A Day Late and a Dollar Short

by Terry McMillan

  I tend to give George-the human incinerator-the evil eye every time I see him inhale a Twinkie or watch him slurp up a bowl of Dreyer's Butter Pecan or devour a chunk of carrot cake. This would be every night before bed. He eats teriyaki anything, and if he can't watch the butter drip onto his plate, it means it's not enough. He doesn't believe in exercise. Says we were given the bodies we were destined to have. I have a hard time accepting this, especially since he's got a little inner tube forming around his waist, and pectorals that sag worse than mine. I told him this is called fat. It can be burned off. A few crunches and handheld weights could help get rid of it. He thinks he looks good, which must be the reason why he always wears pajamas to bed. I can count how many times I've seen him naked. We bathe separately. I have to leave the bathroom when it's his turn. He says it's about privacy. I can respect that most of the time. When we make love-if you can call it that-he takes everything off under the covers. He's quick about his business, too, but sometimes I can beat him, depending on how tired I am. He doesn't even like to put it in very often, and when he does, it's not for very long, which is why I was so shocked when I found out yesterday that I'm seven weeks pregnant. I have not told George, because I don't know how to tell him. Or when. He's the first man I've ever met that can get off just by rubbing up against me. He says it's about friction. I just say whatever works. Other times he likes me to pretend it's an ice-cream cone or begs me to use my hands like I'm trying to start a fire by stroking up and down. It's been like this for a while, but I figure every man has pet things he likes, and these are George's. One thing he refuses to do, however, is put his mouth down there. I've pleaded with him to try, but he said he just can't do it. It's unsanitary. He can't stand the smell. But we have a ritual: I bathe every single night at nine o'clock, because I read at least an hour before I go to bed. He goes in right after me. I've tried everything, but all he'll do is use his finger, and sometimes, when we're sitting in bed watching a video-not necessarily a porno-and both of our hands are working, I feel really stupid. Really stupid.

  To be on the safe side, when Shanice came home from Mama's after the New Year, I sat her and George down in a room together so we could get all this ugly business cleared up and behind us.

  "George, have you ever raised your hand to Shanice without my knowledge?"

  "I'm not even going to dignify that with an answer."

  "Please, just tell me."

  "Why don't you ask her?" he said, and quite loudly.

  I turned to Shanice. "Has he?"

  "Not really."

  "Is that a yes or a no?"

  "No."

  "Then why'd you lie, Shanice?"

  "Because Granny was looking at my hair and she kept bugging me about why and how it had come out, and when she finally asked me if George had anything to do with it, I just said yes to shut her up."

  "And that's it?"

  She just nodded.

  "Then I think you owe George an apology."

  She didn't say anything.

  "Forget it," he said.

  "Shanice?"

  "Sorry," she said to the wall or the door, but it definitely wasn't to him. "Can I go now?"

  "Go," I said. George looked like he always did: preoccupied with something else. And that was it. We've never talked about it since, and things seem as close to normal as we can get.

  Now I'm watching Shanice swing those two hundred or so braids dangling over her shoulders like they're hers. I let George's niece do it a few weeks ago. You can't see the bald spots all that much, and it seems as if she's slowed down some on pulling it out. I never knew why she started doing it in the first place. The doctor said sometimes it means something traumatic has happened and this could be her reaction to it. I asked Shanice about that. She said the only thing that had terrified her was that earthquake we had back in January. But she'd been doing this long before then. Sometimes kids keep secrets, and if they don't want to tell, they won't tell. She knows I'm here for her, I've made that perfectly clear.

  As much as Shanice tries to pretend as if she doesn't like George, she really does. He spoils her like she were his. Buys her just about anything she wants, and she certainly knows how to ask. He doesn't know how to say no to her, and I chide him about this all the time. For some reason, he acts like he's indebted to her for even being here. But this is his house. Technically. My name still isn't on the deed, but that's just one more thing on a long list we have yet to iron out. Luckily, we're in California, a community-property state, so I'm not all that worried about what's mine and what's his. Push comes to shove, I would not have to walk out of here with nothing.

