Who Asked You? (6 page)

Wait a minute now. His metal trash can is full of paper. I sit down at his desk and just pick up a handful to see what he printed. Every single page is about the benefits of getting a Lap Band to lose weight. Is he crazy? I read some of the information but find it disgusting, and even though I’m tempted to ball up the paper, I stop myself, so he won’t know I’ve been in his room.

I walk into my bedroom and look out the window. No rain yet. Western Los Angeles is down below. But I can’t see it. There are 747s flying overhead, about to land at LAX. Living on a hill has its advantages and disadvantages. When there’s no smog, you can see for miles. Or when the Santa Ana winds come in late autumn or early winter. I wish Betty Jean would consider moving just a little closer in this direction. I could get her a good deal on a foreclosed property, but I haven’t bothered to mention this. It might be better to wait until Lee David passes, which unfortunately shouldn’t be that much longer. Poor fella.

I put on one of my favorite cocoa-brown linen suits because I have four open houses starting later this morning. Right after I stop by Betty Jean’s I’ll head over to my office and pick up all the docs. I take a ribeye out of the freezer for Omar later. He loves ribeyes. He’s always hungry when he gets home, no matter what he says.

When I back out of my driveway, I see rush-hour traffic, which I’ve already factored in. As I inch my way to the bottom of the hill, I’m wondering how long those kids are going to be staying at Betty Jean’s this time around and I pray she’s not thinking about keeping them. After all, Trinetta’s not dead. And this is why foster care was created. I don’t know if I’ll bring this topic up. It’s probably too soon.

I hope like hell Tammy’s not over there. She loves to show Betty Jean sympathy when she doesn’t need it. I cannot stand that little white wench. And if Lee David is blasting
Dora the Explorer
I’m going to close his door. He should’ve been in assisted care two years ago, but Betty Jean has never taken my advice, which is why I’ve tried to stop giving it. And what did she do? Went out and hired the trampiest young attendant she could find to care for him. I don’t trust Nurse Kim. First of all, she’s too pretty to be doing such a creepy job. Why on earth would somebody who’s sexy as hell in a turtleneck want to spend all day with an old man in a dark and dreary bedroom? And in a house that creaks when you walk from the front to the back, one that needed remodeling about twenty years ago? She’s probably stealing. Something. Not that there’s anything of value in there, but some folks just like to take advantage.

I pull into her driveway. It’s got big round oil stains on it. And her sidewalk is cracked and raised from too many tremors and earthquakes. I wish she would paint this house. Beige is such a drab color on a block with nothing but beige houses. At least the Koreans had enough sense to paint theirs mint green and the shutters white. They could stand to plant some grass and a few flowers wouldn’t kill them. But I really don’t care.

I knock once or twice like I always do and walk on in. And who is standing there to greet me? Tammy Wynette! Even though I usually look right through her, this morning I decide to be polite. “Good morning, Tammy,” I say. “Is my sister not here?”

“She took the little ones to school and then she’s going on to the hotel for part of the day. Forgive me for being half-naked but I had to rush over so BJ wouldn’t be late.”

“That’s a beautiful robe,” I say. “Bullock’s?”

“J.C. Penney. But thank you,” she says. “Why didn’t you bother to call first instead of just dropping by?”

“Because I forgot my cell phone. At any rate, I’ll try to catch her at work.”

This must be my lucky morning.

“Good morning, everybody. Is something going on?”

Before I have a chance to respond, Beyoncé brushes right past me, dressed like she’s on her way to a nightclub. If that Victoria’s Secret push-up bra were one size bigger it would still be too small. But I’m polite. “Good morning, Nurse Kim. Everything’s fine. You look lovely as ever.”

“Why, thanks so much for noticing,” she says, and I just wave as I head on out to the car, which is when that skank yells out, “And tell Omar I said hey!”

I take my cell phone out of my purse and don’t care if they see it. I call Betty Jean at work. “I just stopped by your house to give you a hug because I heard you’ve taken on even more responsibility than you need to at this time in your life. What time do you go to lunch?”

“Venetia’s got a big mouth, you know that?”

“She was simply sharing important information and you know the only reason she told me is because you were probably too embarrassed to and she and I are both worried about you and the boys and Trinetta, which is why I wanted to see you in person. What time?”

“I’m not in the mood for a lecture, Arlene.”

“I don’t lecture. I simply offer a different point of view. Sometimes we do agree on things, Betty Jean, so please don’t go getting defensive. What time?”

“I’m leaving at two, but meet me around the corner at Denny’s in a half hour. I’ve got twenty minutes and that’s it.”

“Not Denny’s. Please. It’s not real food and they’re racist. Pick somewhere else, please. Besides, aren’t you the supervisor?”

