A Day Late and a Dollar Short (25 page)

"Let's go," Trevor says, heading out the garage door. He's so impatient. I don't know how he sews as good and as much as he do. But he can make damn near anything he sees in those magazines he gets: that one with a "W" on it, and some European ones that ain't even in English. Half the time h e d on't even use no pattern. I sure can't fault him for having talent. If I ever lose these thirty pounds, I want him to make me a slinky dress, but not until I can get into a ten again.

"Hold up, Trevor!" Tiffany yells. "Ma, would it be okay if we went to the mall after?"

"For what? You don't have no money, do you?"

"Nope. We was just about to ask if we could get our allowance early?"

"For what?"

" 'Cause we wanted to look for your birthday present."

I'm shocked they even remembered, considering it's two whole weeks away.

"I don't want nothing."

"I'm getting you something anyway," Monique says. "But this time, it'll be something I know you like."

"Me, too, Ma," Tiffany says.

"My lips are sealed," Trevor says.

"I told y'all I don't want nothing and I meant it."

"We heard you the first time, Ma. What about Granny? What you think she might like?" Monique asks.

"I don't know! Call and ask her."

"It's weird you guys got the same birthday and y'all ain't nothing alike, huh, Ma?" Tiffany says.

"Yeah, it's a trip all right. Would somebody get my purse off the kitchen counter, please?"

Monique dashes off and is back before I take a breath. There's $i 32 in my wallet. I give them forty apiece. Their eyes light up.

"Thanks, Ma!" Monique says.

"Wow, yeah, thanks," Tiffany says.

"I'm covered," Trevor says, refusing his, and his sisters look at him like he's crazy, especially after I take it back.

"You're welcome. If I ain't here when y'all get back, I'll probably be making my rounds at the Laundromats. Now, go on, get out of here. And have fun." As soon as I hear that door slam and the car back out the driveway, I feel myself grinning. I'm so glad they're gone I don't know what to do. I don't care how much it cost to get rid of 'em. Sometimes I ask myself why I had to have three whole kids when one probably woulda been plenty. It's too much work, too many different personalities to deal with, and, hell, don't add a husband to the mix.

I pour a little Clorox in the water, add some Cheer and Biz, and then throw in three or four handfuls of white clothes. It must be about three o'clock. It's definitely Saturday, and I feel entitled to something that'll give me a little more enthusiasm, so I walk over to our little makeshift bar and pour myself a Tanqueray and tonic. When I get upstairs, the girls' room is a disaster of pastels: clothes, socks, towels, sheets, panties-all kinds of shit is everywhere except where it should be.

Trevor's door, as usual, is closed, and even though he's got a lock on it he don't know that I know where he hides the spare key. He always locking hisself out, and I saw him get it from under the cushion of this old fat chair he said he would re-cover one day. Sure enough, it's here. I set my drink down on the floor, but as soon as I do, the piling of the carpet is so high the glass tips over. Shit. I'll clean it up later.

I never knew there was so many different shades of blue. Trevor painted this room hisself, and ain't nothing out of place. Nothing. He makes his bed every morning, even if he's running late. He shares the bathroom with the girls but keeps his towel and washcloth on a hook he put right next to his closet. He made some kind of giant picture which ain't nothing but cutouts of men and women from them magazines and pasted 'em so close together you can't even see the corkboard. He calls this his "Fashion Collage" or something. I don't get the point, really. He's had that same dresser since he was ten, and it's looking like it. I don't even know if it's real wood or not, but he keeps it polished. His cologne botdes are on a swivel thing, and all his jewelry in a blue velvet box. I stand here for a minute wondering if this really looks like a boy's room. It do, sort of. Ain't nothing frilly about it. But, then again, there's all different kinds of homosexuals, from what I understand.

I open one of his dresser drawers real fast. Underwear sucked neat. Next drawer. Undershirts. Next. Socks. And then pajamas and T-shirts. I'm tempted to just slide my hand under some of 'em, like they do in the movies, but I'm too scared. Plus, everything is so organized, 1 can't see how he could hide anything.

