A Day Late and a Dollar Short

by Terry McMillan

"You don't have any Jordan money."

  "We're just window-shopping."

  "I don't care. Just be home by five-thirty."

  "No problem," he says, turning away, then stops. "Oh. I wanna call my granny later on to see if she wants me to bring her anything."

  "Okay," I say.

  "I gotta cheer her up. You know I have that power."

  "Yes you do," I say. "Love you."

  "I love you more," he says.

  I watch him walk away. My baby. On his way to manhood. I like the effect of this pill. Now I feel like I can say exactly what I mean without biting my tongue. I wish I could feel like this all the time, is what I'm thinking as I dial Meagan s phone number, and she answers. "May I speak to your mother, please?"

  "She's not home, Paris."

  "She doesn't work. Why isn't she at home?"

  "Because she's at the grocery store."

  "At seven o'clock in the morning?"

  "It's a twenty-four-hour."

  "Would you ask her to call me as soon as she gets in?"

  "Would you mind if I ask why?"

  "You figure it out," I say, and hang up.

  Simple bitch. Be nice, Paris. But right now I don't feel like being nice. I'm nice all the time. To every-fucking-body. I need a break from nice- ness. So what do I do? Dial Nathan. He deserves a little blast from the past, too. Of course I get his machine, but that's quite all right. "Nathan, this is Paris. How've you been? Good, I hope. The reason I'm calling is just to give you your annual reminder that YOU STILL HAVE A GODDAMN SON, who'll be turning seventeen any minute, and if you are so moved, perhaps you might consider acknowledging his birthday by way of, say, a FUCKING BIRTHDAY CARD or a phone call. Something. That is, if it's not too much of an inconvenience, or is your shit still raggedy, Mr. Sports Agent? Do you represent any ATHLETES yet? And did you ever pass the Georgia bar, or did you forget to take it again?"

  The machine cuts me off, even though I was just getting started, but it's okay. I've got another call coming in. I can't imagine who this could be. "Hello."

  "Paris, are you there? Pick up. It's me," Mama says.

  "It is me, Mama."

  "Oh. You sound just like your machine."

  "How're you feeling? You're not home yet, are you? Dingus and I are flying over tomorrow whether you like it or not."

  "Slow down, girl, damn. I go home in the morning. Thank the Lord. I done lost seven pounds I did not intend to lose so fast, being in this place. But I'm feeling much better."

  "Good. Where's Daddy?"

  "Me and your daddy ain't been getting along."

  "What else is new, Mama? You two never get along."

  "He's gone."

  "Gone where?"

  "Living with some young girl with three kids on welfare in the projects."

  I reach in the desk drawer looking for my pills, but then I realize I don't have a headache, so I push it shut. "What did you just say?"

  "You heard me. Don't act so surprised. This ain't the first time, but it's damn sure the last. It's been a long time coming. I been sick of him."

  "Daddy moved out?"

  "That's what I just said, didn't I?" "When?"

  "Around New Year's." "What?"

  "Stop yelling in my damn ears, girl." "Why didn't you tell any of us before now?" " 'Cause it ain't no big deal."

  "No big deal? The man you've been married to for almost a half-century is gone and it's not a big deal? Come on. Mama."

  "I just had a damn asthma attack, what you want me to do, have a heart attack and drop dead over your stupid-ass daddy?" "No, Mama." "I do not miss him."

  I don't believe her, not for one minute. "So, then, you're there all by yourself, Mama?"

  "Not exactly. Lewis just got here."

  "You're kidding."

  "I wish I was."

  "Did you ask him to come?"

  "Do birds fly north for the winter?"

  "How long is he staying?"

  "Not long. Lord willing."

  "Is he standing right there?"

  "Yep."

  "Has he been drinking?" "Yep."

  "Is he getting on your nerves yet?" "Yep."

  "Is he moaning and groaning about Donnetta?" "Yep."

  "Does he know she got married?" "Yep."

  "Did you tell him everything, Mama?"

  "Yep."

  "Did he get mad?"

  "Yep."

  "Why'd you tell him?"

