A Day Late and a Dollar Short

by Terry McMillan

  Plus. Payback is a bitch. I was only locked up for a hot minute. I didn't do no hard time or no bending over in the joint neither. I stuck mosdy to myself. Spent most of my time reading. Educating myself. Boogar and Squirrel was doing five to ten when I got there. Armed robbery and assault with a deadly weapon. I stole some damn lawnmowers. Garden tools. I get out. Six years go by. They get out. I move back to California to be closer to my family, to get away from the thugs and drugs that's on every other corner on the South Side of Chicago, and to dodge all forms of criminal activity, including loose bullets. One more year goes by. It's 1981: Boogar get shot in the head on Lake Shore Drive for something, and almost a year to the day later Squirrel OD's on heroin. Nobody understands why I don't go to eithe r o ne of their funerals. Especially Mama. "Your own cousins, Lewis? Y'all used to play together when you was little."

  "We didn't play all that good together," was all I said.

  I ain't hung up on the past. I'm trying to live in the here and now. And right now I'm all twisted up between the bottom sheet, the mattress, and this woman. A very plump woman. I need a cigarette bad but I know I ain't got none. That much I do remember. I'm almost scared to roll over and see who she is, but I blink a few times, straining to put yesterday and right now together. Luisa. That's her name. What a fucking relief. I push her to the side and roll out the bed. The telephone comes out of the cradle and crashes to the floor, but it don't matter, 'cause it don't work. Shit. My head is killing me. This tiny-ass room is dark and it smells like cigarette ashes, warm beer, and stale reefa. But I'm used to it. Still, opening a window wouldn't be such a bad idea. Kids are playing outside.

  Before I make it out to the bathroom, I hear a knock on the front door. Who in the hell could that be this time of morning? I wrap a towel around me, walk over, and look through the peephole, but I don't recognize the middle-aged black dude's face. I crack the door open a litde bit.

  "Yeah?"

  "Are you Lewis Price?"

  "Who wants to know?"

  "The Clearing House Sweepstakes, sir, but if you're not Lewis Price . . ."

  "Wait a minute," I say. My heart is pounding like a galloping horse, because by the time he hands me that white envelope through the crack of the door I know that, number one, there is a God; number two, one day my luck was bound to change; and, three, it do pay to gamble sometimes. I let out a long sigh after I take the envelope.

  "Sir, this might be important, too," he says, handing me a piece of paper. "It was taped to the screen. Have a nice day." I close the door, wishing I had at least a half a cigarette to inhale, to help me take this all in. I don't know how much I won, but it's gotta be enough to buy that Ford pickup I been looking at. Burgundy. That's my color. Whew! I can pay all my back child support-blow Donnetta's mind once and for all. And I can maybe buil d m y own ranch house even further away from all these crazy motherfuckers out here in the High Desert. I can start my own business. More than one! Get some of my ideas patented. Take some harder classes. "Slow the fuck down," I say out loud. I got time to figure it all out, so I take a deep breath, trying to humble myself, but my fingers are tingling from the envelope in one hand and the piece of paper in the other. I read the paper first, sorta like prolonging an orgasm: "Lewis: Mania's in the hospital. Do something. Get to a phone. She's getting out of ICU today, but don't let that stop you from worrying. Janelle." This is the third time in two years Mama's been rushed to the hospital. I'm just glad that Daddy's there. But, since I'm off work, I should go spend a few days with her. Help out, 'cause Daddy's probably busy running the Shack.

  I gotta get to Vegas. But no way am I riding for four hours inside a car with Janelle. No way. First of all, she can't drive. Her mind ain't on the road. She don't read signs, and she drives too damn slow. Plus, she won't let you smoke and she likes that weird New Age music. Hell, 110. I'll take a bus. This way I can get some thinking in without no distractions.

  As soon as I cash this check. No. First I need to open up a bank account. But I forgot. I don't have no driver's license. Can't even get 'em for another eight months. They suspended. Two DUIs in five months. This is exactly why no more drinking and driving for me. But maybe I can get one of them California IDs. No. I got other proof that I'm who I'm supposed to be. I got bills. Maybe I can convince the bank lady that I am who I say I am when she sees how big this check is. That I got other mail with the same name and address on it. Plus, I got some Polaroids around here somewhere.

