A Day Late and a Dollar Short

by Terry McMillan

  "Right after you all left back in March." Now she's reaching into her purse, pulling out what looks like a bunch of white envelopes. I forgot about Mama's mail. What do we do about her mail? Do we just open it and read it? And what if it's personal? What if it's something we shouldn't know? I never thought about any of this stuff before.

  When Miss Loretta presses the envelopes to her chest, something tells me they're not bills or anything close to it. "Your mother wrote each of you a letter," she says, trying not to cry, but neither she, nor I, nor Janelle can help it.

  "Mama wrote us all letters?"

  "Yes, she did. And they're right here."

  "May I have mine?" Janelle says, holding out her hand.

  "No."

  "Why not?"

  "Because that's not how Vy wants it done." "What does Mama want done?" I ask.

  "She asked me to tell you that she doesn't want any of you to read them until the first Thanksgiving after she passes, and only if all four of you can manage to spend it together. At that time, she wants each of you to read the letter out loud and in front of each other, but you can't read your own." "What?" Janelle says, obviously confused about this. "Paris, she wants you to read Charlotte's." "But why?"

  "I'm not sure. And she wants Charlotte to read yours."

  "So that means I have to read Lewis's and vice versa. But I wonder why?"

  I sink back against the couch and drop my head. What could she say to us in a letter that she couldn't say or hasn't already said to us before? "Do you know when she wrote them, Miss Loretta?"

  "No I don't. But I already gave your father his."

  "She wrote one to him, too?" Janelle says.

  "Yes, she did."

  "Does he have to wait until Thanksgiving?"

  "Yes. And Vy hoped he'd spend this one with you all."

  "What if we snuck and read them?" Janelle asks.

  "Are you fucking crazy?" I say. "Oh, I'm sorry, Miss Loretta. I mean, are you crazy? Is that how you think we should honor Mama's wishes, by disrespecting them?"

  "I'm sorry. I just asked. November's a long way off."

  "Who should keep the letters?" I ask.

  "You, because, and I'm quoting her, 'as the oldest, you're going to have to be the mama now.' Vy also suggested-or, I should say, insisted-that you children make every effort to spend at least one holiday together each year, because she was really worried that you all are missing out on being a family."

  "But we are a family. We just live in different cities," Janelle says.

  "You know, Vy told me that when she was a youngster they had family reunions every year, and since most folks didn't move away from home like they do now, everybody usually came. She said her cousins were just like sisters and brothers. That's how close they were. But nowadays, she said, too many families are like strangers. And I agree. I have two sisters I haven't seen in going on eighteen years. Vy just doesn't want you all to wait until you're all old and your kids are grown before they get to know each other. Do it now, while they're young. And she wants you all to try to spend some time doing things together, too."

  "But we try to, Miss Loretta, it's just so hard with everybody's schedules," I say.

  "Try harder," she says. "Vy said kinfolk should know kinfolk. Friends come and go, but family is forever. She said you don't have to like your kinfolk, but accept them-faults and all-because they're your flesh and blood."

  "That's true," I say.

  "Your mother was smart and wise, you know. I wrote down so many things she said, because they were just so helpful to me."

  "She's right," Janelle says. "Shanice doesn't know Tiffany or Monique at all, and they're about the same age. They should have something to talk about, but they don't."

  "I know," I say, agreeing. I realize Dingus doesn't really know my brother's son-or his aunts and uncles, for that matter. I never actually thought about this except as a passing thought. It's one of those things you hope to do one day, right up there with going to church every Sunday, reading the paper every day, or a book a week, or exercise, and thank-you notes.

  "I'm not through," Miss Loretta says. "Paris, Vy wanted this first Thanksgiving to be at your house, since you like to cook, and that, every year thereafter, you children vote to see whose home you'll spend it at next."

  "Well, we can just skip Lewis," Janelle says.

  "Why?" Miss Loretta asks.

  "It's a long story," I say. "A very long story."

  "I'm not doing anything," she says.

  "No, Miss Loretta. We don't want to bore you with it. But tell me something. Are you still going to go on the cruise?"

  "Oh, no. I couldn't go now. There's no way I could step foot on that cruise ship without Vy."

