A Day Late and a Dollar Short

by Terry McMillan

  I'm also very much aware that my family makes fun of me behind my back. I know they refer to me as the slow one in the family. I've been called "Loose Brains," "Dinghy," "Miss Space Cadet," and a host of other endearing names. I'm also known as the Professional Student in search of a major. Lewis told me all of them one morning when he was drunk and I'd taken him to I HOP for French toast and coffee, trying to sober him up. I know they don't mean any harm by these little innuendos and they don't say this stuff with any malice-at least I don't think they do. They're just my family.

  I make myself get out of this chair. I even go to the library with twenty minutes to spare. I'm proud of myself, since I'm notorious for being late. But guess what? The computers are down. Some kind of power outage caused them to go off-line or something, and it'll take at least an hour or two before they come back up. It could be as late as tomorrow. At first I don't know what to do, but then I realize there's a six o'clock low-impact class that I'm sure won't hurt the baby. I'll shower and shampoo at the gym, then study at home.

  When I pull into the driveway, it's almost seven-thirty. I am just about to press the garage-door opener when I remember that all my Easter thing? are still on the floor. George would have a fit if I took his spot and he had to park his Jag outside in the elements all night. I guess it doesn't matter that it's ten years old. A Jag is still a Jag to him. I leave my car in the driveway and go through the front door, something I don't think I've ever done before. It feels strange, walking in your own house like you're a guest. I take my sneakers off, since I usually ask everybody else to remove their shoes. I look up at the stairwell; it could use another coat of white satin gloss. Oh, no! There's a huinongous spiderweb hanging from the chandelier. I didn't see it there this morning. This thing has to go. I take my attache case into the study and drop it on the floor. It is so quiet in here. George and Shanice should be home soon, within a half-hour or so. He usually takes her to get something to eat after practice.

  I go upstairs to change into some clean sweats, and when I step outside my bedroom, I walk out to the landing with a towel to see if I can reach that spiderweb, but I can't. That's when I notice Shanice's backpack down on the hall table by the kitchen. I didn't hear them come in. I walk down the hall to her room, and as usual, her door is closed. Because she's not allowed to lock it, out of courtesy and respect for her privacy I always knock. For some reason, tonight I ease it open. I don't know why I'm not shocked when I see George sitting on the edge of Shanice's bed with his hand pressed on top of hers pushing up and down inside his black pants. His eyes are closed peacefully, but Shanice is scrunching hers so tight I can tell it hurts, because she's biting her bottom lip the same way I am. An inferno invades my whole body, and then, suddenly, feels like a block of ice. George's eyes open wide and he looks frightened. Shanice drops her head. In a split second, I look at these walls, which I can't even tell are yellow because they're plastered with magazine photos of probably every hip-hop singer and rapper on the planet. Four pair of sneakers are lined up under her bed. They should be in the closet. Why aren't they? I'm tempted to do it, but now I'm sinking in water so deep I can't move. I shake my head back and forth, trying to get to the surface, but it's sealed tight. I try to take a deep breath and leap, push, but I'm stuck. This fucking room is too small. Stuffy. And suffocating. Why'd we put her in here anyway? And why's it so noisy? Why's that stupid music blasting so loud all of a sudden? Who turned it on? I wish those kids on the walls would stop singing and rapping. "Shut the hell up!"

  George is trying to zip his pants and stand up at the same time, but it doesn't matter. He has to get past me. I have been spared. I have thawed out. I don't need air to stop him. Which is why I grab the halogen lamp from the desk near the doorway and walk toward him and stop. We are eye to eye. He opens his mouth to say something, and maybe he does, but I don't hear a word of it. I start pounding him over the head with this lamp until the sight of blood and Shanice's screaming stops me.

  "I'm sorry," he screams, trying to flee from the room, holding his head.

  "You get back here, you sick motherfucker!"

  "Mama, stop it!" Shanice yells.

  "I'm really sorry," George says again, and runs out the door. I hear him heading downstairs.

  "Fuck you, George."

  "I swear it."

  "She's my baby."