  "He made me mad."

  "How? What did he do?"

  "Guess."

  "He came with no money and now can't get home."

  "You guessed it. Plus, he was gon' find out sooner or later. Anyway, you all set for Easter?"

  "Easter? I'm not thinking about anybody's Easter right now, Mama. You're getting me confused with your other daughter."

  "You going to church or not?"

  "Easter's a tough one for me, Mama. Too many hats and new clothes, like a Paris runway or something . . ."

  "Okay! You made your damn point!"

  "Anyway, would you like to come and spend it with me and Dingus?"

  "It depends on how I'm feeling. That's too close to my birthday. Unless of course you planning something special."

  Does she think she's slick or what?

  "First of all, I put a three-hundred-dollar deposit down on this cruise that Loretta talked me into. It's in June, late June, but I just did it to be doing something."

  "A cruise?"

  "Yeah, they go to about five or six islands all over the Caribbean. Don't ask me where. And don't ask me how much. Not right now. Plus, me and your daddy gotta get our taxes in order before I do anything, or we gon' be in big trouble. Anyway, I'll let you know. Hold on a minute. Your brother wanna say hi."

  "Hello there, sis."

  I switch ears. "Hi, Lewis."

  "I'm fine," he says, but did I ask him how he was doing? He always does this. "How's Dingus?"

  "He's fine. How long're you staying in Las Vegas?" "Just a few more days, even though I think I like it here. If I could find a decent job, I'd consider staying." "Don't even think about it, Lewis."

  "Well, most of my business ties are in L. A. anyway," he says, sighing. I have to stop myself from saying: "What business ties?" "So, I guess Mama told you about Daddy, then, huh?" "Yep. But he'll be back."

  "How can you say that when you don't even know what's going on here?"

  "You know how long they've been doing this, Lewis? Please." "But this is serious." "I'm glad he's gone."

  "How can you say that? You know, you women can be . . ." "Don't start with me, Lewis." "Start what? I was just saying . . ."

  "Look, I'll say it again: I'm glad he's gone. It should've happened about twenty years ago. Just do me a favor, Lewis. Don't get on Mama's nerves, okay? She's not even home yet."

  He lets out yet another exasperating sigh. "I came here to help. How could I possibly get on her nerves?" "Never mind."

  "So I guess you and everybody else but me knew about my ex, then, huh?"

  "What's to know? So she's got married. She has a right."

  "He must be a chump, that's all I have to say. Anybody who'd want her?"

  "Yeah, well Todd's a chump with a job and . . ."

  "How'd she find a black dude with a name like Todd?"

  "He's white. I thought Mama told you."

  "He's what?"

  "Oh, get over it, Lewis. This is America. 1994." "She went and married a fucking cracker?"

  "Yep, by-golly she did, and she just had his baby, too. A litde girl named Heather. Mama said she told you."

  "She just said the bitch got married and the dude wanted to adopt Jamil. That's all."

  "She's not a bitch and don't ever let me hear you use that word when referring to a woman, do you hear me, Lewis?"

  "Yeah, sorry. But. . ."

  "But anyway, as I was saying, that 'cracker's' been taking pretty damn good care of your black son."

  "Donnetta done completely lost her fucking mind.
What kinda church is it she go to?"

  "You better watch your damn mouth, boy!" That's Mama in the background.

  "How should I know? Besides, it's irrelevant."

  "That cracker better not even think he's gon' be my son's father. And he better not ever lay a hand on him either or I'll kick his pale ass."

  "Okay. Stop, Lewis. I'm not about to listen to you . . ."

  "How do you think this makes me feel? First hearing from my very own mama that my ex-wife has married some stranger I don't even know, and then a few hours later I find out he's white and he wants to adopt my son?"

  "Somebody needs to be a father to the boy. When was the last time you saw Jamil?"

  "It ain't been that lo-"

  "When was the last time you did anything for him, Lewis? You need to get a fucking grip and join the real world. I'm so sick of men like you I don't know what to do."

  "You know, all you women think alike. . . ."

  "Put Mama back on the phone, would you?"

