A Day Late and a Dollar Short (20 page)

"Did I miss something?" Janelle asks.

"You didn't tell the kids?" Cecil asks me.

"Not all of 'em."

"Tell us what?" Janelle says.

"Isn't it obvious, Ma?" Shanice says. "Gramps doesn't live here anymore. Hel-lo."

"Since when?"

Poor thang. She looks so confused. "Around New Year's."

I don't think this house ever been this quiet. Everybody just kinda don't move, and Cecil look like he wish he could disappear. But ain't nowhere to run. Serve his ass right.

"Daddy, did Ma put you out, or you left?"

Cecil just kinda look Southern pitiful and say, "Talk to your mama about that."

"Well, when are you coming back home?" Janelle still don't get it.

This time he don't even bother to answer.

"Why don't you tell them when George is coming back," Shanice blurts out.

"Where's George?" I ask.

"Where's Charlotte?" Cecil asks.

Paris grabs the phone and starts dialing her number. This is getting too deep for me. "Where's my inhaler?"

"I'll get it, Granny," Dingus says, and heads for the bedroom. Cecil still don't know what to do: you can see he trying to decide if he should sit or keep standing. "And bring me that brown envelope from off the bed, too, would you, baby?"

"The one that says IRS on it?"

"That's the one," I say and eyeball Cecil. It's easy to see now that he wished he hadda come another time.

"Charlotte?" Paris says. "Yes. We're all here. At Mama's. She got home today, but I guess the fact that she almost died doesn't seem to faze you all that much, does it?"

This is a big mistake: calling her, and using that tone of voice. She ain't gon' like it. Knowing we her audience, too?

"Yes. And what kind of vacation is Al going on? I figured as much. You don't have to raise your voice, Charlotte. I did not. And stop swearing at me. All I'm saying is that Mama could've died and you should have your selfish ass here like the rest of us!"

Paris takes the phone away from her ear and just looks at it. "She hung up in my face."

"Surprise, surprise," Janelle says.

"Bitch," Paris says.

"Where is George?" I ask Janelle.

"He's gone."

"Gone where?"

"I don't know, and don't care."

"Well, look. How long you all gon' be in town?" Cecil asks.

"Just for the weekend. Why? Do you want to invite us over to your place?" Paris asks.

"Can't you stay for dinner, Daddy?" Janelle asks.

"No, he can't," I say.

"I can't, sugar," Cecil says. "I gotta get to work."

"Work?" Janelle says.

"You might not be too familiar with the term: work," Paris says to her in a sarcastic way. She really is just trying to be funny. I think.

Dingus is back down on the floor, just listening, his head moving back and forth like he at a tennis match. He's got a smirk on his face, like this shit is better than The Young and the Restless. He's about right. Shanice done disappeared into the kitchen. I hear the refrigerator open. Ain't nobody thinking about it but me. Gotta watch her. It's beer today, scotch tomorrow. Gotta talk to my granddaughter. Get her to understand. Get Janelle to do something.

"Go straight to hell, Paris," Janelle says. "Daddy?" "I work security at Harrah s."

"You think that's smart, being inside a casino for all those hours?" Paris asks. She should stop.

"I manage okay."

"Paris," I say, "is your pill working yet?"

"Not quite."

"Maybe you should take another one."

"Why?"

"Because you still seem a little testy."

"Testy?"

"That's what I just said."

"Then maybe I should just cook and not say a word."

"No, wait. Cecil, didn't you say you had some good news?" I ask.

"Me?"

"No, your uncle."

"It can wait," he says.

"No, come on, Daddy," Paris says, "we would love to hear some good news, couldn't we, you guys?" She looks around at everybody until it seems like they all agree.

"Good news is always worth sharing," Janelle says.

"I could sure use some," I say.

"Me, too," Lewis says from the front porch. I'm beginning to wonder if he gon' sleep out there.

Cecil looks nervous, worried, scared. Maybe his news ain't good. He just said he had some news. He didn't exacdy say it was good news, now, did he? Hell, I didn't mean to put him on the spot. Maybe it's private business. Between me and him. "Tell me later and then I'll tell the kids," I say. He looks relieved. Good, I think, 'cause things was getting a litde too thick around here. All I know is that I'm home. I'm alive. And happy to see my kids and grandbabies. We need to break this up some. Lighten up. "Hey, did I men- don that I dreamt about fish last night?"

