"Look, can we talk about something else? Like Mama's birthday, for instance?"
"She told me she just wants us to chip in so she can go on her cruise this summer."
"That sounds good."
The phone clicks. This has got to be New York. "Can you hold on a minute? I'll be right back. I promise." "Okay." "Hello?"
"Is this Paris?" somebody with a raspy voice is asking. "Who is this?"
"This your Aunt Priscilla, baby. How you doing?"
"You mean Prison, Aunt Priscilla?" I ask, disappointed again.
"Well, yeah, since you put it that way."
This call means two things: she's out and she wants something. And it's always the same thing-cash-for the same thing-drugs. She's the oldest drug addict I know. I hope it doesn't run in the family. "Aunt Pris- cilla, is there a number I can call you back at? I'm on a long-distance call right now."
"Look, I just need a favor, is all. I just got out, you know, and I went to the doctor and he done told me I got cancer, and I wanna know if you can help me get the operation."
"What kind of operation?"
"The operation that's gon' get rid of the cancer."
This one takes the cake. "What kind of cancer do you have?"
"I think he said it's in my throat. A lump or something, and they need to get it out."
"Look, Aunt Priscilla, I'm really sorry to hear that you've got cancer, and I wish I could help you right now, but I'm broke. Don't you have insurance or Medicaid?"
"Broke? Everybody know you got money, baby. You ain't gotta lie to your Aunt Priscilla. When you do time you don't get no benefits," she says, and starts crying. "This ain't no way to come home: with nothing but a whole lotta something you don't need. You ain't even gon' try to help your auntie live a little longer?"
"How much is the operation?" I ask for the hell of it; I would love to come right on out and ask her how much does she need to get her through the day, but it's coming. I know it.
"I think it's only gon' be about a thousand, but if you could send me a hundred or two hundred today that would help take care of the doctor's visit and them X-rays they took."
"Are you staying with Aunt Suzie Mae?"
"No no no no no. You know Suzie Mae and me don't get along. I ain't got no permanent residence as yet."
"Hold on a minute, Aunt Priscilla." I click Janelle back on. "Girl, you won't believe this. It's Aunt Priscilla on the other line."
"Did she escape again?"
"No, she's out. This time it's cancer and she wants me to pay for her operation. I'll be right back." I click back. "Aunt Priscilla?" "I'm still here."
"I could Federal Express you a little something at Aunt Suzie's and you could go over and get it tomorrow."
"Is there any way you could Western Union like fifty or a hundred so I can have it today?"
"I can try, but I don't know, Aunt Priscilla, I've got a lot to do today. Have you talked to Charlotte? She's right there in Chicago."
"Suzie Mae just gave me her number, and I left her a message, but she ain't called me back yet. You know how she is."
"Look, I really have to go, Auntie. Just check back tomorrow." "Wait! These days you can use a credit card and do it over the phone. You ain't gotta go nowhere!"
"Okay! I'll do it. But I've got to go right now, and I'm glad you're out. Again. Goodbye!" And I click the phone. Janelle's still laughing.
"Don't ask. Anyway, what are you doing right now?"
"You mean right now?"
"Yeah."
"I'm out in the front yard counting all the red cars that go by. I'm up to seventeen. I guess I'm trying to decide if I want to have this baby or get an abortion."
I get a gigantic lump in my throat. "Oh, so . . ."
"So you were right. But I feel kind of weird, Paris. George is gone."
"For how long?"
"I hope forever. I just don't know what I'm doing right now. It's too much. I need to talk to somebody who doesn't know me. Just to explain how things have transpired."
"Please don't go to a psychic for this kind of shit, Janelle. Please." "I'm too scared. I went to a Tarot reader and the first card she flipped over was too much, so I left."
"Out of pure curiosity, what was it?"
"The Hanged Man. Anyway, I just want my daughter to come back home. To be honest, I don't know how I'm gonna take care of her, and I don't know if I should have this baby or not."
"You're not handicapped, Janelle. You can get a decent job. How far gone are you?"
"A little over two months."
"Whoa. That's cutting it close."
