Who Asked You? (32 page)

I
can’t believe I’m going on a date. A real live date. I don’t remember if I’ve ever even been on one. Mister never formally asked me out and picked me up, we just agreed to meet at different establishments, since back in the day he didn’t have a car. But this is an official date, and here I am a legitimate, full-fledged senior citizen, and I am going to answer my front door and there’s going to be a man on the other side of it. It has taken Warren almost ten years to ask me out. To be honest, I always thought he leaned toward handsome and I felt some kind of magnetic pull toward him, but I pretended to ignore this energy field because it seemed dangerous at the time. And I wasn’t even all that religious. Of course, I’ve always believed in God and the sanctity of marriage, but as a woman, just letting my eyes meet another man’s was making a suggestion. So I always avoided Warren’s, especially when Mister and I sat on the sidelines watching our sons play basketball and he coached them. He would often smile at me when there was a good play. I admit I was shocked and even more thrilled when I learned he was my grandsons’ principal. And had Mister not been sick, I would’ve given myself permission to finally look into his eyes when he sat across from me. And Lord, when he gave me that hug. If he only knew I could’ve lived inside his arms. I couldn’t remember the last time my breasts touched a man’s chest standing face-to-face, even if he was wearing a suit. I could still feel his heartbeat and I assumed he could feel mine, too, which is why I backed away as fast as I could. There has always been something warm about Warren’s demeanor that I liked. He wasn’t afraid to show how much he cared about others, and at the time, I just thought how lucky his wife must be.

I pushed those feelings inside a cabinet all these years and allowed myself to unlock it only when I was weary, tired, or angry. I would sit in my new recliner that Quentin bought me, lean all the way back, and put my iPod earplugs in and listen to Nina Simone singing “Feeling Good” over and over and over. Sometimes I’d wake up, wondering where the boys were. I would smile and remember that Luther’s almost a junior at USC and lives in a house with four other football players. Ricky is in Florida, going to that welding school. Noxema’s at UCLA. She wants to be an actress and swings by to keep me company from time to time.

I live alone. But I’m not lonely. There’s Tupac, who is my protector since the boys have been gone. We never figured out what kind of dog he was, but when we went to the pound to pick one out, he sat in his little jail cell and cried when he saw us, and within seconds he was licking Ricky’s and Luther’s hands, and minutes later he was ours. Tupac was faking, because he can put on the very same act when he thinks he’s being ignored. He was also afraid to sleep in the backyard, and lasted only an hour in that doghouse we ended up returning. He eats a whole lot less than my grandsons, though!

The good news is that I am finally at a point in my life where I can do almost anything I want to do whenever I want to do it. Within reason. I am not struggling anymore. Thanks to my husband, I have a few dollars in the bank and own this house free and clear. This is why I splurged. I am now driving a white Cadillac. People stare at me in this car, and I can’t lie, I love the attention. All I have to pay for these days are my utilities, cable, credit cards (my Sears card is back down to zero), and my cell phone. I get a manicure and pedicure and my eyebrows waxed every two weeks, and once a month I go to my favorite natural hair salon that’s only five blocks away and get a deep-conditioning, hot-oil treatment, and a rinse that makes my gray look metallic. I am always getting compliments on my hair, and I never got any when I wore wigs. I have felt like a hoarder because it took all these years for me to get up the courage to throw out all thirteen of them. I go to the movies once a week. Sometimes twice. I like those independent films that only play at some theaters, but I like the ones on Wilshire Boulevard because they have the best popcorn and some have those kosher hot dogs I love.

I still volunteer down at the senior center, but I also have a part-time job working as a receptionist and, I suppose, office manager at Mr. Heaven’s construction company. He changed his mind about calling it quits. He said too many people were having a hard time holding on to their homes and the least he could do was help them make improvements if they were lucky enough to be able to sell. He is a generous man. I must say it doesn’t feel or look like the old ghetto around here anymore. We have a homeowners’ association. Our block is clean. Our street is now blacktopped. A few more yards have emerald green velvety grass, hedges trimmed in all kinds of shapes and patterns, and flowers of every color you can imagine. The palm trees seem to protect us. Thanks to Mr. Heaven, my house is now peach with white trim. Tammy’s is still ugly, but it’s her fault for choosing light cocoa with that dark brown trim. But she likes it. We are proud of our neighborhood. We are proud to be representing, as my grandsons would say.

Speaking of making improvements, I also now have hobbies. I started a book club and about nine of my neighbors are members. We rotate at each other’s homes once a month. I went ahead and had that surgery on my other knee, and on top of losing about twenty-five pounds on Jenny Craig, neither one of them bothers me much anymore. I have learned how to walk farther than my mailbox.

I also didn’t think it was possible to change the way you think after you reach a certain age, but I was wrong. Quentin is living proof of this. In fact, he is getting on my nerves. He calls so much I had Luther put a ringtone on my phone for him, so now when I hear Kanye West rapping I know not to break my neck to answer it. He also likes to visit. And since they’ve got that new baby boy, I just am not in the mood for so much noise and activity like I once was. Which is why I sometimes lie to him about my plans. Quentin thinks I’ve become quite the social butterfly. Almost. He now has two chiropractor offices, and sometimes I’ll go to the mailbox and there’s a check for five hundred dollars inside a card. I don’t have a problem cashing them even though I’ve told him I don’t need his help. On the other hand, because of my son’s new attitudes, I’m going to spend New Year’s in New York City so I can watch that ball drop from my hotel room. I have given up on making angels, but there are a lot of things I thought I wanted to do or see only to find out I’m doing just fine without them. Snow is one.