  George holds the door to the restaurant open for us. At twelve and three- quarters, as she puts it, Shanice is five six: almost as tall as me. I'm five nine. All the girls on Jimmy's side of the family are lanky with narrow hips. I'm still waiting for more of the Price blood to come to the surface. Jimmy's skin looked like red clay, but Shanice got both of our coloring and turned out deep bronze.

  She walks past George clutching her book. He's only about an inch taller than her. I'm barely speaking to him today myself, as he just announced this morning that he is not paying to send her to boarding school like he promised he would. She wants to go. As a matter of fact, she's been begging to go, which I think is a litde strange, considering she's got all the comforts a girl could ask for at home. Her room is full of everything, which is probably why she rarely comes out of it.

  I walk past George, and once we're inside and seated, Shanice turns her attention to the traffic outside. We bore her.

  "What do you feel like having today?" he asks her.

  "I'm not hungry."

  "I told you those seeds would ruin your appetite."

  "It's not the seeds. It's you. You make me sick."

  "Stop it, Shanice. Right now!" I yell, and then try lowering my voice. "Not today, please."

  "Look, we can't afford to send you to boarding school, if that's what this is about."

  "You can afford it. You know I want to go, that's the reason you're not doing it. Both of you just want to keep me prisoner for the next five years, that's all."

  "You should watch the tone of your voice," I say. "Look. I can try asking the insurance company to reconsider releasing more of your trust, but your father's lawyer set it up so that it's paid out in specific increments until you turn eighteen."

  "Private school is already costing us a small fortune," George says. "Do you have any idea how expensive boarding school is?"

  "No, I don't," Shanice says.

  "Can we not get into this right now?" "Whatever," she sighs.

  "Look. I've got two midterms this week, Mama just got out of intensive care, and I'd like to drive up there on Saturday to see her. Make sure she's doing all right."

  "Can I go, too?" Shanice asks. "We'll see."

  "You can't go," George says.

  Shanice cuts her eyes at him. "Why not?"

  "Because your first league meet is this weekend."

  "But it's not a qualifying meet, and, plus, I want to see my granny."

  "I'd like her to come with me, George."

  "I thought you said Viola was going home on Saturday."

  "That's right."

  "Don't you think she needs a few days to fully recover at home?" "I'm going there to help her recovery, George. There'll be a lot of things she can't do."

  "I thought you said Lewis was headed over there to be with her?" "He's just the welcoming committee she needs, George. Be serious." "I understand all this, but it just seems like next weekend would make more sense."

  "Is there something you need me to do for you?"

  "So you did forget about the banquet on Saturday. It's an important dinner. And you know that. Everybody's wives will be there. Except mine, of course."

  "George, I'm not sure just how bad Mama's attack was, but. . ." "She's still in the hospital; that should give you a clue," Shanice says. "You should really watch the tone of your voice," George
says. "Look, we only have this awards dinner once a year. It's been on the calendar for eight months. Your mother's illness is somewhat of an inconvenience, wouldn't you say?"

  Self-restraint is something I pride myself on, and it's rare that I even raise my voice at George, but he was taking this much too far. "Well, it's sad when your mother gets sick and has to be rushed to the hospital and may very well have died, but, then, that's not half as important as, say, some dry- ass chicken or overcooked roast beef, and do you think I really want to miss rubbing shoulders with a tableful of phony women who can't even remember my name, just to go to my mother's aid? What a tough decision."

  "So this is how you value my colleagues?"

  "Colleagues? They're cops, George."

  "So-am I supposed to go alone?"

  "If I could be in two places at once I would. Please don't make me feel guilty about this."

  "So you're going to Vegas, then?"

  "I don't have a choice. She's my mother."

  "That's so touching."

