God Ain't Through Yet (8 page)

I
forced myself to look and sound more cheerful and enthusiastic. “You can outdo both of them,” I said.

I must have sounded and looked too cheerful and too enthusiastic, because Pee Wee gave me a bewildered look. “What?” he muttered, looking at me out of the corner of his eye.

“You can get a big-screen TV and everything else that Henry's got. But you can do even more—hire a manicurist. All the women who work with me go to Maury. They are always looking for ways to get on my good side. I can send them all to you.”

I was happy to see that Pee Wee was giving my suggestion some serious thought. “I didn't know you had that many black women workin' for you. Last time I heard, it was just you and two others.”

“You need to stop thinking about everything in black and white. But for your information, I have four white women, one Asian, and two Hispanic women working for me, too. And before you hear it from somebody else, half of them have already been to Henry's place to get their hair trimmed because they don't want to stand in that long line to get into Maury's.”

“You think you can send 'em my way if I hire a manicurist?”

“I am sure I can do that.”

“Hmmm. I guess I could run an ad in the newspaper for a manicurist. Shit. I don't want some fly-by-night that might run off when business gets good. You know how women are.”

“Then don't hire a woman. Hire a man. They have male manicurists—and they are not all gay.”

“That's somethin' to think about, but whether it's a man or a woman, it could be more trouble than it's worth. If I hire a young woman, she might run off and get married. An older woman might call in sick with a different female ailment every other week. A man, well, whether the man was a f—uh, gay man or not, people would think he was.”

“Let me find somebody for you.”

“You? You want to find somebody to work for me in my shop? Since when did you become a headhunter? I don't know about you gettin' involved in this.”

“I can talk to Claudette and some of the women who come to her beauty shop. They know everything that's going on in this town. They'll even know a good manicurist's dog's business.”

“I don't know about that Claudette. I hear she spreads more gossip than the
Enquirer
.”

My jaw dropped. “Look, do you want me to help you or not? I have to talk to somebody to get the information we need. And Claudette is a good place to start. She knows everybody and everything. Being a gossipmonger is good for something.”

“All right, all right. If that's what you want to do, go ahead and do it.”

“Maybe I should stay out of it. If I do something you don't like, or if something doesn't go the way you want it to go, I'll never hear the end of it. And to be honest with you, I don't want to have another conversation like the one we had today anytime soon. Now, do you want me to talk to Claudette or not? Because if you want to deal with this problem on your own, that's fine with me. I'm getting tired.” My outburst seemed to help.

Pee Wee attempted to smile, but he was taking his time replying.

“Well, do you or don't you want me to talk to Claudette, or somebody? At this point, I'd be willing to talk to Satan if it'll help,” I said.

Pee Wee abruptly stopped trying to smile. He sniffed and moved his lips in silence for a few seconds. It seemed like he was having a hard time getting his words out now. When he did, it sounded like he had a frog in his throat.

Whether he was done with this discussion or not, I was. I looked at my watch and then at the door, and I was glad he saw me doing that. I wanted him to see that I was impatient. “Well, if you're goin' to do it, you better get on it right away,” he said with a heavy sigh.

“Don't worry. I am going to find you somebody that you won't be able to live without. Trust me,” I told him, squeezing his hand.

It felt good to know that I had a new mission to accomplish. One that would benefit me as much as it would Pee Wee, and everybody else concerned, for that matter.

Unfortunately, the problems I usually faced had a domino effect. I knew that if I didn't resolve this one, it would eventually muddy my relationships with everybody else. I didn't need any more of that right now.

I smiled to myself because I was feeling so much better now. I was confident enough to know that I
would
find just the right person to help bring my husband out of the doldrums.

And it definitely had to be somebody who could fulfill all of his needs. I had no idea at the time that I would end up regretting those thoughts in the worst way.