  "But I never hurt her."

  "You should leave now."

  "But this is my house."

  "Fuck you and this house!"

  "I want to explain."

  "I said get out! Now!"

  "Can I at least take something with me?"

  "You've already taken more than enough. Now, get out of here before I call the police! Oh. I forgot. You tire the fucking police!"

  Now I'm shivering and can't stop. There's blood on my hands and wrists, and I realize I'm still gripping the lamp as he heads toward the garage. I could kill him. I should kill him. But I don't move. I listen as he starts up the car and the Genie lifts and then the garage door closes shut. I stand in the kitchen for the longest time until, finally, I open the door to make sure he's gone. My Easter stuff looks stupid out there. I should stop doing this silly shit. I really should. Nobody cares anyway.

  Shanice's cleats are on the top step. They look worn out. All she ever wanted to do was run track. Break records. Fly. Like they say on those Nike and Reebok ads. She pushes herself so hard. Harder than I've ever pushed myself to do anything. Maybe that's why he wanted her. Because she's young and beautiful and can still fly. But I used to be her. Stop lying, Janelle. You wish you were her. She knows what she likes. What she's good at. She's more focused at twelve than you are at thirty-five.

  Why didn't I see the signs? When she stopped giving us both good-night kisses? That was over a year ago. Now I'm confused. I have to think back. I have to replay the last year or two in my mind. But now I'm wondering just how long he's been doing this shit to my baby. And what if he's lying? Wha t i f lie's touched her the same way he's touched me? Why didn't I see it? Why wasn't I paying closer attention? And why in the hell did I believe him when he said he hadn't harmed her in any way? I blot my eyes. Because you wanted to believe him, that's why. Admit it, Janelle. Because harm equals abuse, and that meant I'd lose everything. We would be on our own. And I've never been on my own. I don't even know if I can make it without someone holding me up.

  I close the door, walk over, and look up at the stairs. I will put a fresh coat of paint on that railing tomorrow. I will. I know I have to walk all the way over there and then up those steps, but I can't. Not yet. She lied because she was probably afraid. And I believed him. I set the lamp on the counter and force my feet to move. I don't know how I'm going to make it to that top step. But I have to. There's no one here to help me. But there's no one up there helping my daughter either. My legs weigh a ton. All I can do is pretend to be in step class and lift one foot after the other until I find myself standing here, outside her bedroom door, which is closed. I knock. Listening for her voice. It cracks when she tells me to come in. She's in there waiting for me. I touch the doorknob, but don't have the strength to turn it. I try again, but it won't turn. I'm afraid. Afraid I won't know what to say to her when this door finally opens, but even more afraid of what she's going to say to me.

  Chapter 5

  Nothing in Common Except Blood

  I'm trying to drum up the courage to call Mama, but I don't know what to say. She picks the worst times to get sick. When I got a million other things on my mind. We running to the mailbox every day hoping our income-tax checks gon' be in there. But we ain't getting back half as much as we did last year, which was close to eight thousand. Me and AI both put in too much overtime, but it ain't worth it. You kill yourself and still can't get ahead. This house look good on the outside, but on the inside, it's falling apart, little by little, and it need some work or we need to sell this sucker. We might have to take out a second just to make it sellable, but I really don't wanna go that r
oute: double debt is what I call it.

  And then there's the kids. Tiffany's having problems at school. Boys pestering her so much she can't keep her mind on nothing. That phone rings off the damn hook. She used to make a tent outta her covers and sit under there with a flashlight writing her little poetry, but lately I done caught her under there running her mouth on the portable with no pen and nothing but a blank piece of paper in her lap. I just finished picking Monique up from basketball practice three times a week and since she done got so good on that flute, her teacher is trying to get her to try out for band next year, so now I gotta take her to band practice four frigging days a week. It don't make no difference one way or the other, 'cause I still gotta clock in at the post office Monday through Friday, supervise twenty-six dim-witted mail carriers, listen to the rich folks in Hyde Park complain 'cause their mail wa s l ate or the carrier won't deliver to their house 'cause their dog tried to bite him, and then come home and try to scrape up something to eat, and the weekend is just as hectic 'cause this is when I try to iron and go to the grocery store and pay bills and plus every single Sunday since we been married I gotta bake A1 something sweet and cook him a damn southern feast, and last but not least, there's still the upkeep of two losing-money-by-the- minute Laundromats over in Englewood, where half the time I'm scared to get out the car while A1 is in his rig on the road sometimes two and three days at a time.

