God Ain't Through Yet

by Mary Monroe

Pee Wee looked terrified for a few seconds. Then one of the most hopeless looks I’d ever seen appeared on his already tortured-looking face. You would have thought that I’d just told him he had a terminal illness. I was immediately sorry that I had made the “golden years” remark. It was too close to “last years.” And because of that serious medical situation that he had faced last year, a male-related condition that could have ended his life, his mortality was one subject we both avoided. Even though he’d beaten the odds and was now as healthy as I was, he still didn’t like to discuss it.

  “Retire?” he said, making the word sound so obscene I almost expected him to spit it out and honk it across the room. “Re…tire?”

  The second time he said the word it sounded so bad I wanted to spit it out and honk it across the room myself.

  “Uh…yeah,” I stammered, wishing I could take back what I’d just said.

  “I don’t want to retire. That’s the beginnin’ of the end! What in the hell would I do with myself if I retired? Sit around the house every day waitin’ to die?”

  “There are a lot of things a retired person can do!”

  “Like what?”

  “You can go fishing more, fool around with other retired men, and relax more, lots of things.”

  “All that shit is part of the reason I’m bored, woman! What’s wrong with you? If you think I’m in bad shape now, I don’t even want to think about how bad off I’d be if I retired early!”

  “Yes, you’re bored now, but if being bored is your biggest complaint, you need to do something to change that.”

  “Don’t you think I’ve given that some thought? Do you think I’m discussin’ this for my health? I’ve been thinkin’ about makin’ some changes for a long time.”

  “Thinking about doing something and doing it are two different things. Look, honey, Henry’s shop is so popular because he’s giving his customers what they want. Men like looking at a big-screen TV while they are waiting to get their hair cut. Especially when some stupid ball game is on! And all those damn free peanuts, free sodas, and raffles for free haircuts? So what! If that’s all Henry’s doing, why can’t you do something like that?”

  Pee Wee’s facial expressions changed so rapidly from one moment to the next, it was like he was changing masks. There was a soft, thoughtful look on his face now. It was a huge improvement. The look that he had displayed a few seconds before, a long, melted jaw–looking grimace, had made him resemble a dachshund.

  “You sayin’ that if I can’t beat ’em, I should join ’em?”

  “That’s not what I’m saying, but since you brought it up, why not? Yeah, Henry probably got his money from dealing drugs. But you’ve made a nice little fortune over the years. We’ve got a mighty big nest egg sitting in Richland First National Bank. Use some of it to spruce up your place. Get a big-screen TV and some peanuts.”

  “You make it sound so easy,” Pee Wee said. I didn’t like the fact that he was being resistant. “Having the same things in my shop that Henry got in his might not even work. If I can’t do all of that and a little somethin’ different, somethin’ that will attract more business and liven things up, what would be the point?”

  I gave my husband another thoughtful look. So far I’d given him so many “thoughtful” looks that my eyes had begun to burn. And if that wasn’t enough to make me want to conclude this conversation, the sides of my face felt tight and constricted. I tried to clear my throat, but the lump that had lodged itself there refused to move. When I spoke again, I had to lift my chin and breathe hard to clear the passageway in my throat enough so that I could hold back the bile that was threatening to erupt. That was how frustrated this conversation had made me. “You know that white barbershop across the street from my office? The one owned by Maury Klein?” I didn’t wait for Pee Wee to respond. “You would think he had strippers working for him the way his customers line up outside. Maury doesn’t even have a big-screen TV.”

  Pee Wee stared at me with a disappointed look. “How would you know? Please don’t tell me that you been goin’ to the Jews to get your hair trimmed. I heard that a few black folks were goin’ there. Lord have mercy on my soul! If I got to compete with the Jews—who own most of everything successful in this town already—I may as well retire and crawl into a hole right now. I guess the next thing you’ll be tellin’ me is that my black customers, and you, will start goin’ to the synagogue, too, huh?” He looked at the telephone on the wall. “Where you put Reverend Upshaw’s phone number? I’m sure he’d want to know that he got to compete with Jews now….”