  A half-empty bottle of Schlitz is sitting on the kitchen counter and I gulp it down. Then I scrounge through an ashtray till I find a decent butt, and light it. It's burning a hole in my throat when I feel somebody's eyes staring at me. As I turn to see if it's Luisa, my towel falls to the floor and the brown face of a five- or six-year-old Mexican kid is peering at me from the back of the couch. He looks like he don't know where he is.

  "Hi," I say, dropping the hot-boxed butt back in the ashtray, picking up the towel, and wrapping it tighter around me. I'm grinning wide, but the little boy just sits there like I'm some kind of wind-up toy, which is pretty much how I'm feeling. Those days of being ashamed to see my son on Christmas are over. Now I'll go out there sober as a preacher, with boxes and boxes of presents. And I'll drive my new truck. That 1994 F-250 with the stretch cab. And I think I'll talk to Woolery about that hardwood-floor offer, see if the white boy was really serious. If not, fuck him. I got a real partner, my homeboy Silas. Everybody call him Simple Sam, and we been talking about buying a big rig. It's mucho money to be made in trucks. And I'll give Mama and Daddy a hand, 'cause it don't take no rocket scientist to see that the last Shack ain't doing as good as it used to. People don't eat that much barbecue no more. They need to fix up that house, at least get a new roof, make a Arizona room in the back or something. They could also use a vacation. Hell, I could use one, too. But where would I go? Acapulco. Naw. Half of Mexico live right here in southern California. We'll see. And then there's my wonderful sisters. I think I'll do something nice for the three of 'em. Blow their little minds. I don't know what it'll be, but whatever it is, they'll get a charge out of it.

  "I'm Lewis," I finally say to the little boy. "And I'm rich!" I decide now would be a good time to open this envelope, since I've gotten used to the idea of being loaded, but as soon as I flip it over to slide my index finger under the flap, I recognize the logo for Family Court from the County of Santa Rita. "Kiss my black ass!" I say, then catch myself when I look at that little boy. "I'm sorry." We both look like we about to cry. He slides down behind the brown plaid couch so I can't see his eyes, just the crown of his head.

  I don't need to finish tearing this fucking envelope open but I figure I might as well see how much I owe. It's a summons all right. To appear in court for delinquent child support. The figure is humiliating and embarrassing: $3,268. Half of it's interest.

  "Where's my mommy?"

  What a bitch Donnetta is. She know 1 ain't working. She know I been living off disability, and I told her I'd send what I could when I could. The problem was, I couldn't. And I haven't. Shit, after I pay my rent and electricity, squeeze in a meal here and there, that's it. This is why I don't have no phone.

  "Where's my mommy?" the kid asks again.

  "I'll get her," I say, turning toward the bedroom, and then I stop dead in my tracks. "What's your name?"

  "Miguel. And I'm hungry. You have Cocoa Puffs?"

  "Navv, but we'll get you something in a minute."

  When I walk into the bedroom, Luisa is still sleep. I want her and her soil outta here as quickly as possible, but I know I need to be nice. My car ain't running-I blew a head gasket over a month ago-and in order to go see Mania, I gotta catch a Greyhound. I know they got a 1135 to Vegas. My only glitch is I gotta borrow the money from Luisa to catch it. I bend down to kiss her on the lips, but her breath stinks so bad from last night that I let my mouth press against her cheek instead. She kinda stirs. "Wake up, baby," I say. "Your son wants you and I ain't got nothing in her
e for him to eat."

  She struggles to sit up. Her long black hair floats over her shoulders. Her skin looks like gold. She's a pretty woman-about twenty-something-but her body looks much older than she is. She's built like a round square. I met her at a bar a few weeks ago. She asked me to dance, but I don't dance, so we had a few beers and by the fifth or sixth one she asked if she could go home with me. Hell, I was relieved. I don't like sleeping by myself if I don't have to. My mind is too active, and no matter what kind of mood I start out in, I can think or drink myself straight into being depressed. A lot of times when I'm by myself, drunk, I cry. Sometimes I cry in front of women, too. Not on purpose. All I want is a litde empathy, somebody to feel my pain, somebody to listen, to understand my disappointments, my desires-hell, my dreams. Women love men who cry, which is why I've cried in front of a whole lotta different ones. They feel closer to you after you let 'em see you like this. But it ain't no act I'm putting on. It ain't no performance, and most of the time I don't want nothing except their undivided attention, or maybe some pussy to finish off the evening.

