God Still Don't Like Ugly (16 page)

When he woke up in the mornings, he had the breath to match. I didn’t like what I was thinking about the man I loved. I guess it was because I’d always thought of relationships between lovers as being full of passion and excitement. I had to keep reminding myself that Jerome had a lot of other admirable qualities. And, if it had taken me thirty-five GOD STILL DON’T LIKE UGLY

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years to find Jerome, how many more years would it take for me to find a man I liked better?

“Y’all hurry up and make some pretty grandchildren for me to spoil. Hear me?” Muh’Dear sniffed and blinked back a tear that was threatening to slide out of her eye.

“We will,” I told her. I had to wonder if she would love a dark-skinned grandchild as much as she would love one with light skin. I already knew how Jerome’s family would treat a dark, homely baby. I scolded myself for allowing such a thought to enter my brain about Muh’Dear. I knew my own mother well enough to know that she would love a child of mine no matter what it looked like. Her love for me proved that.

Muh’Dear and Daddy King were the only Black folks living on their block. Every time Jerome and I went to visit, the neighbors peeped out of their windows when we arrived and when we left. It didn’t bother me, but Jerome couldn’t deal with it. This particular night as we were leaving, he gave a nosy, redheaded woman in her window the finger before we got into his car.

I was horrified. “Jerome, what in the world is the matter with you?

Stop acting like you were raised in the ghetto. A lot of white folks already think that about most of us anyway.”

“I can’t stand these racist assholes spying on me like I’m going to steal something. Peckerwoods don’t have a damn thing I would want,” he snarled, glaring at another woman’s face that had suddenly appeared in her window.

“Some people can’t get past the color of some folks’ skin,” I said tiredly, looking at Jerome out of the corner of my eye. I wondered about people like Jerome’s color-struck family. Was it possible that people like them were oblivious to their own color-conscious condition? They must have been, because Jerome totally missed the point of what I had just said.

“We all belong to the same race. The human race. The sooner white folks get that in their heads, the better off the world will be,”

Jerome snorted, snatching his car door open.

He cursed white people all the way back to my house.

Two days after the dinner at Muh’Dear’s house, while I was at work, my stepfather fell down his stairs again. This time he had a heart attack, too. I was so thankful that Muh’Dear was in the house with him when it happened. She was frantic when she called me. “Your daddy 124

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needs you! He done had a heart attack and he might not make it!”

she screamed into the telephone. At first, I thought she meant my real daddy.

“You talked to Daddy? My daddy is dying?”
I yelled. I thought I was going to have a heart attack myself, thinking that I had waited too long to go see my daddy and that now it might be too late.

I froze and dropped the telephone.

CHAPTER 32

After I composed myself, I picked up the telephone and glared at it like it was a hand grenade. My head was pounding, I could barely breathe and my eyes felt like they wanted to roll down the front of my face. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see a few of my coworkers staring at me. My supervisor, a busybody rail-thin woman named Mrs. Kraft, came out of nowhere and stood so close to me I could smell the bourbon she’d just drunk with her lunch.

Even before I could put the telephone back up to my ear, I could hear Muh’Dear yelling, “I’m talkin’ about Mr. King, girl! The ambu-lance is on the way! Meet us at the hospital!” Muh’Dear started crying and praying at the same time. And so did I.

I was way too upset to drive. Mrs. Kraft offered to take me to the hospital after I told her that there was an emergency involving my stepfather. Just from that, she assumed the worst. “I hope he wasn’t drinking,” she said smugly. I didn’t even respond to her comment. I declined her offer and asked her to call me a cab. I didn’t want her to see me fall completely apart. Mrs. Kraft was the nosy kind of woman who liked to soak up all of your personal business and spread it around the office. The last thing I wanted her to know was that I couldn’t control my emotions.

While I was struggling to get into my coat, Mrs. Kraft called me a cab and she called up Jerome. Then she escorted me to the tele-126

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phone company exit. Holding onto my thick wrist with her bony white fingers, she looped the strap of my shoulder purse around my neck like a noose with her other hand. In a concerned tone, she told me, “Jerome’ll meet you at the hospital. I pulled him out of an important staff meeting, but he said you was much more important.”

