A Day Late and a Dollar Short

by Terry McMillan

  The girls is out there in the backyard playing in the last of the snow. The wall clock says it's 5:46. That means it's almost four o'clock in Vegas. She probably taking a nap. Mama always nod off after her stories go off. I hear A1 coming from the garage. I ain't speaking to him either.

  He got a lotta nerve. Last night, right after we did it, he says, "Oh, baby, I forgot to tell you. Me and Smitty going ice fishing for three days. I took a vacation day. We leave Friday." And that was it. I pushed him all the way over to the edge of the bed and put a pillow in between us in case he didn't get the point. He told me 1 was being childish. "You can go to hell," was all I said, and this morning, when he did not get his grits and eggs and bacon and wasn't no coffee waiting for him, he knew what the deal was. And now he's home, and, like always, he probably in there making hisself a gin and tonic, then he'll take it upstairs and sip on it while he take his shower. I sit here and pat my feet till I hear the water come on, and then, before I know it, I'm standing up in that bathroom, watching him undress.

  "If I came home from work one day and just told you I was taking a few days off to go gallivanting with one of my girlfriends, can you stand there and tell me you wouldn't be mad?"

  "First of all, Charlotte, you don't have no girlfriends," he says, getting out of his clothes. He don't know what he talking about.

  "I do have some girlfriends. But that ain't the point. Why you gotta go ice fishing with Smitty all of a sudden? Why's it so important?"

  "First of all, it ain't that it's important, Charlotte. I wanna go. It don't hurt to do something with your friends every now and then. Smitty s wife ain't mad. And I can't for the life of me see why you making such a big to-do about this."

  At first, I don't say a word. I know he just trying to make me feel guilty. Well, just fuck you, Al, I'm thinking as I look at his long hard body through the shower door. His skin is the color of straw, his eyes a piercing gray- green, his lips thick, he's got good hair-thick and wavy-and a quarter- inch gap between his two front teeth. He's still pretty, a luscious Louisiana Bayou man, and sometimes I wish to hell I didn't love him as much as I do, which is exactly why I don't want nobody else to have no part of him. "How do I know you going with Smitty and not meeting some woman at a motel for three days?"

  "You really ought to quit it. Right now. I'm going fishing. When I get back I should have some fish. If I really wanted to go off with some other woman I think I could come up with a much better lie. So stop it, would you? Could we just not have the melodrama for once?"

  "Why didn't you ask me to go?"

  "I just told you! It's a man thing. As a matter of fact, it's a whole group of us going. Union guys. And since you already mad, I might as well tell you, next month we going hunting, so get it all out your system now."

  "You got a lot of nerve, Albert Toussaint. A whole lotta nerve."

  "You the one being selfish and foolish. Now, if you don't mind, could I take my shower in peace?" He stands there wet and naked, all six feet of him, with his hands gripping both sides of his waist. I wish I could drown him for a few minutes, but I just slam the bathroom door in his face. I don't really care about him going fishing. It's the way he did it. He just told me he was going. He didn't ask if I minded and didn't bother to ask if I wanted to go with him. We do everything together. I can't remember us ever going somewhere without the other. And, plus, deep down inside, I don't trust Al. No man can be trusted. Period. Given a opportunity to get some free coochie, they'll take it every single time.

  I got my reasons for feeling this way, and he know it. A few years ago- but I guess it was more like ten-I was cleaning out the garage and, like a fool, tried to lift his toolbox to put it back on the workbench, but I dropped it. Screwdrivers, pliers, hammers, nails, and nuts-everything-fell out and clanged against the cement floor. I started putting the stuff back in and came across a dirty piece of crumpled-up notebook paper. I flattened it out and noticed it had writing on it, and then, as soon as I started reading, realized it was a love letter to A1 from some woman who didn't sign it. She was telling him how tired she was of doing this. That it's been going on too long and it's clear he ain't getting no divorce. And then, "I love you too much but I love myself more. Call me when you've made your move."