I have also begun to appreciate my sisters. We have walking dates. One way to get to know someone better and get closer to them is by walking miles next to them. We prefer the beach. I don’t really know if it’s the ocean air or the waves or the sand between our toes or the seagulls flying over us, but for some reason, it seems easier to be honest with both of my sisters and say what’s on our minds and in our hearts out there. It’s also so much easier to listen when they talk. I have come to realize how different we are and yet how alike, too. After all these years, we have finally acknowledged just how grateful we are to be in each other’s lives even if we get on each other’s nerves sometimes. We are also learning how not to get so worked up when we disagree and when to keep our thoughts to ourselves. That we don’t always need to be heard, that we will never agree on everything, especially how to live our lives.

I don’t see Tammy as much as I used to, because she spends most of her time between Manhattan Beach and taking Clementine to every kiddie movie, everything on ice, and every circus that comes to town. She is happy. And I believe that’s the point of all this.

When my cell phone rings, something tells me it’s Warren, and it is. He just got back from Fiji. Since he retired he has become quite the world traveler. I like that about him. He’s still curious, too. “Hello, Warren. Are we still on?”

“Of course we’re still on, Betty Jean. I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind if we went to dinner in Laguna Beach instead of L.A., since it’s such a beautiful drive. Unless, of course, you have a curfew!”

“Laguna Beach would be fine, Warren. And I can stay out as late as I want to.”

“Then this means I’ll need to pick you up an hour earlier. Does this give you enough time?”

I look at the clock. That’s less than an hour from now.

“Plenty. I’ll see you then.”

OMG! As my grandsons would say. How in the world I am going to pull this all together in forty-eight minutes I do not know. Something tells me he’s going to be on time, and I don’t want him sitting out here in the living room waiting for me like we’re going to the prom or I’m some senior diva or something.

“Wait!” I hear him say just as I’m about to hang up. “Bring a sweater. It can get pretty chilly out on the ocean. But if you forget, not to worry, I won’t let you get cold.”

OMG! All of a sudden I don’t know what to wear. I’m not sure if I have anything worth wearing to Laguna Beach. I try on a yellow dress I got on sale at J.C. Penney, since they have gotten a little snazzier these past few years. I look at myself in the mirror. I look just like my mama forty years ago. It’s almost scary to know how much time has passed and what has happened to me. But I’m not going to stand here thinking about what I wish I’d done differently. Regret seems like such a wasted emotion. And the past is where it should be. Right now, I’m looking at myself in the mirror with a smile on my face, but I do wish the boys were here to say, “Grandma, you are working that yellow!” Or, if I modeled it for Mister, he would probably just grunt and wink.

I hunt for the right pumps and wonder if I should wear panty hose, since they’re kind of out of style. Wait a minute? Laguna Beach means sand, and I can’t walk in sand with any heels on, so I run back to my closet and hunt for some flat sandals. I find a pleasant pair that have pink and yellow plastic flowers on them. I look for a sweater but then decide to forget it. I’m so glad I took my shower so I could fool around with my hair. This is when wigs come in handy, but I managed to pull out some of those kinky curls to form a soft halo over my head. If I learned how to put on makeup one day, I probably could not only be more attractive but also subtract a few years. Oy vey, as Tammy likes to say. I spray one of my favorite colognes on my wrists, behind my ears, and mist it over my hair because it’s important to smell good in public.

What do you talk about on a date when most of your life is over? The past, or the future? Hell, maybe just right now. What I do know is I’m still interested in being exposed to new things, because I’m still curious, too. Like Warren, I plan on doing a little traveling myself. Alone or maybe with a companion. I’m just glad there’s not enough you can ever know. That you can take what you can use to live a better, richer life, and toss out the rest. This is why I’m so happy my grandsons are on the right path. I just hope I gave them enough of what they need to help them navigate their way on this journey. I apologize for what my kids didn’t get, especially Trinetta. I did the best I could back then. Now it’s my turn to do what I think works for Betty Jean. And I’m not going to worry about who doesn’t like it. Sometimes you have to know when to trust your instincts about how you live your life and especially how you feel. We all have a right to make our own mistakes as long as we’re willing to pay for them.

As I stand in the mirror, I turn from side to side, but I’m not real sure if I look as good in this dress as I think I do. Maybe this yellow is too loud. Maybe that rose-colored one might be better. I take a picture of myself in both of them with my new cell phone and send it to Arlene, Venetia, and Tammy to ask what they think. I just hope they hurry up. I don’t have all day.

I want to thank the following people for being so supportive during the writing of this novel: Carole DeSanti, Christopher Russell, Molly Friedrich, Lucy Carson, Molly Schulman, Beena Kamlani, Bonnie Ross, Steve Levitt, and Roberta Ponder. I am also grateful to Derrick Fryson, Barbara McKay, and Kristi and Terrence Zenno for their expertise, as well as for being so generous with their time, and to Gail Jackson, for her gracious hospitality in providing me a month of solace at the Treehouse Resort in Negril, Jamaica.