A Day Late and a Dollar Short (45 page)

"Cecil?" Loretta say.

"I shouldn'ta never sent them papers over there yesterday. This is all my fault!"

"Hold it! It is not your fault. As a matter of fact, she signed them and they're in the mail. Cecil, can I tell you something, even though I know this isn't the best time?"

I wipe my nose and eyes on my sleeve. "Go 'head."

"Viola loved you. I don't have to tell you that. But she also told me that she was glad you left."

"What?"

"She said you needed to be with somebody who could still appreciate you, because she couldn't."

"But she used to, Loretta. She did."

"Cecil, when women get older, sometimes our minds and bodies and hearts go through all kinds of stressful and even traumatic changes and we are not our old selves, and it hurts when we don't know how to get our old selves back. We look around and everything's changed. Our kids are grown and don't need us anymore-at least they don't think they do. Our bodies are old and look nothing like we think they should. And in some ways all these things make you feel a sense of hopelessness, a sense of loss on top of loss, and you don't even know you're grieving, but we are indeed grieving.

I've been doing it for quite some time. And your wife: your outspoken, big- mouthed, cuss-like-a-goddamn-sailor of a wife, Viola Price, who was my best friend, helped bring me back to life after Robert died. We were going on a cruise next week, and, Cecil, I know you're hurting, but I'm going to miss her something fierce, too."

I make myself sit up, 'cause I realize that I ain't the only one who losing Viola. What about the kids? Lord, how they gon' handle this?

"Cecil?"

"I'm still here, Loretta."

"I have something for you."

"What you mean?"

"Viola gave me something yesterday afternoon to give to you."

"Wait a minute. When did this happen, Loretta?"

"About two hours ago."

Two hours ago I was rubbing Brenda's stomach.

"She told me to give you this envelope if anything ever happened to her."

"What?"

"I have it right here. She just asked me to tell you that she would appreciate your waiting until the first Thanksgiving after she's gone to open it."

"A envelope? Thanksgiving?"

"Uh-huh. Viola also hoped you would spend it with your biological children, just this once. If you can't, then she doesn't want you to read this until you can. Shall I hold on to it, mail it, or what?"

"I don't know, Loretta. I can't thank right now. Let me thank. I wonder why Viola had to write something to me. . . . Do the kids know?"

"I'm sure they do by now. I'm sure they do."

"What about Shanice? Where she at?"

"She's right here with me, sleeping. Janelle's trying to get on the first flight out this morning. They're both taking it pretty hard."

"I know. I'll be over there in a litde while, but I gotta be still for a minute or two."

"I understand, Cecil. I understand. Just let me know what I can do to help."

I sit here for a long time. Until some fella turn the lights on and ask if I wouldn't mind going into a different office to finish blowing off steam. He said women ain't worth half the tears they generate and for me not to worry, 'cause, after his wife called him on this very same phone to tell him she was leaving, it didn't take him no time to find a replacement.

Chapter 31

Old Purses

I don't even remember the plane ride. I know it took almost twenty-four hours to get home. Dingus met me at San Francisco Airport and drove me home. I remember his face when I told him. I still hear Charlotte and Lewis's voices when I had to tell them over the telephone. And Daddy. He's suffering from guilt when he shouldn't be. All of this feels like it's been a bad dream, a very bad dream, and I don't think I truly woke up and accepted the reality until I walked in here-into Mama and Daddy's house-and she still wasn't here. She wasn't anywhere. And there was nowhere I could call to talk to her to get her to come home.

Dingus is a mess. Shanice is so broken up there doesn't seem to be anything anybody can say to console her. Janelle even slept in Mama's bed. I'm not that strong. I'm afraid if I smelled her sheets I'd lose it completely. I can't afford to be out of control right now, because I'm the one who's been asked to make the arrangements for her funeral, which is going to be in Chicago, where she was born. Where we were all born. Imagine that: a funeral. And Mama's going to be the star attraction. Everyone's going to come out to see her: Viola Price. I wish they didn't have to. I wish everyone could've come and seen her live and in color, right here in stupid Las Vegas. I wish those paramedics had worked harder, or not tried to be such fucking heroes and gotten her to the hospital sooner. I wish Mama had called them five minutes earlier. I wish she hadn't eaten that greasy spaghetti before she went to sleep. Wish she hadn't inhaled paint and carpet and gas fumes all in one day.

