A Day Late and a Dollar Short (52 page)

She kinda leaned back in her chair, but she got a smirk on her face like she already know what the deal is. Or-maybe I'm just a complicated case. Hell, I don't know. "You certainly may."

And then I tell her the whole thing. Afterwards, my throat is dry, so I ask for some water and she gets it for me and comes and sit back down. She looks dead in my eyes and says: "Let me get this straight. This is something that he did ten years ago and you're going to leave him now?"

"Yeah."

"Well, what's happened over the last ten years? Have there been other affairs?"

"I don't think so. No."

"Does he have a gambling or drinking problem?"

"No."

"Has he been a good husband?"

"Yeah, but I can't trust him no more. I already filed for divorce."

"How does that make you feel? I mean, do you feel better now that you've done that?"

"No. That's why I'm here. I feel confused."

"Well, you know what this feels like to me?"

"No, what?"

"It feels like you're applying suntan oil today for a burn you got last summer."

"What?"

"Think about that for a minute."

I do, but, shit, a sunburn ain't the same as a lying husband, so I say, "But he still lied. They took our income tax and everything."

"Okay. But what if he had told you the truth, what would you have done?"

"Probably divorced him."

"Then I can understand why he didn't tell you."

I sorta feel like slapping her, but then I remember what she said a few minutes ago, and I ain't falling for that trap, so I just take another sip of my water and don't say nothing but act like I'm all ears, which I am.

"Are you leaving him as a statement to society, or because you really don't love him and don't want to be married to him anymore?"

"It's about my pride. I don't want him to feel like he can walk all over me. He should tell me the truth."

"This is just one incident that happens to be quite emotionally loaded.

But trust is a very fragile bond that's been woven between two people, Charlotte, one that sometimes has to be rewoven, and when it is, that reweaving can even be stronger."

"Okay, but I gotta go."

"Okay, but let me say this. If after almost twenty years of marriage you don't think there's going to be some secrets, or that your partner isn't going to keep something from you, then your expectations are unrealistic."

"You saying that everybody do this?"

She smiles at me, and now, for some reason, I don't feel like slapping her and wanna take back the one I was gon' give her. "What I'm saying is that sometimes people keep secrets to avoid causing pain to someone they love. That's all."

"Well, I guess that make some sense, but it don't feel good when you find out the truth, that's all I gotta say."

"I know."

"When can I come back?"

"You want to come back?"

"You know I wanna come back. I wanna get my sister's stuff out the way, 'cause Thanksgiving is right around the corner."

"Then why don't you check your schedule, and let's try to meet a week from now, and from there we can decide how often. How does that sound?"

"It sounds good," I say. "It sounds real good."

When I stand up, she gives me a hug. A soft, warm hug. One like a mama or a sister would give you. One like I ain't felt in years. I really ain't gotta go nowhere right now, 'cause I took a sick day. But Cecily was right, she was already starting to tap into something that was making me feel ridiculous, and now I wish I'da kept my big mouth shut, 'cause I really felt like curling up in that chair with a blanket and drinking some hot tea with her and rubbing some of her oil on my wrists and behind my ears while I explained why I wasn't speaking to my mama when she died and how bad I feel about it and why I don't confide in my sisters no more. Because I don't really think they like me. And it hurts. I want to tell Cecily the truth. That I miss my sisters and brother and Mama, and how tired I am of living like I'm out in the middle of nowhere and don't nobody seem to hear me begging to be rescued.

Chapter 36

Thanksgiving

"Daddy, I think we should go ahead and eat without them," Paris says. "The food is getting cold."

"I agree. She knew what time dinner was being served," Janelle says.

"Maybe they got lost. They ain't never drove way out here to California before."

"She probably just wants us to wait so she can make a melodramatic entrance," Paris say, moving Janelle's little plastic turkeys with everybody's name on 'em around the table so nobody a be sitting next to somebody they gave birth to, fathered, or live in the same house with. Janelle thought this would give everybody a chance to get to know each other better. Look like I'ma be sitting next to Randall, Paris s new boyfriend, and the same one who fixed up her yard all fancy.

"Let's all try to think positive," Lewis say, putting ice cubes in our glasses for the second time. He look good, but it's written all over his face that he wish it was a turkey with Jamil's name on it. For sure, next year, he said. One good thang is he been sober for ninety days and'll probably get his driver's license back early next year.

"It's not like she doesn't have my number. She could've called us one way or the other."

"Daddy, are you sure she said she was coming?" Janelle ask.

"I said I'm hoping she'll be here. That's all I said. Look, I'm going on out in the backyard for a few minutes. Somebody let me know if and when they get here."

"We're giving her another fifteen minutes, and then let's eat," Paris says.