  "I'm not finished."

  "I'm hanging up this phone if you don't put her back on."

  "Hold on a minute. A man can't even get his own sister to listen to him anymore. Hear what I feel. Anyway, I guess I'll see you tomorrow."

  "Can't wait."

  Mama gets back on the phone. "Yes indeedy," she says.

  "He's pathetic, isn't he, Mama?"

  "Worse." "I thought you said you told him everything?"

  "Everything I wanted to. But what's done is done."

  "Have you talked to Janelle or Charlotte?"

  "Janelle and Shanice are driving here tomorrow sometime. And, no, I have not heard from Charlotte, and don't even think about calling her to ask her to come. I don't want to see her ass."

  "I won't."

  "I mean it, Paris. For once in your life, don't try to play the referee. Just come and bring me some of that sour bread from Fisherman's Wharf and a box of those little oyster crackers to put in my soup-could you do that?"

  "No problem, Mama. Love you."

  "You ain't said nothing but a word," she says, and hangs up.

  I look down at my phone list. Then over at the budget sheet. I don't feel like facing any of these folks. Do not feel like chitchatting, hearing their voices. I don't feel like thinking about fire-roasted anything or Moroccan- this or Moroccan-that. Don't care what kind of salad they eat, or where in the house a band will fit, or the difference in cost for the strippers who go all the way or those who show only breasts. My daddy's gone. I wonder if Mama really is glad. People say one thing but feel another. Oh shit! I forgot about that stupid interview with the producers who want me to host a cooking show preparing meals from start to finish! From start to fucking finish. Look at this desk! It's covered with every kind of paper you can think of: pictures of food, recipes I've been altering and saving for years which will one day go into my cookbook-if I ever find the time for that.

  What I do know is, I've got a budget to write, a soon-to-be-seventeen- year-old son who may or may not be on his way to fatherhood, my mama's in the hospital, I do not feel like meeting with anybody today, and my head is getting tight again. I take a few deep breaths, but this doesn't quite cut it, so I reach inside the drawer and take out the prescription bottle. I dump one white pill into my palm, but then I think two should probably do the trick.

  Chapter 7

  Every Shuteye Ain't Closed

  Shanice jerks the door open.

  Before I can decide whether to walk in or not, she appears from behind the doorway. It looks as if she's trying to block the entrance by her presence alone. I feel a sheath of heat jut out from her body that creates an invisible shield I know I can't penetrate right now. I look at my daughter. She does not look like my little girl. She's too tall for her age. Her shoulders are erect, her chest up too high, like some runway model. Her hands are pressed deeply into her hips, as if she's trying to stop herself from leaping on me. I could be wrong. I hope I'm wrong. She does not look scared or frightened, the way I imagined she would. She looks more annoyed than anything.

  "Can I come in?"

  She looks me dead in the eye. "For what?"

  "I think we should talk. Shanice."

  "What's to talk about?"

  "I'm so sorry, baby," I say, reaching out to touch her, but she jumps back.

  "I'm sure you are." She says this in a sarcastic manner, then flops down on the edge of her bed, the very same spot she was sitting in minutes ago. There are drops of blood on her pink comforter that look like burgundy stars coming out of her fingertips. She leans back even farther and looks at me. "So where is he?"

  "Gone." "Gone where?"

  "I don't know."

  "He'll be back," she says matter-of-factly.

  "No, he won't."

  "Yes, he will."

  "He can't come back."

  She looks at me again as if she doesn't believe me. "Who's going to stop him?"

  "The police."

  "Don't call them, Ma. Please. Don't."

  "Why not?"

  "Because then the whole world will know."

  "The whole world won't have to know. Shanice, baby," I say slowly, "why didn't you tell me?"

  "Because you wouldn't have believed me anyway."

  I bite my lip and flip the light switch on and ofF, but luckily the bulb has been blown out for some time. George promised to fix it weeks ago. Now I know why he hasn't. "What would make you think that?"

  "Because you believe everything he tells you."

  "That's not true."

  "It is true. Even Granny said you're a fool when it comes to men."

