“Why not?”
“Because I’m doing some renovating.”
Now she was the one lying. Her house is beautiful and completely up to date, like a small castle on a hill above the Rose Bowl. Rather than question her, I gave her a chance to improve the lie. I just looked at her. And waited.
“The hardwood floors are being redone. I can do next month or the one after.”
She tried to push her chair back but it wouldn’t move. So she gave it a harder shove.
“I need to get some peach cobbler to take home to Joe. Speaking of which, please don’t tell the girls he’s still living in the guesthouse.”
“Why would I?”
Of course I’d tell all of them, including Poochie, who’d say she didn’t blame him.
* * *
—
When I got home, Kwame wasn’t there. B. B. King was asleep in Kwame’s room. Traitor. I took a hot shower, put on one of the old-lady nightgowns I got from Macy’s during one of their Buy One Get One Free sales, got a bottle of water from the fridge, fell across my bed, and turned on the OWN channel. I closed my eyes for a minute.
“Do you like spicy food?”
“I like spicy everything,” I say. I don’t know why I’m trying to be so cute when I haven’t even been out with Carl but twice.
“So, can I ask you a very personal question?”
Butterflies start flying around inside my belly. I take a sip of my margarita.
“How personal?”
“No no no. Not that personal. I was just wondering how old you are.”
I am thinking about lying, subtracting a few years, but then I think I shouldn’t since, after we get married, he will find out the truth anyway.
“I’m forty-three. And you don’t have to tell me I look younger than that, because young men hit on me all the time.”
I start laughing to let him know I am just kidding.
“I believe it. You look about thirty-six. I’m forty-eight.”
“I already knew that. You look good for being so old.”
“I like you.”
“I think I might like you, too.”
It is hard for me to eat but I force myself to, trying my best not to eat too much salsa, which always gives me gas. When we finish, we step outside and, of course, the moon is spying on us. Then he takes me by the hand and says, “You feel like walking off some of those enchiladas?”
And so we walk all the way to a park where he asks me to sit in a swing and he sits in the one next to me. We tell each other where we’ve been and what we’ve done and who we have spent our time with in all the years up until now.
“So,” he says, squeezing my hand gently as we head back to our cars, “you might as well get used to me because I’m pretty sure we’re going to spend the rest of our lives together.”
I melt. He opens my door for me, bends down, and kisses me on both cheeks.
“I don’t want a big wedding,” I hear myself say.
“You can have whatever you want.”
I sprang up in bed. My nightgown was drenched. I looked at Carl’s pillow and touched it. It was cold and smooth. I pressed my hand to my forehead and felt a smile emerge on my face.
“I still miss you, baby,” I said aloud. “I’m trying to learn how to live without you. It’s not been easy. I’ve met your son. But you probably know that, and that he’s living here with me. He looks like I imagine you did at twenty-five. I’m going to do all I can to help him find his way. And my daughter, too, because she’s still lost, Carl.”
I turned the television off and drank the rest of my water in one gulp, then closed my eyes again, but this time I whispered, “My love still runs deep. Good night, sweetheart.”
* * *
—
“I thought I was borderline,” I said to Dr. Alexopolous. “Are you sure?”
She looked like she was about to roll her eyes at me but then changed her mind. “Numbers tell us everything.”
“Well, I don’t want to take any pills.”
“You don’t necessarily have to take medication. There are injections you can give yourself.”
Was she nuts? I’m scared as hell of needles. Ma said she had to hold me down with her knee pressed against my chest to make me stay still for my shots when I was a kid—and that I kicked a few doctors in the process.
“You have to do one or the other. Either will help you lose weight.”
“I believe I have lost about eight or nine pounds.”
“You have not. In fact, you’ve gained twelve.”
I so do not like this bitch.
“Well, my husband of twenty-four years passed away five months ago. I made some good changes before that but got derailed.”
So I lied. Because she didn’t look like she would respect the truth. I hoped if Carl was listening that he would forgive me.
“I understand. And I’m very sorry for your loss. The receptionist told me it was the reason you canceled your last two appointments. But you need to focus on your health now.”
Since I was now sitting on the edge of the examination table, I started pulling on the tissue-paper cover, tearing off the corners, then I jumped off and stood upright. She moved to the side as if I were going to harm her.
“Look,” I said. “I don’t mean to sound so combative, but I’ve heard of people reversing type 2 diabetes if they change their diet and exercise.”
“Well, Mrs. Curry, for the past year and a half I’ve been encouraging you to change your lifestyle, but you have not. And diabetes is the result of your not taking my advice.”
“I have tried,” I lied. “But it’s hard to break old habits.”
The truth is I don’t like exercising. I don’t like to sweat and I like being lazy. But I suppose it really was time to make a change. “It’s not too late, though, is it, Dr. Alexopolous?”
