Who Asked You?

by Terry McMillan

  “Where you see him at?” the little one, Ricky, asked.

  This is the most I think I’ve ever heard him say at one time. “I saw him today. He’s at the mall.”

  “I don’t believe you,” Luther said, matter-of-factly.

  “I wouldn’t lie to you boys. Don’t you believe in Santa Claus?” Right after I asked, I wished I hadn’t. I didn’t want them to say no. I wanted them to believe in something.

  “Yeah, but the ones at the mall is not real,” Luther said.

  That little one just shook his head in agreement. He needs to be tested. “Look, how long has your mama been at the store?”

  They both hunched their shoulders.

  Just then I heard the door open and in she walked with a cigarette hanging out of her mouth. Not a single bag. A thin, milky film had formed a circle around her mouth. She looked just like Betty Jean thirty years ago, except for those disgusting dreadlocks.

  “What’re you doing here?” she asked.

  I rolled my eyes at her. “I just stopped by to bring some gifts for the boys.”

  “Don’t you know how to call first?”

  “Who do you think you’re talking to?”

  “No disrespect intended. Sorry, Aunt Arlene. I just got a lot of things on my mind.”

  “Don’t we all,” I said, but I was not about to let her off the hook. “Why would you leave these kids in here for one minute by themselves, Trinetta?”

  “I just ran downstairs for a minute. Look. Thanks for the gifts and for stopping by but I need to fix them something to eat.”

  “And what might that be?”

  “That might not concern you, Aunt Arlene, but thank you so much for asking.” And she walked over to the door, opened it, and put all of her weight on one flip-flopped foot.

  As I waved to the kids, she yelled out behind me. “Tell Omar I said hey. He is still living at home, right?”

  I nodded yes.

  She nodded too. “He lost any weight?”

  “As a matter of fact he has. But don’t let it concern you. Merry Christmas.”

  “Jingle bell rock to you too.”

  Trinetta has not spoken to me since. To this day I don’t know if CPS ever showed up or not. Probably not. They get too many of these types of calls. Especially from neighborhoods like this. But this is the reason so many of these kids end up on the six o’clock news.

  Why people take drugs baffles me to no end. Especially when they can’t afford them. And why can’t they do them before they have children? If you’re that dissatisfied with the quality of your life, change it! I’m no saint. I experimented with a number of popular drugs in college. And I enjoyed them. Enough to understand why some people get addicted. If I hadn’t had specific life goals, I probably could’ve taken the low road. But I didn’t like feeling that good. I enjoyed being depressed, disappointed, and miserable when it was necessary, because it built character and it was how I evolved and came to be the woman I am now.

  Betty Jean has come to Trinetta’s rescue too many times to count. Some people think they’re helping their kids when they do so much for them, but it’s not true. I’m sick of hearing about that girl’s trials and tribulations. She could’ve been cleaning teeth all these years but has yet to graduate. And she was such a smart child. But then again, Betty Jean’s parenting skills cannot be found in any how-to book.

  Deep down inside, I think the reason Betty Jean doesn’t confide in me is because she has never really forgiven me for trimming her hair when she was little. Was it my fault she didn’t care for the pixie? She also blames me for introducing her to Lee David, knowing he was almost old enough to be her uncle. But I didn’t twist her arm. I could say a lot of things about her that she has no idea I have stored in my memory bank, but I don’t like throwing things in her face just for spite. She has done and continues to do a lot of stupid things, and had she gone to college, where you can learn to think critically, it might have helped her make more intelligent decisions.

  For instance, Venetia told me she borrowed against her little raggedy house to get help for Trinetta, because the bank called Venetia for a reference. Look how well that’s going. Then she went and bought the girl a car and is paying the insurance; she uses Venetia’s address to get lower premiums. And I know for a fact she has paid Trinetta’s rent, but she lives in a Section 8 apartment, so how high could her rent possibly be? Ninety-six dollars, that’s how much. And how many men have those boys called Daddy? Trinetta’s had enough hoodlums living with her, you would think it might occur to her to get one that could help her with those kids or the rent. But apparently that has never crossed her mind. Which is the main reason why it just gets on my nerves to see how much money Betty Jean has spent on her and her kids. She has bought enough school clothes for an orphanage and she practically lives at Costco. Not to mention being Mrs. Claus year after year.

