All About Eva

by Deidre Berry

  Same old Gwen. Always working every angle in hot pursuit of the all-mighty dollar.

  So much for not letting them in on my little secret.

  Irritated, I snapped, “Where are you parked?”

  “Wait a minute, aren’t you gonna talk to the people?” Gwen asked.

  “Are you freaking kidding me right now?” I asked. “What part of the ‘no’ and ‘comment’ didn’t you understand?”

  “Well, if you’re not gonna talk to them, then I sure as hell am,” she said out of the corner of her mouth like a ventriloquist. “Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen, I’m sorry, but my daughter is fatigued from her flight and won’t be answering any questions after all, but I would like to invite everyone who’s watching down to the Sugar Shack nightclub to see me perform, from now until the fourteenth of January.”

  Disappointed, the cameramen turned their lights off and were ready to pack up, but one reporter was apparently determined not to leave without some sort of “story” and urged his cameraman to keep filming. He did so, reluctantly.

  “You’re a performer?” asked the reporter, who I couldn’t believe was actually taking notes.

  “Oh, yes, ma’am, I’ve been performing all my life,” Gwen said, hamming it up. “Would you like to hear a little taste?”

  The reporter had no sooner said “Please” when Gwen launched into her rendition of the Stephanie Mills classic “If I Were Your Woman.”

  Gwen can sing, there’s no doubt about that, but in the middle of Southwest Airlines terminal B was neither the time nor the place.

  I didn’t know where she had parked, but I walked away and left Gwen to her one-woman show.

  An odd-looking man with a jughead and Harry Potter glasses trailed behind me. “Excuse me, Eva, I’m Larry Nichols with Hue Magazine. Can I have a word with you for a moment?”

  “No, sir, you cannot. . . .” I said.

  “But I talked to your mother, Gwen, and she said you would—”

  “I don’t care what she said, I’m not interested—so kick rocks, dude!”

  “Well, she has my number in case you change your mind.”

  “Thanks, but I won’t be,” I said, and turned around when I heard a smattering of applause.

  Gwen had wrapped up her “little taste” and was bowing and blowing kisses as if she were the celebrity she had always wanted to be, instead of the best backup singer who never made it big. Over the years, my mother has sung background vocals for most of the legends in the game, including B.B. King, Buddy Guy, and even Ike Turner for a short time after Tina wised up and left his ass. Gwen’s dreams of solo superstardom have eluded her at every turn, but that doesn’t keep her from trying and hoping that the next two-bit gig will be the one that will finally land her a recording contract.

  “You know, I really didn’t appreciate that,” I said, once we were finally all settled in Gwen’s Chrysler Fifth Avenue.

  “What? I thought it was fun!” she said, checking her reflection in her Fashion Fair compact and rubbing lipstick off her teeth.

  “As a mother, what would possess you to try to pimp my story out to the media?”

  “Well, ain’t that about some ungrateful-ass shit? Hell, I figured that I was doing you a favor,” said Gwen. “I mean, you do need the money, don’t you, or is it true what they say about you having some stashed somewhere for a rainy day?”

  I swallowed my exasperation. I couldn’t believe that she had gotten started already. “If that were true I wouldn’t have been living from pillar to post for the past month and a half.”

  “And speaking of that, why haven’t you called me, girl? I’ve been worried sick about you!”

  “And where was I supposed to call you at, since you don’t believe in cell phones, and the last time I talked to you, you were headed to Las Vegas for a gig?”

  “That ain’t no excuse, you could have called Mama Nita’s house—you know Booney is always there,” Gwen said, taking my hand. “But that’s okay, you home now! You can get your life back on track and forget all about that bullshit back in New York. I know Jayson Cooper is gonna be so happy to see you.”

  “Kyle said that same thing, but life happens. He’s probably married with a bunch of kids by now.”

  “I don’t think so, because he asks about you all the time. He’s got a good job down at the hospital, you know.”

  I laughed long and hard at that one. Did I mention that my mother was an amateur comedian as well?