"I know."
Now here conies Miss Ordelle, standing in my doorway with one hand 011 her hip and holding a pair of jeans in the other. Something's wrong. I hired her just to iron, but she insists on washing anyway (when her stories go off she gets bored). We argued about it, but she won. I asked her not to wash my white clothes, because she uses too much bleach and she's stingy with the softener.
"Hold on a minute, Janelle. Yes, Miss Ordelle?"
"Excuse me, baby. But I don't know how this happened. See this red stuff, here? I think Dingus musta had something red in his pocket. But it done got on a whole lotta stuff, and I just want you to know-I didn't do it."
"It's okay. Don't worry about it, Miss Ordelle."
"You sho'? I mean, I can try to get it out, now," she says, "but this look permanent to me."
"If you can, fine."
"All right," she says, coughing hard as she heads back toward the laundry room. She smokes like a fiend. Outside the garage door. And it seems like once a month Miss Ordelle has an abscess and has to get another tooth pulled. She was homeless three years ago, even though she's got grown kids. I found her through an agency. She ironed as good as Mama taught me. But when she told me how much her take was of the fee they were charging, I offered her a few dollars more if she would come once a week on her own. That was two years ago. Since then, every week, when I ask her how she's doing, it's gone from bad to worse, so much so that she should've been dead about a year ago. "Sorry about that," I say.
"Was that Miss Ordelle?" Janelle asks.
"Of course it was. She loves interrupting me when I'm on the phone, you know that."
"Does she have on her bandana?" "Yes she does."
"How many teeth does she have left?"
"Never mind, I love that woman, so shut up. Look. I was just calling to reach out and make a sisterly gesture. Between you and Charlotte, I swear. Lord only knows what our wonderful brother's up to."
"Well, all I know is Jamil called over here a few days ago for his address." "You're kidding me."
"No, I'm not. He wasn't very communicative, but I gave it to him. And that was it."
I hear the doorbell ring.
"Look, there's my front door and it's probably this landscaper I've been waiting for."
"I thought your yard was already landscaped."
"I wouldn't go that far. Anyway, this guy's just going to look at it, throw some of his ideas out, and then go work on some plans and give me an idea how much it'll cost to make it lush and pretty, although right now, to be honest, it seems really trite compared to what you guys are going through."
"Don't worry. Everything always works out. I didn't get a chance to ask-how're you doing?"
"I'm fine. I think I sold my cookbook, and I've been going bonkers waiting for my agent to call and let me know the deal."
"That would be so cool, Paris. This is right up your alley. It took you long enough."
"Yeah yeah yeah," I say, trying to peek around the corner, but can't quite do it without being spotted. The doorbell rings again. "Just a minute! Be right there!" "Okay, so go, and I'll talk to you later."
"Well, try not to make any decisions right now, okay, Janelle?"
"I won't. Thanks, Paris."
I hang up and look at myself in the glass to see if I look like a housewife without a husband. I do. I'm a mess. I have on gray sweats and a pink swe
atshirt that has coffee stains on it from this morning. I can't remember if I combed my hair or not. But who cares? This is the fucking gardener.
When I open the door it appears that the lump that had popped into my throat when I was talking to Janelle has come back. I can't open my mouth to utter a single solitary word. This is the first black landscaper I've ever met, and they send me one who looks like he should be on one of those sexy black-men calendars? And in my condition? A woman who hasn't so much as smelled a man this close in over a year, let alone touched one. I'll be damned. All I'm thinking is: At least I'd have something pleasing to look at for a month, or however long it takes to do this. If this works out.
"Hello, Mrs. Price, I'm Randall. I finally made it," he says, holding out his hand to shake mine. His nails are clean. His hands are full of thick veins, but they look like they get lotioned regularly, because his wedding band is dull.
I swallow. "Hello, Randall. I'm Paris. Glad you made it." I feel ugly and fat, and I should've combed my hair even if no one was coming over. That's the problem, no one hardly ever comes over except Dingus's friends. Why is that, Paris?
"I think there were a few fatalities, sorry to say. But. I'm here. You have a beautiful home," he says, looking around.
