able to stand this long stretch of boring highway.

“I am not speeding, Mom! I’m only doing sixty-five. What’s that you’re reading?”

“A poem.”

“Not that dreadful thing you got from that Dark Angel guy I hope.”

I drop the piece of paper in my lap. “You mean to tell me you’ve been reading my e-mail?”

“No. But you left it on the screen one day and I couldn’t help but read it. I cracked up.”

“What was so funny?”

“It was corny and I didn’t even need my English teacher to tell me it was super-syrupy, and on top of everything, it didn’t make any sense: ‘Robin you are a blue-jay to me’? Get real. Don’t tell me you liked it, Mom?”

“I thought it was a warm display of emotion.”

“Is he in prison or something?”

“God, no! What would make you ask something like that?”

“Because it sounds like he writes poetry but he doesn’t read any. I bet he’s never heard of Langston Hughes or Sonia Sanchez or Gwendolyn Brooks. And how about Mary Oliver?”

“Who’s Mary Oliver?”

“She’s a poet, Mom.” She presses a button to change the CD. I pray it’s not rap except maybe that Ludacris boy—I like him.

I sneer at her. And here comes that little white girl Avril Lavigne, whom I cannot stand.

“She won a Pulitzer Prize and a National Book Award.”

“Is she black?”

“No, but you might want to check her out anyway.”

“I will. Have you ever read any of Nikki Giovanni’s poetry?”

“Of course I have.”

“Where?”

“In my English class.”

“We didn’t read anything by black writers when I was in high school.”

“That’s why we had the civil rights movement, Mom. To shake things up and make things right.”

“Can you please change this?”

“What would you like to hear?”

“No swearing or screaming. Real music.”

I’m grateful when I hear John Mayer. We both like him. Sparrow enjoys her share of hip-hop but she’s not big on R&B. It doesn’t seem normal to be black and not like soul music. Her top three: Aretha, Otis Redding and Curtis Mayfield. She’ll listen to that Matchbox Twenty and Nickelback (whom I also happen to get a kick out of), and those Red Hot Chili Peppers and Fall Out Boy and Coldplay like they’re never going to make another album. We both have a soft spot for country music. It’s just the blues with a twang. The Dixie Chicks and Kenny Chesney can take my money.

“So what’d you get Grandma for her birthday?” she asks.

“It’s a surprise.”

“I made her a pair of earrings.”

“I hope they’re not weird, Sparrow.” She makes jewelry. Frightening jewelry. She uses stuff like bark, dust, aluminum foil and broken glass, and I think she glued some old bubblegum and dead flies on a necklace once. Her friends fight over this mess.

“I think she’ll like these.”

“If she doesn’t, you know she’ll tell you.” I suddenly feel like I’ve walked into an oven set at five hundred degrees, so I reach over and turn the air up as high as it will go. I fan myself with Dark Angel’s poem. Beads of perspiration have magically formed across my forehead. More has started dripping over my eyelids and temples. I absolutely hate this shit and I don’t think I can keep going through it for however long it might last. I might have to break down and ask my doctor to give me something to help me get through this. I’m tired of waking up throughout the night, kicking the covers off because I’m burning up, then pulling them back on a few minutes later because I’m freezing. Plus, my memory is failing me. Sometimes it feels like I’m getting Alzheimer’s or something. I don’t think it’s worth going through all this if I don’t have to.

“So where does he live?”

“Who?”

“Dark Angel! How soon we forget.”

“In Arizona.”

“Well, that certainly narrows things down. Mom, turn the air down a little, please. It’s freezing in here.”

I don’t feel like talking about Dark Angel anymore. “Did you save me some gumbo?”

“Of course I did. Aunt Bernie outdid herself again. “Do you have an address for this guy?”

“We haven’t gotten that far yet.”

“When do you plan on going out with him?” She veers off the pavement onto the gravel and then quickly gets back on. “Sorry.”

“Pull over.”

“Mom, it’s no big deal!
You
go over the line sometimes.”

“I said pull over.”

She just keeps driving. I would like to slap her. That would give me so much pleasure. Just once. Smack her dead in her smart-ass mouth. Of course I wouldn’t dare, because she’s my daughter.

“How would you like to have a sweet sixteen party?”

“Absolutely not!”

“Why not?”

“Because it is just so uncool. To celebrate turning any age is silly if you just think about it. Except for Grandma, of course. She has earned the right to celebrate every single day of her life if she feels like it. I mean, getting my license is a very big deal, but I think once you pass fifty you have more of a reason to celebrate because you’re lucky to still be alive.”

“What in the world are you talking about?”

“That came out wrong,” she says.

“Anyway, I’m not celebrating turning fifty. And I think I have a few good years left, Sparrow.”

“You’re going to be a whole half a century old, Mom! How cool is that?”

“Too cool. Now pull over. You’ve driven fifty miles and apparently that’s enough.”

“Spoilsport. You’re just mad because I peeped your boy. But seriously, Mom, tell him you want to send him something and make sure he doesn’t have any numbers behind his name or it’s not some post office box. That’s how you’ll know he doesn’t live behind bars.”

“Why are you so concerned about him?”

“Because you’re my mom and I’ve already heard one horror story after another about how many losers and wackos you’ve met online, and of course I’ve been hoping you’d meet your Lancelot by now, but this guy’s poem sounded so desperate I almost felt sorry for him.”