  Call me when you've made your move? I threw every single tool, including that toolbox, at his Thunderbird, 'cause I couldn't believe this shit. I wasn't hurt. I felt betrayed. Double-crossed. Deceived. And as much as I loved Al, and as good as he was in bed and all the freaky shit we did together, and he's fucking somebody else? He always swore I was the best piece he ever had. He lied. And what else did he lie about? That can't nobody out- cook me. Can't nobody starch and iron his shirts the way I do. Can't nobody cut his corns without making him bleed the way I do. Hell, I should have at least a hundred gold medals for all the things I'm so damn good at. And what else did I do to please Mr. Man? Made sure I looked good all the time. One thing he claimed he loved about me most was looking at me: how black and smooth and tender my skin was, and how he loved it that men was always trying to hit on me and everybody thought my hair was a weave or a wig and nobody ever thought I was thirty-four-five-six-or-seven years old and had had three kids. Shit, back then I still wore a ten, and Al always told me how proud he was to have me for his wife. How proud. And here he was fucking somebody else? He was obviously confused, so I packed a bag and took the kids over to Aunt Suzie Mae's house for three days. Al was frantic when he came home and we was gone. And as soon as he found out that I found out, he was worried sick I would leave him. But I had left him. That's why I was over to Aunt Suzie s. I was trying to figure out my next move. But he just had to come over there. Wanted to talk.

  "It's not what you think it is, Charlotte."

  "Oh, so I must just be crazy. I didn't really read no letter from no woman talking about how much she love you, and by the way, did you want a divorce, Al? 'Cause, according to her letter, you been promising to get one. Where's the papers? Bring 'em over here and I'll sign the goddamn things right now! Or, better yet, I'll get my own!"

  "I don't want no divorce. This was a mistake I made, and it was so long ago I had forgot all about it."

  "A mistake? And you forgot about it?"

  "It was more than five years ago, Charlotte. When you was pregnant with Monique. You was having a rough time those last four months, remember?"

  "So. If every husband went off and had a affair 'cause his wife is having a hard pregnancy, where would that leave us? This is so tacky, AJ, I swear it is."

  "I'm sorry, Charlotte. I'm very, very sorry. It wasn't about nothing. I was just feeling lonely, and I broke it off right after Monique was born, 'cause I got the woman I married back. I don't even know what happened to her. I'm sorry."

  "Why should I believe you?"

  "Because I'm telling you the truth. I love you, Charlotte, and if I wasn't happy, I wouldn't be here. I'da been gone."

  "Oh, really. How decent of you. I need to stop by the house and get the kids some clothes. Please don't be there when I get there. They wanna come home, and I'd appreciate it if you would make arrangements to find yourself someplace to live."

  "Don't do this, Charlotte," he pleaded, but I slammed the door in his face. Right afterwards, I couldn't believe that my marriage was over. Just like that. That it could end with a few words in a few seconds. I was messed up. I told Aunt Suzie Mae everything. "Sit down, baby," she said to me, tapping the top of the kitchen counter with her fingers. Thank goodness, this was before she lost her scruples. "And let me tell you something."

  "I don't wanna hear it. Aunt Suzie."

  "You gon' hear it," she said, and adjusted her wig. She looked just like a older black version of Roseanne Barr. She was standing in front of the stove, adding tomato paste to a giant pot of chili. "You acting foolish. Now, I know you hurt and everythang, and this ain't something a wife likes to go through, but at some point all men cheat. Most of the time, if they good, they don't get caught, which makes it ea
sier on everybody. But when they do, and they act truly pitiful and say they sorry, sometimes they mean it. If you still love that man, drop your pride and give him another chance. God asks us to learn to forgive."

  "But how can I ever trust him again, knowing he did something like this to me?"

  "He didn't do it to you, baby. He did it for hisself. It wasn't meant to hurt you. That's why he snuck and did it. But you can't pretend it don't hurt. You won't forget this business either. But what you can do is put it in a corner of your mind you can do without and get on with your lives. Women do it every day."

  "But what if he do it again, Aunt Suzie?"

  "Then that would leave you with one of three choices: divorce his ass; get you somebody; or blow his brains out." Then she started laughing so hard I could see her gray edges.

