Ugly Ways (5 page)

They took care of that house a whole lot better than I ever did or ever wanted to. And when things needed taking care of personally, Betty could handle those white bastards down at the gas company or those hinkty folks at Davison's Department Store as well as lots of grown women. Finally even told that old cracker who used to sit in the lobby entrance from store opening to closing to kiss her black ass when she called her names once too often. I was proud of her for that. I probably told her so.

I even taught them to take care of themselves. Many's the time I'd make sure they bought Ivory liquid or Palmolive liquid so when Emily washed dishes she didn't ruin those pretty hands of hers.
She does have the prettiest hands. And it was me, nobody else, who taught those three girls how to take care of what they've been given.

How many girls their age know so much about moisturizing their skin as they do? I never let 'em use soap on their faces and made sure there was always some Pond's cold cream in the house. How many other mothers can say the same?

I never was one for lying. At least, I never was after things changed, so I'd tell them right out what their best attributes were and what failings they didn't even need to waste their time on trying to improve.

I didn't coddle 'em and cuddle 'em to death the way some mothers do. I pushed 'em out there to find out what they was best in. That's how you learn things, by getting on out there and living. They found their strengths by the best way anybody could: by living them.

From the looks of this here dress they bought to bury me in—went out to the mall and bought it out at Rubinstein's, too, know they paid good money for it, the price tag is probably around here somewhere—you can tell they holds a grudge for something though. What in God's name would possess them to go out and spend good money on this navy-blue monstrosity—and they know navy blue is not my color, they know how pretty I look in pastels—when I had all those beautiful bed jackets at home. Hell, some of my old stuff might be a bit outdated, since I ain't had any need for street clothes in a number of years, but even it look better than this shit. They ought to be ashamed. Knowing how those girls love beautiful clothes, I can't believe they weren't trying to say something by picking this thing for me to lie in for all eternity. Them girls got ugly ways about 'em sometimes.

Well, at least it ain't cheap. I never could wear cheap clothes.
You know, some people can wear cheap clothes and look right nice in 'em. I never could. If I ever put on anything cheap, it would stand away from my body like paper-doll clothes and just scream,
"Cheap! Cheap! Cheap!"
My girls couldn't either, wear anything cheap. When they was teenagers, they'd try to imitate they little friends and go down to Lerner's or one of them shops and get some outfit or other. It would be cute in the bag, but as soon as they put it on, it would start screaming,
"Cheap! Cheap! Cheap!"
and they'd have to give it to one of their cheap-clothes-wearing friends.

Knowing Annie Ruth, she gonna go through my bed jackets and personal things before the funeral to see what she can take back to that Los Angeles, maybe my pink satin quilted bed jacket, to wear with some tight jeans or expensive evening dress.

I can hear her now. "Oh, yes, this was my Mudear's. I just
had
to have something of hers." Little witch.

God, them girls got ugly ways about 'em sometimes. They must get them from their father's people.

You would think them girls were mad at me for something.

Just like them to be mad at me for something I don't even know. Just like with the damn telephone. They knew good and damn well that I didn't answer the phone unless I felt like it. Never did anything else but that in their memory. But wouldn't they get pissed off with me when they came home from school or one of those little piece of jobs they messed around with and I was nice enough to tell them that the phone had been ringing off the hook all day.

"
Hope wasn't nobody expecting no calls," I'd tell them, nice like, too. Then, they would get fighting mad. Well, not really "fighting" mad because then they'd be mad enough to fight they ma and don't none of us play that. I guess I got that to be thankful for, too.

Just the other day I was looking at some talk show, coulda been Ophrah, that was talking about these children. Call them Fragile X. They all looked a certain way, long faces and big ears, and they all had the tendency to fight their mothers. I know it wasn't funny, but I had to laugh. Of course, Ernest didn't see the humor of it when I shared it with him later that night. But he's just about lost all his sense of humor over the years.

I have always tried very hard not to judge my girls too harshly. For one thing, everybody ain't me. I learned that years ago.

