A Day Late and a Dollar Short (12 page)

"Then that would leave you with one of three choices: divorce his ass; get you somebody; or blow his brains out." Then she started laughing so hard I could see her gray edges.

Two days later, I went home. But only after hours of crying and negotiations and threats and promises of never-will-I-cheat-agains. Al went out of his way to show me how happy he was to have us back. He took me shopping, took me to the movies, let me get on top, and swore that this was the only time during all our years of marriage that he'd ever messed around. I decided it was easier to take him back than it was to leave.

So here we are. A little more than ten years later. I guess we still in love, but we got more problems than fish. That much I do know.

"Ma, what's for dinner?" Trevor is asking me.

I look over at him, looking just like his daddy-except Trevor got my Maxwell House color, but those green eyes from them Toussaints. He's much taller than Al-almost six four-and the doctor say he still growing. How I don't know. I get on up out this chair. "Order a pizza," I say. "I don't feel like cooking. Go tell the girls to come on in and get started on their homework. And I don't wanna hear no whining today."

"Can I go get the pizza?" This means he wants to drive. He just got his license a few months ago. How, I'll never know. As Mama would say: His mind ain't long as a toothpick. He so busy watching what everybody else is doing that he don't pay enough attention to what he doing. He can't parallel-park to save his life, and the way he change lanes scares me, but what the hell. It's only down the street.

"Go," I hear myself say. "And pick up my lottery ticket, would you? I forgot."

"What about some money? Who should I get it from, you or Daddy?"

He standing right next to me and I gotta look up to him. He's not only taller than Al, but better-looking. Even though I didn't think that was possible.

"Ask me what?" Al says, standing in the doorway.

"For pizza money," Trevor says, as he heads toward the sliding glass door to go yell to the girls.

"Did you hear the messages on the machine from Paris and Janelle about your mama?"

"Yes."

"So-she's all right, then, ain't she?"

"I haven't talked to her yet."

"Why not?"

"I was gon' call her later."

Al just look down toward the floor, then back at me. "Later? One day it might just be too late, Charlotte. You oughtta stop acting so childish."

Next thing I know, Al is reaching for the phone, but I go over and snatch it from him. "She's my mama, not yours!" I yell, and start crying again.

"What's wrong with Ma, Daddy?" Tiffany's asking. Her and Monique are standing in the foyer, unzipping their ski jackets. Looking at them, you'd swear Monique was older, since she's taller. Both of 'em are prettier than any of those girls that be in them music videos on BET. Run circles around a whole lot of Miss Americas, too. People forever telling me that Tiffany is Vanessa Williams's double.

"Your Granny Vy is in the hospital, but she's gon' be all right," Al says.

Tiffany walks around to see if she can get a better look at me. My eyes must be red and shiny, 'cause she looks at me like she can't believe I been crying. The kids ain't used to seeing me act weak and stuff. I usually cry when I'm mad, not hurt. I straighten up. Crack a smile. Tiffany cracks one, too.

"You guys go do your homework. Trevor's going to get a pizza."

"Yeah!" Monique yells.

"Anybody wanna come with me?" he asks.

"Nope," Monique says.

"Not me," Tiffany says. They don't like his driving either.

"Just order the thing, go, and come right back," I say. Al reaches in his pocket and gives him a twenty. After the girls go upstairs and Trevor heads toward the garage, Al stands there and looks at me with the phone in my hand.

I'm thinking: I wanna call, but what am I gon' say? Sorry for hanging up on you and not calling for four months? Why you have to be so stubborn, Mama? You coulda called me, too, after all, you the one who was yelling at me.

"Well?" he says, shaking his head, then goes on back upstairs and turns on the TV. I look down at the Essence magazine I wrote the number to the hospital on, but for some reason I find myself dialing Smitty s number instead. When his wife answers, I'm tempted to hang up, since we ain't never been close except sitting next to each other at company dinners or in the same row at church and what have you, but I figure she might get suspicious and accuse Smitty of something stupid if I do, so I say, "Hi, Lela, how you doing?"

"Charlotte?"

"Yep. It's me."

"What a surprise. How's everything?"

"Fine, Lela. Look. Can I ask you something, woman to woman?"

"I guess so. Like what?"

"You ain't mad about Smitty going fishing?"

"Going where?"

"Fishing."

"When?"

"This weekend. With Al."