 

I already had enough problems in my life, but I seemed to be adding more and more all the time. And if it wasn't one thing that drove me up the wall, it was another. One of the “new” problems that I had in my life now was that I was often so preoccupied that when people addressed me, it took me a few moments to react. I didn't know if it was part of the “reward” I got for reaching middle age or what. But it was not something I spent a lot of time worrying about. My mother did enough of that for me. When I visited her the day after my conversation with Pee Wee, she jumped on me like a grasshopper.

“What is wrong with you, girl? You look like your mind is a thousand miles away this mornin'.” My mother's loud voice cut into my thoughts like a sling blade.

“Huh? Oh! I'm sorry, Muh'Dear. I wasn't listening. I was thinking about something else,” I explained. “What were you saying?”

“I asked if you been takin' them hormone pills I gave you? And from the way you sittin' here thinkin' about somethin' else, I guess you ain't.” Muh'Dear grunted. “I done told you, you can't get through menopause in one piece without help.”

“I am not exactly at that point,” I reminded.

“You close enough to it! I don't care if you still see a few drops of blood every month. That don't mean nothin'. By the time I was your age, I had already been into the menopause for two years. And I wish you would stop tellin' me you ain't exactly at that point yet. I know better.” My mother paused and stared at the side of my head with raw exasperation. “Me, I know when a woman is gwine through the change, whether she know it or not. Baby, there ain't no sugar left in your bowl, and you are about as bloated as one of them Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade floats. If that ain't enough to send a man on a walk of shame to another woman's bedroom, I don't know what is. Now, I asked you, are you takin' them hormone pills I gave you? At your age, you need all the help you can get if you want to hang on to your husband….”

“Muh'Dear, I told you those pills made me retain water,” I said, giving her an apologetic look. “And they made me nervous so I stopped taking them.”

“Well, excuse me! If you can get through menopause with no help, you in better shape than I was when I went through it.”

“Hell's bells! Do I have to sit here in this restaurant and listen to all this talk about female problems?” Daddy complained.

“Let me tell you one thing, mister. Just because you got that limp piece of raw meat between your thighs, don't think you in the clear. When you got women in your life, her female problems become your problem. And, brother, you got plenty. Just look at your daughter!” Muh'Dear waved at me like I was a wrecked car.

And I felt like one, too.

“W
hat's wrong with this girl?” Daddy asked my mother, looking at me with his eyes squinted. “What's wrong with you now, girl?” he asked me.

“Nothing is wrong with me,” I said with a chuckle, hoping that it would convince them that their unflattering assessment of me wasn't bothering me that much.

“See, ain't nothin' wrong with her, other than the obvious fact that she done lost too much weight. Gussie Mae, you the one brought up this female mess.” Daddy paused and glared at my mother. “I have hard enough time gettin' a good appetite as it is. Pass me them biscuits. Them puppies is screamin' this mornin'. You really put your foot in this grub you cooked this mornin'.” As soon as my father mentioned food, my mother's mood and expression changed.

“Why thank you, Frank.” Even though my mother received a compliment on her cooking all the time, each time she did, she acted like she was hearing it for the first time. She beamed like she had just been crowned queen for a day. “Wait until you taste them turkey necks I'm cookin' for dinner.”

My mother loved it when people complimented her cooking. Cooking was more than a profession to her. Not only had it become a way of life for her over the years, but it had also been the one lifeline that she had always been able to count on. And as long as people had to eat, Muh'Dear would never go hungry, or broke. She even had business cards that read:
EAT HERE OR WE'LL BOTH STARVE
.

My mother owned the Buttercup, the most successful black-owned restaurant in Richland. It was not a particularly fancy or ornate place, but it was full of down-home charm with its maroon table cloths and matching carpet. My late stepfather had left the business to my mother in his will. Next to me and my daughter, it was her most precious pride and joy. She had made a few improvements. She had replaced the old carpets and reupholstered the booths. And she had replaced all of the old autographed pictures of dead celebrities with some of celebrities who were still alive.