  “Now don’t you start bad-mouthing the Jews. Mel Lowenstein has been your accountant for over twenty years, and he’s one of your closest friends,” I reminded Pee Wee. “Last time I checked, he was still Jewish.”

  “We ain’t talkin’ about Mel. We’re talkin’ about Maury and you goin’ up in his shop to do business with him.” Pee Wee growled under his breath. “What else have you been doin’ behind my back? If you can run to Maury to get your hair trimmed, what else will you do?”

  “Be serious. You know me better than that. If I don’t get my hair trimmed at your shop, you know I go to Claudette’s beauty shop, not Maury Klein.”

  “Why are you bringin’ up Maury Klein anyway?” Pee Wee sounded so tired and defeated I was surprised that he was still engaged in this conversation. “Maury ain’t the one runnin’ me out of business.”

  “Maury’s got a manicurist in his barbershop. A lot of men like to keep their nails looking good.”

  “So?”

  “So that’s one thing you might want to consider doing,” I pointed out. “If it works for Maury, it could work for you.”

  Pee Wee gave me an impatient look and then rolled his eyes. “What’s wrong with you, woman? I don’t need a bunch of sissies comin’ up in my place. You know how black folks behave when it comes to things like that. Remember that sissy preacher they ran out the pulpit at New Hope Baptist church last year? My business would drop off sure enough if I started caterin’ to a bunch of fags.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t use words like sissies and fags,” I said, looking away. “You know I don’t like it when you do.”

  “I’m sorry, baby. I know you hate them words because when we was kids, everybody thought I was one.”

  “Uh, that’s right.” He was right. The fact that he’d been accused of being gay when we were kids was one of the reasons I hated words like fag and sissy.

  There was another reason, and it was more recent and more painful. Pee Wee, and just about everybody else I knew, had implied that Louis Baines, the man I had cheated with, was gay. Pee Wee had been so adamant about it that he couldn’t use Louis’s name without including one of those derogatory terms in the same sentence.

  I didn’t like the way this conversation was going at all, so I knew I had to lighten it up or end it immediately. But from the look on Pee Wee’s face, ending it didn’t seem like the best option.

  CHAPTER 14

  I forced myself to look and sound more cheerful and enthusiastic. “You can outdo both of them,” I said.

  I must have sounded and looked too cheerful and too enthusiastic, because Pee Wee gave me a bewildered look. “What?” he muttered, looking at me out of the corner of his eye.

  “You can get a big-screen TV and everything else that Henry’s got. But you can do even more—hire a manicurist. All the women who work with me go to Maury. They are always looking for ways to get on my good side. I can send them all to you.”

  I was happy to see that Pee Wee was giving my suggestion some serious thought. “I didn’t know you had that many black women workin’ for you. Last time I heard, it was just you and two others.”

  “You need to stop thinking about everything in black and white. But for your information, I have four white women, one Asian, and two Hispanic women working for me, too. And before you hear it from somebody else, half of them have already been to Henry’s place to get their hair trimmed because th
ey don’t want to stand in that long line to get into Maury’s.”

  “You think you can send ’em my way if I hire a manicurist?”

  “I am sure I can do that.”

  “Hmmm. I guess I could run an ad in the newspaper for a manicurist. Shit. I don’t want some fly-by-night that might run off when business gets good. You know how women are.”

  “Then don’t hire a woman. Hire a man. They have male manicurists—and they are not all gay.”

  “That’s somethin’ to think about, but whether it’s a man or a woman, it could be more trouble than it’s worth. If I hire a young woman, she might run off and get married. An older woman might call in sick with a different female ailment every other week. A man, well, whether the man was a f—uh, gay man or not, people would think he was.”

  “Let me find somebody for you.”

  “You? You want to find somebody to work for me in my shop? Since when did you become a headhunter? I don’t know about you gettin’ involved in this.”

  “I can talk to Claudette and some of the women who come to her beauty shop. They know everything that’s going on in this town. They’ll even know a good manicurist’s dog’s business.”

