A Day Late and a Dollar Short (13 page)

For entrees, please consider starting with: Grilled Curry Chicken Brochettes lightly marinated in exotic spices and cooked on the grill; your guests have a choice of: Filet Mignon Brochettes seasoned with sea salt, garlic, and fresh herbs and grilled on an open fire, or Fire Roasted Lamb Alibaba, brochettes of tender marinated lamb. To accompany these entrees, my chefs will prepare: Butter and Herb Seasoned Couscous, garnished with French petits pois and chick-peas; and, for dessert: West African Bread Pudding, flavored with cinnamon, cardamom, and saffron, complemented by brandy creme anglaise. And if you'd like, I can make a luscious Pistachio Birthday Cake that might make him marry you in the morning.

Anyway, I'm flying to Vegas tomorrow, I don't care what Mama says. Asthma is serious. People die from it. I don't even want to think about what I'd do-what we'd all do-if one of these times Mama didn't make it to ICU. Thank God, Lewis won't be there. It means there'll be less drama. Unless somehow by Morse code he found out. Then again, maybe he got his disability check, or got one of his dumb women to lend him some money, and he's on a Greyhound right now. Lewis loves buses. As for Charlotte, although I'm not convinced that her lesbian comments weren't said out of malice, I can forgive her. Mama tried to clean it up by saying that Charlotte said it like she was joking. But Charlotte doesn't joke about anything. Everybody knows that. I still hope she comes.

I also heard that Lewis told Janelle that I think I'm hot shit because I bought a house without a husband. Mama made a big mistake of telling Charlotte it was a mansion-which it is not. It's a five-hundred-thousand- dollar, four-thousand-square-foot semicustom home in a typical northern- California middle-class subdivision. We don't even have a pool. Every sixth house looks pretty much like mine. Apparently, I'm one of the last ones to landscape my backyard. I'll get to it when I can.

When I get to Mama and Daddy's, I'm telling them, once and for all, to cut me some slack; to give me a break. I'm tired of apologizing for who I am. I like who I am. I like what I'm doing with my life. I love to cook, which is why I cater for a living. And have a lot of fun doing it. I love the power of food. The beauty of it. I want people to enjoy the entire experience-using all five of their senses-I try to create an environment that is visually intoxicating-full of color, scents, and aromas that seduce you until you leave. I see what I do as art, and I offer it like a gift. I also meet tons of interesting people and get to travel all over the world. Folks seem to appreciate my culinary talents, and it makes me feel good when they do. That's all I want: is to be appreciated for what I do. Doesn't everybody?

The budget. Oh, forget the budget for now. The schedule is easier: 3:00: I arrive to start preparing the food. 5:00: service staff arrives to set up bar and service area and assist; 6:45: all hors d'oeuvres service begins; 7:00:guests begin arriving; 8:00: guests seated on floor at round tables (guests should bring their own cushions); 8:15: belly dancers perform at beginning, during salad course; 8:30: second course, belly dancers finish; 8:45: main course served; 9:15: champagne service; 9:30: men and women separate for strippers, and show begins; 10:00: dessert; 10:30: music and more partying. Staff (not me!) stays until last guests leave, for cleanup.

On second thought, maybe I should just go there and apologize, because I grew up and did what Mama and Daddy encouraged all of us to do: went to college, graduated, and found my place in the world. I can't help it if Charlotte opted to make her mark at the post office. Or that Lewis got his bachelor's in Jail 101 and is now working on his master's in progressive alcohol.

Janelle is apparently still on the lookout, but how many Tarot cards does it take?

My sisters and brother think that I think my life is perfect because it looks good on paper. They're the ones who don't want to accept the fact that I have problems just like they do. But since I have a little extra cash in the bank, they assume I can buy my way. If they didn't watch so much TV, they'd know the cliche that most intelligent people understand: that money does not guarantee happiness or peace of mind. It can take your mind off of things, distract you, but it can't replace the generic stuff a person needs. If I could go to Neiman Marcus and put some love on my charge card, I would. If I could get a prescription for good health from my local drugstore, I would. If I could walk down the Feminine Needs aisle at the grocery store and pick a husband from the shelf that would complement me, my lifestyle, and my son, I'd have done it by now.