  Where I live, dirty clothes come outta nowhere. I do at least one or two loads a day, 'cause people in my house think they rich and don't wear nothing twice. I been told I should get a housekeeper, but that's why I got kids. Even still, by the time I remind 'em, day in and day out, what they supposed to do, I could do the shit myself. But I can't do everything, which is why I'm probably always so stressed out. It's times like this when I wish I hadda went to college. Hell, if I could ever find the time, I'd like to go back to school: at least take a few classes. Not necessarily for no degree. Shit. Why shouldn't I try to get a degree? People on Oprah and Sally in their fifties and sixties is just learning how to read or getting their GED. They say it ain't never too late.

  Speaking of late. This morning I get two messages from my lovely sisters, trying to lay a guilt trip on me for not rushing out to see Mama, knowing I don't get on nobody's airplanes. I mean, what am I supposed to do, just drop everything, jump in my Suburban, and drive to Vegas? This household would fall apart if I was gone for more than twenty-four hours. Besides, they can afford to go see her, 'cause they all live out there on the coast. I don't. And I can't. Money don't grow on trees in Chicago.

  Plus, I'll be honest, when we all under one roof, they get on my nerves. Seem like everybody gotta compare notes: Who's doing better or worse than the last time we saw each other? Did you ever get new mattresses for the girls' rooms or are you still spending it on stuff you don't need? That's Mama. And who done gained too much weight and need to lose some? That's Janelle. Who's looking older than they should? Whose shit is raggedy? And so on and so forth. So I ain't exactly in no big hurry to see all of 'em at one time.

  Deep down inside I know Mama probably don't mind my not coming. She ain't all that crazy about me no way. Everybody know it. She dropped me when I was a baby. Everybody know that, too. She was supposed to be giving me a bath, but the story goes that Paris had slammed her finger in the door and was screaming so loud that Mama forgot all about me, and when she went to check on her, I fell off the counter and hit the linoleum. Had to be rushed to the hospital. At first they thought I might have brain damage, but Aunt Suzie Mae told me that by some kind of miracle I broke my own fall and just ended up with a big knot on my head. If things hadda happened differently, I coulda died. But they said I was all right and sent me home a few hours later. To this day, Mama ain't never apologized to me for that.

  She always have favored Paris, and I don't think it's 'cause Paris was the oldest either. Paris couldn't do no wrong. She was so perfect. So smart. So this. So that. And Janelle, being the baby, got her way all the time. Daddy spoiled her rotten, which is probably why she turned out to be such a leech. And my one-and-only brother. Lewis. What a poor excuse for a man he turned out to be. But that's Cecil's fault.

  I love my family. I do. But I resent the hell out of 'em, too. Most of the time I feel like a outsider, 'cause I'm here in Chicago and they all out there. I didn't like California for two reasons: I thought it looked better on television, and my boyfriend, who ended up being my husband, wasn't there. I ain't been to Vegas yet. We might go this summer, if I can get A1 to switch our plans around. We been to see his people in Baton Rouge for the past six years, and I told him point-blank: this time we going to visit mine.

  The only time I see all of 'em at one time is when somebody die, get married, or we have a so-called family reunion-which we ain't had since '91. I ain't been out to visit nobody going on seven yean, but that's only 'cause my cash flow's been tied up in these Laundromats and I had to remodel the kitchen. It seem like it's always something going on around here that slurps up all my time, and we don't even wanna mention money.