  I won't lie. I miss being married. I miss being a father. I miss my son. And I wish I had more than one. I know it's been almost a year since I seen him. And I can't blame nobody but myself for not going out there, but I can't stand the sight of Donnetta these days. It's true I was a litde drunk the las t t ime I went out there and I did cuss her out in front of Jamil, but that's only 'cause she wouldn't let me in since I forgot to call first, and she sent Chuckaluck-her big brother who makes my six-one ass look like a dwarf1-to the door and I did not feel like fucking with him. But I was still fuming, so I broke the windshield outta her car, and she went and got that restraining order and I ain't been back since.

  Sometimes I hate women. Maybe "hate" is too strong a word. I resent their power. Growing up in a house full of nothing but girls helped me see just how manipulative and slick they can be. How far they're willing to go to get their way. How we fall for the okey-doke every single time. My only problem is, they're also my weakness. They're necessary for my survival, which is why I'm rarely without one. I don't care what color they are, except I ain't never slept with a white woman, but that's mosdy because Mexican and black women been keeping me pretty busy. I know how to make women surrender, can talk 'em into just about anything, because I guess I'm handsome, been told I got sex appeal-whatever that shit means-but I'm also intelligent, and on top of everything: I'm a good lay.

  Little Miguel charges into the bedroom and Luisa pulls the covers up to hide her long breasts. "Hi, sweetie," she says as he jumps on top of the bed. "We're going to get you some breakfast and then we go home, okay?"

  He looks at her like he don't believe her.

  "Now, go, go, go, so Mommy can get dressed. Watch cartoons for a few minutes and I'll be right out."

  "He's a nice little boy," I say.

  "Thanks," she says, and gets up. When I look at her in broad daylight with no clothes on, I realize that her body is jacked up. But who am I to complain? Shit, she's still nice. She ain't no crackhead (like a lot of 'em I've run into at the bar). She ain't no diehard alcoholic. And she ain't on welfare. Wait a minute. Yes she is. But she definitely ain't married, and she ain't vulgar or nasty or some ignorant high-school dropout. She takes night classes in continuing ed, too; besides, she likes me. She kept me company last night, fucked me good-at least I think she did-and I'll keep her around until I get bored or find somebody better, whichever happen first.

  In a way, what I'm hoping to do is stumble upon a wife. I been trying to replace Donnetta for years, but it ain't easy to fall in love. It ain't something you should have to work at. I think I'm still making the transition from being married to being divorced. It's only been six years. If I tell the truth, on some days, when Donnetta might be washing clothes or drinking iced tea with her BLT or sitting in rush hour traffic, I pray that she'll come to her senses and realize she still love me as much as she love God, that she'll beg me to come home and we can be a family again. I can make myself remember how much I used to love her, when her faith was in me instead of just God, when she made me feel like a king. I'm sure I could love her again. It would be so nice to have my life back. But this is all bullshit, and I know it.

  I follow Luisa to the bathroom and close the door behind us. "I need to ask you a favor, baby."

  "What's that?" she asks while turning on the shower. She's looking for the soap, but there's only three white curled-up slivers left, which she's gotta set- de for. The blue towel she's gon' have to use already been used by Melody three or four days ago. I need to go to the Laundromat, that much I do know.

  "Did I tell you my mama's in the hospital?"

  "No you didn't. Is she all right?"

  "Well, sorta. She lives in Vegas, and I need to go see her today. She's got asthma real bad." I let out a long sigh. "Anyway, I had to pay my child support last week, and you know my car ain't running, and all I got is $4.52 to my name and I was wondering if you could lend me forty or fifty bucks so I can catch the bus up there this afternoon. I'll pay you back next week, I swear it. I got a little job loading furniture for a few weeks, so I'll have some cash."