"No," Paris says, her hands pressed hard on her hips, like she can't wait for Cecil to leave so she can go on in the kitchen and do her business.

"Yes, you did," Janelle says.

"Well, I gotta be going," Cecil says.

"What's up with dreaming about fish?" Dingus asks.

"It means somebody supposed to be pregnant or something like that, doesn't it?" Lewis asks, standing at the screen door again.

"It most certainly does," I say, and if I wasn't on so much medication right now, I'd swear that Janelle and Cecil, and even Paris and Dingus, all look like they just seen God or a goddamn ghost.

Chapter 11

Ten Thousand Things

"Did you like the halibut, Mama?"

"It was different, that much I can say. Seem like it had kind of a vinegary taste. I ain't complaining, but I was sure in the mood for some fried pork chops smothered in gravy."

"I don't fry anything. Mama."

"Of course you don't, Paris. Anyway, what I really liked was the dressing on that salad and that crumbilay stuff you made for dessert."

I chuckle. "It's called creme brulee, Mama."

I'm lying next to her in her bed. I'm surprised she's still up. After all, it's almost one o'clock in the morning. We've been playing Trivial Pursuit since right after dinner. Lewis won. Mama just watched. She abandoned us a little after eleven. The TV is on with no sound. We're half under the covers and half out. Everybody else is asleep, except Lewis. I hear the TV out there and the ice in his glass clinking. His mind is probably flitting from one thing to another, because he hasn't learned to compartmentalize like the rest of us. I feel sorry for my brother, really. He's so smart he's dumb. Sometimes I feel like I've got too many circuits going at once, too, but I unplug a few in order to get the pace down to a manageable level so I can do one thing without thinking about the ten thousand other things I still have to do. I often wonder, will I ever have a day with nothing on my "to-do" list?

"Paris?" Mama's over near the edge, and I can just barely feel her body heat. I slide closer to her, which I can tell makes her somewhat uncomfortable, but I take hold of her arm so she can't squirm away.

"Yes, Mama."

"Is the mattress all right?"

"It's very comfortable," I say.

"I had it on layaway for the longest. It's a Sealy, you know."

"It's nice."

"I got a bed and dresser on layaway at Thomasville. You ever bought anything from them?"

"Nope."

"For my money, they got the best layaway plan in town. You can take your time and pay 'em twenty dollars a month, they don't care. And their furniture ain't cheap. It's good quality and very sophisticated. I love that store."

"I'm glad you do. Mama."

"I need to do something in here, but it might not be worth my time and energy."

"What do you mean by that?"

"I don't feel like talking about it right now."

"Okay," I say. The bed, chest of drawers, and dresser in this room are clearly from the seventies but everything in here is well kept. The sheer cream curtains have been starched and ironed. I know she did them herself. Mama's always been clean and neat. I like that about her. Her perfume bot- des are all lined up on the dresser, even though some are thirty years old and only full of fumes; there are round containers of dusting powder with various paisley prints and flowers with mint-green vines swirling around the curves; tons of lipsticks, some of them I know are at least five or six years old because I can spot about ten pink Fashion Fair tubes that Janelle, Charlotte, and I gave her for her fiftieth birthday. There's no sign of jewelry, because, even though most of it's costume. Mama still keeps it hidden in her drawers, between all her "raggedy" underwear (and she's got stacks of them), because that's where a thief probably wouldn't look. Daddy gave her a diamond so small that when it fell out she didn't even notice. It's in the box with the fake stuff.

The walls are an old eggshell color that's yellowing by the minute, and on top of that they're bare except for two identical seascape prints she got from a garage sale. The carpet is an atrocious rusty brown. AJways been ugly, but she works around it. I wish I could buy her a new house, full of brand-new furniture, with shiny hardwood floors, area rugs from some other country, and at least one original piece of art.

"Thank you for coming," she says.

"You don't have to thank me."

"I know. But I already feel better, knowing y'all are here."