  “What’s so funny about that?” asked Gwen. “A good man is a good man, no matter what he does for a living. That’s what’s wrong with you young girls out here today. Every man you meet can’t be Donald Trump, you know.”

  “Wow, no you didn’t,” I said. “This coming from a woman who once told me to marry well, and repeat as often as necessary.”

  “Now, you know good and well I didn’t tell you that, and God can strike me dead right now if I’m lying.”

  I hoped that God wouldn’t strike her dead at that moment, because there was no way for him to get Gwen without getting me too.

  Now that Gwen is older and it’s time for her to get somewhere and finally start to settle down, she is starting to see the error of her ways and wants props where props are not due, or deserved.

  She knows damn well she was a lousy mother, but in order to make herself feel better, she has resorted to rewriting history and making herself out to be a saint in her own eyes.

  In Gwen’s new and improved version of events, she was a selfless, nurturing, dedicated mom. And not the type who packed up and left town without a word of good-bye to anyone, chasing the rainbow wherever some two-bit gig, or sapsucker she’d met in a nightclub, led her, which was usually some dead-end town where there was no pot of gold in sight.

  While Gwen jabbered on a mile a minute trying to defend her mothering skills or lack thereof, I tuned her out and watched the world I used to inhabit go by.

  Not much had changed on the West Side, except there seemed to be more liquor stores on every other corner, overpriced check-cashing joints, more abandoned homes, and boarded-up buildings where thriving businesses used to be.

  After years of saving money from numerous side hustles, including doing hair in the kitchen, to selling her infamous gumbo for a dollar a bowl, Mama Nita finally moved out of Cabrini-Green almost ten years ago, and into her current K-town neighborhood on the west side of Chicago, which truthfully wasn’t much better than the projects. “K-Town” was nicknamed such because all of the streets that run through the adjoining neighborhoods start with the letter “K”—King, Keeler, Kilpatrick, Kostner.

  The area has always been infamously crime ridden, but at least Mama Nita had a tiny parcel of land that she could call her own.

  And the four-bedroom bungalow-style house on Eighteenth and Keeler was the best-looking house on the block.

  We might have been poorer than most when I was growing up, but my grandmother was a stickler for cleanliness and a firm believer that whatever you had should be kept immaculate and well maintained at all times.

  As we pulled up, I was glad to see that even with her Alzheimer’s someone was making sure to maintain her standards.

  It had been a year since my last visit, only that time, Donovan had come with me to visit my folks. And now, just like then, all of my immediate family was there to greet me. The group included my uncle Booney, my sister Pam, and her two daughters, Olivia and Kelly.

  “There she is!” said Pam, hitting me with a flying hug, while my six- and eight-year-old nieces hugged me around the waist also. We walked inside the house.

  “Girl, what’s this I hear about you getting caught up in some gangster shit?” asked Uncle Booney.

  “Hel-lo!” Gwen said, pointing to the kids as a reminder that they were present.

  “My bad, my bad!” Booney said. “But did you make off with all that money like they said you did, girl?”

  “Don’t believe a word of it, it’s all hearsay,” I said, giving hi
m a hug, and then quickly changed the subject. “Look at you, though! Looking like a ray of sunshine!”

  My mother’s older brother was as flashy as ever in one of his signature polyester outfits. This one was a bright yellow, bell-bottom jumpsuit with a butterfly collar, and it was putting a serious hurtin’ on my eyes.

  “Hey, niece, you know me. Doing what I do as only I can do it.... Don’t let the smooth taste fool ya!”

  “You sho’nuff got that right!” I said, speaking Booney-ese. I shook my head, tickled by the fact that no one had yet been able to convince him that multiple gold chains, chest hair, and butterfly collars were no longer fashionable.

  The laughter died down as I looked around and noticed that the house looked and felt sad.

  It was the day before Christmas Eve, and there were no Christmas lights in the windows and no nativity scene in the front yard. The only thing to give away that it was Christmastime was the sad-looking Charlie Brown pine tree propped up in front of the bay window, with not even one present underneath. It was worse than a Charlie Brown tree, because it was artificial and didn’t fill the house with the wonderful scent of fresh pine, which to me was the whole point of having a tree.