  Two days later, I went home. But only after hours of crying and negotiations and threats and promises of never-will-I-cheat-agains. Al went out of his way to show me how happy he was to have us back. He took me shopping, took me to the movies, let me get on top, and swore that this was the only time during all our years of marriage that he'd ever messed around. I decided it was easier to take him back than it was to leave.

  So here we are. A little more than ten years later. I guess we still in love, but we got more problems than fish. That much I do know.

  "Ma, what's for dinner?" Trevor is asking me.

  I look over at him, looking just like his daddy-except Trevor got my Maxwell House color, but those green eyes from them Toussaints. He's much taller than Al-almost six four-and the doctor say he still growing. How I don't know. I get on up out this chair. "Order a pizza," I say. "I don't feel like cooking. Go tell the girls to come on in and get started on their homework. And I don't wanna hear no whining today."

  "Can I go get the pizza?" This means he wants to drive. He just got his license a few months ago. How, I'll never know. As Mama would say: His mind ain't long as a toothpick. He so busy watching what everybody else is doing that he don't pay enough attention to what he doing. He can't parallel-park to save his life, and the way he change lanes scares me, but what the hell. It's only down the street.

  "Go," I hear myself say. "And pick up my lottery ticket, would you? I forgot."

  "What about some money? Who should I get it from, you or Daddy?"

  He standing right next to me and I gotta look up to him. He's not only taller than Al, but better-looking. Even though I didn't think that was possible.

  "Ask me what?" Al says, standing in the doorway.

  "For pizza money," Trevor says, as he heads toward the sliding glass door to go yell to the girls.

  "Did you hear the messages on the machine from Paris and Janelle about your mama?"

  "Yes."

  "So-she's all right, then, ain't she?"

  "I haven't talked to her yet."

  "Why not?"

  "I was gon' call her later."

  Al just look down toward the floor, then back at me. "Later? One day it might just be too late, Charlotte. You oughtta stop acting so childish."

  Next thing I know, Al is reaching for the phone, but I go over and snatch it from him. "She's my mama, not yours!" I yell, and start crying again.

  "What's wrong with Ma, Daddy?" Tiffany's asking. Her and Monique are standing in the foyer, unzipping their ski jackets. Looking at them, you'd swear Monique was older, since she's taller. Both of 'em are prettier than any of those girls that be in them music videos on BET. Run circles around a whole lot of Miss Americas, too. People forever telling me that Tiffany is Vanessa Williams's double.

  "Your Granny Vy is in the hospital, but she's gon' be all right," Al says.

  Tiffany walks around to see if she can get a better look at me. My eyes must be red and shiny, 'cause she looks at me like she can't believe I been crying. The kids ain't used to seeing me act weak and stuff. I usually cry when I'm mad, not hurt. I straighten up. Crack a smile. Tiffany cracks one, too.

  "You guys go do your homework. Trevor's going to get a pizza."

  "Yeah!" Monique yells.

  "Anybody wanna come with me?" he asks.

  "Nope," Monique says.

  "Not me," Tiffany says. They don't like his driving either.

  "Just order the thing, go, and come right back," I say. Al reaches in his pocket and gives him a twenty. After the girls go upstairs and Trevor heads toward the garage, Al stands there and looks at me with the phone in my hand.

  I'm thinking: I wanna call, but what am I gon' say? Sorry for hanging up on you and not calling for four months? Why you have to be so stubborn, Mama? You coulda called me, too, after all, you the one who was yelling at me.

  "Well?" he says, shaking his head, then goes on back upstairs and turns on the TV. I look down at the Essence magazine I wrote the number to the hospital on, but for some reason I find myself dialing Smitty s number instead. When his wife answers, I'm tempted to hang up, since we ain't never been close except sitting next to each other at company dinners or in the same row at church and what have you, but I figure she might get suspicious and accuse Smitty of something stupid if I do, so I say, "Hi, Lela, how you doing?"

  "Charlotte?"

  "Yep. It's me."

  "What a surprise. How's everything?"

  "Fine, Lela. Look. Can I ask you something, woman to woman?"

  "I guess so. Like what?"

  "You ain't mad about Smitty going fishing?"

