"Look, I'm getting bored listening to you and I'm tired as hell and I wanna go to sleep." I walk up a few steps and then I hear him say . . .
"What you gon' do without me?"
I let my foot drop back down a step, and I turn to look at him, even though I ain't exacdy sure how to answer this question or where to start. I just say, "A whole lot more."
"What's that supposed to mean, Charlotte?"
"You really wanna hear it, Al?"
"Oh, so is this something you been thinking about for a while?"
"Let me put it to you this way. I'm so tired of working at that post office I could scream. Let me give you a idea of what I do all day long. Today the computer broke down, so I had to figure out how long everybody's frigging route was gon' take by hand, which meant I had to multiply the rime it's supposed to take 'em to deliver the mail to each mailbox-which is eighteen seconds-by the number of houses on each of they routes. Oh, I forgot to mention that four of 'em called in sick today, so I had to find backup carriers, and then one of the trucks broke down and I busted some of the carriers bullshitting when they was supposed to be sorting out they route, 'cause they'll do anything to get some overtime, and then we got labor disputes going on that they want me to read about in Lord only knows which damn contract, and then we get irate customers out front cussing and screaming 'cause their mail keeps going to the wrong address or they ain't getting it until six o'clock, and today I even had to drive to Hyde Park to some rich white bitch's house, 'cause her vicious-ass dog won't let the carrier open the mailbox 'cause he pepper-sprayed the dog a long time ago and now it won't even let him come close to the fucking box, so I had to go out and tell the woman to keep her dog in the house or she gon' have to come to the post office to get her goddamn mail, and the whole time the dog is licking my hand. I don't need to be doing this kinda shit. I got a brain, and I ain't using it! I'm a watchdog. That's what I am. A fucking guard dog. And you wanna know what I'm gon' do without you, Al? I'm taking my black ass back to school, that's what I'ma do."
"School?"
"That's what 1 said."
"Wait, you ain't quitting your job, I know."
"I am. I'm getting my 401 (k) money."
"Don't be ridiculous, Charlotte. That's our retirement money."
"Our?"
"Yours, ours, it's the same thing."
"No, it ain't the same thing Al. My name is on that 401 (k), not 'Albert Toussaint,' got it?"
"All right, all right. You thinking about going to a real college?"
"1 don't know. Maybe. All I know is I'm tired of getting up at four o'clock in the morning and at the end of the day don't feel like I've done nothing nobody even really gives a shit about. I wanna do something for me. Something that makes me feel good."
"I ain't never tried to stop you from doing that, Charlotte."
"I didn't say you did, did 1?"
He takes a few steps toward the bottom step. "Don't come up here, Al. I mean it."
"What you wanna do to make yourself feel good, Charlotte? Tell me."
"I don't know right now. All I do know is, whatever it is, I wanna do it at home."
"Like what?"
"I just told you, I ain't sure! But I'll put it this way. I saw a commercial on television for this international correspondence school and I sent away for some information. I'ma look it over and see if I might wanna try something they got."
"Like what, Charlotte?"
"Why you keep asking me the same damn questions? Go! Leave!"
"All right, all right. But this is what I gotta say about this: I'm sorry. I didn't do this to hurt you. I thought I was protecting our marriage by doing it this way, but I was wrong. Sometimes, people make bad decisions, Charlotte, but that don't mean they bad, do it?"
"I don't know, Al, but I don't even know if I really know you no more. I don't know if you really the same man I married. And to be honest, right now I could care less. Good night," I say, and head up the stairs past the kids' rooms. I go in our room and lock the door behind me. I get in the bed with my clothes on and wrap myself inside the covers. I lay here listening, waiting, to see how long it's gon' take him to do what he's gon' do. I'm wondering if he gon' come up the steps and try to fight for me, or if he gon' be a coward and leave. When I hear his engine turn over and the garage door open and close, I guess I got my answer.