  It was depressing, especially in light of the fact that Mama Nita loved the holiday season and usually went all out, even on a meager budget. Clearly, what the house, and those of us who loved my grandmother, needed was her love and personal touch.

  “Where’s Mama Nita?” I asked, setting my bags on the floor.

  “In bed,” Pam said. “That medication she’s on has her sleeping almost half the day.”

  “How is she doing?” I asked.

  “The Alzheimer’s is still progressing, and getting worse every day,” Gwen said, with uncharacteristic concern for someone other than herself.

  “Well, I’m going to go peek in and say hi,” I said, causing everyone to object all at once.

  “When she’s sleep, it’s best not to disturb her,” said Pam.

  “Yeah, and besides, she comes and goes so much that she probably won’t even recognize you.”

  We all chatted and caught up with each other for a couple of hours, until later that night, Pam dropped Olivia and Kelly off with their father, then she, Uncle Booney, and I went down to the Sugar Shack to watch Gwen do her thing.

  The Sugar Shack is a neighborhood blues and jazz joint over in Englewood. The club has no frills whatsoever, but it is still the place to be for live music and the best BBQ ribs in Chicago.

  We walked up the long, steep staircase to the upper floor and saw that people were packed in like sardines.

  Onstage, a local musician who I recognized as Lil Earl was performing a spirited version of “Sweet Home Chicago.”

  A voice in the crowd shouted, “Hey, everybody, Booney’s in the house!”

  The crowd parted like the Red Sea to make room for my uncle, who has been well known and respected at the Sugar Shack for many years.

  The Cantrell family is full of talented people who could have gone all the way and been superstars if fate and circumstances would have been kinder.

  Like Gwen, Uncle Booney was also musically gifted, but unfortunately, his only claim to fame is that he was a member of the music group Earth, Wind & Fire before they made it big. He was the star and lead singer of the group until one night after the group played a gig at the old Palladium, someone slipped him a joint laced with PCP, and he had to be hospitalized for two weeks. The diagnosis: Uncle Booney was “stuck,” meaning that he had lost a few of his marbles and would never quite be the same again. (Hence the fashion time warp and the choice to wear a wool coat and leather gloves in the middle of July.)

  The other members of Earth, Wind & Fire made the unanimous decision to replace Uncle Booney with an equally talented lead singer named Philip Bailey, and the rest is musical history.

  Ever since that fateful night, my uncle has lived under my grandmother’s roof and received monthly disability checks that have to be doled out and closely monitored, or else he will end up tricking all his dough on manipulative women who know that he’s generous, plus not wrapped too tight when it comes to sound judgment.

  Uncle Booney led the way to a table directly in front of the stage, which a couple gladly gave up when they saw us coming.

  “This place sure hasn’t changed much,” I said to Pam as we took a seat.

  “And neither have the people,” Pam said. “Girl, talk about country!” The Sugar Shack catered to an older crowd, I’d say around thirty-five and up. It was true that some of the regulars looked like they were fresh out of the backwoods, sporting finger waves and Jheri curls as if it were still 1985. It was no wonder that Uncle Booney felt so at home there.

  “I’m going to go cut a rug,” said Uncle Booney, his eyes following the big behind of a woman who had just walked past him. “I’ll catch up with you two later.”

  “All right, now, cat daddy,” I said, “don’t hurt yourself!”

  “And don’t put nobody’s eyes out with that bright suit!” Pam called after him, as he disappeared into the crowd.

  Gwen took her own sweet time in hitting the stage, but when she did, she came out totally transformed. Her makeup was heavy but flawless, and her wig game was proper. She wore black slacks, and a black sequined top that looked like sparkling diamonds when it caught the light.

  “Good evening, everybody!” Gwen said. “Before I get started, I want to say a special hello to my two daughters who are both here with me tonight—Eva and Pam . . .”