Mama, on the other hand, has a tendency to confuse stress with misery. I'm also not I Dream of Jcannic, so I can't exactly twitch my nose and drum up husband number two the way she keeps hoping I will. Yes, it would be nice to have a man that could fulfill all my fantasies, but in all honesty, I don't even know what they are anymore. Three years after my divorce, I was in an emotional funk. It felt like the person I'd loved the hardest had died and I was mourning his loss. His name was Nathan. He is my son's father. I can't stand his ass now. For eight long years I gave him the benefit of the doubt. He said one thing, but did another. He could've passed the bar the first time, but deep down inside I don't think he felt worthy. He sabotaged his own greatness by succumbing to failure, because failure was easier. But it wasn't attractive. I got tired of pumping up his ego when he never reciprocated. My business was flourishing and he couldn't even pretend to be happy for me. In fact, he resented it. But somebody had to wear some kind of pants in the family, or we would've been up shits creek. It got harder and harder to love Nathan. He was no longer the politically charged idealist, that spontaneous male engine that kept me up nights describing outrageous court cases in one breath and making love to me the next. He lost interest in the law, and I guess I was next in line. I didn't really think he'd leave, or run back home to his family in Atlanta. But that's exactly what he did. I doubt if I'll ever love another man with the same intensity and conviction, but I also hate Nathan for disappointing me and our son. I hate him for not fighting harder for what he wanted-for not living up to his own expectations. I hate him for not being happy for me because I was living up to mine. I wanted him to feel good about my accomplishments. Wanted him to be proud of me. Is that so hard for a husband to do? In Nathan's case, I suppose it was, because he bailed out of the airplane before he even knew if it was going to crash.

But Nathan did give me one gift he couldn't take back: Dingus. My son gives my life a sense of purpose. He's almost seventeen, and I still like him. He shows me respect. Doesn't have a smart mouth. I'm grateful I didn't have a daughter. If I had've, I'd probably be going crazy about now, just like Charlotte and Janelle.

Budget breakdown. Just look at an old invoice and prorate it based on the number of guests. If I remember correctly, for 40 people it should be in the neighborhood of about $4,000. Who had the last Moroccan party? Check the files. And don't forget to give Mariah a break on the price for being such a loyal client.

Is that the phone already? I'm afraid to answer it. Other than Mama, nobody calls me this early, because I sent out a directive years ago that this is the only quiet time I have to myself to get organized and jump-start all the things I have to do in a day. It could be Miss Ordelle, the lady who irons for me once a week. If it's her, then it means she's got another toothache, a cold, or pains in her chest. She never calls this early. Somebody's been calling here all week and hanging up. I assume it's one of those ditzy girls trying to catch Dingus before he leaves for school, hoping she'll get a chance to make some kind of pathetic offering to get her name on his list, but that won't be happening anytime soon, because he is totally enthralled with Jade: smart, tall, as black as she is pretty, goes to Sunday school and church every Sunday because her daddy's a preacher and sings in the junior choir, power forward for her high school's team, and is not giving it up to my son as far as I can tell. For a while there, I was worried because he was strung out on this trashy little white girl-Meagan Somebody-who was as dumb as they come. But I kept my mouth shut, hoping she would run her course and he'd get her out of his system, which he did, after finding out she was also sleeping with one of his homies. Then I told myself to take a chill pill, let my son choose whomever he likes, to stop being such a racist and show the girl at least an ounce of respect. Which I did. By not saying more than a friendly hello and a relieved goodbye whenever he brought her over here. I offered her some chips and dip once, and that took all the strength I had. She flunked seventh grade, for God's sake. My son has always been on the honor roll. What Mama and Dingus fail to understand is that I don't have a problem with white people. I like a whole lot of white people. And I don't have a problem with my son liking a white girl. That's not it either. I don't care what color she is. But dumb is one color I don't like and have a hard time tolerating. It's a slow mind that tests my patience.

I pick up the phone, but apparently Dingus has already gotten it from the kitchen.

"Hello," he says. My Lord, the boy's voice seems to get deeper by the day.

"I didn't get my period," Meagan says.

Oh, no, she didn't just say that. I hold my breath back.

"You said you were taking the pill," Dingus says.

Yeah, you litde bitch. I knew this was going to happen. I just knew it. Ever since Dingus got his letterman jacket and his picture in the local newspaper and the college scouts started watching him, not to mention older girls swarming around him after the games like flies, this heifer's been on a mission to put a stop to his extracurricular activities. But this is a very weak trick to pull. And so old: like 1950s old. But not to worry. There's no fucking way my son is going to forfeit his future. Didn't your mama teach you anything? I should cut a few inches off Dingus's little immature dick, since he has obviously not been using the condoms I put in his drawer and backpack.