“Okay. IHOP. And no, I am not the supervisor.”

And she hangs up.

The place smells like bacon, link sausage, pancake batter, and syrup. It looks the same now as it did twenty years ago. I wouldn’t eat this mess if it were free. I see Betty Jean sitting in a booth. She’s drinking coffee. She already looks tired.

“You look tired,” I say even though I didn’t mean to say that. I sit across from her.

“I am tired. So what does that make me besides tired?”

“So how long do you plan on keeping them?”

“They’re not pets, Arlene. As long as I have to,” she says.

“Do you really expect Trinetta to stop doing what she’s been doing anytime soon?”

“I can’t speak for my daughter.”

“Well, have you spoken to her since whatever she did or didn’t do happened?”

“She left me a message on the home phone this morning, when she knew I’d be driving the boys to school.”

“And what did she have to say?”

“The same thing she’s said before, Arlene. When she’s cleaned up her act, she’ll be back to get the boys.”

“Which means they could be in college.”

“In my heart of hearts I really don’t believe she wants to lose her kids, Arlene.”

“As long as she can count on you to take care of them every time she falls off the wagon, she doesn’t have to worry about losing them, now does she?”

“Sometimes you have to have a little faith in your kids, Arlene. You more than anybody should know that.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, you’ve only got one, and look at how you dote on him.”

“I don’t
dote
on Omar.”

“Do you make him breakfast and dinner every day?”

“So what? We live in the same house.”

“And that’s the other thing. When is he ever going to move out and get his own apartment?”

“When he can afford to. Is that all right with you?”

“I love Omar, and he’s got a good heart. I just always thought he’d be some hotshot businessman or something.”

“What are you trying to say, Betty Jean? Just say it.”

“You might want to stop giving him so much advice and monitoring every move he makes. Let him make his own decisions and whatever choices he wants to make, even if you don’t like them.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Betty Jean! Can I help it if he always asks me what I think?”

“He needs to learn to think for himself.”

“You know what, I can say this about my son. At least he’s never caused me any problems and he’s certainly never been in trouble or done any drugs, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

“I wasn’t trying to
get
at anything, Arlene. Omar just seems bored and not sure of himself. Anyway, I have to get back to work.”

“You should go talk to somebody in Social Services so you can get some kind of financial assistance while they’re there.”

“It’s only temporary, Arlene. And I’m their grandmother. If I need help, I know how to ask for it. And I don’t need their help.”

I just shake my head, stand up, and give her the hug I promised. I don’t mean to be such a bitch. I really don’t. I think it’s just because I want the very best for the people I love, and I get impatient when they don’t see some of the tragic mistakes they’re making. If I didn’t care I wouldn’t say anything and just keep my thoughts to myself. But I do care. Unfortunately, some folks can’t handle the truth, which is why they get defensive instead of just looking at another point of view. I don’t think I have all the answers. But some folks don’t seem to know what questions to ask.

G
ood morning, Mr. Lee,” I say, shaking him. “Wake up!”

He opens his eyes and smiles. He may not recognize his wife some days but he sure as hell don’t have no problem recognizing me.

“You ready for your shower or you want your breakfast first?”

He shakes his head no, then points to his mouth.

Men. They’re all so fucking predictable. Even the old ones. I reach between the mattress on his side of the bed and grab his bottle of blue pills. I take one out and push it into his mouth. I pick up his glass of lukewarm water and put the straw up to his mouth. He sucks and swallows. I lift the covers and toss ’em to the side. He got his morning hard-on, and oh what a hard-on it is. It’s easy to understand why Miss Betty would have a hard time letting all of this fall by the wayside, and the funny thing is Mr. Lee don’t look no sixty-five, none whatsoever. I been lathering him up and down close to a year now and I can’t lie, I get a lot of pleasure out of touching him.

I unbuckle my sandals and kick ’em off. I pull my T-shirt over my head and lay it flat at the foot of the bed, on Miss Betty’s side. I watch Mr. Lee’s eyes get bigger. Glassier. Almost like they’re breathing as much as he’s starting to. I unhook my bra and drop it on the floor. Then I climb on the bed so I’m standing over him. I unzip my skirt and step out of it. Then throw it on the floor, too. Mr. Lee starts to moan. I wiggle out of my thong and drop it next to his face. I can see him trying to inhale me. He moans again, louder this time, and then opens his mouth. This is when I grab the headboard and drop to my knees. I feel his warm lips against my lips and that little muscle gets firm and fiery and I move like I’m rowing a boat and I ain’t in no hurry to get there, but when I can’t stand it no more I grab the headboard and press hard against his lips until I hear myself yell, “Shit!” But I’m greedy, so I do the exact same thing until I explode again and again and then I lean back and pull off his pajama bottoms and that thing is jumping around like it’s looking for something, so I grab it in my hands and make it be still by sliding all the way down on it. It only takes three or four minutes to make him yell out, “Oh, Kimmie! Oh, Kimmie!”

