Maybe You Never Cry Again (7 page)

 

I got back to the house and found my grandma in the kitchen. “Grandma,” I said. “We have to talk.”

“What kind of trouble you in now, boy? Didn't you learn
nothin'
?

“Rhonda's pregnant.”

She looked at me. Didn't say anything. Just looked at me hard, waiting to hear what
I
had to say. I knew what I was going to say. I knew I wasn't going to be like my sumbitch father.

“Grandma,” I said. “I'm going to ask Rhonda to marry me.”

She got tears in her eyes. Took her a moment to catch her breath. “Bernie,” she said, “I feel we did a good job with you, boy.”

Then we hugged each other.

 

Next day I went to Rhonda's house. We were sitting in the living room, and I was working my way around to saying what I had
to say. “You know, Rhonda,” I said, “you and the baby, I don't think it's right for you to be somewhere across town.”

She was looking at me, trying to read between the lines. “I don't want you and the baby in one place, me in another. I don't want to just
visit
from time to time. This is my son or daughter we're talking about.”

I really believed that, too. Coming up in the streets of Chicago, I had seen a lot of ugliness. I had seen a lot of fathers disappear. I had seen women alone with five kids, each one from a different father—and none of the five fathers hardly ever there to look in on their kids. I didn't understand that, how a father could turn his back on his own blood.

She was about like frozen there, staring at me hard. “Bernard Mac,” she said. “What are you trying to tell me?”

“I'm telling you I want to marry you, woman.”

Rhonda jumped in the air, screaming. “Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God!” She threw herself into my arms and was bouncing so hard we both about fell off the couch.

Her mother came running out to see about the ruckus. “Lordy, Lordy! What's happenin' out here? What's all the hollerin' about?”

And Rhonda said, “Bernard proposed to me! Bernard just proposed to me!”

And her mother said, “I hope you said yes, girl!”

And Rhonda said, “I sure did!”

Got so loud in that house! We were all of us jumping up and down now, screaming and hugging.

“When you gonna do it?” her mother asked.

And I said, “Now. Soon. Before the baby's born. I want us together. I want us to be a family.”

And her mother said, “Why don't you do it on my birthday?” And Rhonda and I looked at each other. And that's what we did.

That mother of hers! Still in total control.

Marriage! A child on the way! Life was about to change in a big way, and I had to make some changes myself. I went over to see my grandfather. “Grandpa,” I said, “I'm getting married. I'm not going to work in no scrap yard fourteen hours a day.”

My grandfather was still working for General Motors, but he was gettin' on and was almost ready to retire. He knew what I was saying.

Next day, he went over to the personnel office and talked to them, and he must have said the right thing because they asked me to come in for a physical.

I went. They didn't say much during the physical, but when they got done they told me, “You start tonight.”

Shit. My grandfather was
connected.
Old man had power.

I went over to Rhonda's and didn't say a word. Acted regular. I remember I was on the night shift at the time, at the yard, because at around three o'clock she notices it's getting on and she jumps up and says, “Bernard, look at the time! You're going to be late for work.”

I just looked at her and smiled. “We gettin' married, girl. I'm not working at no scrap yard.”

“What? You quit?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Lord, Bernard. What you gonna do?”

“I got me a job at GM, and I start tonight. But I don't start till four-thirty.”

Well, that girl just melted! “Blue Cross/Blue Shield!” Those were the things that mattered. She threw her arms around me and hugged me tight. “This is the kind of man I want to marry!”

 

We were married on Saturday, September 17, 1977: Rhonda's mother's birthday. Had a church wedding, with a big reception at a motel on 63rd and King Drive. There were more than two hundred people there, and I was walking around in a daze. I kept thinking,
Wow, I'm married. I'm a month shy of twenty
years old and I'm married and I got a kid on the way. I can't believe it.

Rhonda looked beautiful. She was wearing that smile of hers—the one that sends my temperature shooting up—and I was a happy man.

I had found us a little place on 80th and Champlain, and we got back there and walked through that door as man and wife. It was a magical time. The future looked bright. Rhonda was going to nursing school. We had our baby coming. And I had a good job.

 

The GM factory was at 103rd, off Cottage Grove, and they made locomotives. But I didn't have anything to do with that part of it. I worked with my grandfather, cleaning the personnel building. He was in charge of the whole building, and he took his work very seriously. He was good at it, too. He taught me how to mop and buff a floor and how to keep the water off the baseboards. He taught me how to wipe down glass so there wasn't even the
ghost
of a streak. And he taught me how to dust corners right.

I was making sixteen dollars an hour. That was a fortune to me.

