A Day Late and a Dollar Short

by Terry McMillan

  "I didn't run into him. He came over to my house yesterday."

  "He probably told you a bunch of lies, then," Todd says.

  "I don't know how many lies he told, but I've got some questions I want answers to." "Like what?"

  "Like why would you hit a thirteen-year-old kid in the eye with your fist?"

  Todd starts walking around the dining room like he's trying to think of a good answer. Jamil, who ran straight upstairs when we got here, is now standing at the top of the steps looking down at us, like this is some kind of show he's about to watch.

  "Look, Todd. This is the deal. I do not appreciate you putting your hands on my son and I do not think it's appropriate for you to be punching on a kid like he's a grown man."

  "Hold on a minute, buddy. First of all, did he tell you what he did?"

  "I ain't your buddy, Todd. Let's get that straight right here and now."

  "Did he tell you what he did?"

  "What did he do that was so bad besides smoke a little marijuana?"

  "I don't believe my ears. Are you a God-fearing man or not?"

  "What's God got to do with this?"

  "There is no way I'm going to allow a. Thirteen-year-old child living under my roof to indulge in any kind of drugs. Not in this house."

  "But he's not your son!"

  "Well, I'm the one who's been taking care of him for the last four years."

  "Oh, is that right?"

  "Lewis, please," Donnetta says, getting up from the dining-room table where she been sitting with her hands folded. "This is getting a litde out of hand and I don't feel comfortable. Let's just deal with this over the phone."

  "Why don't you be quiet, Donnetta," Todd says.

  "Yeah, shut up, Donnetta."

  "Don't tell my wife to shut up."

  "She used to be my wife and I can tell her to shut up if I feel like it. If you can hit my son in the face with your fist, I can tell her to shut the fuck up ten thousand times if I feel like it."

  "Not in this house, you can't."

  "Look, I just want you to know that if you've got a problem with anything Jamil does, before you raise your hand to hit him again, you better think twice, because I'll be on your ass like white on rice."

  "Are you threatening me?"

  "What does it sound like, motherfucker?"

  "If he disobeys me, if he disrespects me, I will discipline him the way I see fit and considering the fact that we can count on one hand how much you've contributed to his well-being in the past four years, I don't think you have much say-so here. Now would you kindly leave this house?"

  Before I even know what I'm doing I haul off and sucker-punch this blond motherfucker so hard he falls past the dining-room table and into the kitchen, and I hear Jamil yelling: "Kick his ass, Dad!" and I'm assuming he means me, and then I hear Donnetta scream, "I'm calling the police!" and when I look up Todd is coming at me with a sponge mop and I snatch it out of his hand like I ain't got arthritis and start whopping him all over his body with it until the wooden part cracks in two and my hand is bleeding and everybody's screaming and yelling and all I can think is that I bet he won't hit my goddamn son no more.

  When the police get here, they handcuff me, put me in the back of their car, and take me to jail. I don't really give a fuck. I made my point. Donnetta ran and got her litde half-white baby she kept hidden from me the whole time and just stood there with it in her arms, shaking her head. Todd was still on the floor, acting like he was half dead. I didn't hurt that motherfucker, not with that skinny-ass handle, but he still pretended like he couldn't get up when the cops pushed me out the doorway.

  The police said my bail is probably going to be in the neighborhood of $50,000. Damn. I can't call nobody and ask for any five grand to get me out. Just what I need: another fucking court date. Paris is already pissed at me for what happened in Las Vegas, so I can't even think about calling her. And Janelle's money ain't hers, so I can forget about her trying to explain to George why she would need this kinda cash. And then there's Charlotte, who I know would probably cuss me out when she heard the word "jail" and then hang up in my face. So fuck it. I'll just have to wait it out. Why'd this have to be a Saturday? Which means I won't even get arraigned until Wednesday.

  One officer tells me that I'm being charged with assault and battery, and disturbing the fucking peace. That Todd is definitely pressing charges. I have never been convicted of a violent crime, and I ain't exactly sure what this means, but when we get to the jail, I ask if I can smoke a cigarette before I go in and how much time am I looking at? They both kinda chuckle, and then one of 'em says that I won't be walking on no streets in street shoes for at least the next twelve months, and for me to puff on that.