  I try not to compare. Even though Omar was born with a few health issues that I’ve tried helping him learn to cope with as well as overcome, he’s still the best thing that’s ever happened to me, and I don’t know what I’d do without him. Of course college is not for everybody and he’s had a hard time figuring out what interests him. He’s still young, and I’m patient and confident that one day soon he’s going to walk through the right door.

  I knock four times on Omar’s door. I don’t know why that boy won’t get up even after his alarm goes off. “Get up, Omar, or you’re going to be late for work!”

  “I’m up,” he groans.

  I don’t believe him. “I should hear water running, and I don’t.”

  “I think I’m getting a sore throat, Mom.”

  “Open the door, Omar.”

  “It’s not locked.”

  He’s sitting on the side of the bed in striped pajamas I got him a few weeks ago. They were tight then, but they look a little loose now. I walk over and feel his forehead. It’s warm. The last time he had a sore throat it turned out to be strep. “You think you need to stay home today?”

  “I think I’ll be all right once I take a hot shower.”

  “Are you sure? I can call your job if you really aren’t up to it, Omar. We’ve got Theraflu in the kitchen and I can make some chicken noodle soup if you want me to.”

  He stands up. “I’m fine, Mom. I think it was just a tickle. Please don’t go calling my job.”

  “You want me to take your temperature? Just to be on the safe side?”

  He heads toward his bathroom.

  “Omar, have you lost a few pounds?”

  He yells through the bathroom door. “Six to be exact. Glad you noticed.”

  His weight isn’t an issue for me. He’s still handsome. He’s the spitting image of his trifling daddy, who chose not to be in his life because he claimed I tricked him by getting pregnant so he would leave his wife, which was pretty much true. I needed leverage. The last I heard, they’re still together. Omar has never met him, because I told him I didn’t know where his father was. I thought that was best, and we’ve done just fine without him in our lives. It’s for this reason that I’ve probably gone a little overboard parenting him. I know my sisters think I baby him, but I don’t really care what they think. He’s my only child, and as his mother and father I have done and continue to do all that I can do to help him feel more confident. I’ve told him year after year that everybody wasn’t meant to be lean and lanky. “But I’m tired of being fat,” he said when we flew to Vegas for his twenty-first birthday. He needed a buckle extension but I reminded him that even pregnant women need them, too. That may not have been the most tactful analogy, but I couldn’t take it back. Omar’s been on every diet under the sun and he just gets so frustrated, it breaks my heart, which is why he pleaded with me to stop baking.

  I walk down the hall to my bedroom and close the windows because the forecast is calling for rain, which is a rarit
y in Los Angeles. Groups of gray clouds are clustering above us. I head downstairs to look for the thermometer and make him some hot oatmeal. Before I get a chance to put it in the microwave he’s in the kitchen, dressed.

  “Mom. I’m fine. Oh, and after work I’m meeting some of my buddies for happy hour.” He gives me a quick kiss on my forehead and heads for the garage. “Don’t make dinner for me tonight, either, Mom. And have a great day.”

  Happy hour? Since when did he start going to happy hour? I don’t feel like calling him because I know sometimes I get on his nerves. But something is different about him. The past few months he’s changed. I don’t know what it is, but I’m going to find out. I put my empty coffee cup in the dishwasher, feed the fish, and water the last two living plants. I go stand in front of Omar’s door and turn the handle. It doesn’t open! Since when did he start locking it? I reach above the doorframe and get the metal key he obviously doesn’t know I know is there, and I open the door and just stand there for a minute. His bed is made. That’s from years of going to camp and being a Cub Scout. I look around. He’s got a poster of Beyoncé on one wall and Janet Jackson on another and the rest are rappers. His computer is off and I know it’s password-protected, because I learned that over a year ago. You just want to make sure your child isn’t doing some freaky stuff or anything illegal.

