A Day Late and a Dollar Short

by Terry McMillan

  "I told you: I know I'm not perfect, and I don't always feel like I have to be in control."

  On that note, I grab my Sock-It-to-Me cake and throw it at her, but it hits her in the face. I didn't mean for it to get her there. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to do that."

  "Yes you did!" She's crying.

  "What you crying about, Paris? It didn't hurt. But if it'll make you feel better, go get another piece and throw it back in mine."

  "I don't want to do anything to hurt you, Charlotte. I never have and never will. But I'm so out of here it's not funny. I was trying to help clean up, but just fuck it!"

  "Fine, then, leave. I don't need your help. And by the way: don't look for me at Thanksgiving."

  And then, out of nowhere, I hear Janelle say, "You'll be there or I'll throw more than some goddamn cake in your face, Charlotte. And, Miss Leaning Tower of Pisa, you better lay out the red carpet when she gets there."

  "Shut up, Janelle. This has nothing to do with you," Paris says.

  "Oh, really? Have you both already forgotten about our mother's request, or are you going to ignore all rationality and that litde thing called respect and let your anger decide what you should do? And you've both got the nerve to talk about being in control? Where's yours? Do you two think this is how we should be behaving on the same damn day we bury our mother?"

  "She started it."

  "You started it," Paris snaps. "Criticizing me about something that didn't even concern you!"

  "Stop it!" Janelle screams.

  "Okay, but one last thing. From the sound of things, Charlotte, it seems like this shit started a long time ago," Paris says. "I don't know what I've done to you to cause you to dislike me so, but I wish you'd tell me what it is."

  But I can't think of nothing right now. I need some time to remember. And besides, I don't like being put on the spot like this. "I don't feel like getting into it right now."

  "Well, what breaks my heart more than anything is that you seem to have convinced yourself that I'm out to get you, when I'm not. I love you, Charlotte, but you're making it awfully hard to like you."

  "Yeah, well, the feeling is mutual."

  And on that note Paris throws the dishrag in the sink and walks right past me and Janelle and heads out to the garage, where I hear her rental car start up. Janelle is just standing there with her hands on her hips. The house is damn near empty now, and it's a mess. Paris did say she loved me, didn't she? I feel kinda bad but relieved at the same time.

  "I hope you're satisfied now, Charlotte."

  "What you mean by that?"

  "Nothing," she says. "Let's just get this place cleaned up so we can all get some sleep. It's been a long day, and you must have confused it with the Fourth of July, because these grand-finale fireworks were truly magnificent." She bends down to pick up my Sock-It-to-Me cake saucer, but then stops herself. "Why don't you pick this up?"

  "I will."

  "Good. Mama's probably turning over in her grave already if she was watching you two act like two bitches on a side street. It's a damn shame."

  "I said I'm sorry!"

  "Sometimes that's not enough, Charlotte. Sometimes that's just not enough. As a matter of fact, you clean up. I'm tired, and I'm going to bed. I'll get up early and help. But I can't right now."

  She's crying. And as soon as she leave, I pick that plate up off the floor and slide my index finger through the frosting and lick it. But it taste terrible mixed with tears.

  Chapter 33

  What I'm Fighting For

  "Hey, get away from that car," I yell.

  "We ain't doing nothing to this fucking car," one of the Mexican dudes says. It looks like there's about four of 'em, but I can't be sure. I'm kinda fucked up. I've been kicking it with Silas all day, 'cause he just had a baby and we were celebrating the birth of his son. He left a few hours ago, and I guess I kept the celebration going.

  "Look, I asked you nice once. That's my car and I don't want you guys sitting on it."

  "This piece of shit!" one says.

  "Yeah, but it's my piece a shit! Now, get off of it or I'ma have to go call the police, 'cause it's my personal fucking property and I don't want your drunk asses on it!"

  "Fuck you!"