But she did. And no matter how much I-or any of us-wish, she's not even here for us to chastise. As the oldest, I got away with telling her off, and if she were here, it would give her an excuse to cuss me back out. She always accused me of thinking I'm "so damn smart and know every-damn-thang." But I don't. Mama. I don't know anything except that I want the calendar to flip back a day, the clock to tick in reverse for forty-eight hours so we can go back and do this shit differently, do this right, so that Viola Price will be able to breathe on her own. So that there will be no funeral in three days.

None of us are actually talking. We're just moving through this house like zombies. Charlotte's not here. She said she's got too much to do trying to get things ready for friends and relatives coming in from all over, and did we forget about Quiet Hour? When everybody comes to her house after the services?

We're still waiting to find out if they're going to let Lewis out for the funeral. Daddy called and said he's coming by later. He sounded old. Tired. Like he might not survive this. I feel sorry for him. Even if he'd been thinking about coming back home, it's too late now.

Janelle and I have to go through Mama's things all by ourselves. I've never gone through her things before. Never gone through anybody's things. We haven't started, because Miss Loretta's on her way over here. She said she has to tell us something. Something important. I've just been opening and closing the kitchen drawers, wondering what we're going to do with all these forks and knives and spoons. When I looked in Mama's linen closet, there were tons of sheets and pillowcases, all of which had been starched and ironed and stacked flat. She even had a separate pile of handkerchiefs. I never once saw Mama with a handkerchief in her hand.

"Paris, wake up! Miss Loretta's here," I hear Janelle say. She's shaking me. I didn't even realize I'd fallen asleep on the couch.

"Okay!" I yell, sitting up, but feel a crick in my neck.

"I'm sorry, dear."

"It's all right, Miss Loretta. How are you?"

"I'm probably feeling pretty much like you all, if you can understand that."

"We do," Janelle says. "We do."

"Mind if I sit?" "No," I say, sliding over. "Dingus! Shanice!"

"Yes, Ma?"

"What are you two doing out there?"

"Nothing much. Looking at Granny's little garden. It's tight. She's got a bunch of stuff growing out here."

"Please stay out there until I say it's okay to come in, can you do that?"

"Yes, we can."

"Now," I say, turning to Miss Loretta, "what did you want to tell us?"

"Where's your brother and other sister?"

"He's been detained. We're hoping he'll be in Chicago for the service. And Charlotte lives there, so she's trying to make sure everything's organized."

"I see." Her white hair looks lavender. I just realized that. I never noticed much about her except that she was white and old. And for the first time, I realize that Miss Loretta is pretty. I'd bet she was a knockout when she was younger. It's written all over her face. I wonder if she has any other close friends. But she plays bridge, she should. I'm also wondering if Mama ever actually got the hang of it. She said Miss Loretta was trying to teach her.

"Do they need to be here?" Janelle asks.

"It's all right. You two can share this with them."

Janelle sits in one of Mama's gold chairs. What are we supposed to do with them? What about all of this stuff in here? What do you do with someone's personal belongings when they die? I don't want to think about it right now. "What exacdy is it we need to share, Miss Loretta?"

"Well," she says, clasping her hands together, "first of all, your mother and I talked about this quite some time ago."

"Talked about what?" Janelle asks.

"About what to do if she passed away suddenly."

"What?" I say.

"She knew it might happen, with her asthma and all."

"Okay," Janelle says, paying extra-close attendon.

"Anyway, Paris, as the oldest, she wanted me to tell you a few things. First, she wants you to go through all of her old purses."

"Her old purses? For what?" I say. "Why?" "I'm not sure. She just asked me to tell you that." "That's kind of a strange request," Janelle says. "It sounds like she knew this was going to happen."

