Dexter gave himself permission to become a criminal, which is why I can’t read his letters anymore. Now he reminds me of my two brothers. They’re full of shit, too, and don’t apologize for anything they do wrong either. They live on our ranch in Billings. Our parents knew they were screw-ups when they were teenagers, always getting expelled, and then in their twenties, they thought the local jail was a hotel. Their thirties were nothing but a miniseries of the previous ten years, which is probably why our parents made me executor of the whole estate years before they both passed. All hundred and sixty acres. My brothers weren’t happy about this even though they got enough cash for anybody to live on for years. Just to be fair, I turned around and deeded them twenty acres each, including the house (which wasn’t worth half as much as the land), since they wanted to live in it for what they claim were sentimental reasons. But a funny thing happened while they partied the years away: They blew their inheritance and are now flat broke, which is why they’ve decided to sue me for what they call “our fair share.” Mine has been earning 3 percent interest.
It’s unfortunate that Jackson, the oldest, has yet to find steady employment even at the tender age of forty-eight. He claims to be handicapped but has yet to reveal what his disability is. Clay, a year younger, a high school dropout, never quite got the hang of working and has never demonstrated any marketable skills unless you count rounding up cattle. They’ve always resented me for marrying a black man and have never met him or the kids, which hurts even though I understand. Regardless, they’re still kin, so once I get this ordeal all straightened out, I’ll most likely give them some more acreage to do with as they please, sell off the rest, give them just enough money so they won’t kill themselves, and then maybe I’ll move to a more pleasant neighborhood out in the Valley, and definitely get my boobs lifted.
My moving to Los Angeles was not an accident. I dropped out of college to escape my family, boredom, and the brutal Montana winters with hopes of becoming an actress or a dancer—whichever happened first. (I was also a gymnast, but a broken tibia prevented me from going to the Olympics in Mexico City.) I managed to become a professional cheerleader instead. Which is how I met my husband. Howard was a rookie point guard for the Lakers but got cut after sitting on the bench for three years. From there he followed in his dad’s boots and started putting out fires. Last I heard, he retired the dice and worked his way up to captain. Instead of dancing, for the last twenty years, five days a week I have sat in a courtroom and typed into my steno machine some of the most horrific crimes imaginable when it comes to what folks do and don’t do under the influence of drugs and alcohol. Some things they don’t even remember. My daddy was a drunk. My mama was his memory. Everybody I knew played with guns. Especially my brothers when they were stoned out of their minds. Once, Jackson accidentally shot Clay in the foot. He didn’t even feel it. Guns have always frightened me. All this stuff has added up to why I’ve never tasted alcohol or smoked marijuana. I didn’t want any of them to play a role in my life. After all I’ve seen and heard, I don’t think everybody who drinks a little too much on occasion is an alcoholic or that people who smoke marijuana on an occasional basis are potheads. I take that back. They are potheads. If you smoke only three cigarettes a day instead of the whole pack, you’re still a smoker. It just always seemed easier and saner to deal with life with a clear head instead of one that’s overcast.
Lee David and BJ were the first people on the block to treat us like our mixed marriage was no big deal. Howard and I didn’t really have that hard a time. We got an occasional stare when we went out. But black women have been the worst. Whenever we were in public, when his back was turned, they’d look me up and down quickly, then again slowly, as if they were trying to figure out what I had that they didn’t—nothing—and they’d cut their eyes at me or give me the finger or twitch their nose and lips to one side or mouth the word bitch, all while leaning back on one leg, either with their arms crossed or with their hands on their hips. Sometimes all of the above at once.
I had never even thought about dating a black guy until I met Howard. It was his smile and the silk in his voice that caught my attention more than his skin color. He was also polite and warm and extremely sexy and didn’t even seem to know it. No one was more surprised than I was how much I found myself being attracted to him. I fell in love with him and his blackness was just an added bonus.
When the twins were still babies and I proudly pushed them around in their double stroller, some folks would do double takes. We got used to the stares, and white and black alike would ooh and aah and smile at the children, but most looked at me like they weren’t sure if they were mine. Sadly, it was mostly white people who would say, “Aren’t they just adorable!” Their problems didn’t start until elementary school but lasted through middle school. They were called niggers and half-breeds and nerds and got hit because a lot of the black children picked on them. On top of this, too many kids didn’t believe they were real twins, because Montana looked like me, blonde and blue eyes, and Max (short for Max) looked just like his dad: a beautiful root beer, with curly black hair. On too many occasions I had to leave work and go to their school, and there one or both of them would be sitting in the principal’s office in tears, sometimes with a busted lip or a bruise or some token of the hatred or anger they faced for being mixed. This is when we took them out of one and then another school and finally into what was called a charter school. It was full of every ethnicity we could possibly imagine, including so many varieties of mixed-race children we felt comfortable. The kids thrived there. And we slept good at night.
I put the envelope back and look around this living room like I’ve done hundreds of times. I love how the walls are covered with family photographs but then there’s me and Howard and the twins, too. The Rainbow Coalition.
When the doorbell rings, I’m thinking Nurse Kim has finally realized that this is a real job and is not only on time, but early. “It’s open!” I yell.