  "Ma, can you take me to track practice today?"

  "No, I can't. The only time I could reserve a computer at the library was from five to seven, and I wanted to go to the gym for an hour. I should be home by eight-thirty. I can take you tomorrow."

  "I don't mind taking her," George says.

  "I don't want you to take me," she says.

  "Well, you really don't have much of a choice, now, do you?" He smirks and heads for the salad bar. I know he means well, but Shanice has gotten too grown and her mouth is like sour candy. Sometimes I wish she was going somewhere.

  When we get home, it's almost two-thirty. Shanice goes straight up to her room and closes the door. As usual. The music comes on almost automatically. I go out to the garage to look for my Easter stuff, and of course George follows me.

  "What are we going to do about her attitude, Janelle? I can't take much more of this."

  I see the big blue bunny. He's leaning against the wall in a corner, covered in plastic. "Look. She's going through puberty. This is the time when most young girls are difficult. Just try to be a little more patient with her, please?"

  "She's got it in for me and you know it."

  "I think you're misreading her, I really do." I pull the stepladder below the shelves where I keep all my boxes. They're pretty much in holiday order and each box is labeled-"Xmas Decorations," "Fourth of July," "Valentine's Day," "St. Patrick's Day," etc., and there's "Easter."

  "She wants me to apologize for not being her father."

  "Well, there's not much we can do about that, now, can we?" I get up on the ladder and look down at George. "Can you help me do this, please?"

  "Sure," he says, and we trade places. He hands me all four boxes but then accidentally gives me one marked "Fourth of July." "Not that one!" I yell, and he puts it back like I just screamed "Fire!" or something. I walk over to where all the flags are rolled up, lift the plastic, and flip through them one by one until I find the Easter-egg flag. All holidays deserve to be acknowledged, as far as I'm concerned. It adds a measure of excitement to otherwise boring weeks and gives me something to do.

  "I'm doing everything I can to be a good father to that girl, but she shuts me out."

  I start opening the boxes one by one, looking for the papier-mache eggs. They're almost twelve inches round. I made them in a papier-mache class. I didn't like it. It was too messy. "Well," I say after I find the yellow and pink ones, "you'll have another chance."

  "Another chance, how?"

  "To be a good father. To the next one. Where's the nest? I don't think you got the one with the nest in it."

  "What next one?"

  "The one in here," I say, tapping my stomach. I spot the box marked "Nest/Baby Chicks/Baskets," and point to it. George leans back against the big blue bunny and it almost tips over. He catches it. "You're not pregnant?"

  "I am."

  "Janelle, I thought we talked about this."

  "We did talk about it. Can you pull my car out into the driveway so I can spread all my things in here?"

  "I told you I didn't want any more kids. I've had enough of kids. I've already raised two, and they're finally grown and paid for. I'm fifty-one years old. I don't need to start over. I'm too damn old to start over."

  "No you're not." I hand him the keys from the hook on the wall next to the door leading to the kitchen.

  "I thought you were using protection," he says as he presses the garage- door opener and opens the door of my Volvo.

  "Protection from what, George? I can hardly believe it even found its way up there, considering."

  He starts the engine, then sticks his head out the window. "Are you complaining?"

  "No."

  "Well, something managed to find its way," he says, and backs the car out into the driveway.

  Cars dart by. I just watch. There's far too much traffic on this street. One day I'd like to find a quieter one to live on. A cul-de-sac, even. When he gets out of the car, he comes back in and pushes the garage-door button. As it lowers, I blurt out: "I'm having it." The tarp is always in the same place. I spread it out in the spot where my car was and, one by one, place every single item on top of it.

  "Look, don't sound so defensive, Janelle. I'm not saying I don't want it. It's not like something you pick up for me at the store."

  "I'm thirty-five years old, George. My days are so very numbered. Besides, Shanice has always wanted a brother or sister, and now she can get her wish. Look at Hugh Hefner."