“I’ll call you when I can,” I told Mrs. Kraft in a hoarse whisper. She stood outside on the sidewalk with me with her arm around my shoulder, trying to find out more about my personal life, until the cab arrived.

Even from his hospital bed, my beloved stepfather managed to keep his spirits up, drinking weak tea and telling weak jokes.

“If I’d known I was goin’ to live this long, I would have taken better care of my body,” he laughed. There was a faint rattling noise coming from him with each breath he took. It gave me a chill.

It was impossible for me not to think about my real daddy whenever I was around Daddy King. I didn’t know which one I loved the most. I had often wished that it had been Daddy King who had moved in with us instead of Mr. Boatwright. Daddy King was such a wonderful man. Other than an estranged brother in Oregon, Muh’Dear and I were the only family he had left.

“Well, you’d better start takin’ better care of that body now before God takes it back,” Muh’Dear said firmly, adjusting the three pillows she had propped Daddy King up on.

It pleased me to see my mother so happy. Other than grandchildren, she had everything else she had ever wanted. Even a few trips to the Bahamas. In addition to the beautiful house she shared with Daddy King and the restaurant they owned, she also owned the house that I occupied on Reed Street. Old Mr. Lawson, whose mansion she had cleaned for so many years, had left the house on Reed Street to her when he died shortly after my return from Pennsylvania. She let me live in it rent-free. Jerome didn’t have to tell me, but I knew that he was planning to suggest that we live in that house after we were married. There was no way the man was going to pass up a deal like that.

“Jerome, you a smart man. You don’t stuff yourself with all that grease and meat like the rest of us do. Once you marry this girl, you make her start eatin’ better. She don’t want to end up on her back, too, like Albert here. Life is too short and gettin’ shorter as we stand GOD STILL DON’T LIKE UGLY

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here,” Muh’Dear said, blinking her eyes rapidly, trying to hold back her tears.

When a nurse came to bathe Daddy King, Muh’Dear, Jerome, and I went down to the hospital cafeteria to try and eat something.

“I can’t believe these people have the nerve to charge four dollars for these sorry-ass sandwiches,” Jerome complained about the cheese sandwich he had ordered. “Fo’ dollars, y’all,” he drawled in an exag-gerated southern accent.

“Don’t worry. It’s on me,” Muh’Dear said quickly, already reaching for her wallet.

“Hmmm. I guess I should go on and get a Coke and a salad, too.

And a piece of that pound cake. Brother King didn’t look too good so we might be here for a while,” Jerome decided. When he wasn’t looking, Muh’Dear looked at me and shrugged.

After Muh’Dear made a big fuss over the engagement ring that Jerome had given me, one he had retrieved from a former fiancée, we ate in silence.

Being inside the hospital gave me a bad feeling. It brought back the painful memories of the dark days I’d spent lying on the second floor recovering from my abortion. Naturally, I was uneasy and nervous. Seeing all those doctors rushing around with the tails of their smocks flapping and their hard-soled shoes clip-clopping on the marble floors was disturbing. The conversations I overheard made it even harder for me. At a table a few feet from us were three stern-faced nurses talking about a baby that had just died. The most unsettling thing I overheard was from another table of nurses: a rape victim had just been brought in. I couldn’t eat after hearing that.

“Let’s go check on Daddy King,” I suggested, pushing my tray off to the side.

Muh’Dear and Jerome looked at one another, then to me with puzzled expressions on their faces.

“We can’t leave all this good food here,” Jerome whined, taking another bite from his sandwich.

“We’ll take it with us,” I said sharply, rising.

Muh’Dear and I left our half-eaten sandwiches on our plates, but I wrapped Jerome’s and stuffed it in my purse.

I noticed something odd right away when we returned to my stepfather’s room. A small vase of fresh flowers that Muh’Dear had 128

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brought and set on the windowsill had already started wilting. They had been nice and perky when we left the room, less than an hour before.

I made it to Daddy King’s bedside first. He was lying on his back with his eyes stretched wide open. I set my purse down at the foot of the bed and I felt Daddy King’s pulse. Then I dropped my head. I closed his eyes with my fingers and turned to Muh’Dear and Jerome standing behind me looking as grim as pallbearers.