“It depends. Your age might make it a little tougher.”
I could’ve cut her the way I looked at her. “What’s my age got to do with anything? It’s not like I’ve got stage three cancer or something.”
“That’s true. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
“Well, you did. I’m a little pissed, to be honest with you.”
A burst of cool air from the vent made the thin blond nest on her little head waft to the side. I could see her pink scalp.
“I apologize,” she said, with a half ounce of sincerity.
“It’s okay, Dr. Alexopolous. I have never really trusted you, if you want to know the truth. You doctors are all alike. You aren’t encouraging. You like to scare the hell out of people. You write prescriptions that don’t cure the problem, just postpone it. Well, I’m going to find a doctor who has a better attitude about how a person can improve their health regardless of how old they are.”
She said nothing as I opened the door and walked out.
I’ll show her ass. And I’ll come back when my numbers prove her wrong. But not starting today, because what I needed before making this transition was a double cheeseburger, some soft fries, a diet Coke, and three farewell Twizzlers. After all, I needed to process the promise I’d just made to myself.
* * *
—
I was surprised when I saw Kwame’s car parked in the driveway, in my spot, so I parked on the street instead and grabbed yesterday’s mail. When I walked inside the house I heard what sounded like rap music coming from the backyard. I put my purse on the table and walked through the living room. When I opened the back door, B. B. King was lying on the top step, wet.
At first I heard water splashing, but then it stopped. When I opened the gate, there, in the pool, was Kwame with his arms around a tall, blond young man.
He looked over at me and his brown skin seemed to turn red.
B. B. King barked.
“I’m so sorry, Mama-Lo,” Kwame said.
Even though this is what we’d agreed that he could call me, it had sounded more endearing up until now.
“What’s your friend’s name?”
“Parker, ma’am.”
“Well, hello, Parker,” I said, acknowledging Kwame’s embarrassed companion. And then my eyes turned back to Kwame. “What I really want to know is what are you doing at home this time of day, Kwame?”
He looked surprised at my question. I’m sure because the tone of my voice did not indicate outrage or anger.
“I got fired.”
“Who fired you?”
“The supervisor.”
“You mean Marquez?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“How many times have I had to tell you not to call me that, Kwame?”
“Yes, Mama-Lo. I’m sorry.”
“Sorry about what?”
“This,” he said, pointing to Parker in the pool.
“What’s to be sorry about?”
They both looked shocked.
“You have a right to like who you like. I’m old but I’m not that old. So why did Marquez fire you?”
“Because he found out I…like guys.”
“What’s that got to do with the quality of your work?”
“Nothing.”
“Did he bust you doing something like this on the job?”
“No.”
“Then, what?”
“He saw us holding hands after work.”
“That’s it?”
He nodded.
“That is none of his damn business. Look, I will talk to him. It’s your father’s company. I’m sure we can get your job back.”
“But I don’t want it back.”
“What?”
“I don’t like doing that kind of work, but I wanted to have an income after you were kind enough to let me move in with you.”
“And so, now what? Are you rich, Parker?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Are you two going to live together?”
“No,” Kwame said. “Are you going to kick me out?”
“No. But you can’t just do nothing.”
“I was hoping to go back to school, but I don’t know what I want to study. I thought I could work part-time until I figure it out, if that’s okay.”
“Doing what?”
“Do you need any help at the House of Beauty?”
Shit. At this rate, I’m going to need to get a bigger place just to staff all the people I hire as personal favors.
“Possibly,” was all I said. “Look, I’m going inside. Have fun but not the kind of fun you would have if I wasn’t here,” and then I closed the gate and B. B. King followed me back to the house.
I wish he had just told me he was gay. He was probably scared and thought I wouldn’t be able to handle it, but he was wrong. Nobody should have to hide who they are inside to please people on the outside.
“Can you please bring me some stamps?” Ma had asked when I called to tell her I’d be over later today.
“Who are you going to write?”
“None of your business. I’ll tell you when you get here.”
“Do you need envelopes?”
“I suppose they would help. But not those long ones. I don’t have that much to say.”
* * *
—
When I pulled into the parking lot at Valley View Assisted Living, which looks more like a four-star resort than a care facility, I recalled the first visit after we’d “suggested” Ma would be safer here. That was two years ago. When she was a young eighty-four.
An attendant had pushed a wheelchair over to help us.
“That better not be for me. As you can see, I can walk. I’m not disabled, and to my knowledge, not even close to being senile.”
“This is just for your safety and to make you feel comfortable,” the attendant said.
“Are you blind? I only need help when I say I need it. My daughter here—what’s your name again?” she asked and started laughing. “Just kidding! My daughter here says the food is good. I hope I don’t have to have her sneak in some Old Bay because you know you white folks don’t know how to season food.”