Chapter 19
Cancer
The guy who built this house was stingy when it came to landscaping. The shrubs are downright dwarflike; the trees are sparse and nothing more than tall twigs. I can just about count how many flowers there are on one hand. The backyard slopes upward, and because the ground cover never quite took off, the sun and heat have turned the dark-brown bark to a grayish beige. He swore the evergreens would be at least twenty feet by now, but I'd be afraid to put Christmas lights on them. When we moved here two years ago, I promised myself I'd get around to sprucing it all up, and today is finally that day.
I'm basically killing time, waiting for two things to happen. After finally making the time to work on and finish what I thought was still a working draft of my proposal, I was shocked when the agent representing me for my cookbook told me that two or three publishers might be interested. She's supposed to let me know sometime today or tomorrow which one makes the best offer. I almost shit when she told me she wanted "six figures." But I'm not freaking out. I'll be happy with any amount that would help Mama get her condo and car and send her on her cruise. I want her life to improve. Want her to have some fun. Want her to stop worrying so much. Since submitting the proposal, I haven't managed to eke out enough time to write any of the text; haven't even started narrowing down the recipes. All I have is a concept: how to eat healthy and delicious gourmet-type meals in litde or no time and for even less money than you'd think. The agent said they'd want to see a polished introduction within a few weeks. That I'd need to give them a better idea of the structure the book would take.
I'm also waiting for the landscaper to show up. He's black. This'll be a first for me, because 99 percent of all landscapers in California are Mexican. But one of my clients swears this guy isn't your everyday run-of-the-mill gardener: that he's really a "landscape architect." He actually does a design plan. She said he does amazing work, especially with ponds, those koi fish and all kinds of exotic plants. I like to spend my money "black" whenever I can, so this is kind of refreshing. He's already twenty minutes late, but I'm not going to hold that against him.
A pile of mail is sitting on the counter, and I start sorting it-making stacks. At least ten invitations from clients-I drop them in the trash. Two or three letters are for Dingus, from different universities. He's already gotten them from USC, UCLA, Stanford, and a bunch of other schools. He told me this would happen in his junior year. I never got a single letter from any college asking me to come for a visit. Jocks.
It's so quiet in here. So still. Birds are chirping outside, and I realize it's spring. The sun is bright. The kitchen looks like a photograph from a kitchen magazine. It's so perfect. Too perfect, really. I did it all by the book. Bought the best of everything. And here it all is: The Wolf range. The Miele dishwasher. The Gaggenau ovens. The Sub-Zero fridge. But who really gives a shit what I cook on, what I clean my dishes in, or how I chill my food? And did I just have to paint the room butter yellow?
I find myself sliding down the wall until I land on the floor. I wish something good would happen to me. I'm not talking about a cookbook contract. I mean something that would break up the monotony of working too hard. In fact, I should be in my office right now, planning a party or working on a week-to-week meal plan for summer. I'm always planning. Always about to. And it's almost always for somebody else. People I don't even want to know. What they don't know is that the joy of cooking is the cooking itself. It's starting to get to the point where even the presentation is becoming passe. Because, after they eat it, it's gone. No trace of joy is left.
My energy level is dropping. These are a
ll negative thoughts, thoughts that won't help me do what I've got to do. I need a jump. I hook my foot around my purse strap and pull it over to me. My prescription bottle rolls out and I get one of my pills, swallow it dry, but then realize I'm sitdng next to the sink, so I get up and cup my hands under the faucet and sip the water from my palms.
Without even realizing it, I lean over and look down into the silver drain. I can't see anything. It's too dark down there. I keep looking anyway. I hope that girl isn't pregnant. I know that's what's been bothering me, too, and I don't know why I'm trying to pretend like it's not. This isn't something I can control, and I'm going to have to confront Dingus about it. I really don't give a shit if he gets mad because I eavesdropped. I've spent the last sixteen years of my life, and his, raising him to be a responsible young man. Stressed time and time again the importance of getting a college education, especially for a black man. Instilled in him the importance of being honest, dependable, worthy. Strive to be the best even if he doesn't become the best. That'll be good enough. And how in the world is a baby supposed to fit into this picture? What if that girl decides to have it? Does this boy have any idea what it could do to his future? Please. Don't let this happen, God. My son may be stupid, but he's smart. He's worked too hard. I've worked too hard to come to this.