"Smitty ain't going nowhere this weekend except in the backyard. He's been promising to build us a shed, and unless we have another snowstorm, that's exacdy what he's gon' be doing. Plus, his uncle died and the funeral's on Saturday. You sure he said this weekend?"

"I thought he did, but maybe I got the dates mixed up."

"It don't make no sense to me. Smitty's scared of water unless it's in a bathtub," she says, and chuckles a litde. "So-how's everything else, Charlotte?"

"Well, my mama's in the hospital."

"Is she gon' be all right?"

"I think so. I'm about to call her now."

"I'll pray for her," Lela says.

"Thank you, Lela. Take care. And do me a favor?"

"What's that?"

"Don't even bother mentioning this to Al. It ain't important."

"Okay. Hope to see you in church real soon."

"You will. You definitely will." I'm trying hard not to bite my tongue, I'm gritting my teeth so hard. Fishing, huh? Now I know exactly what kind of pole he plan on using. Well, good luck, Al. I hope you catch more than you bargained for. I do. I really, really do.

I dial the hospital numbers so fast they blur. Everything in here is a blue blur. Wrong number. Try again. I wish I had a good girlfriend I could call. But I don't. Al was right. Wish I could talk to my sisters. But I can't. They worse than two-faced friends. Tell 'em your business and they talk about you like a dog behind your back. To each other. To their friends. Which is one reason why I keep my business to myself. I only tell people what I want them to know. You can't hardly trust nobody. Can't give out personal information. They just like a employer. Put everything in your file, then use it against you later.

That's why I need to talk to my mama. I shoulda called her before now. Before she got sick. Long before she got sick. I shoulda called months ago. Never shoulda hung up in her face. Fishing. And my mama's in the hospital 'cause she can't breathe. Well, I can't hardly breathe either. Call her, Charlotte. Right now. She'll tell you what to do. She been in this situation before herself. First, I need a glass of Asti Spumanti. No you don't. Dial the number. And this time be honest. Tell her about the first time. And now this. Tell her you was wrong. For hanging up. Can you do that? Admit you was wrong? No I can't. Because I wasn't wrong, was I? Yes you was, Charlotte. But what difference do it make? By calling, she'll know I'm sorry. By dialing this number, she'll know. She'll hear it in my voice. I ain't gotta say the words. Plus, they words she ain't never said to me. Regardless: call. Listen to the sound of her voice. Pray she ain't wheezing. You know she gon' try to act like ain't nothing wrong with her. Like she ain't in no hospital. Like she can breathe. So you pretend, too. Pretend you don't hear that rattle in her chest, and when she ask if you been doing all right, try to tell the truth. And this time listen to her. Listen to every word that comes out of her mouth, whether you agree with what she says or not. Keep your mouth shut. And just listen. And whatever she tell you to do, Charlotte, just do it. Even if you have to pretend.

Chapter 6

Behind My Back

I heard I might be a lesbian. If I was I certainly wouldn't try to hide it. But, then again, I also heard I have terrible taste in men. I'm confused. Which is it? Or could I possibly be both? I understand the source of the first lie stems all the way from Chicago. This is where my used-to-be-favorite sister, Charlotte, hails from. The second untruth comes directly from none other than my mama, who thinks she's a good judge of character, but if that was the case, why has she stuck with Daddy all these years?

I also heard I'm a perfectionist. Which I will admit to: and proud of it. They make it sound like a dirty word. All I have to say is: don't hate me because I'm organized. Which is exactly why I'm sitting in front of my computer at five-thirty in the morning, lamenting over another episode of the Price Family's Continuing Saga, when in fact I should be finishing up the final details for a Moroccan birthday party a client is throwing in three weeks for her future husband. I just had to open my big mouth and suggest that she make it exotic, and of course she got so excited picturing her forty guests sitting on the floor, eating with their fingers, then washing them with warm rose-scented towels while two belly dancers swish and swirl their way around them, that now I have exactly four hours to fax the proposed menu and budget.

I'll make my deadline, because I believe when you make someone a promise you should keep it. Even if you have to break your neck to do it. When people depend on you, you should be reliable. That's how I run my business. It's how I try to run my life. Business is often much easier, but, then, who's complaining?

Right now, I suppose I am. Mama's in the hospital. In Las Vegas. And my so-called siblings have taken their sweet time calling to let me know what their plans are. She's just getting out of ICU, which is reason enough for me to hop on a plane to go see her. I'll bet that Hello Sweet Charlotte won't be coming-she'll use that lame-ass excuse about being afraid to fly. But Charlotte's just cheap. You'd think your mama would be worth more than some new wallpaper.