  Wait a minute now. His metal trash can is full of paper. I sit down at his desk and just pick up a handful to see what he printed. Every single page is about the benefits of getting a Lap Band to lose weight. Is he crazy? I read some of the information but find it disgusting, and even though I’m tempted to ball up the paper, I stop myself, so he won’t know I’ve been in his room.

  I walk into my bedroom and look out the window. No rain yet. Western Los Angeles is down below. But I can’t see it. There are 747s flying overhead, about to land at LAX. Living on a hill has its advantages and disadvantages. When there’s no smog, you can see for miles. Or when the Santa Ana winds come in late autumn or early winter. I wish Betty Jean would consider moving just a little closer in this direction. I could get her a good deal on a foreclosed property, but I haven’t bothered to mention this. It might be better to wait until Lee David passes, which unfortunately shouldn’t be that much longer. Poor fella.

  I put on one of my favorite cocoa-brown linen suits because I have four open houses starting later this morning. Right after I stop by Betty Jean’s I’ll head over to my office and pick up all the docs. I take a ribeye out of the freezer for Omar later. He loves ribeyes. He’s always hungry when he gets home, no matter what he says.

  When I back out of my driveway, I see rush-hour traffic, which I’ve already factored in. As I inch my way to the bottom of the hill, I’m wondering how long those kids are going to be staying at Betty Jean’s this time around and I pray she’s not thinking about keeping them. After all, Trinetta’s not dead. And this is why foster care was created. I don’t know if I’ll bring this topic up. It’s probably too soon.

  I hope like hell Tammy’s not over there. She loves to show Betty Jean sympathy when she doesn’t need it. I cannot stand that little white wench. And if Lee David is blasting Dora the Explorer I’m going to close his door. He should’ve been in assisted care two years ago, but Betty Jean has never taken my advice, which is why I’ve tried to stop giving it. And what did she do? Went out and hired the trampiest young attendant she could find to care for him. I don’t trust Nurse Kim. First of all, she’s too pretty to be doing such a creepy job. Why on earth would somebody who’s sexy as hell in a turtleneck want to spend all day with an old man in a dark and dreary bedroom? And in a house that creaks when you walk from the front to the back, one that needed remodeling about twenty years ago? She’s probably stealing. Something. Not that there’s anything of value in there, but some folks just like to take advantage.

  I pull into her driveway. It’s got big round oil stains on it. And her sidewalk is cracked and raised from too many tremors and earthquakes. I wish she would paint this house. Beige is such a drab color on a block with nothing but beige houses. At least the Koreans had enough sense to paint theirs mint green and the shutters white. They could stand to plant some grass and a few flowers wouldn’t kill them. But I really don’t care.

  I knock once or twice like I always do and walk on in. And who is standing there to greet me? Tammy Wynette! Even though I usually look right through her, this morning I decide to be polite. “Good morning, Tammy,” I say. “Is my sister not here?”

  “She took the little ones to school and then she’s going on to the hotel for part of the day. Forgive me for being half-naked but I had to rush over so BJ wouldn’t be late.”

  “That’s a beautiful robe,” I say. “Bullock’s?”

  “J.C. Penney. But thank you,” she says. “Why didn’t you bother to call first instead of just dropping by?”

  “Because I forgot my cell phone. At any rate, I’ll try to catch her at work.”

  This must be my lucky morning.

  “Good morning, everybody. Is something going on?”

  Before I have a chance to respond, Beyoncé brushes right past me, dressed like she’s on her way to a nightclub. If that Victoria’s Secret push-up bra were one size bigger it would still be too small. But I’m polite. “Good morning, Nurse Kim. Everything’s fine. You look lovely as ever.”

  “Why, thanks so much for noticing,” she says, and I just wave as I head on out to the car, which is when that skank yells out, “And tell Omar I said hey!”