  The next thing I know, one of 'em picks up a jack and is running towards me with it, but before I can even do anything, two of the other dudes are pulling my arms behind my back and I feel that hot steel hit my head and see blood gushing down my face, in my eyes, but because I got so much malt liquor in my system, the full extent of the pain ain't registering. It's this fucking alcohol that gave me all this goddamn courage to come storming out to this parking lot when I heard these motherfuckers out here partying, drinking beer, and blasting their loud-ass Mexican music.

  But now that jack is landing in my chest and, fuck, I can't breathe. Somebody else is kicking me in my back and on my side, and when I fall forward my face hits this pavement. When I roll over I see some guy swing that fucking jack like a golf club and I feel it slice the skin over my right eye off. I know it's supposed to hurt more than it is, but all I see is blood and more blood. Blood and more blood. That's all.

  When I open my eyes, I can't believe I'm in a hospital. I know these dudes didn't hit me this bad. But I feel like 165 pounds of crushed ice and hot coals all at the same time. I can't wait to find the motherfuckers when I get outta here. I remember exactly what they look like. I think.

  "Hi, Lewis," I hear Janelle say.

  "What are you doing here?"

  "That's a stupid thing for you to ask under the circumstances."

  "Under what circumstances?"

  "You almost died, Lewis."

  "What the hell are you talking about, Janelle? Some dudes jumped me. I was trying to protect my property, and . . ."

  "Lewis, you were so drunk when the paramedics got there that, in addition to your head injuries, your nose wouldn't stop bleeding."

  "They hit me in the head with a goddamn jack and I fell face-flat on the concrete!"

  "I know they did."

  "How do you know?"

  "Because they were caught."

  "Really? How?"

  "Don't worry about it right now. Listen to me, Lewis, this is serious."

  "I know it is."

  "No, I'm talking about your health. You didn't just bleed where they hit you. You bled from your eyes and ears, and take a look at your goddamn fingernails."

  I'm almost too scared to, because Janelle is too shook up and I have never heard her swear. But she's right, 'cause when I look down I see dried blood around my cracked cudcles. "What the hell do you mean, I bled from my eyes and ears? And how does a person bleed from their fingernails?" "You want the truth?"

  "Of course I do, Janelle."

  "You've been drinking so much for so long, Lewis. ... Do you realize you've been in this hospital for four days?"

  I just look at her. Four days? That's impossible. I got here last night. Didn't I? But my sister wouldn't lie to me, and all I can do is shake my head.

  "Anyway, the alcohol you've been consuming all these years has finally caught up with you. The doctor said it's destroyed your platelets-the stuff that clots your blood-and when you came in here your level dropped all the way down to forty in just a few hours."

  "So what does that mean?"

  "Well, I'll put it this way: they said a normal level is about a hundred and forty to four hundred."

  "Oh," I say. "So I fucked up."

  "No, you didn't just fuck up. You almost died."

  "You serious, Janelle?"

  "You want me to go get the doctor and have him repeat it?"

  "No. Don't."

  "You've got twenty-two stitches in your head and six across your eyebrow, and your right shoulder's been fractured."

  I know my head feels like a watermelon full of boiling seeds and my eye like it's being stretched; I can't lift my right arm, but I still say, "Is that it?"

  "No, Lewis, that's not 'it.' You be
tter take your ass to AA every single day for the rest of your life or you're going to die, for real. And it's no joke. We just lost our mother, we don't want to lose you, too."

  "We?"

  "Your sisters. Your family."

  "Don't worry. But, Janelle, please don't tell me you told Paris and Charlotte and especially Daddy?"

  "I just got the call a few hours ago myself. From some girl named Luisa. She said she's the one who called the paramedics, because she was dropping off some homemade tamales for you and she said when she saw those guys running and everything, she recognized one as her brother, but then she said, when she saw you down on the ground like that, she was so scared she ran and called 911, but didn't know what else to do until today, when she went over and got your key and looked around your apartment and found my number. She said she remembered me because she saw the note I left on your door about Mama way back in the spring."

  I just stare at the light-blue wall behind my sister. And then, just for the record, I say, "I almost died for real, Janelle?"