One thing Muh'Dear had promptly made sure of was that when she passed on, the restaurant and everything else she left behind would belong to me. Even though she had remarried my father, she was still bitter about him leaving us for that white woman. And she made damn sure he would not benefit from her hard work. She adored Pee Wee, but she had strongly advised me to draw up a last will and testament that would make sure
he
didn't get his paws on the deed to the restaurant or the house that he and I lived in, which was in my name only.

Not only was the restaurant in a nice, quiet, safe neighborhood, it catered to Richland's most upscale residents. It was not unusual to see the mayor or a corporate CEO sitting at a table or in a booth, humped over a large plate and some of the lemonade that my mother made, which included a dash of lime in each glass. “Serve up somethin' unique and it'll keep 'em comin' back” was her motto. And she was right. She had a large group of loyal customers whom she treated like family. They appreciated her hard work and dedication to her business, and they never failed to let her know. The few times that they didn't remind her of how inspirational she was, she did. Muh'Dear never stopped talking about how she had once cleaned toilets and lived in shacks. Now she lived like a queen, and most of the time, she acted like one, too. She wore expensive outfits, got her hair and nails done every week, took trips to exotic locations, but she still treated me like I was two years old.

If I didn't stop by the Buttercup or the house that Muh'Dear owned a few blocks from it at least one day a week to have a meal with her and my cantankerous father, they'd hound me until I did. It did me no good to remind my mother that I had changed my eating habits. I no longer gobbled up the large, unhealthy feasts that she'd introduced me to in the first place. Throughout my childhood, she had pacified me with every fattening, greasy, unhealthy thing that she could get her hands on. What was so ironic about all of that was, she was the main person warning me back then about how I was going to end up as big as a moose. Even after I'd ballooned up to the size of a small moose, she continued to unintentionally sabotage every diet I tried. She had ambushed me with so many fried potato sandwiches that throughout my teens my skin resembled a potato hull.

“Why do you keep lookin' toward the door? You expectin' somebody?” Muh'Dear asked me.

“Uh, I was hoping Rhoda would come,” I muttered. I sloshed the coffee around in the large cup that Muh'Dear had set in front of me. I tried to ignore the platter a few inches from my face that contained a mountain of grits swimming in a pool of butter, scrambled eggs, and a stack of wheat toast on a saucer—each slice slathered with butter, jelly, and enough greasy bacon to bring down a horse. “You know how Rhoda loves your cooking.”

“Well, she ought to show it more! That woman is as thin as a rail. She eats less than a gnat when she comes up in here. And me with my crazy self, in that kitchen sweatin' over that hot stove and whatnot—just wastin' my time on a skinny minnie like her! Poor Rhoda. I been tryin' to put some meat on them hip bones of hers for years. Men like healthy women. Rhoda don't watch her step and thicken them thighs of hers, she gwine to lose her husband,” Muh'Dear predicted. “Eat your food before it gets cold.”

I bit off a tiny piece of bacon and looked toward the door again.

Rhoda usually accompanied me to the restaurant, and I used her as an excuse to make a quick getaway. But when she couldn't leave her house, where she ran a licensed childcare center for pre-schoolers, she called the restaurant at a time that we had agreed upon to tell me she had an emergency situation and needed my help. She was five minutes late today. I slid back the sleeve of the red silk blouse that I had on and checked my watch.

“Why do you keep lookin' at your watch?” Daddy asked, biscuit crumbs decorating his bushy gray beard like confetti. For a man pushing eighty, my father had a lot of energy. He got up every morning at the crack of dawn and walked the four blocks from the house he shared with my mother to the restaurant. My mother got up even earlier, and by the time Daddy made it to the restaurant, she had his breakfast ready. She also had a laundry list of chores for him to do that day and a list of complaints that she wanted him to address. Today, I was on that list of complaints. “Your mama tells me that you been runnin' all over town tryin' to find some makeup artist to work for Pee Wee. What's wrong with you, girl? What Pee Wee need a makeup artist for? He already look like a clown.” Daddy had a serious look on his face, but my mother snickered.