Nights I'd go home to Rhonda and we'd make love and fall asleep listening to the got-damn mice. I was killing half a dozen of the little critters every night. Get up to fetch a glass of water and it was WHAM, BAM—got two of them. Rhonda hated the mice. Kept her up half the night. I wanted her to get her rest. The baby was coming, and between the kickin' and squeakin' she wasn't getting any sleep at all.

One weekend I got to talking to the other tenants about the mice problem, and we decided to go on a rent strike. Everybody was all for it, but none of them held out. One by one, they caved and paid their rent, until the only ones still owing were the Macs. So sure enough the landlord kicked us out; said he knew all along I was behind the insurrection.

 

We moved in with one of Rhonda's aunts—she had a little room in her basement—but a week later I found a place on
116th and Harvard. We tried to make it nice. We found a couch with no legs and put books under it to hold up the ends. When you sat down, the springs would pop up and attack you. It was like something out of
Alien.
The building wasn't much, either: Seems like we'd picked the most popular crack house in the neighborhood.

But hey, we had each other. Why crank and moan?

 

Christmas we went over to Rhonda's house. Her family is very close. It was wall-to-wall people, most of them new to me. But I had A.V. there, home from college, and Billy Staples. Big Nigger was off in the navy.

We played pool and had a few beers and listened to music and ate a big dinner. That family of Rhonda's, they've always been big cookers. And you know me: I appreciate a good meal.

People kept comin' by to pat Rhonda's belly. She was getting bigger every day; fit to explode.

 

One January morning some weeks later, she woke up looking scared. “Bernard,” she said. “It's time.”

I drove her to the hospital. She was in some bad pain, only the nurses said it wasn't time, so we went home. Then late in the afternoon, Rhonda got that look again.

“Bernard, it's time.”

“You sure?” I asked her.

“Bernard, I'm sure. Don't be interrogating me!”

Hokay! Step away! Lot of hormones happenin' here.

So we waddled down to the car and I drove her back to the hospital, but—wouldn't you know it—it still wasn't time. I didn't say a word. I didn't even look at her funny. I just drove us back home like a good husband.

Shortly before midnight, though, Rhonda got into some serious hollering. I told her to lie down and began to rub her belly, and before long she fell asleep. I fell asleep right next to her.

In the middle of the night, I heard a scream. I jumped out of bed and went into the bathroom and found Rhonda there, looking at the floor.

“My water broke,” she said.

I got her dressed and drove her to the hospital, third time now, and she was hollering all the way there, clawin' at my shirt and lashing out and punching my leg.

We got to the emergency entrance and they wheeled her away, still hollerin'. But they didn't seem worried; they saw women in that condition every day, maybe forty times a day. They told me to have a seat, that it would be a while.

I went down to the cafeteria and got a sandwich and brought it back, and just as I was finishing my sandwich the doctor came out. “Mr. Mac,” he said. “It's showtime!”

I got dressed in that blue gown and put those booties over my shoes and they took me into the delivery room. Rhonda's laid out there, legs up, sweatin'. She's not even remotely happy to see me; she's in too much pain. They had nurses there, preppin' her and whatnot, and the doctor took me over and pointed me in the right direction.

“Something hairy down there!” he said.

I looked. I wasn't sure I
wanted
to look, but I looked. And sure enough, some little hairy head was kinda pokin' out of there.

Rhonda was really screaming now. But not for long. Next thing I knew, doctor was sayin', “Rhonda, Mr. Mac—you got yourself a baby girl!”

I was like, wow—a baby girl! But I was keeping the emotions inside, like I'd been taught my whole life. Rhonda was different, though. She was crying a river and laughing all at the same time. I was holding her hand and watching as they cleaned up that little mess and weighed her.

“Seven and a half pounds!” the nurse said. “This is a solid, healthy girl. Congratulations.”

The nurse brought her over and put her in my hands—she looked
tiny
to me—but Rhonda was already hollering for her
baby. “Let me hold her! Give me my little girl!” So I handed her over and Rhonda started crying and wailing louder than ever.

I took a closer look at that little baby girl. She had my eyes—I felt like I was looking into my own eyes—but she had a lot of Rhonda in her, too.

“Ain't she beautiful?” Rhonda said.

“I never seen a baby more beautiful,” I said.

“Mr. Mac,” the doctor said, “we'll take it from here. Your wife needs her rest. You go home and get some rest, too, and come back first thing in the morning.”

So I went home and picked up the phone and called my buddies.

“Guess what today is? January twenty-first, 1978. It's my daughter's birthday. My little girl, Je'Niece. Come on over. There's a party at the Macs', and it starts as soon as you get here.”

Then I called the family. I called my grandma and told her I had a baby girl. I called Rhonda's mother, Mary, and told her she was a grandmother all over again.