For another, they were too young to remember how it was before. To remember it and appreciate how much better things were after that cold, no-heat-and-no-lights-in-that-freezing-assed-house day when I was able to be what I am. A woman in my own shoes. And they don't hardly remember their daddy any other way than his meek, quietly self he is now.

I guess you can't completely blame the girls because they don't know what their Mudear has done for them. Practically all their lives—to show them a good example.

Wait a minute! What did she just say? "Mudear, now, she the kinda 'ho .. ." What the hell kind of thing is that to say about me, their own Mudear. Have they lost their minds or did they actually find some of that marijuana they wanted?

They ought to know that dope make you crazy!

When Annie Ruth came back onto the porch, she still felt a bit shaky, but she carried the drinks on a silver tray.

"You sure are getting bold," Betty said as she took her drink off the server Annie Ruth proffered. "First, you pour liquor in Mudear's special cabinet glasses. Now, you serving drinks off her silver tray."

"If we don't use this stuff at some time it's going to revert to ore," Annie Ruth said. "I can still see what terrible shape poor Emily's hands were in after all those Saturdays of sitting in the dining room polishing all this silver and silverware and then putting it back in the breakfront and the blue velvet box for storage 'til it tarnished again."

"I wonder why Mudear never let us use any of it. As much as she loved pretty things," Emily said as she took her drink from the tray. She was trying not to pounce on Annie Ruth's news, because while her younger sister was inside Betty had made her promise to take it easy.

Betty swirled the ice in her drink a couple of times and waited to see if Annie Ruth was going to say anything. When she didn't, Betty said, "'Cause they were some of her wedding and anniversary gifts, that's why."

Even Emily didn't need any further explanation.

All the girls knew how Mudear felt about men, husbands especially. When Emily had gotten married to Ron, Mudear had refused to get out of bed to see the bridal party all dressed for the ceremony. Furthermore, she had strictly commanded the rest of the family not to even let Emily into her bedroom dressed in "all that white lacy shit, like she a virgin or something."

"She already done been married once. That ought to be enough for any woman. Lord, I done raised a fool!"

Emily had tried to make excuses for Mudear's absence to Ron's family who had driven down to Mulberry for the ceremony. She had told them that Mudear was in bed with double pneumonia, under strict doctor's orders not to even think about moving for at least three more weeks.

"Poor thing," Emily told Ron's mother. "She can't even lift her head off the pillow."

But Mudear blew that when she yelled out her bedroom window as the bridal party pulled away from the house.

"He'll lead you a dog's life!" Mudear had shrieked in a loud healthy voice. "Remember, I'm the one who told you. He'll lead you a dog's life."

Unfortunately, Mudear had been right. But it didn't lessen the pain the memory of the wedding day experience had left with all the Lovejoy girls.

Each of them wished, whether it was true or not, that Mudear had not raised them with the motto "A man don't give a damn about you."

Annie Ruth placed the silver tray carefully on the table by the sofa and sat down with her own drink. It was just a tall glass of ginger ale and ice. Now that her sisters knew she was pregnant, there didn't seem to be any reason to pretend to sip a cocktail.

"Well, sugar, what you gonna do?" Betty asked gently.

"Do?" Annie Ruth asked, stalling for time. She had begun to bite the pale polish off her thumbnail.

"Exactly. What are you gonna do? You can't be too far along with that little waist of yours."

"Oh, I got lots of time," Annie Ruth said. She tried to sound casual, but she never could lie to her sisters. Not even about something unimportant.

"Then, how come you're not drinking any liquor?" Betty asked, noticing her sister's tall glass of soda.

Annie Ruth just took another swig of ginger ale and swallowed hard.

"Annie Ruth, you can't be thinking of keeping it," Emily said. "You can't actually be thinking of being a mother."