His closet could pass for two racks at a department store. This is ridiculous. On the shoe boxes he done actually wrote the type and color of shoe in each box. His bed looks like nobody ever sleeps in it. Before I know it, I'm sliding my hands between the mattress and box spring and-bingo!- magazines. I pull one out and flip through it, and-Lord have mercy!-men doing all kinds of things to each other. Things I do to my husband. I close it fast. The next one is Playgirl. Mostly young white guys with big thick penises. It becomes very clear that the shit they been saying about white men having little ones ain't hardly true no more. I don't even realize I done got comfortable sitting on the floor, and taking my sweet time looking at these pictures, especially when I find myself reading about Jim and Bill and how they're on some soap opera. These is some good-looking, sexy young men, I swear to God they are. But then I snap the magazine shut, slide both of 'em back where I found 'em, and smooth the bed back the way it was, and then get the hell outta here. After locking the door, I put that key right where I found it.

Okay. So it is true. What the fuck can I do about it? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I can forget about my son getting a football or basketball scholarship; forget all those fantasies of seeing him play in the NFL or the NBA; forget about him ever giving us any grandbabies or, hell, what about his wedding? The part I hate the most about this whole affair is everybody in my family finding out that what they been saying about Trevor all along is true. I don't think I can handle it, really. So-I'ma just keep my mouth shut.

In the girls' room I just start throwing shit into piles, but it don't take me but a minute to realize that every single piece belong to Tiffany: clothes she don't fucking appreciate, 'cause if she did they wouldn't be on the goddamn floor. They just gotta have all this hip-hop shit these rappers who done all become designers overnight is selling and my kids and everybody else's kids is buying as fast as they can make it. Correction: I'm the one buying it. I open Monique's side of the dresser, and all of her things is folded. She always complaining that Tiffany is the slob, and she ain't never lied. And just look at all these sneakers: we should own some stock in Nike, 'cause that's all they wear. And if that Michael Jordan comes out with one more sneaker, I'ma kick his ass myself.

It takes me close to a hour to clean out this room, and some little kids gon' be happy as hell when they get all this stuff, some of which ain't never even been worn. I should have my own ass kicked for spending this kinda money on these kids. I fill up three of them big green trash bags that's made for leaves and grass and push 'em out in the hallway with my foot, and then kick 'em one by one down the steps till they in the middle of the entryway. I walk around 'em and go pour myself another drink. I wonder if Al caught any fish? I ain't calling him, that's for damn sure. I don't wanna get my feelings hurt if he ain't in his motel room. And I ain't in the mood for jumping to no conclusions. I shoulda told him Loretha called. I know it. But I didn't want him to be depressed while he was gone.

My recliner is waiting for me to bring my drink on over and sit down. It feel like somebody just took a vacuum cleaner and sucked all my get-up-and-go outta me. To hell with them Laundromats. They still as raggedy today as they was last week. Washers don't spin. Dryers don't dry. Everybody always want their money back. I don't know what we pay Pop- eye and Flozena for. They don't know what the word "upkeep" mean. And I sure don't feel like smiling at no drug dealers pretending I don't know they drug dealers who come inside to keep warm, 'cause whenever they see me-they know who I am by now-they always walk over and press their face against the window of a warm dryer, trying to act like they checking on they clothes. No. I think I've done enough for one day.

When the phone and doorbell ring at the same time, I damn near jump out this chair. "Hold on a minute," I grumble and stumble out to the front door. The mailman's truck: must be our checks. Probably too much mail to put in the box, so he's bringing it to the door. I open it. It ain't our normal guy, and this one just says, "Good afternoon, ma'am. Certified mail, if you would sign here, please."

And I do, and he hands me a brown envelope addressed to Albert Tous- saint, and it's from the IRS. I want to open it, but my name ain't on it. Just his. I lay it down on the side table and go on back in the family room and pick up the portable. "Yeah," I say as I walk over to the sliding glass door and look out into the backyard. What a dreary day. Patches of gray snow look like dirty clouds on the ground.

"Did I wake you up, baby?"

"Aunt Suzie?"

"Yes, it's me. Was you sleeping?"

"Naw, I just dozed off for a minute. How you doing?"

"I'm blessed and highly favored, if I do say so myself, although everybody keep telling me they swear I got a touch of Alzheimer's. That may be, but I won a hundred and forty-six dollars at Bingo yesterday. Or maybe it was two days ago. It don't matter. I won it."

"That's nice."