  "I'm not Hugh Hefner."

  "Well. . ."

  "How far gone are you?"

  "Seven weeks." There's the pink egg. Thank the Lord. Now. Tomorrow, right after my exams, I can put them all out in the front yard. It'll be lovely.

  "Anything could happen," George says.

  "What do you mean: anything?"

  "There's still time to change our minds."

  "I'm not changing my mind," I say, and walk past him toward the kitchen door.

  "Sometimes you remind me of my ex-wife, you know that?"

  "Don't you dare compare me to her," I say. "I've been compared enough in my life."

  "I'm not comparing per se, but she loved to push me into a corner to get what she wanted, too. This feels pretty damn familiar." "Look, I've got studying to do."

  "I'm sorry," he says apologetically. "I just wasn't expecting this. I've got lots of other things on my mind. You know the two duplexes off Western and Forty-seventh?" "Yes."

  "Well, the crackheads are taking over the whole damn street, and black people are moving out of there left and right. Between them, the Koreans buying up everything, and the Crips and Bloods destroying it all, the neighborhood's turning into a war zone. I might have to sell both units." "And what fool do you think would buy those dumps?" "Those 'dumps' provide almost half of my annual income, which you don't seem to mind one bit." "I'm sorry." But I don't mean it.

  "It's all right. I just have to get used to this whole idea. Give me a few days. At least. But right now I better get Shanice over to the track." "Are you going to wait for her?" "Yes."

  "Please don't say anything to her about this. I want to wait until I'm at least ten weeks." "Why?"

  "Because I want to get an amnio and that'll tell me if everything s okay." "Whatever."

  "And, plus, / want to be the one to tell her," I say, and hold the door open for him to enter.

  "Your secret's safe with me," he says.

  After they leave I walk into the kitchen to get a banana. I love my kitchen. It's spotless. Just the way I like it. I can't stand for things to be out of place or in disarray. It drives me crazy. Every open shelf in here is filled with black knickknacks I've collected over the years: Daddy Long Legs, All God's Children, Aunt Sarah's Attic-and any other kind I could find.

  My house is pretty. Soft. Clean. All lace and pastels. Parquet floors, except the foyer is a creamy marble. It's imitation, but it looks real. I guess my taste is modern with a traditional twist. I bought
the entire living-room set from Scandinavian Designs and my dining-room table from Ikea. They've got nice things at reasonable prices. I live for one-stop shopping. One day I hope to be able to afford some real artwork instead of the prints they sell at the mall.

  Once in the study, I sit in my beige leather reading chair. It reclines, and has a matching ottoman. To tell the truth, I don't feel like going to the library today, but I'm going. I don't feel like studying either, but I will. I'm trying to teach myself to finish what I start. To follow through. The book on contracts is in my briefcase, but so is my romance novel. Oh, why not? I '111 addicted to love stories. They relax me. Help me escape the ho- humdrummedness of my own uneventful, inconsequential world. Everything that's missing in my life I find in these books. Some nights I thank God for Danielle Steel, Nora Roberts, and Janet Dailey alone.

  The only reason I'm taking this real-estate course is because a psychic once told me I was a "people person," and, plus, I'm trying to find something I like to do. Something I enjoy. No doubt, it's been hard. But I give myself credit for trying. Nobody else seems to. Yes, I've been going to college off and on for what seems like forever, but I've gained more knowledge and insight than I ever would working at the DMV or the post office, or, say, Nordstrom's. I'm no prodigy, and I'm not all that creative either-this much I do know about myself. But I like people. And I like houses. And I'm sure I can sell them. Especially out here in Palmdale and Lancaster, where they're building them faster than you can blink. If I do it right, I might even go for my broker's license later on. But these classes are harder than I thought they'd be-very technical-and you need to be good in math, which was always my worse subject, so, if I don't end up doing so hot, I'm seriously going to look into becoming a personal trainer or a nutritionist.