“He’s gone,” I said.

CHAPTER 33

Iwished that I had not touched Daddy King before we left him in that hospital bed. No matter how many times I washed my hand, it wouldn’t stop itching.

I had not seen Muh’Dear so upset since Mr. Boatwright died. “Why do all the special men in our lives leave us?” Muh’Dear wailed, staring at a framed picture on her living room mantel over her fireplace of Mr. Boatwright grinning like a clown.

I didn’t have an answer for her, so I kept quiet. I didn’t know at the time, but that sorry picture of Mr. Boatwright that she cherished so much would end up in that same fireplace in flames. And Muh’Dear would be the one to put it there.

The same heart attack that killed Daddy King almost killed my mother, too. I had to send for her doctor to come to the house and tranquilize her. She took to her bed and refused to eat. Just like she had done when Daddy left us. Losing a loved one was a very difficult thing for my mother. She didn’t want me out of her sight. I spent the night my stepfather died with Muh’Dear.

“Baby, your mother needs all the support we can give her. Let me know if there is anything I can do,” Jerome told me when he called.

That evening Jerome came to the house with Scary Mary in tow.

The next day they helped me make all the funeral arrangements and Jerome even volunteered to be one of the pallbearers. He stunned 130

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me by offering to pay for all the flowers. However, he looked relieved when I told him that I had already taken care of that expense.

Scary Mary wanted to sing the same two songs at Daddy King’s funeral that she had sung at Mr. Boatwright’s: “Let The Work He Done Speak For Him” and “I Been In The Storm Too Long.” She arranged for one of her regular tricks, an albino man, to accompany her on the piano.

The same prostitute who had washed and straightened my hair during my childhood came over to wash and press Muh’Dear’s hair.

Muh’Dear was too weak to get out of bed to go to the beauty salon like she usually did once a week. That same prostitute also offered to go to the funeral home to wash and press Daddy King’s hair, but I refused to let her put powder on his face and rouge on his cheeks.

Daddy King had been too dignified a man to go to his grave looking like he was going to a Halloween party.

Running a whorehouse and being involved in God knows what other illegal activities kept Scary Mary busy. But that woman still got around like a Gypsy and she always had time for Muh’Dear and me.

Being in her late seventies had not slowed Scary Mary down one bit.

There were rumors floating around town that she occasionally turned tricks herself with some of her long-time customers.

“I heard that that old battle-ax can give some damn good head.” It was just like Pee Wee to try and make me laugh and he succeeded.

But I was too upset about my stepfather so I didn’t laugh much.

Scary Mary, with a shot glass full of Jack Daniels in her hand, kept giving Pee Wee and me dirty looks as we stood off in a corner in Muh’Dear’s living room whispering the day before the funeral.

Scary Mary paused, took a sip, and belched. “Girl, you all your mama got left now. And you better look after her,” the old madam told me, as she ran the vacuum cleaner over the plush maroon carpet Muh’Dear had just purchased a week ago. Muh’Dear was upstairs in her bed in a near catatonic state.

“Yes, ma’am,” I whimpered.

Daddy King had had a lot of friends. We expected a huge crowd of mourners so the house had to look its best. I was grateful to have Scary Mary around doing most of the work.

“Once you lose your mama, you ain’t gwine to look at life the same no more. Mama and Daddy is the next best thing to God,” Scary Mary added, shaking a finger at me.

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“I still got my daddy,” I said, waving a dust rag. “And I love him just as much as I love my mama.”

“Then you need to make him know it! After all this time, you ain’t been down there to Florida to see him!” Scary Mary hollered suddenly. Just as suddenly, her voice softened and she smiled. “Pee Wee, scat into the kitchen and get me that dust broom. Annette, go reach in the liquor cabinet and bring me that bottle again. I need me another highball.” Pee Wee left the room with an exasperated look on his face and returned with the broom.

“I didn’t want to upset Muh’Dear,” I announced, handing Scary Mary the whiskey bottle. She snatched it and refilled her glass. It amazed me how Black folks always found a reason to turn to the bottle, myself included. I had already swallowed a few glasses of wine myself that morning. The slight buzz I had, had calmed my nerves. But I couldn’t wait for the funeral to be over with.