A Day Late and a Dollar Short

by Terry McMillan

  "How are your daughters doing?" I ask.

  "They fine, why?" Like I've asked her about something I shouldn't have.

  "I was just curious."

  "You didn't drive all the way out here just 'cause you curious," she says, and reaches for and lights a cigarette from her purse. She takes a deep drag, and when she looks at me, her eyes tell me that she knows exacdy why I'm here.

  "How old are they now?" "JaDonna's twenty-six and Yolanda's almost twenty-four. Why?"

  "Do they live here in L. A., still?"

  "Yeah. JaDonna stays here with me, and Yolanda's living somewhere around here in South Central. But I ain't seen her in going on two years."

  "Why not?"

  " 'Cause we don't speak."

  "Why not?"

  " 'Cause we ain't got nothing to talk about."

  "Is JaDonna here right now?"

  "Yeah, she back there in the bed."

  "Is she sick?"

  "I guess you could say that, but not really. She have her good days and she have her bad days."

  "What's wrong with her?"

  "She on medication."

  "Medication for what?"

  "Depression. They say she's manic-depressive. I don't know. Sometime I think she just lazy, but I can't throw her out on the street, you know. She's been through a lot and, plus, being my firstborn and all."

  "Yes, I know."

  "How you know? You on medication, too?"

  "No."

  "So, whatever it was you wanted to talk to me about, I think JaDonna can probably fill you in, 'cause she love to run her mouth and she'll give you a earful. She know everything that's gone on in this house, and, besides, the clock is ticking and I gotta get where I'm going."

  "Mama, who's that out there?" a voice from down the short hallway asks.

  "It's your daddy's fourth wife, Janelle!"

  "Third," I say.

  "Fourth," Arlene says, correcting me, and kind of chuckles. "I was second."

  I feel a hole forming in my throat. Fourth? I take tiny sips of air in order to breathe. That's lie number one.

  "Go on back there, it's the first door on the left. Ain't but two. You can't miss it. I won't be but twenty or thirty minutes, tops, but if you ain't here when I get back, I'll understand. Believe me."

  "Okay, then."

  I want to correct her English so badly I almost can't stand it. I can't believe George tolerated her speaking like this.

  "Tell me something, Janelle: is there a wife number five on the horizon?"

  "I don't know."

  "He's getting too old for all this. I'm surprised you lasted this long. Where's my keys?JaDonna, you seen my keys?"

  "Why are you so surprised, Arlene?"

  "No, Mama! Try the top of the 'frigerator!"

  Arlene puts her cigarette out and walks over to the tiny kitchen area, and, sure enough, her keys are up there. "Because he don't know how to treat a woman. First he spoil you to death by taking care of you, then he gets you to love his last year's drawers, and you trust him, grow to depend on him for everything, and then you find out he been cheating on you the whole time. Didn't you know that?"

  "I'm finding out the hard way."

  "It took me sixteen years to see the light, but it look like you and La Verne done seen it, too."

  "La Verne?"

  "Yeah, she was number three. She shot his ass, but I guess that didn't stop him."

  "Shot him? George said that wound was from a robbery gone bad."

  "That's true, in a manner of speaking."

  "Do you know where she is?"

  "I heard she took her daughters and moved back to Dallas, but I don't know for sure. Ask George."

  "I can't."

  "Look, it don't make me no difference one way or another. I got me somebody. And he's decent. Anyway, I done said more than I planned to. I gots to go. After you finish talking to JaDonna, if it's anything else you wanna talk about, fine, maybe I'll see you when I get back. Otherwise, slam the door hard behind you till you hear it click."

  And she was gone.

  I stand here for a minute, not quite sure what to do now. I really am afraid to go back into JaDonna's room, and find myself taking baby steps in that direction. When I turn into her doorway, a woman who looks like she's in her forties is lying on her side eating Cheez Doodles and watching TV. She must weigh at least three hundred pounds. She couldn't possibly be one of the girls in the pictures, but of course I know she is.

  "Hey, Janelle. What lies Mama done told you about us?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "She lies big-time."

  I'm still standing in the doorway. There's nowhere to sit, really. This room is small. Stuffy. The one window in here is partially covered with a black towel, apparendy to keep the light from shining on the TV screen. "Would you mind if I sit here on the floor?"

  "Knock yourself out. What brings you all the way over here to the Black Beverly Hills?"

  "Well. . ."

  "Wait, let me guess. Mr. Fuck Fuck Fuck done fucked your little girl, too. Now, tell me I'm wrong?"

  I cannot believe my ears. I didn't expect anything close to this to come out of this young woman's mouth. But all I can say is, "You're not wrong."

  She claps her hands together hard. "He just won't quit, will he?"

  "So-you're saying that he did this to you and your sister, too?"

  "Oh, hell, yeah."

  "When?"

  "When we was kids and when we was teenagers."

  "Why didn't your mother stop him?"

  She cuts her eyes at me like a knife. "Stop him how?"

  "Didn't you tell her?"

  "How long did it take your daughter to tell you?"

  "Actually, she didn't. I found out the hard way."