I don't even know which sister I dial until one answers. "Charlotte?"
"Yeah."
"It's me, Paris."
"What can I do for you?" she says, dryly.
You'd think I was a bill collector. "You don't have to sound so cold, Charlotte, my goodness."
"I don't sound cold, and if you called to give me another lecture, I ain't in the mood."
"I'm not calling to lecture you, so please don't hang up the phone."
"Well, what's going on?"
"I was just calling to see how you're doing."
"I'm doingjust fine. Why wouldn't I be?"
Just the tone of her voice tells me she's lying. I don't know why it's becoming so hard for us to tell each other the truth, when we used to tell each other everything. "Relax, Charlotte. Why're you so defensive? You're the one who hung up on me the last time we talked, remember?"
"Look, Paris, I talked to Mama and she understood why I didn't come out there, okay?"
"Okay. That's not why I'm calling."
"Then what are you calling about?"
There's a click on the line. This could be my agent. "Can you hold on a second?" "Yeah."
Before I press the receiver, I hear Miss Ordelle, the older lady who irons for me on Wednesdays, come in the side door. I see her bandana tied around her head. "Hi, baby," she says, almost to the floor. "Hi, Miss Ordelle. How are you?"
"No worse for the weary," she says, and coughs ferociously. "But I'm here."
The phone clicks again. "You gon' get that?" Charlotte asks. I click it this time. "Hello, Mrs. Price?"
My agent calls me "Paris," and anyway it's a man's voice, so then I think it's Dingus trying to pretend like he's Isaac Hayes or Barry White, but he's still at school. "Look. I'm on a long-distance call, and if you're trying to sell me something, the answer is I'm not interested, or I already have some, and, no, I don't want to change my long-distance company, and if you're not selling anything, who's calling and how'd you get this number?" "This is Randall Jamison. I'm the landscaper. . . ." "Oh, I'm sorry." Now I feel silly.
"No, I'm sorry for being late. I'm stuck in traffic. Apparendy, a semi has flipped over on 280, and me along with about a hundred other cars are waiting to see when we can move. I just wanted you to know that."
"Well, thanks for calling, Randall. And don't worry, I've got enough to keep me busy until you get here."
Before I click back to Charlotte, I have to pause for a minute. What a nice voice. What a sexy voice. A landscaper. He's probably rough and ready and raggedy and ugly and dry and dirty, and I bet he stinks. Oh, who cares, as long as he can get the job done. I press the receiver. "Charlotte?" "I'm still here." "So-how are you, again?" "I'm fine, Paris. Couldn't be better. How's Dingus?"
"He's fine. Except some little white girl might be pregnant by him."
"Yeah," she says, like she couldn't care less one way or the other.
"How about your kids? How are they?"
"They're all doing good. Real good."
"And Al?"
"Oh, he's fine. We're all fine."
"That's good. What are you doing for your birthday?" "Nothing. I don't celebrate my birthday no more. It's just another day." "Well, we're trying to decide what to do for Mama for hers, and we were wondering if. . ." "Who is 'we'?"
"Me and Janelle," I lie. We haven't exactly discussed it again in any detail, but she'll go along with the program. She always does. "I'm listening."
"Well, first I thought Mama wanted to spend a couple of weeks here. . . ." "Don't she always?"
"No, she doesn't always, Charlotte. Would you let me finish, please?" "I'm listening."
"Anyway, since Shanice is staying with her. . ." "Since when did Shanice start living with Mama?" "Since the end of March. You haven't talked to Janelle?" "No. I ain't talked to nobody but a lawyer." "A lawyer? For what?" "I'm getting a divorce."
"Hold it a minute! You just said you and Al were fine." "We are. This is the best thing that coulda happened to both of us. I shoulda done it a long time ago. Why is Shanice staying with Mama?" "Because Janelle and George are having problems." "And she gets rid of her daughter and not his ass?" "Good point. He's supposedly gone." "What happened between them two?" "I don't know for sure. Janelle's not talking about it."