  "You could have. Yes."

  "And Mama's dead," I hear myself say.

  "Yes she is, Lewis. She's been dead for almost two months. Two long months."

  "I need to talk to her, Janelle."

  "We all need to talk to her, Lewis, but we can't, all right? So get over it."

  "Get over it, huh?"

  "You know what I mean. Look. I've gotta go look at an apartment today, and if all goes well, my daughter can come home in a few days."

  "What exactly is going on with the George situation?"

  "He's out."

  "Yeah, but he is going to prison?"

  "Not unless Shanice agrees to take that test and testify on tape, like I told you."

  "But I thought you said he did this to his other daughters, too."

  "He did. One was his stepdaughter."

  "Can't they testify against him?"

  It looks like a lightbulb just went off in her head or something. "I never thought about asking them. It never even crossed my mind. If they did, I wonder. . . ? I'm going to call and find out. Lewis?"

  "Yeah," I say, kinda grateful that I finally offered a member of my family something that was helpful.

  "Thank you," she says.

  "You're welcome. Can I ask you something, Janelle?"

  "Sure, Lewis. What?"

  "Sometimes, don't you ever wonder what you're fighting for? I mean, doesn't it ever seem like you mighta missed the point?"

  "Yeah, but sometimes things happen to make you wake up, and if you don't, then that makes you a fool. I'm tired of being a fool, Lewis. And what am I fighting for? Me and my daughter's happiness and sense of well-being. If I can manage that, as far as I'm concerned I've done a lot."

  "I agree."

  "What about you? Do you know what you're fighting for?"

  "My sanity. Some dignity. Sobriety. Self-control. But I'll stop there."

  "Then let's just keep fighting," she says, and bends over and gives me a kiss on the good side of my forehead and then leaves. I lay here and just stare at that blank blue wall for so long that it becomes a movie screen like the kind we used to go to when we were litde: at the drive-in. I see myself. Cutting grass with a power lawnmower in front of a nice litde ranch-style house. It's my house. And in the driveway is a brand-new burgundy Ford 250 pickup. It's mine. On the visor is my burgundy leather garage-door opener I invented, with Jamil's picture under the plastic, right next to it. My hands and wrists are still deformed, but I'm finally taking the right kinda medication, and it's helping the pain. When I finish, I walk inside my garage and look at all these cans stacked high on the shelf. My name is on the labels. I've got a workstation that takes up a whole wall. I've got every kinda tool I ever wanted. I even got a TV and stereo out here. A litde refrigerator that I keep stocked with water and every now and then a Pepsi, but nothing stronger than that. I hear a car pull up behind my truck. It's Donnetta and Todd droppingjamil off for the weekend. We ain't best friends, but I remembered one of the Steps in AA and made amends and apologized to both of them and they accepted it because they're decent. I stand there and smile, waving goodbye, and when I hear the door to the kitchen open I turn to see who it is, but all I see is the tip of a woman's sneaker sticking out between the wall and the screen door. When I blink, I'm waiting for her to come out, but the movie is over. The screen goes blank. The wall is blue again. And I'm glad I ain't dead.

  As a matter of fact, I'm crying. I'm crying because I wish my life was like that movie. Mama would be ashamed if she saw me like this. And so would my son. So would the rest of my family. Hell, I'm ashamed. But I also don't wanna die no time soon. I know I'm fucked up. And I'm an alcoholic. But at least I'm finally admitting it to myself. And maybe this knowledge and acceptance can make me stronger instead of weak. I'm the one who's been letting all this bullshit break me down to nothing. But I ain't gotta accept being flicked up-'cause basically everybody is, when you get right down to it-but it's what I do with this insight that can help me walk through, around, and over the hard stuff. I need to see this as an opportunity to learn how to live. The only way I'll stand a chance is sober. I should've known this a long time ago. But, hell, fuck the past.