  Chapter 21

  Lucky Strikes

  Granny are we gonna make the pie for your birthday or not?" Shanice is asking me.

  "I done told you at least a hundred times, girl: I don't roll nobody's crust or cut up no kinda apples." I love this child to death, but she is getting on my last nerve. Can we make this? Can we go here, can we do that? She think I'm young, and I had to remind her that as of today I'm a certified senior citizen, so cut me some damn slack. I'm exaggerating. Some. I guess I'mjust used to complaining and glad 1 got somebody here to listen. Right now, I'm laying across my bed, halfway watching Oprah and reading my birthday cards. I just took a shower and gave myself a breathing treatment, and now I'm trying to sneak in a litde hour or two nap before we leave for the bowling alley. It's been one helluva day.

  "I told you you should've just let me make you a cake," Shanice says from the living room.

  "First of all, you don't tell me what to do, missy, and, besides, it's my birthday, and I don't like cake. They always too sweet, too thick, and too dry, and especially with these Kmart teeth I got in my mouth right now. I like pies and cobblers, and a bread or rice pudding every now and then."

  "Then can we get a frozen one?"

  "You know how stingy them white folks is with the apples?"

  "Not Mrs. Smith's," she says.

  She just won't quit, will she? "Hers is the worse. But I'll tell you what. We'll get one on the way to the bowling alley and leave it in the car to thaw out and buy three or four apples, which you can cut up, and when we get back home the crust should be soft enough to cut open, and then we can add some cinnamon and brown sugar and lemon juice and vanilla and a few dabs of butter to spruce it up and make it taste like we made it from scratch."

  "By the time you do all that, Granny, couldn't we have just made it from scratch?"

  "Why don't you go sit your little narrow behind down somewhere and find something to do to keep you occupied? No. On second thought, go get Granny's bowling ball and put it in the back seat of my new car, would you?" When I hear myself say this I can feel my cheekbones tingling. I love the sound of that: "my new car." Paris is too much sometimes, I swear. When you got money you can buy damn near anything you want to without even leaving your house. All you need is a phone, a credit card, and Federal Express.

  Last night, right before Arsenio Hall was coming on, my sister Priscilla called me collect to wish me a happy birthday and had the nerve to sound happy because she had just run into Precious, her damn daughter, in the same prison she was in. I guess I was supposed to jump for joy, but I didn't. Precious is thirty-five. I didn't even ask what she was in there for, 'cause their whole situation is just ridiculous. First Boogar and Squirrel, and now her only daughter. They all got caught up in some shit I don't understand. I told Priscilla I was falling asleep when she called, and after I told her I couldn't send her no more than twenty or thirty dollars, I said goodbye. I was still shaking my head when the phone rang again. It was Paris, calling to wish me a early happy birthday 'cause she said tomorrow she had to go with some gardener to pick out some trees and plants and rocks and slate and some kinda shy fish and she didn't know what time she'd be back and she wanted to make sure she caught me at home. I told her she caught me at home all ri
ght, that I was half sleep, so hurry up and say what she gotta say so I could go back. She told me to wake my fat butt up if I wanted to hear her good news. I made myself sit up and told her I was awake now, now hurry up and get to the damn point. And that's when she said she sold her cookbook for a good amount of money and that I could not only go down to that dealership after ten-thirty this morning and pick up my brand-new navy-blue Mitsubishi Galant, but to drive that sucker to the best dentist in town and make an appointment to get fitted for some brand-new dentures; and then she said turn every corner I feel like it until I see a condo I might want to live in and park this sucker in the shade and go talk to a sales agent about buying. At first she didn't even give me no price range, but then she did say to make sure the price had a "one" in front of it, and for me not to go crazy. Hell, here in the Valley, for one hundred thousand even a damn fool can live good. And since I'm nosy as hell anyway, I just had to know how much she got for a cookbook she ain't even wrote yet, and especially since she the one sound like she going a litde spending crazy, but she just said, "Enough nuff," so I let it go at that.