"Mania thinks he probably messed with Shanice, even though Shanice claimed he just hit her."
"Who told you that?" I ask.
"Mama. Why? Was it supposed to be a well-kept secret or something?"
"I don't know. I'm confused. This is just getting all fucked up. Everybody getting divorces. Splitting up. What's going on with you and Al, even though I'm not sure I want to hear this?"
"You ain't gotta hear it."
"Are you serious, Charlotte?"
"As cancer. He just got served some papers for back child support from some woman he slept with over ten years ago who just came outta no-damn-where and they done took our fucking income-tax return and everything."
"No shit. Who is this woman?"
"I don't know the bitch!"
"She had a baby by Al and he didn't know it?"
"Apparently, he did."
"I don't know what to say, Charlotte."
"You ain't gotta say nothing. It's a lotta things I been wanting to do with my life to get away from this post office, and, to be honest, Al ain't been doing nothing but keeping me down. We been in a rut, so this might just be a blessing in disguise. Anyway, what about Mama's birthday?"
I don't know what else to say about her divorce, so I'll let it pass for right now. It's not something you gloss over, but I'm not in any position to fix their problems, if in fact their problems are real. You never know with Charlotte. She can be so melodramatic. "Well, Mama told us to forget about doing anything for her on her birthday, but she was wondering if we could all chip in a little something so she could go on a cruise this summer with her friend Loretta."
"How much something?"
"I don't know yet. Probably no more than five hundred."
"That's a lotta money. For some of us."
"If you can, you can. If you can't, you can't. Don't worry about it, Charlotte." "You'll take care of it if we can't come through, ain't that right, Paris?"
"I don't know. I've got a lot on my plate right now, too. Look, I just wanted you to know."
"All right. That's it?"
"I guess. But are you sure you're feeling okay, Charlotte?"
"Couldn't be better. Look, I gotta go, Paris."
"Okay, Charlotte, but call me if you need to talk."
"I will. And tell Dingus to make that girl get a abortion. He don't need no baby. He got a future ahead of him. Bye."
I'm in sh
ock. She's getting a divorce? Charlotte loves Al, and he's been there for her and those kids since the beginning of time. Do you fault somebody for something they did a long time ago when it comes back to haunt them? It doesn't seem fair, but, then again, I'm not in her shoes.
I can't go into my office now. No way. I feel like I'm floating in a holding zone, waiting for this guy to show up and a call from New York. Why isn't she calling? Did the deal fall through? I dial my other sister, who answers on the first ring.
"How're you doing, Janelle?"
"I'm fine. And you?"
"Exhausted, if you want to know the truth."
"Me, too."
"You won't believe this."
"What?"
"Charlotte says she's divorcing Al because some woman from his past hit him up for child support."
"I can think of better reasons to divorce your husband than that. She's not divorcing him. Wait and see."
"I don't know. Have you talked to Shanice?"
"Yes I have. She's fine. She and Mama are bonding."
"You miss her?"
"Of course I miss her."
"Well, when's she coming home?"
"I don't know right now."
"Why don't you know?"
"Because there's a lot of confusion around my house." "Like what?"
"I don't feel like getting into it right now, Paris."
"Why not, Janelle? You never feel like talking about anything that really matters. Why is that?"
"That's not true. It's just that sometimes other people can't solve your problems."
"Did I say anything about solving your problems? No. But I'm your sister, bitch, and if something is wrong over there, I just wanted you to know you can talk to me." "1 know."
"Then why aren't you?" "I am."
"No you're not, Janelle. Something is going on with your daughter and your husband and you're not telling it."
"You're right. But, like I said, Paris, I have to work this out myself." "But you're not very good at that." "You don't know what I'm good at."
"I've only known you for thirty-five years, Janelle. We grew up in the same house. So-I think I do."
A Day Late and a Dollar Short Page 23