  "See there. He blackmails you, making it so hard for you to say anything that when you finally just get tired and say 'fuck it' and drum up enough nerve to tell, you realize you got a mama who's so goddamn stupid and so in love with the motherfucker that she swear up and down you making the shit up just 'cause she don't wanna believe it, even when you finally turn fourteen and get pregnant by your goddamn stepfather and you say, 'Now do you believe me?' and she just accuse you of being a little ho' and make you get a abortion and all you know is this ain't the way you fantasized losing your virginity and you never dreamed in a million years that the first time in your life you'd get pregnant it would be by your fucking stepfather, and since he ruined everything that was meant to be precious, after that you get pregnant again but this time you don't know and you don't care who the daddy is 'cause you been giving it to anybody who want some and that's only because you said, 'Fuck it, fuck everything,' and the next thing you know you ain't got nothing in you that wanna get up and do shit so you just let your mama take care of you and your baby since it's her fucking fault you got like this and you just kick it and take it easy and watch TV and eat as much as you want to and let the days pass by and wait till things get better but you know that that ain't never gon' happen, so here I am. Chillin'."

  I don't say a solitary word.

  "Say something."

  "I don't know what to say."

  "I know. This some of that Sally Jesse shit, ain't it?"

  "George isn't your father?"

  "Oh, hell, no. You didn't know that?"

  "No, I didn't." For a few seconds, I'm at a total loss for words here. "How old were you then?"

  She closes her eyes and opens them real fast. "Five or six, I guess, 'cause she married Mr. Fuck Fuck Fuck when I was seven. He used to live downstairs in our building. He was married to wife number one, and then Mama took him from that woman."

  "Really."

  "She said her pussy was that good."

  I grit my teeth at her bluntness.

  "But turns out it wasn't as good as mine and 'Londa's."

  "So-you mean your mother knew George was doing this to you guys all along and didn't do anything about it?"

  "She didn't w
ant to believe us. She believed him."

  "You mean nobody reported it?"

  "Report it to who? If your own mama don't believe you, who else gon' fucking believe you?"

  "Didn't you tell somebody else? Relatives?"

  "She told 'em 'Londa wasn't right in the head. Which wasn't no lie at the time."

  "But what about you?"

  "I gave up a long time ago. I didn't get out the bed for six months, till they put me on this medication. But, hey, ain't nothing wrong with 'Londa's head except she just hates Mama big-time, and that hate done turned in on her."

  "And you don't?"

  "I feel sorry for her, really."

  "Why?"

  "For being so pitiful and stupid. I think something is wrong with her, to tell you the truth. The man she got now-Charlie-Z is his name-she took him from a woman who supposed to have been her friend. They lived right across the street. They been knowing each other since high school. But Mama say she ain't done nothing wrong. She said she can't help it if Sheila's man got tired of her. But Mama like taking things that belong to somebody else. It took me a long time to see that this how she got all her men. It's like a game she play to see if she can win. But what do she really win? These ain't real men. They pretend to be good, but inside they smelly rotten. I don't know why she can't see it. She the main reason I don't care if I never love nobody, 'cause, if love can do to me what it's done to her, I don't want none."

  "What about Yolanda?"

  "What about her?" "Where is she? And how is she?"

  "She's around. She do a litde crack. Let me stop lying. She do a lotta crack. But I think she might be in rehab now. She in and out. She keep trying to get it together, but it's hard for her. She ain't spoke to Mama in going on four years."

  "Why not?"

  " 'Cause she said she ain't gon' never say another word to her until she apologize for not admitting that she knew George did what he did to us."

  "Why won't she do that?"

  " 'Cause she still swear up and down he didn't."

  "But you all know that she knew."

  "Oh, hell, yeah. She knew."

  "Don't you hate him?"

  "More than burnt toast."

  I nod my head up and down in agreement.

  "How old is your daughter now?" she asks.

  "Almost thirteen."

  "She's gon' be fucked up, I can tell you that right now. Ain't no getting around it."

  "Oh, I wouldn't be so sure about that. But I'll tell you something, JaDonna," I say, rising to my feet, "I'm going to do everything I can to make sure she doesn't get fucked up, and I'm going to start by stopping George from doing this to someone else."

  "You do that," she says, picking up the remote and flicking the channels.

  "Can I ask you something else?"

  "Don't stop now."

  "When you got older, did you ever confront him?"

  "No."

  "Why not?"

  " 'Cause he's a good pretender, too."

  "Why didn't you or your sister just report him?"

  "To who?"

  "The police." "He was the police!"

  "I know that, but that doesn't mean he couldn't go to jail."

  "You really believe that shit?"

  "Oh, you just watch and see," I say.

  She looks at me like she believes me. "Mama said me and my sister woulda ended up in foster care if somebody hadda believed us. And we wanted to stay together."

  "Look, do me a favor, JaDonna. Tell your mother I said thanks for her time, and you try to take good care of yourself."

  "I will," she says. "Mama wasn't even going to no Ross store."

  "No?" I say as convincingly as I can.

  "Hell, 110. She ain't got nothing on hold nowhere. She beelined it outta here 'cause she was scared a what you really came here for. I mean, it ain't like you drop by to kick it with us all the time, now, do you?"