  Me and Shanice was way too excited when we drove that baby off the lot to go looking for some new teeth or at any kinda condos. We went straight to Red Lobster to celebrate, and who in the world did we run into? Cecil and his new family-looking like the black Flintstones-but I didn't even "trip"-as Dingus would say. Cecil was just about to put one of them little shrimps in his mouth when he saw us, and I just nodded a hello to him and then to that mushroom-looking wench he was sitting next to, who look young enough to be his granddaughter, and who need to make up her mind which hairstyle she really interested in and settle on one instead of the three or four I saw. Look like finger waves was pressing against the left side of her head. The top was part ancient Jheri Curl and part reddish-blond braids that hung down over some of the waves. Hell, maybe they was supposed to be a waterfall, I don't know. But the right side was cornrows that had been wove with purple yarn all through 'em. What would possess her to do this to herself? And this was only the front view.

  Then there was three halfway-cute litde kids who looked like they could use some Dixie Peach around their nappy edges, them gray elbows and knees, and a hot bath wouldn't hurt, since it look like Cecil musta took 'em to his favorite store in the whole world-Target-for them brand-new outfits they was wearing, but he shoulda kept on walking rill he hit the shoe department. I just smiled and pushed Shanice past the whole group and led her to a table way back in the corner, where we couldn't see none of 'em.

  But what did Cecil do? Come back to our table and just stood there, and said, "Happy birthday, Viola."

  "Well, how nice of you to come to my party, Cecil. Thank you," I said, and picked up my menu and started reading it. When the waitress came, I ordered me a Margarita and Shanice a Shirley Temple. Cecil just kept standing there like a damn fool. "Go," I said. "Go on back over there with your new family."

  "You gon' be home later?"

  "No, I will not be home later. It's my birthday. I'm celebrating it."

  "I wanted to drop something off for you."

  "I got a date."

  "You got a what?"

  "A date. Just like you on a date. I'ma be on one, too, tonight."

  "With who . . ." Shanice was about to ask until I kicked her under the table. "Oh, him, yeah, I forgot about him."

  "I just wanted to give you a little something, Viola. It ain't got to be tonight."

  "Then don't let it be tonight, Cecil. Look like you got enough to keep you busy. Now go. Go on."

  "All right," he says, and turns and walks away like his bunions hurt. Good enough for his old ass. Sometime I wish I had a giant vacuum cleaner so I could suck up all the stupid men in the world and put 'em in a big hole and bury 'em in hot mud and not let not a one of 'em out until they realize that the women they married-the ones that stuck by their sorry asses all them years-is the ones that truly loved 'em, and even though these new and improved models may give 'em a quick thrill, it won't last longer than the time it takes to get 'em off a few times. What do he think a young girl with a houseful a kids could want with his ancient behind? The idea that Cecil and the rest of 'em actually think these girls might like (and we don't even wanna use the word "love," but let's say "love") 'em, you know they must be "tripping"-as Dingus would say. All these old farts really got to offer 'em is some hard plastic and hot cash. But I didn't spend thirty-eight years of my life to fatten no frog up for no snake. And just watch: when he ready to come crawling back home, my back gon' be turned or I ain't gon' be nowhere around. They always a day late and a dollar short, but that ain't my fault, and it sure ain't gon' be my problem.

  "Granny, I don't see your bowling ball anywhere . . . ?"

  "Then look for it! How many different places could it be in this mansion?"

  "I gotta do everything around here, don't I, Granny?"

  "What you say, baby?"

  "I said: do I have to do everything around here?" Now she standing in the doorway, shrugging them little bony-pony shoulders, but she just messing with me. She doing good. Smiling. Laughing out loud. And I ain't smelled no liquor on her breath. As much as I wanted to get rid of all of it, I couldn't bring myself to do it. That stuff cost too much money, and, plus, every now and then I need a little som'n-som'n to pick me up. I marked the bottles and don't think she found out where I keep my stash, 'cause it seem like I'm the only one who been crossing out the lines and making new ones.