"That's what kids are for, Mama. To give you some degree of comfort."

"I wish Charlotte felt that way."

"She does, Mama."

"Who you kidding? I think she like adding to my misery, but it's okay. Three out of four ain't bad."

"Charlotte's always been jealous of anybody you show some attention to besides her. In your heart, you should know she doesn't really want to hurt you, Mama."

"All kids don't like their parents, you know. And ain't no rule that say you gotta like your kids either. Anyway, I don't wanna talk about her. I want you to listen to me and listen to me good, you understand?"

"Okay."

"And take everything at face value."

"Mama, please don't let this be one of those if-I-die-today-or-tomorrow speeches. Please?"

"Be quiet, Paris. You can call it anything you wanna call it, I don't care. Just pay attention, would you, Miss Know-It-All?"

"Okay, I'm listening."

"This attack scared the hell out of me."

"They all should, Mama."

"No, baby. This one was a doozy."

"But you're still here," I say, trying my damnedest to sound positive even though my cheery voice is fake.

"Yeah, but I can't keep doing this."

"Doing what?"

"Fighting."

"What do you mean, 'fighting'?" "Every time I feel one of these things coming on, I panic, and that's what makes it harder and harder to breathe, and it's taking all the strength I have to keep doing it."

"So what are you saying, Mama?"

"I'm saying that, if the day should come when I can't fight 110 more, I wanna make sure you see to it that the other kids don't completely fuck up their lives. They need guidance, Paris, and you might have to be the one to give it to 'em."

"Me?"

"Yes, you."

"Just because I'm the oldest?"

"Naw, that ain't the only reason. You got good sense. And you using it the way I always prayed all of you would, and you also doing something the rest of us ain't."

"What's that?"

"Making money."

"Oh, really. Well, first of all, Mama, you might want to consider giving up this gloomy notion of dying altogether, because, as soon as you get on this new diet-if you can force yourself to give up that stupid beer, among other things-and you go see a holistic doctor instead of these pill pushers, you'll see how you can learn to manage this disease."

She's shaking her head like I don't get it and is squeezing my hand hard. Too hard.

"Lots of people are leading productive, active lives who have asthma. Look at Jackie Joyner-Kersee. She's a heptathlete, a gold-medalist, an Olympian."

"Yeah, well, she's also young."

"Mama, you're not old. You're only fifty-five."

"I won't be fifty-five for two and a half more weeks. Anyway, I don't wanna run or jump no-damn-where. So more power to that girl. I would just like to walk up a flight of stairs or to the corner and back without getting short of breath."

"I know."

"No, you don't know."

"Okay," I say, not sure what to say next, but this is what comes out of my mouth: "Well, Mama, let's just say that, hypothetically speaking, if something were to happen to you and I became the so-called guide, as you say, my question to you is this: who's going to be there to help guide me?"

"Me," she says, matter-of-factly. And then releases her grip.

I'm not enjoying this conversation. Don't like the topic or the tone, and especially the direction it's going, so I decide to change it. "What's the real deal with Daddy, Mama?"

"We ain't talking about Cecil right now, are we?"

I shake my head.

"Look, Paris. I ain't trying to scare you. I could live another two years or another twenty. You just never know. I been meaning to get some things out in the open in case something was to happen to me, so somebody would be prepared."

"I feel lucky. Okay, Mama. I get it. Now, can we talk about living for a few minutes?"

"Okay," she says. "What do yon want?"

"What do you mean, what do I want?"

"For yourself."

"I've got just about everything I need."

"I beg to differ with you, baby."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You got blessed with Dingus. We both know that. But, Paris, it's written all over your face: something's missing in your life. Food and money ain't quite cutting it, can't you see that?"

Why does she have to go here? I said I was going to put everybody in their place when I got here, didn't I? But this doesn't exacdy feel like the wisest time to chastise my mother, so I just say: "I'm doing the best I can."

"That's not true. You trying too hard to do all the right things, to fill up all your blank spaces. But you filling up them holes with bullshit. Stuff that don't make you feel good inside. It look good from the outside, and that's why you getting headaches and taking pills. But ain't no pill in the world can cure what you got."