  "No I don't."

  "Look, before you go, would you mind grabbing me a beer out the 'frig- erator and then make sure you pull that front door tight, or else it won't lock, and Lord knows I do not feel like getting up to do it."

  "No problem," I say, and head out toward the kitchen to get her beer. Before I get back, I wipe the smirk off my face. It was no accident that Arlene sent us those Christmas cards. And Arlene knew JaDonna would tell me the truth. Because she couldn't. She's probably been waiting a long time for her daughter to tell her story to the right person. For a moment, I'm tempted to hang around just to wait for her. To let her know that I appreciate what she's done. That I understand how hard it's been for her all these years. But I know she won't come back until my car is gone.

  When I get back to the room, JaDonna has actually sat up. She has on a light-blue sweatsuit. I feel so sorry for her. She looks like a giant baby. And that's when it occurs to me that I haven't seen any sign of her child. "Where's your daughter?" I ask.

  "In foster care," she says. "Where else?"

  I turn to leave, and when I get outside the front door, I pull it so tight that I actually scrape the knuckles on my hand against the doorframe. I look up and down the street. A new set of children are racing. If Jimmy were here, he'd walk right over and ask if they'd like to try running on a real track. On a team. He would tell them that they look fast enough to win medals. Even if they weren't he'd make them believe they could. I wish he were here to help me believe that all of this is going to work out.

  At eight-thirty on Monday morning, I pick up the phone and dial the number of the Child Protective Service Agency and tell them that I'd like to report a case of sexual abuse. For the next hour or so I answer all of their questions and explain what has happened. They tell me how they'll cross- reference the information I gave them and file a report with the police. They ask if George is still in the house, and I tell them no. They ask if my daughter is, and I tell them she's in Las Vegas with her grandmother. They're pleased to hear this. I tell them I don't know where George is living but I know where he works. They aren't moved when I say he's a police officer. They will arrest him at his job. He'll be charged and held, pending further investigation. They say he'll probably post bail and be released until enough evidence has been gathered to build a case against him. And the only way to do this is if Shanice agrees to undergo a physical exam and consents to being interviewed on videotape by a child advocate. I know she won't do this. The social worker says a lot of kids don't want to go through this, for obvious reasons. I take a series of deep breaths before blurting out the words, "I want him stopped," and then I sit there for the next hour or so trying to figure out the best way to finally tell my family the truth.

  Chapter 23

  Refills

  "Hello, this is Paris Price calling to see if my prescription is ready."

  "Is that a new prescription or a refill?"

  "It's a refill. I called it in yesterday," I say as I swivel back and forth on my kitchen stool.

  "Can you hold a second while I check?"

  "Yes, I can." I look over at the clock. It's almost three-thirty. Here I go again. Waiting. He's late again. Something told me I should never have started to work with this Randall. I mean, I tried to show the brother some respect, gave him the benefit of the doubt, because I'm not one of those people who believe that black folks are poor at handling our business-hell, I can use myself as a good example-but it's guys like this who give the rest of us a bad name. He has called and canceled the last three appointments and all he had to say was it was an emergency and he was sorry, could he reschedule. Reschedule? My backyard looks like a battlefield. And this of course is after I've already paid him a third of his megafee because he had me drooling over the plans, fantasizing about how lush and beautiful it was going to be when he finished. Hah!

  He was supposed to be here between one-thirty and two. This time, I didn't even get a phone call. I guess when he met me he saw "fool" written all across my forehead. He's probably partying his ass off with my money. But he will finish my
yard. He will fill and refill those damn trenches with all that expensive dirt and shit he insisted I buy. If he doesn't, I'll take him to court so fast it'll make his head swim.

  "I'm sorry, but the doctor hasn't called to okay your prescription yet."

  "What? Why not?"

  "I don't know why. You should call your doctor. Sometimes they forget."

  I hang up. "It's my dentist!" I say into the phone as I speed-dial his number. "Hello, Sylvia, this is Paris Price. I was hoping to get a refill on my prescription, but the pharmacist said that Dr. Bronstein hasn't called it in. Is there a problem?"

  "Hold on and let me put Doctor on."

  More waiting. I'm waiting for Dingus to walk through that door, because last night I decided to ask him if this girl is pregnant by him or not. I'm tired of walking around here like everything is just hunky-dory. I'm also waiting for a client to fax me directions to her home, which is at least an hour's drive from here, all the way in Hillsborough, somewhere up in the hills, off a windy road. She's the CEO of one of the top advertising agencies in San Francisco. And throwing quite the shindig for Lord only knows who. What I am sure of is, she's willing to spend the hundred thousand plus that I quoted her. I just need to see the place in person.

  "Paris, this is Dr. Bronstein. I didn't refill your prescription because I'm wondering why you're still experiencing discomfort with your gums after all this time. If you are, then you need to come in and see me right away and let me take a look to see what's going on."

  Without even thinking, I hear myself lie: "It's not my gums, Dr. Bronstein, I think it's my tooth, the one in the bridge that we talked about before."

  "Oh, yes. It's starting to give you trouble, huh? Is there any way you could come in to see me today?"

  "I can tomorrow, but not today."