I can't even believe myself. Getting all giddy over some stranger who's here to look at my yard. Get a grip, Paris. Please.
"You want to show me your yard?"
"Sure," I say, and point toward the French doors that lead outside. "I'll be right out." I'm too hyper right now. I need to calm down. But the good news is that this hasn't happened to me in years. His being married doesn't concern me. In fact, I hope he's happily married. I'm just grateful to him for making me feel some level of excitement. I need to contain this feeling, trap it somehow. So-I pick up my purse and get out a pill and then decide to break another one in half. I take them both.
I walk out through the open doors and just stand there watching this man walk around my yard. He's up at the top of the slope, standing next to an evergreen that looks like it's got tuberculosis. He must be about six feet, maybe five eleven. Chocolate brown. Not more than thirty-four or -five at most. God knew exacdy what he was doing when he made this one. His wife is one lucky woman.
When I step outside, he yells: "You want to tell me some of your ideas, and then I'll tell you some of mine?"
"Sure," I say, as 1 stand inside a puddle of sunshine. The heat feels good. For the next hour or so, I think I'll pretend that the only thing on my mind are flowers and ponds and koi and evergreens and shrubs. But tonight, when I close my eyes, I'm almost certain that this is the man who'll be lying in bed next to me. That's how it's been. That's pretty much how it is.
Chapter 20
Puff 0n That
He beat me. But I didn't feel bad like I thought I would. As a matter of fact, it was sorta like playing myself, because my son is smart, maybe even smarter than me. But it's cool. They say each generation should be an improvement over the next, and he's living proof that it's true, which is why I guess I actually feel better about losing to him.
He's still sleep out there on the couch, and I've already been up and out this morning. I tracked down Woolery and got most of my money, enough to get the parts for my car, and even though it hurt me to pay it back all at once, I sent Miss Loretta the sixty I owed her and Luisa her forty. My buddy Silas spent all morning helping me get my car running, and now I'm just smoking a cigarette, waiting for Jamil to wake up so I can take him home. We were up till almost three o'clock, and I'm glad all I had in the house to drink was the rest of that forty, 'cause I just barely got a buzz. It was nice waking up with a clear head instead of the lead head I'm used to. I ain't got cotton mouth either, which means I could actually tongue-kiss somebody if somebody was here for me to tongue-kiss. I might have to try this more often.
A cup of instant coffee'll make these three Tylenols work faster. Early morning is tough, when I get out the bed and my feet and ankles hurt so bad I can't even think about putting no weight on 'em. This morning wasn't quite as bad, but by this afternoon, if I don't take something again, I could be mistaken for cripple. Sometimes I can't even move my fingers to hold my cigarette. Like right now, some of 'em are swollen and curving out toward my baby fingers. And in a litde while, these knots in my wrists an d e lbows'll be on fire, daring me to try to straighten 'em all the way out. I don't want my son to see me in this much pain. I don't want him feeling sorry for me, because I don't want his pity.
"Hey, Jamil," I say kinda loud. "Wake up. Let's go get some breakfast, and then I'm taking you home. I want to talk to Todd."
His head pops up over the back of the couch. He slept in that baseball cap. "I don't like breakfast," he says.
"Well, I do. My stomach gets all messed up if I don't eat. Plus, breakfast is for champions, didn't you know that?"
He grins. The boy's got dimples. Me or his mama don't have 'em, that much I remember. Come to think of it, I don't know what it'll be like to see Donnetta after all this rime. Right now, I ain't got no butterflies in my stomach except for the mere fact that she might bring up the child-support issue, but I got a court date for that and, plus, I'll show her my hands. Maybe then she'll see why I ain't been working.
While Jamil takes his shower, I smoke another cigarette and try to think of what I'ma say to Todd. I'ma be a man about this. I ain't going out there to make a fool outta myself or do nothing stupid, but I want him to know- from one man to another-that you don't put your hands on somebody else's child. That's it. I'll let him know that if he ever touches him again there'll be consequences. I ain't never hit Jamil. Even when he was bad, I just talked to him. Jamil was hardheaded, couldn't stand sitting in one spot for more than five minutes, so I'd make him sit for ten, then fifteen, then a half-hour. By the time Donnetta filed for divorce, he was up to two hours.