“Ma, stop it!” I whispered loudly and pulled her plaid suitcase down the hall.
Ma looked suspicious when the attendant opened her room door, but when she saw how bright and spacious the room was, that the bathroom had a tub and a shower (with grab bars in both), and that the TV was mounted on the wall, she actually seemed excited. She ran her hand across the chenille bedspread, which happened to be her favorite color: powder blue.
“I hope you like it,” I said.
She looked at me like I had just said the dumbest thing in the world.
“Okay! I’m all checked in so you can leave now! Gimme a kiss right here,” she said, pointing to her cheek. So I did.
Today, when I knocked on her door, she said, “Whatever you’re selling, I don’t want any.”
“It’s me, Ma, and I’m not selling anything, but I brought stamps and envelopes like I was ordered!”
“Come on in, Loretha, but you can’t stay long.”
I opened the door and put the plastic bag on her dresser.
“Why not?” I asked, not taking her seriously. She was sitting in the pink-and-white pinstriped gliding chair I’d bought her from a baby store because she didn’t like to rock, wearing her pink jogging sweats, with one of her paisley-covered scrapbooks open in her lap. Her hair, white as a snowflake, was pulled into a soft knot. She was a sight to see.
“Because I’m in the middle of reminiscing.”
“About what?”
“I don’t remember.”
I sat down at the foot of her bed and I could smell that sweet lily of the valley lotion that always made me nauseous. I slipped my sneakers off so they fell and thought about lying down and putting her white throw blanket over me, but I didn’t. I wondered if one day I’d be living in a place like this. Would my daughter and son visit me?
“You cold?” she asked, looking over at me. I could see the veins in her glassy eyes from behind her glasses.
“A little.”
“You shouldn’t be, chile. You are much thicker than you should be. Are you trying to eat away your grief? It won’t work.”
“Ma, I have only put on about ten pounds.”
“That’s fifteen pounds you don’t need. Don’t go getting fat, Loretha, because then it’ll just be downhill from there. One illness snowballs into another. Just look at how sexy and lean I am in comparison.”
She had the nerve to stand up. Her light pink jogging suit was hanging off her.
“Are you still eating those cheeseburgers and French fries every other meal?”
“No.”
“You can lie to me but lying to yourself is a whole lot worse. Go pull that throw over your shoulders.”
She slowly turned a few pages in her book and I could hear the plastic cracking. And then she just stopped and looked at me.
“Don’t hold grudges, Loretha. Even when somebody does something you find unforgivable.”
“What are you talking about, Ma?”
“Don’t play dumb.”
“I don’t hold anything against anybody.”
“For starters, you’ve got a grudge against your sister. I know this for a fact. I know she owes you a lot of money, and she owes me a lot, too. But I never expected her to pay me back. You shouldn’t have either.”
“She takes advantage of me and I don’t like it.”
“Not everybody knows how to manage money, Loretha, and not everybody has good judgment. Odessa was a smart cop but dumb as hell when she pu
nched out. You can’t change people by punishing them for being who they are. So just accept them.”
“So, what’s on that page, Ma?” I asked, because I didn’t want to talk about Odessa anymore. “I can’t stay long.”
“And I don’t want you to. It’s Wheel of Fortune night.”
I stood up and tried looking over her shoulder.
“I have no idea who most of these folks are. None whatsoever.” And she started laughing. “But hold on. I think that might be me!” she said, pointing at a young girl who looked like me about fifty years ago. “Hey, so how’s your memory coming along, Loretha?”
“I miss a word or two here and there, or forget what I was thinking or saying or what I was about to do every once in a while. But other than that, my memory is good!”
“Well, get used to it, because before you know it you’ll be looking in your old scrapbook and won’t be able to recognize folks you know meant something to you, or they wouldn’t be in here.”
“I don’t have a scrapbook.”
“I know it’s all google-able, but one day Google will be obsolete, too, mark my words. So make sure you print out pictures of every place, everything, and everybody you don’t want to forget.”
“I will.”
“So, are you and Odessa speaking these days?”
“I don’t know.”
“What about your daughter? What’s her name again?”
“Very funny, Ma. No, she won’t return my phone calls.”
“Seems like you’re on the outs with quite a few members of your family.”
“I didn’t do anything to them, though, Ma.”
“That’s how you see it.”
“No, that’s how it is.”
“You need to lighten up because some of the things you think weigh a lot, don’t.”
“So, who is it you’re going to write to?” I asked, trying to change the subject again.
“You.”
“Me? You’re gonna write me? About what? Just tell me whatever it is you want to say.”
“I can’t always say what I’m really thinking to you. You make me nervous.”
It's Not All Downhill From Here Page 7