A Day Late and a Dollar Short (34 page)

Jimmy never hurt anybody. Even after he got his degree and became a high-school coach, he still spent his summers out here, volunteering, helping to train young track hopefuls for the Junior Olympics. His heart was big, and I'm glad I was lucky enough to feel it. He was the best thing that ever happened to me. I'm sure if he were still here Shanice and I would be happy. He wouldn't have let anything happen to her or me. He was a protector, and the sad thing is, no one in his neighborhood even cared. I think it was Malcolm X who said that when we kill each other senselessly it's genocide, and the white man is smiling, watching us do a job he doesn't have to anymore. I'm sure this is why they never found out who killed my husband. They just never looked that hard.

I pass Norniandie Avenue and Western and Crenshaw Boulevard and realize how Rodney King made these streets famous. They still don't look too inviting.

I searched high and low for Arlene's number-she's George's ex-wife- and I found it in one of the very same Christmas cards she'd sent him four years in a row. On a separate piece of paper she always asked that he call her before the holidays and make sure he didn't forget to send her some money like he promised or she was going to have to get ugly. Each time George simply said, "Bitch," and tossed them into the trash. I kept the first one and put it away. This morning I tried calling the number she'd written inside, but it belonged to someone else. I knew she was still in the same place- rent-free-because George owns the duplex. I guess this was a form of alimony, since, from what I gather, Arlene has never worked.

This place looks like it's one of the few houses on the whole block that have been maintained. It's old, but the paint is fresh. It's either a pale yellow, or almond, I'm not sure. There are several round flowerbeds surrounded by little mesh fences on the patch of grass that's posing as the lawn, which I can tell has recently been cut. Some kids are rollerblading at the end of the block, up what appears to be a jump that they made out of plywood planks. Two elderly black men are sitting on the sidewalk in kitchen chairs with their legs crossed, drinking Pepsis.

I park in front of a rusting blue Escort and walk up to the door and knock. I don't exactly know what I'm going to say to her if she's here. What if she slams the door in my face? What if she could care less that I've come? What if she doesn't care what has happened to my daughter?

"Yeah, who is it?" a husky voice says through the door.

"Is Arlene Porter at home?"

"Who's looking for her?"

"Janelle Porter."

"Say what?" And I'm surprised when a handsome woman who must be about fifty-three or -four opens the door. "What you doing way over here?" she asks. "Is George dead?"

"No. I'm afraid not."

"Then what can I do you for?" she asks, not moving. I can see over her shoulder that her litde place is clean and neat. That she has taken great care of what she does have. She seems to have taken good care of herself, too. Even though her roots are gray, I can tell her hair has recently been permed because of the way its lying flat against her head. Her skin is flawless-and such a beautiful shade of brown-with not a wrinkle in sight. She could be from one of those Caribbean islands or something. And her eyes. They look green or gray, but I can't really tell. What in the world did she see in George?

"I wondered if I could talk to you about something? It won't take long."

"You mean you wanna come in?"

"If you don't mind."

"I don't mind, but I was just about to walk out the door."

"Oh, I'm sorry if this is a bad time."

"Well, all I got is about a minute, 'cause I gotta get to Ross to pick up something I got on hold before they close, which is about fifteen minutes from now, so come on in but make it quick."

Once inside, she motions for me to sit down on the couch, which I do. Her taste is very seventies, but it's understandable. I see pictures of her daughters as they were growing up, all over the living room in old frames. Only one favors George. In what looks like high-school photos, it's easy to see that they grew up to become attractive girls. I don't know who's who, but one is playing basketball, and looks like she's dunking it. There's a Polaroid of one of them holding a baby. She looks to be about eighteen. Don't know which one it is or how long ago it was.

"How are your daughters doing?" I ask.

"They fine, why?" Like I've asked her about something I shouldn't have.

"I was just curious."

"You didn't drive all the way out here just 'cause you curious," she says, and reaches for and lights a cigarette from her purse. She takes a deep drag, and when she looks at me, her eyes tell me that she knows exacdy why I'm here.