"I didn't actually say I was going to keep it," Annie Ruth said, meaning to speak in a strong assured voice. But she was beginning to feel the waves of anxiety that she had experienced on the plane ride from Los Angeles. She tried to take small gulps of air and blow out through her mouth a few times the way her masseuse had taught her to help overcome anxiety attacks without medication.

"No offense, sugar, but do you know who the father is?" Betty leaned forward and asked.

Annie Ruth sighed.

"Well," she said after a while, "I was pretty sure it was Raphael's. But when I told him, he got pretty ugly. He said, 'No way, beetch.' You know he's Dominican, he talks with an accent. He said, 'No way. You've fucked half of Los Angeles County and now you say
I'm
the father? No way.'"

She stopped to take another sip of soda. Her mouth was so dry.

"So now, it's Delbert's baby."

"What difference does it make whose it is?" Emily screamed as she jumped up from the sofa, knocking over her drink. "You're talking like it makes some difference, like you plan to have the child."

Emily was standing over Annie Ruth biting her bottom lip with that wolfish look in her eyes.

"I know your company insurance must cover the cost of the operation," she said.

Annie Ruth felt trapped by her sister's reaction to the news of her pregnancy and was finding it harder and harder to breathe. She took a few more deep breaths to try to control the quaking feeling in the pit of her stomach.

"I don't know, Emily," she said. "I haven't looked into all of that yet."

"What do you mean, you haven't looked into it yet? What are you waiting for, girl? You are acting like you plan to keep the child."

"Calm down, Em-Em," Betty said solemnly. "This ain't you we talking about. It's Annie Ruth."

Emily spun around to face Betty. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"I'm just saying we know Annie Ruth's not in the best shape she could be in. And maybe now might not be the best time to be screaming at her."

Emily was suddenly chastened, silent.

And Betty continued, "And I was just telling you to keep your voice down. Your voice carries on this night air. And Poppa's right upstairs."

Emily bit her bottom lip, bobbed her head silently, and sat back on her corner of the sofa.

It looked as if Emily were finished for a while, but then she said softly, "But, Betty, you know, we promised."

Her sisters pretended not to have heard.

"Annie Ruth, maybe we better leave this for a little later," Betty said. "Anyway, you look tired. I know I am, if you aren't. You want to come home and stay with me tonight? Naw, don't nobody feel like carrying all your stuff back to my house. I know you don't. Why don't you go on up to bed here and get some rest. Emily's going to stay with me. We'll see you in the morning."

Just the sound of Betty's voice directing the rest of the evening for them made Annie Ruth feel she might just make it through the week.

She rose from the couch and headed for the inside door. Then, she paused, turned, and went over to Emily, who sat with her head down dabbing at the spilled drink. She reached down, hugged her sister, and whispered in her ear, "Once, I burned another black woman's audition tape and letter that I found on the news producer's desk."

Emily reached up and hugged her baby sister back, held her for a while, then let her go.

Poppa could hear the girls talking downstairs on the side porch through his bedroom window upstairs—opened just a crack the way Mudear wanted it. He couldn't make out exactly what they were saying, but the rhythm of their conversation, the patterns of their voices were so familiar that he could almost guess what the whole conversation was going to sound like. First, Annie Ruth would speak, then Betty, then Annie Ruth again, then Emily. All of them taking their turns as if the conversation were scripted and rehearsed.

He marveled at how all of them got to talk. Each taking a turn, each getting in what she wanted to say. When they were younger, he would sit with them and their mother at the dining room table—Mudear at one end, him at the other, Betty on one side by herself with her back to the kitchen, and the other two girls on the other side—and be in awe at the tenor and pace of the conversation. Questions sprang from Mudear. The girls' answers flew back across the table effortlessly. Many evenings, it left him dizzy, almost nauseated as if he were suffering motion sickness or air sickness.

He was grateful at least that they weren't flouncing all around the house tonight. He couldn't stand all the quick unexpected movement that the women produced. It got so, when the girls were teenagers, there seemed to be so much of their activity in the house, he would have to get up from his chair in the living room sometimes and go stand out in the street to get away from it.