  Which is something we could use a lot more of. This is one reason why I'm investigating certain mail-order businesses. There's thousands of low- cost start-up opportunities out here, all you gotta do is take a little time, do your homework, and figure out how to get one going. It ain't no reason why we gotta settle for being middle-class when we can move into a whole 'nother income bracket if we just picked up the pace. But I got more energy in my big toe than A1 got in his whole body, except of course when it come to sex. Most of the time he's downright sluggish when it come to getting off his ass and thinking fast on his feet. He don't miss work, I'll give him that much credit. But I done told him a million times: I'm not gon' be living in this imitation house when I retire. No sirree. We can do better than this. Much better than this.

  The portable phone is just there, staring at me. On one hand, I feel bad for not calling Mama before now. Yeah, it was me who slammed the phone down in her face, but she was yelling at me like I was somebody in the street.

  And so what if I didn't go to college. Janelle and Lewis never finished neither. I'm the only one who ain't been divorced. I ain't never slept with nobody's husband. I didn't marry no low-life pretending to be no lawyer. I ain't never done no kinda drugs and don't have no bad habits worth mentioning. I ain't never had to call her collect or ask her for no money-for nothing, really-except maybe to watch the kids when they was little, and even then, I paid her.

  I've done everything in my power to prove to Mama that I'm just as smart and just as capable as Paris, but she just gotta put her on a pedestal, like her shit don't stink. Paris ain't no saint. And she ain't hardly perfect. Yeah, she can cook. But so what? I can burn, too. She ain't the only one in this family who can read a damn recipe. The only reason she in the position she in is 'cause she know people who know people. These the ones I heard buy her fancy food. But, hell, anybody can start a catering business. If I just wanted to, I could, too. But food don't mean all that much to me.

  Now, Janelle is the one Mama should be handing out advice to by the plateful, 'cause she's the one with no damn sense, no scruples, and no major ambitions whatsoever. They got books out about women like her, being codependent and shit. She screwed her way to middle-class. She sent me p ictures of where she live. Didn't look like nobody even lived in the damn house. It looked like one of those model homes, only Janelle got weird taste. No class. No taste. No pizzazz.

  But let's face it, Lewis is the real victim in this family. He got some emotional problems. It would help if he stopped drinking so much of that crack-in-a-bottle otherwise known as Schlitz Malt Liquor or Old English. Lewis is a alcoholic, but he seem to be the only one who don't know it. If he could get some help, maybe he'd be able to help Donnetta pay for his damn son.

  And speaking of kids. Mama ain't never got nothing nice to say about mine, except maybe Trevor, but then she went and accused him of being gay. Janelle told me she said it. Well, my son ain't
nobody's faggot. I know this for a fact. He's girl-shy, and he'll grow out of it. Every time I look around I gotta hear about Dingus did this or Shanice did that in the two- hundred meter and how many books she read a month and even Lewis's son, Jamil, who's around Tiffany's age, and who don't nobody even hardly see no more, made that all-star soccer team that travel all over (she done sent me the newspaper clippings three years in a row) and broke her neck telling me all the details of how he got accepted to the junior ROTC program and that he been skipped a grade. Shit, Monique can play the flute like ain't no tomorrow and she the leading rebounder on her basketball team, but all Mama seem to remember is that she got ADD-like they don't have it out there in Vegas. And so what if Tiffany can't grasp math or science? She write poetry as good as Maya Angelou, but have Mama ever bragged about her? It's common knowledge that both my daughters got good sense, they just going through growing pains-waiting for their periods to get here- and things should turn around and quiet down in this house once they do. Trevor's my bright star. He gets damn near straight A's, but do I ever hear about Mama bragging on him?

  Shit. Here I go again. I need to stop this before the kids see me getting all worked up. I take a sip of my Asti Spumanti and push the lever on the re- cliner so it go back as far as it'll go. I'm sick of this blue shag. It shows when you spill anything. And I'm getting rid of this plaid couch and get one of those leather sectionals, since leather's supposed to be so "in." I wipe my eyes on my sleeve. Why do I always have to cry when I think about Mama? Probably 'cause I know that, no matter what I do, it ain't never good enough. Sometimes, when I really think about my family, it feel like we ain't got nothing in common except blood.