  I think she might be healing. I don't know. I hug her every day. Try to make her feel special, but she is special. And she fast. She might could be the next Flo Jo. But deep down, I don't really care how fast she is, as long as she ain't gotta run to get out of harm's way. And that's why she here with me. I want her to know what being safe feels like.

  Some nights she sleep in here with me and we read together. Her mama used to send me all her old romance novels, but I got rired of reading shit that don't never happen, so I started going to the Native Son bookstore, down on "D" Street, and that nice black man in there gives me a senior- citizen discount on paperbacks.

  In her own way, I think Shanice think she protecting me some kinda way. I like the fact that she care. It's a good feeling being around folks who care about you. I done also got her to stop pulling out her hair so much. I just told her it didn't make no sense hurting herself when other people done already done a good job of it, but don't think for a minute that they done got away with it. God don't work that way. I told her to let happiness be her payback. Let feeling good be her revenge.

  I throw a piece of peppermint candy at her and wink. "You ain't paying no rent around here, so, yeah, you might as well think of yourself as my young slave."

  "Granny!"

  "Did you say you talked to your mama?"

  "Yes I did."

  "You didn't tell her I kept you out of school today to go with me to get my car, did you?"

  "No way."

  "And what she talking about?"

  "She called to wish you happy birthday, but that's when you were taking Miss Loretta for a ride in your new car, and Mama said she was having some kind of female problem and had to stay in bed for a couple of days."

  "What kind of female problem?"

  "I don't know, Granny."

  "Dial the number and get her on the phone for me, would you, baby?"

  But no soon as I get the words outta my mouth, the phone rings. "Shanice, would you get that for your granny, please? Never mind. I'll get it myself." I grab the receiver and say, "Yep."

  "Happy birthday, Ma."

  "Charlotte?"

  "Yep."

  "Why, thank you. And happy birthday to you. Did you get my card?"

  "Yes I did. Yesterday. It was very nice. Thanks. Anyway, Mama, I been running around since early this morning and I been meaning to call you all day and just now getting around to it. You know your card is in the mail. You should be getting it by tomorrow or the day after at the latest."

&n
bsp; "No biggie. What you doing to celebrate?"

  "Nothing."

  "What you mean, nothing?"

  "Just what I said. I don't feel like celebrating."

  "You mean to tell me Al didn't do nothing for you for your birthday?"

  "Al is gone."

  "Gone where?"

  "I don't know. I filed for a divorce, but I don't wanna get all into that right now. It's your birthday. The kids wanna say something, hold on."

  A divorce? She kill me just dropping bombs on you like this, and you just supposed to accept it like it ain't no big deal.

  "Happy birthday, Granny!" I hear all three of 'em scream at the same time. "We got you something pretty!"

  "Why, thank you," I say.

  Then Charlotte gets back on the phone. "So what you doing to celebrate?"

  "Wait a damn minute, Charlotte. You just said you getting a divorce. . . ."

  "Mama, can we talk about this another day, please?"

  "Okay," I say-since she don't feel like talking about it, then to hell with it. "Well, then, have you talked to Paris lately?"

  "Not in the past few days, why?"

  "You know she sold her cookbook, don't you?"

  "No, I didn't know she was writing a cookbook."

  "Yes you did. She told all of us last Thanksgiving that she'd been putting it together for years. Anyway, she got a whole bunch of money for it, and she bought me a new car!"

  "What kinda car?"

  "A Mitsubishi Galant. Navy blue."

  "That's nice," she says like she don't really mean it.

  "Wait. I ain't finished."

  "You mean there's more?"

  "Oh, yeah, baby. I'm getting some new dentures-the best money can buy-and tomorrow I'm going to start looking at some brand-new condominiums!"

  "Paris is buying you a condo?"

  "Yes indeedy."

  "What else did you get for your birthday?"

  "Shanice made me a cup in her art class, and Dingus sent me a pair of gold hoop earrings."

  "Real gold?"

  "I don't think so, but what difference do it make? It's the thought that count. Anyway, my good friend Loretta-the one I might be going on a cruise with-she crocheted me a pretty gold, purple, and hunter-green throw to go over my old couch."