"How old are they now?" "JaDonna's twenty-six and Yolanda's almost twenty-four. Why?"

"Do they live here in L. A., still?"

"Yeah. JaDonna stays here with me, and Yolanda's living somewhere around here in South Central. But I ain't seen her in going on two years."

"Why not?"

" 'Cause we don't speak."

"Why not?"

" 'Cause we ain't got nothing to talk about."

"Is JaDonna here right now?"

"Yeah, she back there in the bed."

"Is she sick?"

"I guess you could say that, but not really. She have her good days and she have her bad days."

"What's wrong with her?"

"She on medication."

"Medication for what?"

"Depression. They say she's manic-depressive. I don't know. Sometime I think she just lazy, but I can't throw her out on the street, you know. She's been through a lot and, plus, being my firstborn and all."

"Yes, I know."

"How you know? You on medication, too?"

"No."

"So, whatever it was you wanted to talk to me about, I think JaDonna can probably fill you in, 'cause she love to run her mouth and she'll give you a earful. She know everything that's gone on in this house, and, besides, the clock is ticking and I gotta get where I'm going."

"Mama, who's that out there?" a voice from down the short hallway asks.

"It's your daddy's fourth wife, Janelle!"

"Third," I say.

"Fourth," Arlene says, correcting me, and kind of chuckles. "I was second."

I feel a hole forming in my throat. Fourth? I take tiny sips of air in order to breathe. That's lie number one.

"Go on back there, it's the first door on the left. Ain't but two. You can't miss it. I won't be but twenty or thirty minutes, tops, but if you ain't here when I get back, I'll understand. Believe me."

"Okay, then."

I want to correct her English so badly I almost can't stand it. I can't believe George tolerated her speaking like this.

"Tell me something, Janelle: is there a wife number five on the horizon?"

"I don't know."

"He's getting too old for all this. I'm surprised you lasted this long. Where's my keys?JaDonna, you seen my keys?"

"Why are you so surprised, Arlene?"

"No, Mama! Try the top of the 'frigerator!"

Arlene puts her cigarette out and walks over to the tiny kitchen area, and, sure enough, her keys are up there. "Because he don't know how to treat a woman. First he spoil you to death by taking care of you, then he gets you to love his last year's drawers, and you trust him, grow to depend on him for everything, and then you find out he been cheating on you the whole time. Didn't you know that?"

"I'm finding out the hard way."

"It took me sixteen years to see the light, but it look like you and La Verne done seen it, too."

"La Verne?"

"Yeah, she was number three. She shot his ass, but I guess that didn't stop him."

"Shot him? George said that wound was from a robbery gone bad."

"That's true, in a manner of speaking."

"Do you know where she is?"

"I heard she took her daughters and moved back to Dallas, but I don't know for sure. Ask George."

"I can't."

"Look, it don't make me no difference one way or another. I got me somebody. And he's decent. Anyway, I done said more than I planned to. I gots to go. After you finish talking to JaDonna, if it's anything else you wanna talk about, fine, maybe I'll see you when I get back. Otherwise, slam the door hard behind you till you hear it click."

And she was gone.

I stand here for a minute, not quite sure what to do now. I really am afraid to go back into JaDonna's room, and find myself taking baby steps in that direction. When I turn into her doorway, a woman who looks like she's in her forties is lying on her side eating Cheez Doodles and watching TV. She must weigh at least three hundred pounds. She couldn't possibly be one of the girls in the pictures, but of course I know she is.

"Hey, Janelle. What lies Mama done told you about us?"

"What do you mean?"

"She lies big-time."

I'm still standing in the doorway. There's nowhere to sit, really. This room is small. Stuffy. The one window in here is partially covered with a black towel, apparendy to keep the light from shining on the TV screen. "Would you mind if I sit here on the floor?"

"Knock yourself out. What brings you all the way over here to the Black Beverly Hills?"

"Well. . ."

"Wait, let me guess. Mr. Fuck Fuck Fuck done fucked your little girl, too. Now, tell me I'm wrong?"