And then the boys came over and we drank a lot of beer. Billy Staples, my main man; Morris Allen, on his way to being a stockbroker; and a friend who'd been working at Dock's Fish Fry since high school—I'll call him Kevin Carter, though that's not the brother's name.

“Mac Daddy!” they got to calling me. And it seemed like every time someone called me that, I had to pop a fresh beer.

 

Next morning, I realized they must have called me Mac Daddy a lot of times, because my head was really throbbing. I went downstairs and found Billy on the couch and Morris passed out on the floor. The place was a mess. I didn't even know where to begin.

I stepped over Morris's body and went into the kitchen and called Rhonda at the hospital to see how she was doing. “I'll be over soon,” I said. “I don't have to be at GM till late.”

And she said, “Make sure you clean up!” That woman! You couldn't put nothin' past her.

So I woke the boys and they helped me clean up and went on their way, and before I left I put the little crib together and made sure I'd done it right.

I got to the hospital to find Rhonda glowing, our little girl in her arms. I'd never seen such a beautiful woman and such a beautiful baby. You think I'm being sentimental, but it's the truth. I took them home and got them situated and kissed them both good-bye and went to work.

I was proud. My grandfather shook my hand and went around telling everyone, “My boy had himself a daughter!”

Later that night, he even let me use the phone at work to call Rhonda. He was a by-the-book guy, and we weren't allowed to use the phones, but he made an exception this once.

I asked Rhonda how she was, and how the baby was doing. “Fine,” she said. “We're both fine.” She had this businesslike tone of voice. “I want you to stop by Leon's Barbecue on your way home,” she said. “Get some fish.” Hey, this was my wife and the mother of my child: If she wanted to eat barbecued fish at two in the morning, I wasn't going to argue.

So I stopped at Leon's after work and picked up some fish. Got home and found Rhonda and my little girl in our bed. I brought the fish to bed, and Rhonda dove in and ate like a cavewoman. I watched her eat and smiled and patted my little girl's booty, and I had a piece of fish myself.

This was all right. It was
better
than all right. I had a decent crib and a good job, and I had a wife and child and my whole life ahead of me. Was going to be a good life, too. I'd see to that.

 

In the days and weeks that followed—well, I can't even begin to describe it. Having a child—nothing touches it. I was like high all the time;
gone.
I floated around the house, trying to make myself useful. I even changed diapers. I'm not going to say I liked it, but I did it. On the other hand, I did like doing that thing with the blanket where you make a triangle and fold it
over your kid and she looks like some kind of papoose.

You can't stop staring at your kid. I ain't lyin'. I'd wake up two or three times a night and look at her and get close to make sure she was still breathing. Then I'd look over at Rhonda. And I'd think:
This is what it means to be a family. I have a family of my own.

My thoughts turned in other directions, too. I realized I had to get serious now. This tiny little girl depended on me. And my wife depended on me. And they were going to depend on me for a long time to come. But that made me feel good inside. It was a challenge, and I accepted the challenge. This was what life was
about.
This was the cycle of life, beginning all over again, right here in my own home.

 

Things at work were going pretty well, too. I had just made the union, plus my grandpa was getting ready to retire. I was going to be cleaning the building solo.

From time to time, this other old fella, Charlie, would come over and keep us company. He was a friend of my grandpa's and was getting ready to retire himself. He was in charge of the coolants for the big machines. I thought that might pay better than mopping floors, plus it seemed to take some real skill, so after my grandpa retired I asked Charlie about it and he said he'd be happy to show me.

It was quite a job. Charlie had about six buckets of coolants, which he mixed himself. Had to keep the balance just right. And when you fed the coolant into the machines, you had to watch the levels. Too much would smother the motor and conk it the hell out. But I paid attention and got the hang of it pretty quick.

“You a smart boy, Bernard,” Charlie told me. “I don't know why Thurman kept saying you was a fool.”

“That's just the way my grandpa is,” I said, smiling. “He can't help himself. He's always been that way.”

Charlie thought about this for a moment, cocked his head, looked at me. “Old people don't change,” he said. “We sewn into our
skins for life. Maybe it's Thurman's way of telling you he loves you.”

Maybe.

 

Got home that night and—speak of the devil—phone rang as I came through the door. Grandpa Thurman was on the line. “Beanie,” he said. “Got bad news.”

“What's that?”

“Your father passed.”

“Huh?”

“Your father passed. He gone. Passed away. Lord took him.”

Still sayin' everything four times, snorting and wheezing. “Service Saturday. Two
P.M
.”

 

My father's kidneys killed him. Gave out. He was a big man—damn near about two-fifty by then—and they had to take him to the hospital and put him on dialysis. He kept complaining, “I ain't sick! I feel fine!” But nobody would listen, and he got tired of telling them, so he just up and walked out.