  "That's sweet," Janelle says.

  "So does that mean you're coming to the funeral?"

  "Absolutely. Vy begged me not to get sentimental. But I never listened to her when she tried to boss me around, I'm certainly not going to start now. If there's anything I can help you girls do, please yell right out that window."

  "We will," I say, as we both give her a hug. "And thanks for being Mama's friend all these years."

  Janelle is nodding when I blurt out: "Miss Loretta, did Mama ever learn to play bridge?"

  "Goodness, no! Vy was terrible at it. Just terrible," she says, and is laughing as she walks out the front door.

  Janelle and I are sitting in the kitchen, drinking coffee and sifting through Mama's "junk drawer," which is full of every possible receipt for every possible thing she has ever bought. But when I come across a layaway slip for none other than Thomasville furniture, I pull this out from the stack. "Janelle! Look at this! Mama has a five-thousand-dollar dining-room set in layaway!"

  "You have got to be kidding!" She takes the slip from my hand, and just as she does, the phone rings.

  It's a collect call. And I know whom from. "Yes, I will," I say. "Hi, Lewis."

  "Hi, Paris. How's everybody doing?"

  "We're hanging in here, I guess. Can you come?"

  "Yeah, they're letting me out, but my lawyer's gotta escort me. It's for security reasons. But at least I get to be there with y'all. That's how I see it, anyway."

  "He can come," I whisper to Janelle.

  "Good! We need you here, Lewis!" she yells.

  "All right, then. I'ma hang up. That's all I wanted to tell you."

  "You have to hang up so soon?"

  "Yeah. We just came from court. But don't worry. I'll be there."

  "We love you, Lewis."

  "Yeah, me, too," he says. He's spent, too. All of us have been running on fumes these past few days. But now I need to perk back up. I get two pills out of my purse and down them with my coffee.

  "What's that you're taking?" Janelle asks.

  "Just something for tension headaches."

  "Let me have one," she says.

  "I can't. They're prescription."

  "So? If they work for you they should work for me."

  "Okay. But only take one, because they're strong." "Then why are you taking two?"

  "Because I need two. Now shut up," I say, and dial the store number. "Yes, hello, my name is Paris Price and I'm calling on behalf of Viola Price, she's my mother, and I understand she has a dining-room set on layaway."

  "Yes, I waited on Viola. She practically lived in our store. She's such a character! We just adore her. Is someone coming to pick her set up, or is she ready to arrange for delivery?"

  "I wish I could say yes to one of those, but my mother just passed away, and my sister and I are going through her things and we found the receipt, and we're not sure what to do about it."

  "Oh my. I'm terribly sorry to hear this. The other salespeople are going to be just crushed when I tell them. She even brought us some sweet-potato pie once because we'd never tasted it. What happened?" "She had an asthma attack."

  "I'm so sorry. Please let us know where her service is being held so we can send flowers-or if she had a favorite charity,
or if there's anything else your family needs, do let us know. She was our friend." "Thank you."

  "And as far as the furniture is concerned, whatever you want us to do, we'll do. We can refund the money. It wouldn't be a problem." "I hadn't thought that far ahead yet."

  "Well, I'm Nolene. I can get a refund check out to you in three or four days if you like."

  "That would be fine. And thank you. Thank you very much." I hang up the phone and look at Janelle. "They're giving Mama her money back."

  "But Mama's not here, Paris, and it was your money." "Whatever. We can use it to help pay for her . . ." and the phone rings again.

  "I'll get it," Janelle says. "Hello. Oh, hi, Charlotte. Yeah. Paris and I are here. Yes, Lewis will be there. Yes. Everything's going fine. What about there? Well, we just looked in Mama's junk drawer and found out she had a cherrywood dining-room set on layaway at Thomasville and had put two thousand dollars on it and owes a little more than three. . . . What? They're refunding the money. What? Wait. Hold on a minute." Janelle covers the mouthpiece with her hand. "Charlotte says she wants the dining-room set."

  "What?"

  "You heard me."

  "She can't have it."

  "Paris said you can't have it. Hold on a minute." She covers the phone again. "She wants to talk to you."