  “I don’t know about that Claudette. I hear she spreads more gossip than the Enquirer.”

  My jaw dropped. “Look, do you want me to help you or not? I have to talk to somebody to get the information we need. And Claudette is a good place to start. She knows everybody and everything. Being a gossipmonger is good for something.”

  “All right, all right. If that’s what you want to do, go ahead and do it.”

  “Maybe I should stay out of it. If I do something you don’t like, or if something doesn’t go the way you want it to go, I’ll never hear the end of it. And to be honest with you, I don’t want to have another conversation like the one we had today anytime soon. Now, do you want me to talk to Claudette or not? Because if you want to deal with this problem on your own, that’s fine with me. I’m getting tired.” My outburst seemed to help.

  Pee Wee attempted to smile, but he was taking his time replying.

  “Well, do you or don’t you want me to talk to Claudette, or somebody? At this point, I’d be willing to talk to Satan if it’ll help,” I said.

  Pee Wee abruptly stopped trying to smile. He sniffed and moved his lips in silence for a few seconds. It seemed like he was having a hard time getting his words out now. When he did, it sounded like he had a frog in his throat.

  Whether he was done with this discussion or not, I was. I looked at my watch and then at the door, and I was glad he saw me doing that. I wanted him to see that I was impatient. “Well, if you’re goin’ to do it, you better get on it right away,” he said with a heavy sigh.

  “Don’t worry. I am going to find you somebody that you won’t be able to live without. Trust me,” I told him, squeezing his hand.

  It felt good to know that I had a new mission to accomplish. One that would benefit me as much as it would Pee Wee, and everybody else concerned, for that matter.

  Unfortunately, the problems I usually faced had a domino effect. I knew that if I didn’t resolve this one, it would eventually muddy my relationships with everybody else. I didn’t need any more of that right now.

  I smiled to myself because I was feeling so much better now. I was confident enough to know that I would find just the right person to help bring my husband out of the doldrums.

  And it definitely had to be somebody who could fulfill all of his needs. I had no idea at the time that I would end up regretting those thoughts in the worst way.

  I already had enough problems in my life, but I seemed to be adding more and more all the time. And if it wasn’t one thing that drove me up the wall, it was another. One of the “new” problems that I had in my life now was that I was often so preoccupied that when people addressed me, it took me a few moments to react. I didn’t know if it was part of the “reward” I got for reaching middle age or what. But it was not something I spent a lot of time worrying about. My mother did enough of that for me. When I visited her the day after my conversation with Pee Wee, she jumped on me like a grasshopper.

  “What is wrong with you, girl? You look like your mind is a thousand miles away this mornin’.” My mother’s loud voice cut into my thoughts like a sling blade.

  “Huh? Oh! I’m sorry, Muh’Dear. I wasn’t listening. I was thinking about something else,” I explained. “What were you saying?”

  “I asked if you been takin’ them hormone pills I gave you? And from the way you sittin’ here thinkin’ about somethin’ else, I guess you ain’t.” Muh’Dear grunted. “I done told you, you can’t get through menopause in one piece without help.”

  “I am not exactly at that point,” I reminded.

  “You close enough to it! I don’t care if you still see a few drops of blood every month. That don’t mean nothin’. By the time I was your age, I had already been into the menopause for two years. And I wish you would stop tellin’ me you ain’t exactly at that point yet. I know better.” My mother paused and stared at the side of my head with raw exasperation. “Me, I know when a woman is gwine through the change, whether she know it or not. Baby, there ain’t no sugar left in your bowl, and you are about as bloated as one of them Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade floats. If that ain’t enough to send a man on a walk of shame to another woman’s bedroom, I don’t know what is. Now, I asked you, are you takin’ them hormone pills I gave you? At your age, you need all the help you can get if you want to hang on to your husband….”

  “Muh’Dear, I told you those pills made me retain water,” I said, giving her an apologetic look. “And they made me nervous so I stopped taking them.”

  “Well, excuse me! If you can get through menopause with no help, you in better shape than I was when I went through it.”

  “Hell’s bells! Do I have to sit here in this restaurant and listen to all this talk about female problems?” Daddy complained.