  "Did she really?"

  "I agree with her," she says, crossing her arms.

  I feel like strangling her. Why on earth would Mama be discussing my relationships with my twelve-year-old daughter? "Your granny is not in a position to judge how I've handled myself."

  "But I am. I know how many of your boyfriends were already married, even the pervert who finally married you."

  "Let me tell you something to set the record straight, Shanice. After your father was killed, I was afraid to get too attached to any man, which is why I did things the way I did. I wasn't trying to hurt anybody."

  "I don't really care. All I know is, if you'd done what you were supposed to do with your husband, I wouldn't have had to do it for you."

  "What did you just say?" "You heard me."

  I want to slap her into next week. How dare she talk to me this way, in this tone of voice. Besides, she doesn't know what the hell she's talking about. She's probably in shock. Traumatized. Because this entire conversation isn't even close to what I imagined. I came in here to comfort her. To try to understand what has happened. Which is why I decide to overlook the nasty things she's saying. "Maybe you're right."

  She looks genuinely surprised. As if she was ready and prepared for battle. "You're getting fat."

  I want to tell her about the baby. The baby. What about the baby? What am I going to do with his baby? Don't want anything of his. Nothing. But too much to think about right now. Forget this baby. Help that one over there. "Has he hurt you?" I ask.

  "What do you mean?"

  "What all has he done to you?"

  "I don't want to talk about this right now."

  She reaches over and picks a book up from a pile-clearly one she's already read-and puts it in her lap, then opens to a page at random and starts twirling those braids around her fingers. "I need to know, Shanice."

  "He did enough."

  "How long has he been touching you?"

  "Touching me?" She lets out a sarcastic chuckle.

  "Yes."

  "He's done more than touch me."

  "How much more?"

  "How about right after you married him. When I was seven. You were always asleep when he came in to say good night to me. He would flip that light switch off right over there, but then he didn't leave. He would walk over here and lay down next to me and give me a good-night kiss. But the
n he didn't get up."

  I feel nauseous. I know he hasn't been doing this to my daughter for five fucking years. Where was I? How in the world could I not nodce something like this? And how in God's name could she have gone all this rime without telling me? "He's been doing this to you for five years?" "Six is closer to it. I'll be thirteen soon, remember?"

  "Shanice," I moan.

  "It's cool, Ma. But 1 cleaned up."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "Look at all the shit in here. Why do you think he bought it?"

  I don't want to look. I know what's in here. Too many stuffed animals. Too many dolls. Too many video games and gadgets. Hundreds of trinkets. I blink and blink and blink until all of it disappears. "But, Shanice, you never gave me any sign that anything was wrong."

  "My granny noticed," she says tartly.

  Is this the daughter I've got to live with from now on? Is her sweetness gone? Has that son-of-a-bitch destroyed it? I have never heard my daughter swear. Nor has she ever used this tone of voice when talking to me. Her head is down and I see her shoulders droop and she starts shaking her head back and forth and then she sits back up slowly.

  "I'm standing here going over and over in my head why I didn't see any signs that something was wrong."

  "Because, instead of being a cop, he should've been an actor, that's why. I mean, he was this whole different person in the morning. At night he came in here. He said things. Did things. At breakfast, he was my stepdad again. He was two people."

  "This is a sickness."

  "Yeah yeah yeah. He's sick all right. Why do you think I never wanted him to take me to track practice, Ma?"

  "Because I knew you didn't care for George."

  "Didn't you ever wonder why?"

  "I thought it was because he wasn't your real dad."

  "I don't even remember him, Ma! I was four years old when he died."

  "Oh," is about all I can say. I want to go sit next to her. I want to put my hand on her head the way I used to when she was little and pull her face between my breasts until I feel her breathe. I want to slide her head down my belly until it rests in my lap and stroke her hair until she falls asleep. The way we used to.

  "What do you do in there at night?"

  "What?" I'm startled not only by the question but by the fact that she's still over on the bed and I'm still standing by the door. She is not in my lap. And she's not my baby anymore. But I'm still her mother. "That's none of your business."