  I take the phone. "Charlotte, what would make you think you should get this dining-room set?"

  " 'Cause it was Mama's, that's why."

  "It isn't Mama's. It's not even paid for."

  "She was paying for it."

  "But it's not paid for, Charlotte. It's still at the store. It's not even in the house."

  "Me and Mama had the same taste, and I don't see why I can't have something to remind me of her. If I wanna finish paying for it, that's my business, not yours!"

  "Look, I'm the one who gave her the two thousand dollars to put it in layaway, and I'm getting the money back to help pay for the funeral."

  "You just always have to be in control of every-fucking-thing, don't you, Paris? You make me sick, you know that! You're so fucking manipulative, you think everybody's too dumb to see it, but I see right through you! Bitch!"

  And here we go again. Click. "She never ceases to amaze me."

  "But it's not right, Paris. She shouldn't feel entided to anything. None of us should. How could she think that furniture belonged to Mama when it's on layaway with your money? And, besides, there's a whole lot of things in here she could have. If she was here to see it."

  "Yeah, but, as usual, she's not," I say, and leave it at that.

  I ask Janelle go into Manias big closet first, and then I go in. After pulling them from every shelf and box we open, we sit on the floor, surrounded by purses. Most of them are black and dark-brown leather; but I see one navy, burgundy, and cream Dooney & Bourke; a cherry-red shoulder-strap bag; and ail occasional small yellow, fuchsia, or mint-green silk or linen handbag emerges, and we know these were for Easter or Mothers Day. What are we going to do for Mother's Day? Do not think about this right now, I say to myself, as 1 open a green Coach bag I know Charlotte sent Mama last year, although it looks like she never carried it. It's empty, as are the next six or seven we go through. Janelle is steadily zipping and unzipping, snapping and unsnapping them. She's not exactly rising to the occasion, and I didn't really expect her to. I just wanted her here for warmth.

  I pick up a dilapidated, ugly brown purse with those puzzle pieces of leather shaped like cities on a map sewn together with zigzag stitching, and I get a smile on my face, because I've been hounding Mama since the late eighties to get rid of this sucker, but she wouldn't do it. I slide my hands inside, and when I feel something, Janelle sees it all over my face.

  "What is it?"

  "I don't know! Damn. Give me a minute," I say, slowly easing out what feels like a bunch of papers or envelopes. When I take my hand out, that's exactly what they are. I pull the rubber bands off and start sorting through them one by one.

  "What are they?" Janelle asks again.

  "Wait a minute! Here's Mania's birth certificate. Look at her litde footprints!"

  She reaches out to take it and both of us stare at it and freeze, and then we try our damnedest to sit up straight and not fall apart in this closet. I wipe my eyes. Janelle wipes hers. She kisses the birth certificate, then hands it to me, and I inhale it, and press it against my heart. I take a few deep breaths and then continue. "These are all of our birth certificates. Wait a minute, what are these? Insurance policies. Two of them."

  "Why would she have two?"

  "I don't know," I say, removing more rubber bands. "Whoa, you won't believe this."

  "What?"

  "Mama's got two life-insurance policies. Daddy's the beneficiary on one, and all of us are on the other."

  "What?"

  "Would you stop saying that? Damn! I don't believe this woman. Daddy's is for twenty thousand and the other is for fifty."

  "Thousand?"

  "What do you think, Janelle? Mama's had the one for us for . . . almost fourteen years."

  "You mean she's been paying these big premiums all this time? I bet Daddy doesn't know about ours."

  "Looks like she's been paying about sixty or seventy dollars a month. Mama. You are too much," I say, folding the policies back. "I don't want my part, I can tell you that much right now. I don't need it."

  "Well, I do," she says. "And you know Lewis does. I don't know about Miss Lottery Winner, but what are these?" she asks, holding up another bunch of dingy white envelopes that I have to scrunch to read what's written on them because it's in pencil and obviously a long time ago. "This one says 'Paris's first tooth.' And this one 'Lewis's first tooth.' 'Charlotte's . . .' 'Janelle's . . .' And Lewis's braid from his first haircut!"