  Right now all I want is my family, and especially my mama, to be proud of me. I want them to know that I'm a good person, that I'm a strong black man. That I can be responsible. Can take care of my son. That I can be a good father. That I'm smarter than they think. I just want to feel necessary and needed. Want to feel important to somebody. I don't have to be important, I just want to feel important. Up to now I've been in love with the wrong thing, 'cause alcohol ain't my buddy or my girlfriend. It sure ain't my wife. All this love been killing me. And I'm rired. Tired of not thinking clear. Tired of not remembering. Tired of falling down and not being able to get back up. I guess I been dead, Mama, but I think it's time for me to stand up straight and tall like you taught us to. It's gotta be a whole lot easier than this.

  Chapter 34

  Loosening Knots

  Its ten o'clock at night and I'm putting groceries in the trunk of my car. As I lift another bag out of the metal cart, I bang my knee into the back bumper. "Shit!" I scream, but there's hardly a soul out here at this time of night, so no one even hears me. "Fuck!" I say even louder, and then kick the car. I throw the last bag in, not even thinking that it could be the one with the eggs or something breakable in it, but I could care less right now, because that bumper shouldn't have been in my fucking way.

  When I get in the car I start it up, but I don't put it in reverse. I just sit here, because I realize that I just got mad at a bumper. Now that I think about it, I've been mad about a lot of things lately. I've got a sister who hates me, a cookbook that's not even close to being finished, an ex-husband who has resurfaced and suddenly wants to be a father again, and basically everything and everybody seems to get on my nerves in no time flat. I'm always running into or tripping over things and have gotten more cuts and bruises on my body this past year than I have in my whole life.

  "You are out of control, Paris," the Smart Side of Me says out loud. "You've been taking these stupid pills for so long now that they've become a part of your daily routine. They're affecting your whole demeanor. Your personality, even your thoughts."

  "But that's not completely true," the Dumb Side of Me says.

  "Bullshit. You can't even start your day without figuring them into the equation."

  "That is not true."

  "Bullshit. You can't get through a day without them." "Wanna bet?"

  "Yes. I'll bet you can't do it."

  "Watch this," the Smart Side of Me says, as I reach into my purse and get out my brand-new full-to-the-top bottle of sixty extra-strength Vicodin (the Dumb Side has not only moved up in the world, but found a new doctor, who was even more gullible than the others), untwist the top, and toss every single one of them as far as they'll go out into that parking lot. "There!"

  And as soon as I do
it, I panic. But the Smart Me refuses to succumb to the sudden pang of being left out in the middle of an empty lake in a paddleboat with no oar, and I back the car out and drive home. When I get inside the garage, I push the bottle inside an empty milk carton in the recycle bin.

  "I can do this," I say as I walk in the house, where Dingus is sitting with a long face. We've both been so blue since Mama died that it has become our manner: sadness. I've been told that we're just grieving, that it's normal, and as time passes it'll get easier. But it's been three months, and I feel exactly the same way. I miss her and want her to come back. I can't imagine not feeling like this. Ever.

  But I'm trying. In fact, I actually have a real-live date tomorrow with Randall. Finally. After I got back from London, I called him to tell him what had happened to my mother. He completely understood when I said I wanted to hold off finishing the yard because it didn't seem that important at that time. Now I feel a need for motion, activity, company. Someone to talk to besides my family.

  "Ma, you got a minute?" Dingus asks.

  "The question is, do you have a minute? Can you get the groceries out of the car first, or is this something that can't wait?"

  "I guess it can wait," he says, and saunters out to the garage and comes right back, carrying all six bags. How does he do that?

  "You want me to put this stuff away?"

  "No, I can do it. What's going on?"

  "Have a seat," he says.

  "Why do I need to have a seat?"

  "Just because."

  "Get to the point, would you, Dingus?"

  He takes a few deep breaths. "Jade's pregnant."

  "Who?"

  "Jade."

  "That's impossible."

  "No, it's not impossible, Ma."

  "How did that girl get pregnant. Dingus?"

  "We had an accident, is all."

  "You seem to be big on sexual accidents, aren't you?"

  "No."