Lewis, on the other hand, probably doesn't even know Mama's in the hospital. He has trouble keeping a phone. He has trouble keeping apartments. He has trouble keeping cars, at least the kind that run. He went out and bought a bike. But then he claimed his so-called arthritis was bothering him so much that he couldn't ride it, and then somebody stole it, and what was he supposed to do then? Somebody's always stealing something from Lewis. Last time it was a mattress. How in the world do you steal a damn mattress?

And how about that daddy of ours? He's the one who should W called all four of us in the first damn place. I left three messages and he never bothered to return my calls, which is when my instincts told me to try the hospital. Daddy is not my most favorite person. In fact, I might as well admit it: I don't like him, mostly because of the high heartbreak rate he has going against Mama. I've known about his girlfriends probably longer than she has, but for some reason she's either blocked it out or-as they say here in California-she's in denial.

The baby in our family certainly behaves like one, but who can blame her? Daddy did everything for her, gave her everything she wanted. Now she's into her drama with what's-his-name. But I do not trust short men who dye their hair, wear pin-striped socks, smoke cheap cigars, and drive big cars. I don't care if he is a cop.

For starters: How about an Exotic Fruit & Mediterranean Vegetable Platter; Madagascar Coconut Prawns seasoned with a hint of curry and browned to perfection; Cape Verde Island Crab Cakes served alongside cilantro-lime rt- moulade; Salal Cashmere, a lavish platter of tabouli and hummus with steamed prawns and served with an olive-oil-and-fresh-lemon dressing, garnished with Roma tomatoes, feta cheese, and fresh mint, accompanied by fresh- baked garlic-butter pita bread; and Bastia, a classic North African pastry course of delicate, flaky Jilo pastry filled with layers of shredded chicken, cottage cheese, ricotla, and black walnuts with a touch of cinnamon and a host of aromatic spices.

What else have they been saying about me? That I think I know everything; that I feel like I'm always right. Well, I can't help it if I'm resourceful, know more than some folks about some things, but never have I acted like I know everything about everything, and I don't make assertions unless I can back them up. I do not consider this a form of arrogance, and if certain people in my family would allow themselves to be enlightened by something other than Melrose Place, The Young and the Restless, or Rikki, Jerry, Jenny, and Oprah (even though I love Oprah), maybe they'd be better informed, too. I can say this for Lewis: he reads books that make a point, but I think he's read too many, because he's bursting at the seams with information that he hasn't found an oudet for, but, then, that's where family comes in handy.

I've gotten used to dealing with all of their criticism and accusations. Wait. That's a lie. I haven't. Well, maybe from Mama, but I expect it from her, because, number one, she's my mama and, two, she hardly ever has anything nice to say about any of us, which just means she loves us. If I didn't know better, I'd swear that Charlotte either doesn't like me anymore, or is holding some kind of grudge against me for something I don't have a clue about. Deep down, I know she has a good heart, but I think being soft scares her. She sees it as a weakness. Janelle is just sweet and simple. I wish there was a way I could intravenously dispense some confidence into her while she sleeps, because she doesn't know that self-doubt can ruin a genius; and, plus, Janelle s a whole lot smarter than she gives herself credit for.

The long-held consensus among the Grown Price Children is that, because I was the oldest, I always got my way. Maybe they're confusing me with somebody else. If I remember correctly, we all got our behinds beat when we did something wrong; but because I was the oldest, I was the one who usually got punished when they screwed up. Mama and Daddy held me accountable, which I never did think was fair. Like that time Lewis lit a fire in the dryer. I couldn't leave the house for two weekends in a row. "You shoulda kept a closer eye 011 him. I left you in charge." And then that time he put the car in neutral and it rolled out into the street and blocked traffic and we couldn't find the key or push it back uphill and Mama and Daddy got 011 my case even though I was in the bathroom washing my hair when it happened. "Lewis don't know how to drive. He ain't but eight years old. So what was he doing in the damn car anyway?" I wanted to scream back: "Am I supposed to have eyes out the back of my goddamn head?" But I wish I would've acted like I wanted to raise my voice and talk back. I wouldn't be here now. And how about that time Charlotte fed Lewis and Janelle dog food and put them in the doghouse? Who had to swallow a teaspoon of Alpo and then get on my knees and mop and wax every inch of hardwood flooring in the whole house? Charlotte told Mama I made her do it.