Which is when I get up. I love being his breakfast. I have to admit, out of all the old farts I’ve tended to, Mr. Lee is the best, except for maybe Mr. Jackson. He had dentures. I made him take those suckers out because his gums were so warm and smooth I hardly had to move at all.

He falls on back to sleep and I lie next to him, turn on the TV, and watch the rest of the
Today
show. I don’t know why I like that Katie Couric. She looks like a little girl and got a little-girl voice and a little body and she even got little-girl teeth. When Mr. Lee wakes up, I take his pajama top off and walk him into the bathroom. I put on Miss Betty’s shower cap ’cause it takes me a whole hour to blow-dry my hair, which of course everybody in L.A. thinks is a weave just because it’s long. As if black women’s hair don’t grow long. I take him by the arm and get in the shower with him. He acts just like a little kid when I put a million bubbles on that washcloth and rub it up and down and all over his whole body. He really don’t look all that bad naked. You’d think since he’s so old his skin would be all shriveled up and wrinkly, including his dick, but that thing is just as long and thick and solid as some of these young dudes I been with. What I like about this kind of situation is ain’t no strings attached. Which is why a young woman like myself is grateful to have access to it. Mr. Lee has shrunk some. Standing up, it’s easy to tell. He was almost six feet but now he feels closer to my height: I’m five nine and a half.

I dry him off with a fluffy towel and then put a fresh pair of pajamas on him and take him out to the dining room and sit him down at the table. He’s still smiling. Poor thing. I really think it’s time Miss Betty think about getting him ready for a facility, but I’m keeping my mouth shut. Hell, I’m looking at my income here. I ain’t never stayed long enough for one of my patients to die on me, but pretty damn close. I can usually tell. They smell different. Well, they don’t have no smell at all, really. And they get this tired look, like they know what’s coming. It’s creepy as hell, and this is when I usually give my notice because I don’t like walking in on death.

“Hot damn!” Mr. Lee yells out, and then starts laughing.

He does this a lot. Sometimes I think he’s probably remembering when somebody made a three-pointer or a touchdown or hell, I don’t know. All I know is he’s laughing and it makes me feel good to know that whatever’s going on inside of him is lifting his spirits.

I feed him some microwave oatmeal and give him some juice in a sippy cup, and then he says, “Well, well, well,” and I walk him back into the bedroom and turn on the Western Channel. It cracks me up to hear Mr. Lee say, “Giddy-up!” except when he says it like five or ten times in a row. I don’t know which is worse, listening to him trying to speak Spanish with Dora or pretending like he’s riding a goddamn horse. Plus, Dora is not cute and I wish they could give her a makeover, because that hairstyle is played out. Even though I’m not crazy about kids, it’s a lot livelier around the crib since those boys been here. Not to be mean, but they’re both a little weird-looking. That oldest one reminds me of Chucky without the freckles and his eyes look too close together. The younger one looks like he didn’t bake long enough. It’s obvious they got different daddies. But what else is new? Watch. They’ll probably grow up to be fine as hell. My brothers were homely, too, but now women and men drool over them. (One of my brothers is gay but ask me if I care?)

There’s a reason why there’s not that many pictures of me in my granny’s scrapbook. I wasn’t no cute baby. In fact, a lot of my relatives told me people just used to bend down, look at me, and say, “She’s sure got a lot of hair, doesn’t she?” Since nobody had any money for braces back then, I had horse teeth all through middle school. I didn’t think my ass was ever going to stop growing but years later it’s turned out to be my best asset. And then there were the zits. There wasn’t enough Clearasil in Thrifty’s that could make those fuckers disappear. It wasn’t until after I finally got my period that I realized all those years I was nothing but a human crossword puzzle with missing pieces. And then it seemed like all at once, something happened and everything on me fit in all the right places.