  "Can we open them?" Janelle asks.

  "No! We still have quite a few purses to go. So keep looking."

  And she does.

  "Check this out!" Janelle screams.

  "What what what?" I ask, leaning way over and dropping Mama's black straw clutch-which feels empty anyway-into my lap.

  "All of our report cards! Since kindergarten, Paris. Since kindergarten," she groans, and we're crying again, but for some reason these tears feel good. Very good. And we keep looking. When I pick up a manila envelope, it slips from my grip and out comes a slew of mosdy black-and-white baby pictures of Charlotte, and then when she's in school, and they're in color up until she graduated. She was always the prettiest. No doubt about it. An d s o smart. She could've done anything she wanted to with her life. I don't know why she hates working at the post office so much. What she does is important.

  There are four more envelopes like this one, and I assume they're more about us kids. I peek inside each one until I see pictures of Mama. I shake them out onto the carpet, and there she is in all her facets. One shot is a black-and-white photo with a group of other black girls; Mama's standing out front, leaning on a baseball bat with both hands, her head is cocked to the side. Her hair is parted down the middle with two thick braids sticking out on the sides. She must be fourteen, fifteen, maybe.

  "She looks like you, Paris."

  "She looks like Charlotte," I say.

  "Look! Here's Mama and Daddy when they got married!"

  The two of us just stare at them. They look like they're really in love. Mama's lips are red. Her hair is auburn, pulled back in a French twist. She's wearing something that's navy-and-white polka dots. Even Daddy looks sexier than I ever imagined, with a genuine grin on his face. As he looks down at Mama with his arm draped softly over her shoulder, I can almost see why she loved him. I've never seen them look this soft together. Wow. There are no more pictures of them together. Just of her pregnant, and one of her bowling. That one looks recent. Like it was taken on her birthday. It was, because here's her and Shanice eating cake. "Keep looking," I say to Janelle.

  And she does. But we don't find anything else. Nothing. We are somewhat disappointed, but mosdy relieved at what we have f
ound: our history, our lives together as a family; and after looking at our mother and father, I think we both realize where we came from and who we are.

  "Let's get out of here and get some air," Janelle says.

  When I try to get up, my legs are asleep and starting to feel like electricity is shooting through them. I kick and shake them until I'm able to stand. As I'm about to turn off the light, Mama's clothes are just hanging there. I pull out a dress. It's a size fourteen and still has the price tag on it: $59-99 from Marshall's, marked down again to $25.00. She always loved a bargain, bu t w hen was the last time Mama wore a fourteen? I smile as I walk out into the bedroom and feel the fresh evening air coming through her window. I sit down on the bed. I'm crying again. I see Dingus standing in the doorway.

  "Can I do anything, Ma?"

  I just shake my head.

  "You sure?"

  I nod, and then it occurs to me that I'm not the only one feeling her loss. Not by a long shot. "How about you, Dingus? How're you holding up?"

  "I'm all right," he says. "I just can't believe I'm in Granny's house and she's not here. I wanted her to watch me play college ball. She wanted to watch me. I really wanted her to watch me." He comes over and sits next to me, puts his head next to mine, and I hug him until I hear Daddy's voice in the living room.

  I was right: Daddy has aged. His gray roots are inching in, and his eyes are red and glassy, with deep circles underneath. He looks like he's hurting everywhere, like he's lost. We don't say anything. Not even Janelle and Shanice when they come from the back bedroom. We just take each other's hands and squeeze until we lose our grip.

  Chapter 32

  Sock It to Me Cake

  They almost had to carry me outta that church. I ain't never liked going to funerals, 'cause I guess I take loss too personal. I do everything in my power to avoid 'em, but this time I couldn't. I stared at that big mahogany casket for the longest time, trying to make myself not believe that my mama was inside it. But it didn't work. And all them gigantic floral arrangements started closing in on me and made me nauseous. For a while I just sat there till I felt my body jerking and I couldn't stop it and I guess I musta slid off that bench and was headed up there to save Mama from eternity when somebody grabbed me and sat me back down. 1 screamed and hollered so long that my head went cold, until it felt like I was the only one sitting in the front row during the whole eulogy.