  “Let me tell you one thing, mister. Just because you got that limp piece of raw meat between your thighs, don’t think you in the clear. When you got women in your life, her female problems become your problem. And, brother, you got plenty. Just look at your daughter!” Muh’Dear waved at me like I was a wrecked car.

  And I felt like one, too.

  CHAPTER 15

  “What’s wrong with this girl?” Daddy asked my mother, looking at me with his eyes squinted. “What’s wrong with you now, girl?” he asked me.

  “Nothing is wrong with me,” I said with a chuckle, hoping that it would convince them that their unflattering assessment of me wasn’t bothering me that much.

  “See, ain’t nothin’ wrong with her, other than the obvious fact that she done lost too much weight. Gussie Mae, you the one brought up this female mess.” Daddy paused and glared at my mother. “I have hard enough time gettin’ a good appetite as it is. Pass me them biscuits. Them puppies is screamin’ this mornin’. You really put your foot in this grub you cooked this mornin’.” As soon as my father mentioned food, my mother’s mood and expression changed.

  “Why thank you, Frank.” Even though my mother received a compliment on her cooking all the time, each time she did, she acted like she was hearing it for the first time. She beamed like she had just been crowned queen for a day. “Wait until you taste them turkey necks I’m cookin’ for dinner.”

  My mother loved it when people complimented her cooking. Cooking was more than a profession to her. Not only had it become a way of life for her over the years, but it had also been the one lifeline that she had always been able to count on. And as long as people had to eat, Muh’Dear would never go hungry, or broke. She even had business cards that read: EAT HERE OR WE’LL BOTH STARVE.

  My mother owned the Buttercup, the most successful black-owned restaurant in Richland. It was not a particularly fancy or ornate place, but it was full of down-home charm with its maroon table cloths and matching carpet. My late stepfather had left the busin
ess to my mother in his will. Next to me and my daughter, it was her most precious pride and joy. She had made a few improvements. She had replaced the old carpets and reupholstered the booths. And she had replaced all of the old autographed pictures of dead celebrities with some of celebrities who were still alive.

  One thing Muh’Dear had promptly made sure of was that when she passed on, the restaurant and everything else she left behind would belong to me. Even though she had remarried my father, she was still bitter about him leaving us for that white woman. And she made damn sure he would not benefit from her hard work. She adored Pee Wee, but she had strongly advised me to draw up a last will and testament that would make sure he didn’t get his paws on the deed to the restaurant or the house that he and I lived in, which was in my name only.

  Not only was the restaurant in a nice, quiet, safe neighborhood, it catered to Richland’s most upscale residents. It was not unusual to see the mayor or a corporate CEO sitting at a table or in a booth, humped over a large plate and some of the lemonade that my mother made, which included a dash of lime in each glass. “Serve up somethin’ unique and it’ll keep ’em comin’ back” was her motto. And she was right. She had a large group of loyal customers whom she treated like family. They appreciated her hard work and dedication to her business, and they never failed to let her know. The few times that they didn’t remind her of how inspirational she was, she did. Muh’Dear never stopped talking about how she had once cleaned toilets and lived in shacks. Now she lived like a queen, and most of the time, she acted like one, too. She wore expensive outfits, got her hair and nails done every week, took trips to exotic locations, but she still treated me like I was two years old.

  If I didn’t stop by the Buttercup or the house that Muh’Dear owned a few blocks from it at least one day a week to have a meal with her and my cantankerous father, they’d hound me until I did. It did me no good to remind my mother that I had changed my eating habits. I no longer gobbled up the large, unhealthy feasts that she’d introduced me to in the first place. Throughout my childhood, she had pacified me with every fattening, greasy, unhealthy thing that she could get her hands on. What was so ironic about all of that was, she was the main person warning me back then about how I was going to end up as big as a moose. Even after I’d ballooned up to the size of a small moose, she continued to unintentionally sabotage every diet I tried. She had ambushed me with so many fried potato sandwiches that throughout my teens my skin resembled a potato hull.