"I'm ready," he says. "You need to get some new towels, Dad. Yours smell like mildew."
"I know. All things in rime. Let's go."
"How are we getting there?"
"My car's running."
"Cool," he says. "Where are we gonna eat?"
"Coco's or IHOP, which would you prefer?"
"I really don't care."
"IHOP is my favorite. My treat," I say.
"Cool."
If my back was turned, I'd swear this boy was white.
Jamil is busy changing radio stations when I get out to the car. He don't say a word about the smoke coming out of the muffler, or how old and raggedy this piece of shit is, and I don't say nothing either. I'm grateful to have transportation, even if it is twelve years old and hard to find parts for. This burgundy Riviera gets me around town when I take care of it. It's a gas guzzler, but, I bought it off this Mexican for two hundred dollars, so I wasn't all that particular about what other colors it came in. And, plus, I ain't into cars that much. Not like when I was young. I just want something that can get me where I'm going. But, hell, if I ever hit the lottery, the first thing I'd do after paying all my bills is get myself a brand-new truck.
"You all right?" I ask.
"I'm fine. I guess. I hope there's not going to be a scene."
"Don't worry about that, Jamil. All I want to do is make sure this dude never puts his hands on you again. If he does, he's going to jail. And that's that."
There goes that grin again. We don't say too much for the next forty minutes, when we get to Simi Valley and pull up in front of their house. It's the same shade as cantaloupes, one of those cheap stucco things I was building before my arthritis got too bad. I don't know why they all have to be fruity colors, and all set back at the exact same spot as the next house. If you ever came home drunk, you probably wouldn't be able to tell your house from the neighbors'. But they're new. And people like new anything: shoes, cars, and especially houses. They like the smell of new. The look and feel of new. I can't much blame 'em. If I could afford it, I'd be living in one, too.
I wonder what possessed Donnetta to wanna live w
ay out here? What a dumb-ass question, Lewis. She's got a white husband. Which means she probably thinks like everybody else: that the further away you get from black folks, the safer you'll be. But look what happened to Rodney King, which wasn't that far from here.
Jamil opens his side faster than I thought and is out the car and at the front door before I can even turn the engine off. By the time I limp up the sidewalk, Donnetta is standing in the doorway with one hand on her hip, squinting. She looks better than I remember. Her skin is still smooth and creamy, like its been dipped in caramel. Her hair is sandy brown and wavy; now its way past her shoulders. And for somebody who just recently had a baby, she looks good: thinner than I ever remember her being.
"What are you doing here?" she asks.
"I just came to talk to you and your husband. I didn't come out here to cause no trouble, so don't worry."
"Who's out there, honey?" I hear a man's voice that sounds almost like a woman's say, but he doesn't even come to the door.
"It's Lewis," she says, and I'm surprised when she backs away to let me in. "Please don't make me have to get another restraining order," she mumbles.
When I walk in, I realize some things don't change. The house may be new but the stuff in here is old and out of style, with the exception of that big-screen TV. She's got that same J. C. Penney s couch we bought right after we got married and the La-Z-Boy, too. The tables weren't even real wood, but I didn't care back then, it was all we could afford. I see what must be four years of trophies and pictures of Jamil in his soccer and Litde League uniforms on three glass shelves. It smells like Glade air freshener in here, but that's about it.
"How're you doing, man?" I hear that voice say, and when I turn, here goes Todd, the tin man. No wonder he punches kids. That's probably all he could get away with hitdng. He ain't even close to handsome, and he's downright lanky to be about my height, he can't weigh more than 140, 150 tops. And his head looks too small for his body. He's clean-shaven and got beady litde eyes. When he reaches out to shake my hand, I just look at him.
"I'm not staying long," I say.
"What brings you out here?" Donnetta says. "And where'd you run into Jamil?"
A Day Late and a Dollar Short Page 24