All I can say is, Charlotte is just as stubborn as Viola. My long-distance bill gon' be sky-high from listening to her go on and on about her and
Paris's differences. At first, I thought I was doing a good job convincing her that everybody can't see eye to eye all the time. That folks ain't gon' always agree about the way thangs is, was, or should be. But regardless of every- thang, when you blood relatives, somehow you need to figure out a way to overcome all these differences and remind yourself that you part of a family. You ain't gon' never have but one. In this case: y'all sisters. And all this not- speaking mess is ridiculous. I told Charlotte this, and I sat in that kitchen all morning with Paris and repeated the same thang.

Charlotte swore I just didn't know what it felt like always being made to feel like a outsider in your own family. I said ain't nobody taking sides. We ain't laying blame. This is why thangs don't get put right. Everybody wanna blame somebody else. Do you wanna be sisters again, or do you just wanna be right? Paris said she wanted her sister back. Charlotte didn't answer me, so I said, Somehow, some way, everybody gon' have to step up to the plate and accept responsibility for this nonsense. It might not never get solved, but so what? Get the hell over it and let's move on. She kept on ranting, so finally I just said, outta all the times she need to put her pride aside, this is one of 'em. It wouldn't kill her to try it. Plus, I told her to show some respect for her mama, me, and the other kids, and have her black ass sitting at this table with the rest of the family come Thanksgiving Day. I cursed her. Sure did. And I told her I didn't care how she got here either. I was steaming mad. 'Cause this don't make no kinda sense whatsoever, which is why I did something that probably shocked the heck outta her- something I understand she very good at doing: I hung that phone up before she had a chance to say another word. Even still, I been sneaking and calling the house for the past three days and ain't got no answer. Suzie Mae said she ain't seen 'em or talked to Charlotte in going over a week.

And even though it's gon' hurt everybody if she don't show up, one monkey don't stop no show.

It's nice out here. I been watching these orange fish just a-swimming away in they own pond. I ain't never been in no house quite this grand before, and Brenda is sho' 'nough impressed. At first she didn't thank her and the kids-and especially our new baby girl, Chanterella-would be welcome, but Paris set her straight real quick and told Brenda that since her and the kids is part of my life now, that makes 'em part of our family.

I decide to smoke one of them expensive cigars she bought me back from London. This only the second one I even lit. I tasted the first one on my birthday and finished it when Chanterella got here a few hours later. Howie say she look like me even if she ain't mine. But it don't make no difference one way or the other, she my daughter, my brand-new baby girl. And, speaking of Howie, here he come. Just can't let a man have no peace.

"Cecil, you missing the last quarter of the game, man. It's Detroit thirty- five, Buffalo twenty-one."

"I'll be in there in a few minutes, Howie."

"All right," he say. He clean up good. Howie woulda been spending the holiday by hisself, so I asked Paris if he could come with us, since we got plenty room in our new Dodge van, and she said no problem. She a whole lot nicer than I remember. Maybe it's this Randall fella who done put the sparkle back in her eyes. He is a nice young man, no doubt about it. During the first quarter, he told me straight out that not only did he love my daughter, but why he loved her. I ain't used to hearing no man be so honest with his feelings like that, and I'ma see if I can try it. The one thang he said that I truly prized was how much respect he had for her. "Respect" is a strong word. If I didn't know no different, I'd swear Paris gave birth to his litde girl. Summer, 'cause, first ofT, they downright favor each other, and, plus, she been all up under Paris since they got here. Paris been stroking that girl's head, and seem like, the longer she did it, the closer Summer leaned in. She must need a woman to touch her soft like that. I don't know what her own mama's up to, but it ain't none of my business.

They say ain't no accidents in life. Chanterella was born on my birthday and Paris was on her way back from some health club in Arizona and drove all the way to Vegas just to see her. Then Janelle and Shanice turned right around and drove up the next day, and to top it all off, Charlotte went and did something that almost gave all of us a heart attack: took a train to Vegas to give me Viola's half of that lottery money and helped me finish sorting the rest of Viola's belongings since the house finally sold. 1 took her down to Thomasville and she went and bought the very same dining-room set Vy had on layaway and shipped it back to Chicago.

Charlotte asked nie to use some of that money to reopen my barbecue joint so I could stop working at the casino. I told her the only way I'd even thank about doing that was if she was to be my partner. She said that would be kinda hard, living all the way in Chicago, but I told her that weren't necessarily the truth, 'cause this time around I'd be getting me a certified accountant and a real bookkeeper so we can keep track of the money the way them IRS like folks to do. I told Charlotte she could trust me. That I would send her her cut as long as there was something to cut. She said she'd trust me. I liked hearing that.