“Manicurist,” I corrected, stabbing one of the seven slices of crispy bacon on my plate with my fork. Despite the fact that I had shed over a hundred pounds, my mother still tried to feed me like I was Hulk Hogan. I had barely touched the feast in front of me. She had also set a coffeepot with enough coffee for eight people next to the platter. Even though I'd been taking my coffee black for months, next to it was a container full of Half n' Half and sugar.

The Buttercup was already busy, and it was only ten thirty. Construction workers, a few cops, people who were coming off the night shift, men and women in office attire, and a few young people from a nearby business college occupied almost every table and booth. I had left my office at nine thirty. The only way I was going to make it back in time to interview the first candidate who had applied for the manicurist position was if Rhoda rescued me within the next ten minutes. Bless her heart. She would if she could, and that was what I was counting on.

Before I could form my next thought, Hazel Strong, Muh'Dear's day shift bartender, motioned to me from the bar counter across the room that I had a phone call. “Annette, Rhoda's on the phone. She say she got an emergency, but she won't tell me what it is,” Hazel reported in her loud, nasally voice.

“I'll be right there,” I told her.

Hazel looked disappointed, and I knew that it was because she was dying to know why Rhoda was calling me. Like with my mother and so many other people I knew, collecting and spreading gossip was a form of creative nourishment. It kept their brains and their tongues sharp.

“Where are you gwine, gal? I know you don't think you gettin' your sorry tail up out of here leavin' all that good food on your plate!” Muh'Dear hollered.

“Box it up for me. I have to take this call,” I hollered back, already trotting across the floor to the telephone on the counter next to the cash register. “It's about time,” I said to Rhoda as soon as I picked up the receiver. “Where the hell are you?” I glanced around and lowered my voice to a whisper. Rhoda knew Hazel well enough not to tell her what the “emergency” was that she was calling me about, so Hazel was trying to eavesdrop. She stood a few inches from me, wiping the same spots on the counter over and over. That was why I was whispering. “You're supposed to rescue me. I'm sinking like a block of cement in a bowl of quicksand over here.”

“Listen, I've got an emergency situation,” Rhoda replied in a tired voice.

“Did you hear what I just said? Rhoda, it's
me
. You can cancel that emergency ruse,” I said, still speaking in a low voice because Hazel was still trying to eavesdrop and still wiping the same spots. “Girl, you called in the nick of time. Uh, my mother was well on her way to roasting me like a fatted calf.”

“No, I'm serious. I do have an emergency, so I can't accommodate you this time.”

I held my breath as I waited for Rhoda to elaborate. She remained ominously silent, and that made me more than a little nervous. “Is something wrong?”

“Big time,” Rhoda sputtered. “And it's not somethin' that you are goin' to want to hear….”

“Well, if it's something you don't think I want to hear, do I need to hear it at all? And if it is, is it something that you can tell me in five words or less?” I was no longer whispering, but I kept my voice low.

“I can tell you in three: Jade Marie O'Toole.”

“Oh, dear God no!” I gasped and stumbled. Hazel moved closer to me with her arms outstretched, as if expecting me to fall to the floor. My legs got so weak I almost did fall. Somehow I managed to contain myself by holding on to the counter. I motioned for Hazel to move back. “Rhoda, I'm having a bad enough day already. Please tell me you're joking, and if you are, this is not funny.”

“What makes you think I'm jokin'?”

The seriousness of Rhoda's tone scared me. I knew that this was one subject neither she nor I would ever make a joke out of.

Other than cancer and divorce,
Jade Marie O'Toole
were the other three words in the English language that sent the most shivers up and down my spine. But I had three more words of my own that described Rhoda's daughter even better: Bride of Satan.