"Yeah, it sho' is. I'm going to look for me a car."

I know I must be hearing things. "Aunt Suzie, where in the world would you get that kind of money?"

"I been saving."

"Hold it a minute. First of all, when was the last time you drove a car?"

"In 1978, I thank it was. Some thangs you don't never forget how to do, baby, if you get Aunt Suzie s drift." And she lets out a howl.

"I thought you could barely lift your leg ever since you had your hip surgery."

"I'll manage."

"But what about all that medication you take?"

"That's my business. Ain't it? I'm tired of sitting in this house waiting for the senior citizens' bus or my friends to take me everywhere. Shoot. Sometimes I don't feel like being bothered with old folks."

"Do you have any idea how much cars cost these days?"

"I got almost sixteen thousand dollars in the bank, baby; I should be able to find something that run for that, you thank?"

Did she say sixteen thousand? I just grunt a chuckle. No wonder she done lost so much weight. She ain't eating. But Aunt Suzie been losing it in the head for a long time; I don't know how she think she gon' get behind a wheel. "Aunt Suzie. Let me ask you something. Do you have a current driver's license?"

"It's in my wallet."

"But is it current?"

"I don't know. Stop worrying so much, Charlotte. So how you doing these days?"

"I'm fine."

"That's good. And Al?"

"He's at work. Just got back from his fishing trip."

"Did he catch anything?"

"Yes he did."

"Then tell him to save me some for my Deepfreeze."

"I will."

"How the kids?"

"They fine. They at the movies."

"You still only got three of 'em, don't you?"

"Aunt Suzie, you know how many kids I got."

"It's too many to keep track of sometimes. How many?"

"Still three. Same as last week and last year."

"You know your Aunt Priscilla getting out of prison sometime this week."

"Don't give her my number, please, Aunt Suzie."

"I won't. She said she might wanna go spend some time with Viola, when she get back on her feet good."

I knew this call was really about Mama, she just getting around to it.

"At the rate she going, I betcha Viola gon' be dead before me."

"Stop talking like this, Aunt Suzie! I mean it!"

"I ain't said nothing that probably ain't true. I know it ain't what you wanna hear, but, hell, I may be losing my mind, but one thang fo' sure, I ain't got no problems breathing."

"Well, thanks for cheering me up, Aunt Suzie." "You're welcome. We all getting old, Charlotte. You is, too, so don't go acting like gon' live forever."

"You finished, Aunt Suzie?"

"Nope. How come you didn't take your ass out there to see your mama?"

Goddamnit! I don't need this from her, too. But. Say something. "Aunt Suzie?"

"I'm listening."

"First of all, sometimes people have reasons why they can't do certain things."

"That's why I'm asking, Miss Charlotte. I wanna know what kind of reasons you got that would stop you from going to see your own mama when she coulda died for all you know."

"But she didn't die!"

"She coulda. It ain't over till the fat lady sing. Ain't you heard that?"

"I couldn't afford it! There! You satisfied now?"

"Look, don't go raising your voice at me, missy. If you can whip out them damn credit cards to go to the mall when the spirit move you, how come you can't use one of 'em to get 011 a airplane?"

"I don't fly," I say.

"Then you need to learn," she says. "Goodbye, Charlotte. Have a nice day. And tell Al don't forget my fish. I ain't forgot."

Aunt Suzie always call at the wrong time. It never fail. I put the phone up and walk over and look at that envelope. Shit, I'm his wife. I got a right to open his mail. I do it so fast 1 get a paper cut. First of all, it definitely ain't no check. Not even close. It's a letter. I don't believe my fucking eyes, and my ears start ringing when I read that the IRS is keeping our income-tax checks in order to start paying off his back child support. But he's paying child support! Loretha been getting money taken outta his check for years. What is this shit about? This gotta be some kinda mistake. And when Al get home tomorrow, we gon' find out whose mistake it is.

Chapter 15

House Cleaning

I never bothered to call. What would 1 have said to him over the phone, anyway? "Do you miss me, honey? Or do you miss my daughter more? Why aren't you gone? You were supposed to be gone." Even still, I knew he'd probably be there when I got home. I just knew it. In fact, the more I drove, the more I prayed that he would be. I needed to see him face to face. Look him in the eyes to see if I saw any remorse, any signs of regret or shame.