She even told me she learning how to sell and market food, and can show me how to sell my barbecue sauce in them fancy upscale type a stores. That I can get my picture on the bottle if I want to. Hell, I mean, heck, I can't take so much excitement at one time, but I'm trying to get used to a whole lotta thangs, including missing Viola. I thank she knew exacdy what she was doing when she passed, 'cause she done caused a whole lotta good for all of us.

With that insurance money she left me, I took it and bought her a beautiful headstone and had her picture put on it-the one I got from the kids, with her new teeth and slim body. She'd get a chuckle outta that, I know she would. Me and the kids chipped in and gave the church where she was baptized some money to start a memorial fund in her name that's gon' send a bunch of little ones to sleepaway camp in the summer. Viola'd get a kick outta knowing something was being done in her honor. The rest of the money I used to put a down payment on a nice four-bedroom tract house in a neighborhood where the kids can go to a good school. They don't need to catch no buses. It ain't but four or five black families in our subdivision, but it don't make me no difference. It's still a whole lotta vacant lots and seem like they finish a new house every other week, so it should be some more folks moving in real soon.

And as soon as Chanterella get weaned off breast milk, Brenda say, as long as she ain't gotta give up going to choir practice on Tuesdays and Thursdays, she be more than happy to help run the Shack, 'cause she said she got skills she ain't never had a chance to use. I told her one thang we doing is changing the name to something a little classier. It ain't gon' be no shack, that much we already know. We found a nice spot about ten minutes from where we live, but Brenda worried that black folks won't drive all the way out there for no barbecue. I told her black people will drive as far as they have to for a good bone to suck on, and, besides, white folks like barbecue, too. Our food ain't prejudiced, and this rime around I ain't hiring nobody that can't be bonded, or operating nowhere we gots to keep a gun hid underneath the counter.

I could probably sit out here all day, 'cause it smell just like I imagine a rain forest would. It's getting nice and cool, too. Just the way I like it. I guess I feel brave enough to do this now, so I take Vy's letter from inside my jacket pocket, unfold it, and start reading to myself: June 9, 1994

Dear Cecil:

First of all, I want you to know right now that I ain't been feeling good all day so iffor some reason I don't make it to tomorrow don't go blaming yourself cause I got your papers today. That ain't what did it, baby. It was paint and gas and smoke or maybe just pure excitement at the thought of moving into my new place. But then again, I guess I can tell you that even though I was real happy about my new condo, deep down inside I was scared. Scared to leave this house we been living in all these years, and scared to go somewhere else by myself thinking I'm starting over. I didn't want to start over. I liked it the way it was. But that ain't true either. I wanted you to know that I understand why you left, Cecil. I do. And I know you ain't no low-down dirty adultururous or however you say it. You ain't never done nothing deliberate to hurt me and I appreciate that. I know I turned into a first-class bitch over these pastfive or ten years and I do believe that the change of life had a lot to do with it, but I didn't know it at the time, and of course now, I know that they got medicine you can take to make you feel like your old self again. I do believe this was when I started turn- ing against you and I guess you started turning to somebody else for comfort. I don't blame you. I just want you to know how much joy you brought me over the years and how grateful I am to you for giving me four beautiful kids and that I loved you like you was a delicious apple, Cecil. You remember when we used to be nice to each other? Couldn't get enough of each other? When we made each other laugh and smile? Well, I'm smiling now, Cecil. I'm smiling cause I hope you find some kinda happiness with that young woman and them kids. Don't let Howie talk you outta enjoying her cause he ain't got nobody. Our kids may not warm up to her at first, but give them some time and they'll come around. If they don't, to hell with them too. You do what makes Cecil feel good and help that girl with them kids. I didn't give you a whole lotta credit or time the first time around but now you got another chance. So enjoy it. I'll be honest with you, I hope you don't love Iter with the same hot torch you had for me, but give her a low steady flame, the best part of you, and she'll be happy. I hope you use some of the insurance money to get at least one of the Shacks back open, and if you can, change that stupid-ass name to something classy like "Cecil's House of Barbecue" or "The Best BBQ in Vegas." And try to open it in a decent neighborhood. White folks love barbeque too and you can trick them into thinking it's gourmet food (the same way they do us when we spend a fortune on that mess they make that don't taste like nothing), and black folks will drive to hell and back for some good barbeque some collard greens and potato salad and peach cobbler. Can that girl cook? Ain't her people from Texas? If they are then she should know how to make a decent cobbler and at least a respectable sweet potato pie. And sell your sauce. Ask Paris to tell you how to do it. Let it sit right up there on the shelves at one of them gourmet grocery stores next to all them marinades you scared to try. And do me a few favors, Cecil. Try to see your own kids every now and then. Talk to them on the telephone. Let them get to know you so when you gone, you'll be missed too. And you be happy. Would you do that for me, Cecil? For old times sake?