I cannot believe my ears. I didn't expect anything close to this to come out of this young woman's mouth. But all I can say is, "You're not wrong."

She claps her hands together hard. "He just won't quit, will he?"

"So-you're saying that he did this to you and your sister, too?"

"Oh, hell, yeah."

"When?"

"When we was kids and when we was teenagers."

"Why didn't your mother stop him?"

She cuts her eyes at me like a knife. "Stop him how?"

"Didn't you tell her?"

"How long did it take your daughter to tell you?"

"Actually, she didn't. I found out the hard way."

"See there. He blackmails you, making it so hard for you to say anything that when you finally just get tired and say 'fuck it' and drum up enough nerve to tell, you realize you got a mama who's so goddamn stupid and so in love with the motherfucker that she swear up and down you making the shit up just 'cause she don't wanna believe it, even when you finally turn fourteen and get pregnant by your goddamn stepfather and you say, 'Now do you believe me?' and she just accuse you of being a little ho' and make you get a abortion and all you know is this ain't the way you fantasized losing your virginity and you never dreamed in a million years that the first time in your life you'd get pregnant it would be by your fucking stepfather, and since he ruined everything that was meant to be precious, after that you get pregnant again but this time you don't know and you don't care who the daddy is 'cause you been giving it to anybody who want some and that's only because you said, 'Fuck it, fuck everything,' and the next thing you know you ain't got nothing in you that wanna get up and do shit so you just let your mama take care of you and your baby since it's her fucking fault you got like this and you just kick it and take it easy and watch TV and eat as much as you want to and let the days pass by and wait till things get better but you know that that ain't never gon' happen, so here I am. Chillin'."

I don't say a solitary word.

"Say something."

"I don't know what to say."

"I know. This some of that Sally Jesse shit, ain't it?"

"George isn't your father?"

"Oh, hell, no. You didn't know that?"

"No, I didn't." For a few seconds, I'm at a total loss for words here. "How old were you then?"

She closes her eyes and opens them real fast. "Five or six, I guess, 'cause she married Mr. Fuck Fuck Fuck when I was seven. He used to live downstairs in our building. He was married to wife number one, and then Mama took him from that woman."

"Really."

"She said her pussy was that good."

I grit my teeth at her bluntness.

"But turns out it wasn't as good as mine and 'Londa's."

"So-you mean your mother knew George was doing this to you guys all along and didn't do anything about it?"

"She didn't want to believe us. She believed him."

"You mean nobody reported it?"

"Report it to who? If your own mama don't believe you, who else gon' fucking believe you?"

"Didn't you tell somebody else? Relatives?"

"She told 'em 'Londa wasn't right in the head. Which wasn't no lie at the time."

"But what about you?"

"I gave up a long time ago. I didn't get out the bed for six months, till they put me on this medication. But, hey, ain't nothing wrong with 'Londa's head except she just hates Mama big-time, and that hate done turned in on her."

"And you don't?"

"I feel sorry for her, really."

"Why?"

"For being so pitiful and stupid. I think something is wrong with her, to tell you the truth. The man she got now-Charlie-Z is his name-she took him from a woman who supposed to have been her friend. They lived right across the street. They been knowing each other since high school. But Mama say she ain't done nothing wrong. She said she can't help it if Sheila's man got tired of her. But Mama like taking things that belong to somebody else. It took me a long time to see that this how she got all her men. It's like a game she play to see if she can win. But what do she really win? These ain't real men. They pretend to be good, but inside they smelly rotten. I don't know why she can't see it. She the main reason I don't care if I never love nobody, 'cause, if love can do to me what it's done to her, I don't want none."

"What about Yolanda?"

"What about her?" "Where is she? And how is she?"

"She's around. She do a litde crack. Let me stop lying. She do a lotta crack. But I think she might be in rehab now. She in and out. She keep trying to get it together, but it's hard for her. She ain't spoke to Mama in going on four years."

"Why not?"

" 'Cause she said she ain't gon' never say another word to her until she apologize for not admitting that she knew George did what he did to us."