"Well, after the last attack, Vy told me that she didn't think she could go through it again. That she was tired of fighting, and if she ever had another one even close to one like that, she probably wouldn't be able to handle it." "Really? She told you that?" I ask. "Yes, she did." "When?" Janelle says.

"Right after you all left back in March." Now she's reaching into her purse, pulling out what looks like a bunch of white envelopes. I forgot about Mama's mail. What do we do about her mail? Do we just open it and read it? And what if it's personal? What if it's something we shouldn't know? I never thought about any of this stuff before.

When Miss Loretta presses the envelopes to her chest, something tells me they're not bills or anything close to it. "Your mother wrote each of you a letter," she says, trying not to cry, but neither she, nor I, nor Janelle can help it.

"Mama wrote us all letters?"

"Yes, she did. And they're right here."

"May I have mine?" Janelle says, holding out her hand.

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because that's not how Vy wants it done." "What does Mama want done?" I ask.

"She asked me to tell you that she doesn't want any of you to read them until the first Thanksgiving after she passes, and only if all four of you can manage to spend it together. At that time, she wants each of you to read the letter out loud and in front of each other, but you can't read your own." "What?" Janelle says, obviously confused about this. "Paris, she wants you to read Charlotte's." "But why?"

"I'm not sure. And she wants Charlotte to read yours."

"So that means I have to read Lewis's and vice versa. But I wonder why?"

I sink back against the couch and drop my head. What could she say to us in a letter that she couldn't say or hasn't already said to us before? "Do you know when she wrote them, Miss Loretta?"

"No I don't. But I already gave your father his."

"She wrote one to him, too?" Janelle says.

"Yes, she did."

"Does he have to wait until Thanksgiving?"

"Yes. And Vy hoped he'd spend this one with you all."

"What if we snuck and read them?" Janelle asks.

"Are you fucking crazy?" I say. "Oh, I'm sorry, Miss Loretta. I mean, are you crazy? Is that how you think we should honor Mama's wishes, by disrespecting them?"

"I'm sorry. I just asked. November's a long way off."

"Who should keep the letters?" I ask.

"You, because, and I'm quoting her, 'as the oldest, you're going to have to be the mama now.' Vy also suggested-or, I should say, insisted-that you children make every effort to spend at least one holiday together each year, because she was really worried that you all are missing out on being a family."

"But we are a family. We just live in different cities," Janelle says.

"You know, Vy told me that when she was a youngster they had family reunions every year, and since most folks didn't move away from home like they do now, everybody usually came. She said her cousins were just like sisters and brothers. That's how close they were. But nowadays, she said, too many families are like strangers. And I agree. I have two sisters I haven't seen in going on eighteen years. Vy just doesn't want you all to wait until you're all old and your kids are grown before they get to know each other. Do it now, while they're young. And she wants you all to try to spend some time doing things together, too."

"But we try to, Miss Loretta, it's just so hard with everybody's schedules," I say.

"Try harder," she says. "Vy said kinfolk should know kinfolk. Friends come and go, but family is forever. She said you don't have to like your kinfolk, but accept them-faults and all-because they're your flesh and blood."

"That's true," I say.

"Your mother was smart and wise, you know. I wrote down so many things she said, because they were just so helpful to me."

"She's right," Janelle says. "Shanice doesn't know Tiffany or Monique at all, and they're about the same age. They should have something to talk about, but they don't."

"I know," I say, agreeing. I realize Dingus doesn't really know my brother's son-or his aunts and uncles, for that matter. I never actually thought about this except as a passing thought. It's one of those things you hope to do one day, right up there with going to church every Sunday, reading the paper every day, or a book a week, or exercise, and thank-you notes.

"I'm not through," Miss Loretta says. "Paris, Vy wanted this first Thanksgiving to be at your house, since you like to cook, and that, every year thereafter, you children vote to see whose home you'll spend it at next."

"Well, we can just skip Lewis," Janelle says.

"Why?" Miss Loretta asks.

"It's a long story," I say. "A very long story."

"I'm not doing anything," she says.

"No, Miss Loretta. We don't want to bore you with it. But tell me something. Are you still going to go on the cruise?"