  "Don't worry, since it's for a good reason, I'll lend it to you, Lewis. But just remember, Easter's coming up, and I've got things in layaway at Kmart, and if I don't get them out by the seventh, they'll put them back. Comprende?"

  "Comprende. And don't worry. I wouldn't do that to your kid."

  "Kids. Did you forget about Elesia and litde Rocky?"

  I had. But, hell, most of the women I deal with got at least one, so why should I be so surprised? "Naw, I didn't forget," I say. "I just ain't met 'em yet, that's all."

  "Don't worry," she says, stepping into the bathtub and pulling the shower curtain closed. "You will."

  "I can't wait," I say. I leave the steamy bathroom and go sit on the edge of the bed, praying she'll be quick. My head is tight. Burning. Like I got a baseball cap on too tight. I look down at the floor and spot her black vinyl purse. I would love to go in it and get the money and walk to the corner to get her kid a box of cereal, buy a newspaper, a new crossword book to do on the bus, a pack of Kools, and just one forty-ounce to get my day started. But that wouldn't be too cool. And, besides, I ain't that desperate. So I just fold my hands. And sit here. And wait.

  Chapter 4

  Track

  "Why're you SO quiet?" Shanice is sitting in the back seat of the Jaguar with a book up to her face, which is also pressed snugly against the window. She's already cracked and devoured at least two hundred sunflower seeds on the drive here. The bulk of the shells are piled on top of the plastic bag in her lap. I keep telling her these things are full of fat and high in sodium, but she doesn't care. For somebody who runs track, she eats way too many of them. It's a nervous habit. Like a chain smoker. But I can't stop her. She sneaks and buys them. Sits up in her room and reads book after book and cracks and sucks on those nasty things until her trash can is full of crumpled-up paper towels.

  She's not talking today, and when Shanice doesn't feel like talking, nothing I say or do can make her. She can be an evil litde wench, just like her Granny Vy at times. They're cut from the same cloth. Stubborn as hell.

  George, who is sitting on the passenger side, dare not say anything to her when she's like this. He knows better. She's been so short with him that I had to ask him not to question, criticize, or chastise her outside of my presence. The reasons stem from that time Shanice went and told that lie on him to Mama, and ever since then I've been watching his every move-much too close for George's comfort-which has also created a circle of constant tension in our household. He doesn't have two words to say to Mama when she calls, but this of course is because he claimed she threatened him. Knowing Mama, she probably did, but he wouldn't tell me what she said. Whatever it was, George doesn't answer the phone anymore when it rings.

  "If you eat too many of those things you won't want your lunch," George is saying to Shanice.
<
br />   "She's fine," I say, as we turn in to the Sizzler. We're treating Shanice to her favorite restaurant, since today and tomorrow are some sort of in- service days for teachers and she gets out at twelve-thirty.

  When we get out of the car, my daughter walks up ahead. She's filling out too fast. If I'm not mistaken, the cheeks of her behind are peeking out where her jeans are slit. She's in a tight tube top, but thank God she's not filling a li-cup yet. At least I don't think she is. She could be me, twenty years ago. At thirteen, I was dangerous, and at fifteen, according to Mama, lethal. I had the body of a grown woman. At thirty-five, I don't look too shabby. A lot of people swear I'm twenty-eight or twenty-nine.

  Of the three girls in my family, I'm the smallest. I should say, the most fit. I'm the only one who works out, but I got the habit being married to Jimmy. He was not only a high-school track coach but, in his day, a decath- lete. He believed in taking care of his body, and it certainly rubbed off on me. I've been trying to persuade Mama and my sisters-particularly Charlotte's big butt-to at least try walking. But they're too lazy. Paris has been lucky. She looks good in her clothes, but I know she must be getting soft under those jeans, because she doesn't do anything with any consistency except cook. Her mind's on it but her heart isn't, otherwise she'd find time to fit it in. I don't care what's going on, I make sure I get to the gym. I'm even entertaining the thought of becoming a personal trainer, but under the circumstances, of course, I wouldn't dream of doing it right now. We'll see how things evolve over the next few weeks. Regardless, I still might take some certification classes if this real-estate thing doesn't work out. I believe it's best to leave the door for options open.