“Mom, it’s me! Tanna!”
What in the world is she doing here, and up so early?
Lately, she’s been working as a fitting model for wedding dresses because she’s a perfect size six, but they don’t usually get started until ten or eleven. “What in the world are you doing up so early? Is something wrong?”
“Not for me. But maybe yes, in your eyes.”
I study her face to see if I can detect whether this is going to be something my heart needs to be prepared for. Her cheeks are rosy. She’s a dirty blonde. I’m a bleached one. Her eyes are almost cobalt blue.
“I’m pregnant and I’ve decided to have it. I know you’ve been hoping I’d become a model or an actress like you wanted to be but it’s not in my cards. Motherhood apparently is. Please be happy for me. And good morning.”
And she just stands there. Smiling. She’s too damn young to have a baby. She’s too damn smart to have a baby. She’s too damn stupid to have a baby. After graduating from Loyola two years ago in history, she’s been trying to “find herself” since she decided “history was not helping me grow.” She sounded just like a little Valley Girl, when we’ve always lived in the hood. What about the fucking Peace Corps? She even has an interview coming up! And what about that amazing voice, which she got from her father’s side of the family? I push the lever on this La-Z-Boy and spring up to a standing position. I tighten the sash on the robe. I’m forty-six years old. Too young to be anybody’s grandmother. Especially a baby’s. I clear my throat. “Are you kidding me?”
She lifts her T-shirt to show me her belly. It’s flat. “It’s in there. Growing.”
“And how pregnant might you be?”
“Six weeks. Be happy for us, Mom.”
“Who is ‘us’?”
“Me and Trevor.”
I want to say, “Fuck Trevor. He can take his Italian ass back to New Jersey where he came from.” But I wouldn’t dare.
&nbs
p; I take a deep breath. Then another one. I want to try to say this nicely. “What in the hell are you going to do with a baby when neither you nor Trevor have a major source of income unless you count being a barista at Starbucks! What’s it going to drink: lattes?”
I see her mouth quivering. Then, “I thought you liked Trevor? He’s a great guy. And I love him. We’ll manage this.”
“I do like him, Tanna, but that has nothing to do with it. Where in the world are you two or three going to live?”
She brushes the front of her T-shirt with the palm of her hand a few times and leans against the wall, bumping up against BJ’s wall mirror that you can’t even see a clear image of yourself in anymore. “We were wondering if maybe you would let us stay in our house until we get on our feet. Trevor’s acting classes are really helping and he goes to auditions at least two or three times a week. He’s going to land something, soon, Mom. We both feel it in our gut. And don’t worry, unless I have terrible morning sickness, which I’m starting to feel already, I can find something to bring home a few dollars, too.”
“Like what?”
“I’m still weighing my options.”
I’m speechless. Weighing her options? Why is it young girls get pregnant and decide to have a baby because it’s romantic when they don’t have any idea how they’re going to take care of it let alone pay for it? Kids have like an eighteen- to twenty-three-year running tab. They are not a novelty. They are human beings. They live with you. You love them but they are guaranteed to get on your nerves and on some days you wish you could send them back. I look at my beautiful daughter standing there and, since it’s obvious that not having this baby is not even up for discussion, I just look at her and say, “I’m warning you right now. This is not going to be the Ritz-Carlton. There will be terms and conditions. I just need a day or so to process all of this.”
She runs over and hugs me so tight I’m thinking that if she squeezed me hard enough maybe the little walnut would just pop right out through her navel and things would be back to normal.
“I can still consider a singing career after the baby’s born, but the Peace Corps is out of the question.”
It’s pretty obvious to me that a college degree doesn’t have much of an impact on your heart. But just to make sure, I pose another question. “Are you sure about this? A baby? They grow up, you know, and walk across the street to your best friend’s house in the early morning hours to tell you they’re pregnant, expecting you to be excited for them, which you are but you’re also very, very scared.”
“I’m sure, Mom. Positively. And I love you, too. You won’t even know we’re there.”
“Wait a second here. How soon does Trevor want to move in?”
“Would today be too soon?”
“You mean as in today, today?”
She nods and nods and nods.
I hold my hand up and wave it like a white flag, and she runs over, kisses and hugs me again, and then dashes out to go give the baby daddy the good news. I flop down in the La-Z-Boy and pull the lever until it stops and lean all the way back. Up until a few minutes ago, I have always been proud of both of my children. Max was definitely the more focused of the two, though I tried not to compare them just because they were twins. When Max told me he wanted to study viticulture and enology at UC Davis, we were sitting by the pool with our feet in, and I started kicking (stalling).
“What in God’s name is this the study of?” He started laughing and dove in like he always did when we used to sit out there. When he came to the surface he swam over and said, “For the record, viticulture is all about the science and cultivation of growing grapes and enology is the study of winemaking. They go together. How cool is that?” He ended up getting a bachelor of science in this and then moved to France to study with some masters or heavy-duty vineyards or something. Miss Montana, on the other hand, flits. She changed her major five or six times before settling on history and would’ve changed it again but she had to declare or else. I don’t know, sometimes these pretty girls in Los Angeles don’t take themselves seriously enough.