But being pretty don’t guarantee you gon’ find a good man to appreciate all you have to offer. Which is why I’m by myself. A lot of them just want a trophy. I ain’t hanging on nobody’s arm like I’m a tennis bracelet. There’s some stuff inside me that deserves to be checked out too. I ain’t no black Barbie. Besides, I’m only thirty. So I think I’ve still got a few good years left to catch. Ain’t no doubt about it, I was wild as hell in my twenties, but I’m all about cruising now. My granny’s been bugging me for years about when I’m gon’ have a baby, since where I come from a husband is just a bonus. She’s got high blood pressure and her cholesterol is off the chart, and I thought she might have a heart attack when I said, all proper, “I am not having any kids, because I don’t want any.” She looked at me like I was joking and then realized I wasn’t. She couldn’t think of a good comeback so she just said, “Thank God I got grandsons,” and walked away. She didn’t speak to me for almost a whole month, and then finally outta the blue she said: “Everythang ain’t for everybody,” and we went to see
The Mummy Returns,
since we both like scary movies ’cause they don’t scare us, but we sat through it and ate popcorn out the same bag. She fell asleep on my shoulder.

I’m also a snooper. I like to go through the people I work for’s shit so I know who I’m really working for. People act like they’re one thing and then you find out they’re somebody else. Everything in their house, especially the stuff in drawers and under the mattresses, tells you who they really are and what they might be hiding. And everybody’s hiding something. Sometimes it’s just bullshit and I can’t figure out why they even bothered. I have never stolen a thing, ’cause that would make me a thief. When I first started working here, I started under Miss Betty’s side of the mattress and I found some very interesting shit:

A book called
The Prophet
by Kahlil Gibran. (It was too deep for me.)

A juicy love letter from some dude named Parnell “C” dated all the way back to 1974. (Wasn’t Miss Betty married to Mr. Lee already? I will forget I saw this.)

A .22 with two bullets in it. (But everybody got at least one of these.)

A box cutter. (In case you ain’t got time to get the gun.)

A Gladys Knight and the Pips cassette:
About Love
. (What’s that about?)

A dried rose (pressed inside some wax paper).

A black shoestring.

A man’s blue-and-white pinstriped tie.

A pair of black stockings. (What happened to that garter?)

A letter from Louisiana State University telling her she got accepted!

On Mr. Lee’s side I only found four things: porn videos, Vaseline, a picture of Dorothy Dandridge, and a picture of some old lady who looked like a slave.

All of this stuff was tame compared with some of the other weird, stupid shit I have come across under other mattresses at other sick folks’ homes that made me scratch my head:

Easy-Off Oven Cleaner.

Two sets of dentures.

Speeding tickets (paid and unpaid).

A bag of Gummy Bears.

A bottle of Louisiana Hot Sauce.

FDS feminine hygiene spray can (empty).

A New York Knicks jersey.

A gram of cocaine. (I did borrow a little of this but never got a chance to pay it back, ’cause I got let go.)

Sometimes, when I’m bored, I try on Miss Betty’s jewelry and walk around in it all day. She’s got very good taste in jewelry. I don’t know what’s real and what ain’t, but since I have yet to stumble on a safe, it’s probably fake. Who gives a shit? If it looks good, what difference does it make if it ain’t real? I dig all the artwork in here. It livens up this old-ass house. She could stand to update all this beige and gold décor, though. It reminds me of my granny’s crib. The one my older brother just bought her out in Palmdale.

If I was Miss Betty, when Mr. Lee passes, I would get the hell out of this dump with that insurance money. She’ll be good for a hundred thousand green ones. That policy’s in a dresser drawer. I been through all their papers and I know all about her family down there in New Orleans—it’s too many of ’em to count, that’s for damn sure.

I have also sat in that old people’s chair in the living room and read almost all Dexter’s letters that Miss Betty opened, but there’s a shitload of ’em she ain’t read. I don’t blame her. Some of ’em almost longer than the Bible. At least Dexter can spell and sounds like he went to a junior college for a hot minute. My granny gets some from my cousins that just make you crack up. You know they looking at a dictionary or a thesaurus while they writing and some of the shit don’t make no kinda sense. It’s not like they gon’ get on
Jeopardy
when they get out. But Dexter is intelligent and I like some of the stuff he writes about. You can be smart and stupid at the same time, but stupid is the one that weigh a whole lot more and the one that got their stupid asses locked up. Dexter got the same sob story a whole bunch of ’em got. Everybody innocent. I was set up. My own lawyer didn’t believe me. The justice system is racist and want all brothers behind bars. That last one I do buy.

Since I don’t make much money doing this kind of work, I had to get a roommate. A roommate I can’t tolerate much longer ’cause I didn’t know she was a real alcoholic until after I saw how much she could put away. Not to mention being country as all hell. She’s from some wooded area in Alabama. A three-hour drive from Birmingham. She drinks whiskey like a man. I met her in nursing school. But she dropped out and became a flight attendant and just got fired ’cause she got written up for being late or hungover too many times. She’s been blowing up my phone since I got here and I been blowing her off ’cause last night we had it out all because her latest boyfriend got to the apartment before she did and we was just sitting on the couch having a civilized conversation while she ran to change clothes.