"Remember when I told you I had to stop taking them for a few weeks because they were making me nauseous?"

"Look, Meagan. This is jacked. My moms would kill me if she found out about this. What are you thinking about doing?" "Doing? I don't know. What do you want me to do, Dingus?"

What does he want you to do? Is the girl on drugs? He's not even seventeen fucking years old. She's eighteen. Ask your mama, girl-not my son- what the hell you should do.

"Look," he says, "can you meet me at the mall after school? In front of Mrs. Field's?"

"Yeah," she says, and hangs up.

I do, too. But first I reach inside my desk drawer and look for one of my prescription bottles. They're pain pills I got when I had my boobs done and dental surgery. I discovered that they also work well for tension headaches, which I'm definitely getting right now. I pop one, and gulp it down with a few sips of hot coffee. By the time Dingus knocks on my door, it's working.

"Good morning, Ma," he says, sluggishly, but walks over and gives me his regular kiss and taps me on the head.

"Good morning. Who was that 011 the phone?"

"Asokah. He forgot what the math assignment was, so I had to give it to him."

"Oh." He sure can lie fast.

"So, what's on your agenda today, Mother Dear?"

"The usual."

"Break it down to me, why don'tcha?"

"You better get out of my face."

"What's wrong with you this morning?"

"I had a nightmare last night."

"Tell your loving son what's bothering you." I look up at this boy. All six foot three inches of him. Wasn't he just in his bassinet last week? And didn't I just take him to peewee Litde League practice the other day? And now he's shaving? Time is moving too fast. Mama was right. I should've had another one. But too late now.

"I dreamed that you had a blast from the past."

"And?" he asks, futzing with my phone-pad pages that hold the twenty- three calls I have to make and return today in order to make sure the Louisville Barbecue scheduled for this weekend will go smoothly in my absence.

"Some little girl claimed she was pregnant by you."

He looks down at me without the least bit of surprise in his eyes and flashes his metal teeth. "You worry too much over nothing, Ma. It was just a bad dream. Get over it."

"Dingus?"

"Yes, Ma." He's at the door now. Obviously feeling the pressure.

"I hope you're using a condom when you do your business."

"Of course I do," he says. "Is it okay if I stop by the mall for about a half- hour after school?"

"For what?"

"They've got some newjordans coming in today at Footlocker, and me and my homies wanna check 'em out."

"You don't have any Jordan money."

"We're just window-shopping."

"I don't care. Just be home by five-thirty."

"No problem," he says, turning away, then stops. "Oh. I wanna call my granny later on to see if she wants me to bring her anything."

"Okay," I say.

"I gotta cheer her up. You know I have that power."

"Yes you do," I say. "Love you."

"I love you more," he says.

I watch him walk away. My baby. On his way to manhood. I like the effect of this pill. Now I feel like I can say exactly what I mean without biting my tongue. I wish I could feel like this all the time, is what I'm thinking as I dial Meagan s phone number, and she answers. "May I speak to your mother, please?"

"She's not home, Paris."

"She doesn't work. Why isn't she at home?"

"Because she's at the grocery store."

"At seven o'clock in the morning?"

"It's a twenty-four-hour."

"Would you ask her to call me as soon as she gets in?"

"Would you mind if I ask why?"

"You figure it out," I say, and hang up.

Simple bitch. Be nice, Paris. But right now I don't feel like being nice. I'm nice all the time. To every-fucking-body. I need a break from nice- ness. So what do I do? Dial Nathan. He deserves a little blast from the past, too. Of course I get his machine, but that's quite all right. "Nathan, this is Paris. How've you been? Good, I hope. The reason I'm calling is just to give you your annual reminder that YOU STILL HAVE A GODDAMN SON, who'll be turning seventeen any minute, and if you are so moved, perhaps you might consider acknowledging his birthday by way of, say, a FUCKING BIRTHDAY CARD or a phone call. Something. That is, if it's not too much of an inconvenience, or is your shit still raggedy, Mr. Sports Agent? Do you represent any ATHLETES yet? And did you ever pass the Georgia bar, or did you forget to take it again?"