I almost jump out of this recliner when I hear the doorbell again. I’m sick of doorbells. It had better be Nurse Kim and not Trevor. He should be on his knees telling me “Thank you.”
“It’s open!” I yell, and in walks my favorite person, BJ’s evil sister, Arlene. She despises me because twenty-six years ago I stole a black man from a nonexistent black woman.
“What are you doing here half-naked and where’s my sister?”
“She took the little ones to school and then she’s going on to the hotel for part of the day, and for your information this is called a robe and I came here to sit with Lee David until Nurse Kim gets here, and if I’m not being too forward: Wouldn’t it have been more considerate to have called first?”
She cuts those eyes at me as if to say, “Bitch, who do you think you’re talking to?”
I am not moved. So I cut my eyes back at her as if to say, “Bitch, you.” I would put my hands on my hips for special effect but I’ve already had one major surprise this morning. I wouldn’t want to provoke my best friend’s sister into doing something stupid. Plus, she doesn’t know I’m a black belt.
During this one-minute standoff, the screen door opens and in comes Nurse Kim in a denim miniskirt and a tight pink T-shirt with cleavage I would kill for and pink wedge sandals. She struts right past Arlene. Nurse Kim is one sexy nurse. Her legs are long and smooth. She’s a pretty reddish brown, the color I’d want to be if I were black. “Good morning, everybody,” she says. “I hope nothing’s wrong, is it?”
I shake my head no and head toward the screen door to get out of what could potentially become an inferno. But Arlene beats me to the punch and lets the door slam in my face. Nurse Kim winks at me and then yells: “Miss Arlene, hold up a minute!”
Arlene turns around like she’s ready to jump into the ring. “What?”
“Please tell Omar I said hey!” and she makes a soft fist and holds it next to her ear like it’s a telephone. I love her.
Arlene
Last night between her spin class and Bible study, Venetia called and told me that Betty Jean called her and told her that Trinetta had almost OD’d while she was on the phone with her! That Trinetta had the audacity to leave those kids over there with Betty Jean for almost a week and now Betty Jean is planning on keeping them until Trinetta can prove to her that she’s clean. “Which could very well mean never,” I said.
“I pray for our niece every single night, Arlene.”
“Well, maybe Trinetta’s not picking up on God’s radar.”
“I’m worried about Betty Bean too, Arlene. At this rate she could end up like all those grandmothers you read about in magazines and see in newspapers around Christmas or on Oprah or after the Super Bowl when the players on the winning team send shout-outs to their grandmas: not their mothers or fathers and not their wives and not their girlfriends. They’re just waving away and yelling at the top of their lungs: ‘I want to send my love to my grandma, who if it wasn’t for her I wouldn’t be here: Love you, Grandma!’ These women almost all get stuck raising their grandchildren out of guilt, and who can blame them? How in the world does she think she can possibly manage it all? This happened to Ernesta, the woman who goes to my church and ended up having a heart attack herself—may she rest in peace—not that I’m thinking something like this could happen to BB but it would sure help if she let Christ into her life to help steer her in the right direction. And if she lost thirty or forty pounds and stopped complaining about her knees bothering her and she got on over to the gym, wouldn’t you agree, Arlene?”
Just to shut her up I said, “Yes, I do.” I have to be very careful what I say to Venetia and how I say it. Swearing is out. In my opinion, she prays far too much, and you’d think she’d also have some faith in self-actualization, self-determination, and common se
nse. She also has a big mouth, and even though gossip is supposed to be a sin because it’s usually done with a tinge of malice, Venetia likes to repeat things. But she puts her own little spiritual spin on it, to justify it, I suppose, and as a result, she can turn your original comment into something you didn’t necessarily intend. Sometimes I wonder how she managed to graduate from college, but then again, it was a state college.
I abhor getting this kind of emotional information secondhand but Betty Jean wouldn’t dream of telling me, because she knows that unlike our baby sister whose spark plugs don’t always fire, I don’t bite my tongue, which is precisely why as soon as I get Omar up and give him his breakfast, I’m driving over there to give her a piece of my mind before she heads off to work.
I cannot for the life of me understand why Betty Jean continues to act like she’s so surprised that Trinetta is a legitimate drug addict when the child has been high off and on for years. Mostly on. Which is precisely why I called Child Protective Services on her that time I stopped over to her tiny ghetto apartment to take those kids some toys for Christmas so Betty Jean wouldn’t have to spend all of her little paycheck on them like she is known to do, and there they were sitting on that ugly plaid sofa eating Pringles and drinking Diet Pepsi all by themselves.
“Where’s your mama?” I asked Luther. He was five or six.
“Her went to the store.”
Her? I pray that one day these kids learn how to speak English. If my niece had walked through that door at that very moment I probably would’ve slapped her trifling ass down that hallway and back. Some people should not have children. Period. “Who’s watching you boys?”
“Me. ’Cause I’m a big boy. What you got in them bags?”
I walked over to that stingy silver Christmas tree sitting on top of a fruit crate and put some packages on the bare tile underneath it. “These are from Santa,” I said.
Who Asked You? Page 4