  "Going where?"

  "Fishing."

  "When?"

  "This weekend. With Al."

  "Smitty ain't going nowhere this weekend except in the backyard. He's been promising to build us a shed, and unless we have another snowstorm, that's exacdy what he's gon' be doing. Plus, his uncle died and the funeral's on Saturday. You sure he said this weekend?"

  "I thought he did, but maybe I got the dates mixed up."

  "It don't make no sense to me. Smitty's scared of water unless it's in a bathtub," she says, and chuckles a litde. "So-how's everything else, Charlotte?"

  "Well, my mama's in the hospital."

  "Is she gon' be all right?"

  "I think so. I'm about to call her now."

  "I'll pray for her," Lela says.

  "Thank you, Lela. Take care. And do me a favor?"

  "What's that?"

  "Don't even bother mentioning this to Al. It ain't important."

  "Okay. Hope to see you in church real soon."

  "You will. You definitely will." I'm trying hard not to bite my tongue, I'm gritting my teeth so hard. Fishing, huh? Now I know exactly what kind of pole he plan on using. Well, good luck, Al. I hope you catch more than you bargained for. I do. I really, really do.

  I dial the hospital numbers so fast they blur. Everything in here is a blue blur. Wrong number. Try again. I wish I had a good girlfriend I could call. But I don't. Al was right. Wish I could talk to my sisters. But I can't. They worse than two-faced friends. Tell 'em your business and they talk about you like a dog behind your back. To each other. To their friends. Which is one reason why I keep my business to myself. I only tell people what I want them to know. You can't hardly trust nobody. Can't give out personal information. They just like a employer. Put everything in your file, then use it against you later.

  That's why I need to talk to my mama. I shoulda called her before now. Before she got sick. Long before she got sick. I shoulda called months ago. Never shoulda hung up in her face. Fishing. And my mama's in the hospital 'cause she can't breathe. Well, I can't hardly breathe either. Call her, Charlotte. Right now. She'll tell you what to do. She been in this situation before herself. First, I need a glass of Asti Spumanti. No you don't. Dial the number. And this time be honest. Tell her about the first time. And now this. Tell her you was wrong. For hanging up. Can you do that? Admit you was wrong? No I can't. Because I wasn't wrong, was I? Yes you was, Charlotte. But what difference do it make? By calling, she'll know I'm sorry. By dialing this number, she'll know. She'll hear it in my voice. I ain't gotta say the wor
ds. Plus, they words she ain't never said to me. Regardless: call. Listen to the sound of her voice. Pray she ain't wheezing. You know she gon' try to act like ain't nothing wrong with her. Like she ain't in no hospital. Like she can breathe. So you pretend, too. Pretend you don't hear that rattle in her chest, and when she ask if you been doing all right, try to tell the truth. And this time listen to her. Listen to every word that comes out of her mouth, whether you agree with what she says or not. Keep your mouth shut. And just listen. And whatever she tell you to do, Charlotte, just do it. Even if you have to pretend.

  Chapter 6

  Behind My Back

  I heard I might be a lesbian. If I was I certainly wouldn't try to hide it. But, then again, I also heard I have terrible taste in men. I'm confused. Which is it? Or could I possibly be both? I understand the source of the first lie stems all the way from Chicago. This is where my used-to-be-favorite sister, Charlotte, hails from. The second untruth comes directly from none other than my mama, who thinks she's a good judge of character, but if that was the case, why has she stuck with Daddy all these years?

  I also heard I'm a perfectionist. Which I will admit to: and proud of it. They make it sound like a dirty word. All I have to say is: don't hate me because I'm organized. Which is exactly why I'm sitting in front of my computer at five-thirty in the morning, lamenting over another episode of the Price Family's Continuing Saga, when in fact I should be finishing up the final details for a Moroccan birthday party a client is throwing in three weeks for her future husband. I just had to open my big mouth and suggest that she make it exotic, and of course she got so excited picturing her forty guests sitting on the floor, eating with their fingers, then washing them with warm rose-scented towels while two belly dancers swish and swirl their way around them, that now I have exactly four hours to fax the proposed menu and budget.