  With that said, she launched into a medley of blues classics, including “Cheatin’ in the Next Room” and “Let’s Straighten It Out.”

  The crowd was loving her, and we were all in agreement that Gwen was giving it her all and was tearing the roof off the mother-sucker.

  “Look at your mama; she’s a star up in here!” Pam said, like a proud parent.

  I was proud of Gwen, but in a way, it felt like I was watching a stranger perform up there, because really, we hardly knew each other.

  Who’s That Lady?

  Later, in the wee hours of the morning, I woke up on Mama Nita’s plastic-covered couch to the sound of breaking glass. I got up to investigate, and gravitated toward the only light that was on in the house, which was coming from the kitchen. There was food all over the counter, and my grandma had dropped a glass full of milk onto the floor, and the splatter was everywhere, including down the front of her nightgown.

  “Grandma Nita, what are you doing?” I asked, grabbing some paper towels to clean up the mess on the floor.

  “I’m making myself a snack, what the hell does it look like I’m doing?” she asked, sounding like her old self, but not really. There was no hint of love in her tone. She was just downright mean. “And what are you doing here, anyway?”

  “I came to visit you for a while. Didn’t Gwen tell you?”

  “Gwen who?”

  “Gwen, your daughter. . . .” I said, swallowing the lump in my throat. “Your youngest child? My mother?”

  There was no flicker of recognition in her eyes, and Mama Nita didn’t respond.

  Instead, she went back to earnestly slapping together a raw bacon and peanut butter sandwich. “Well, where is LeAnn? She’s the only one that I can count on to do anything for me around here.”

  I didn’t know how to answer that. LeAnn was my deceased aunt, and my grandmother’s firstborn child who had passed away due to a car crash, years before Gwen was even born.

  The story behind my aunt LeAnn’s death was that Mama Nita was nineteen years old and had just learned how to drive. Car seats had yet to be invented, so when the accident happened, the baby didn’t have a chance. Mama Nita was so devastated that it was her inexperience as a driver that led to LeAnn’s death that she never forgave herself, and she never got behind the wheel of a car again.

  “Come on, Grandma, let me help you.” I tried to steer her toward a chair at the kitchen table, but she slapped my hands away.

 
“Will you leave me alone and get out of here?” she screamed, and then flew into a fit of rage, wildly raking everything that was on the counter onto the floor.

  For the first time in my life, I was scared of her. Not only did my grandmother not recognize me, but she was volatile and many times stronger than I was.

  Luckily, Gwen came into the kitchen and took control of the situation.

  “Mama, calm down!” said Gwen. “What is it that has you so upset?”

  “LeAnn, where have you been, girl?” Mama Nita asked Gwen. “Now, I done told you about inviting strange folks up in my house, now didn’t I?”

  “Yes, ma’am, you did,” Gwen said, holding my grandmother close and stroking her back to calm her down. “I just had to go take care of a few things, but I’m back now. . . . Come on, let’s go back to bed.”

  Mama Nita took hold of Gwen’s hand as if she were a lost child, and let her lead her back to her bedroom.

  Deck the Halls

  Later that same morning was Christmas Eve. I sat at the kitchen table drinking a cup of weak instant coffee and watching the snow come down in big, fluffy clumps. If the snow kept up, it would be a white Christmas in Chicago after all. I was also trying to figure out what gifts to give everyone on my extremely low Christmas fund budget, when Gwen walked in wearing a silk floral robe and a silk sleep bonnet on her head. She was still attractive without full makeup, but she looked a bit worn out and sad.

  “How did you sleep last night?” she asked, joining me at the table.

  “I didn’t,” I said. “I couldn’t stop thinking about Grandma Nita and what she’s going through.”

  “Yeah, it’s hard to watch, I’ll tell you that. But, as heartbreaking as it is for us to see her deteriorate, it’s even worse for her,” Gwen said. “On some level, she knows what’s happening to her, and she scared to death. That’s why she lashes out like she did last night.”

  “Of all people, why did this have to happen to her? She was the most vibrant person I knew.”