  I take my cell phone out of my purse and don’t care if they see it. I call Betty Jean at work. “I just stopped by your house to give you a hug because I heard you’ve taken on even more responsibility than you need to at this time in your life. What time do you go to lunch?”

  “Venetia’s got a big mouth, you know that?”

  “She was simply sharing important information and you know the only reason she told me is because you were probably too embarrassed to and she and I are both worried about you and the boys and Trinetta, which is why I wanted to see you in person. What time?”

  “I’m not in the mood for a lecture, Arlene.”

  “I don’t lecture. I simply offer a different point of view. Sometimes we do agree on things, Betty Jean, so please don’t go getting defensive. What time?”

  “I’m leaving at two, but meet me around the corner at Denny’s in a half hour. I’ve got twenty minutes and that’s it.”

  “Not Denny’s. Please. It’s not real food and they’re racist. Pick somewhere else, please. Besides, aren’t you the supervisor?”

  “Okay. IHOP. And no, I am not the supervisor.”

  And she hangs up.

  The place smells like bacon, link sausage, pancake batter, and syrup. It looks the same now as it did twenty years ago. I wouldn’t eat this mess if it were free. I see Betty Jean sitting in a booth. She’s drinking coffee. She already looks tired.

  “You look tired,” I say even though I didn’t mean to say that. I sit across from her.

  “I am tired. So what does that make me besides tired?”

  “So how long do you plan on keeping them?”

  “They’re not pets, Arlene. As long as I have to,” she says.

  “Do you really expect Trinetta to stop doing what she’s been doing anytime soon?”

  “I can’t speak for my daughter.”

  “Well, have you spoken to her since whatever she did or didn’t do happened?”

  “She left me a message on the home phone this morning, when she knew I’d be driving the boys to school.”

  “And what did she have to say?”

  “The same thing she’s said before, Arlene. When she’s cleaned up her act, she’ll be back to get the boys.”

  “Which means they could be in college.”

  “In my heart of hearts I really don’t believe she wants to lose her kids, Arlene.�
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  “As long as she can count on you to take care of them every time she falls off the wagon, she doesn’t have to worry about losing them, now does she?”

  “Sometimes you have to have a little faith in your kids, Arlene. You more than anybody should know that.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Well, you’ve only got one, and look at how you dote on him.”

  “I don’t dote on Omar.”

  “Do you make him breakfast and dinner every day?”

  “So what? We live in the same house.”

  “And that’s the other thing. When is he ever going to move out and get his own apartment?”

  “When he can afford to. Is that all right with you?”

  “I love Omar, and he’s got a good heart. I just always thought he’d be some hotshot businessman or something.”

  “What are you trying to say, Betty Jean? Just say it.”

  “You might want to stop giving him so much advice and monitoring every move he makes. Let him make his own decisions and whatever choices he wants to make, even if you don’t like them.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Betty Jean! Can I help it if he always asks me what I think?”

  “He needs to learn to think for himself.”

  “You know what, I can say this about my son. At least he’s never caused me any problems and he’s certainly never been in trouble or done any drugs, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

  “I wasn’t trying to get at anything, Arlene. Omar just seems bored and not sure of himself. Anyway, I have to get back to work.”

  “You should go talk to somebody in Social Services so you can get some kind of financial assistance while they’re there.”

  “It’s only temporary, Arlene. And I’m their grandmother. If I need help, I know how to ask for it. And I don’t need their help.”

  I just shake my head, stand up, and give her the hug I promised. I don’t mean to be such a bitch. I really don’t. I think it’s just because I want the very best for the people I love, and I get impatient when they don’t see some of the tragic mistakes they’re making. If I didn’t care I wouldn’t say anything and just keep my thoughts to myself. But I do care. Unfortunately, some folks can’t handle the truth, which is why they get defensive instead of just looking at another point of view. I don’t think I have all the answers. But some folks don’t seem to know what questions to ask.