Who Asked You?

by Terry McMillan

  I decide to check on Mr. Lee when I hear those little critters slamming the car door and galloping like Secretariat toward the front door. Would it just kill them to walk? I mean, what’s the big fucking hurry? This is just one more reason why I don’t care for kids. They annoy me. I just pretend to like them in front of their mamas or, in this case, their grandma. I’m wondering how long it’s gon’ take for Miss Betty to go on and get legal custody of ’em, ’cause I’ve heard her daughter be turning it down off Rosecrans and Adams but I always assumed Miss Betty knew her daughter was a crackhead and word on the street is she’ll suck anybody’s dick for a ten-dollar bag. The reason I know this is ’cause I got a couple of relatives down there competing with her and sometimes my granny made my brothers drive down there to look for ’em. They learned the hard way that you can’t save nobody who ain’t interested in being saved.

  I can relate to what Miss Betty is going through, ’cause my granny raised me and my two brothers ’cause our mama died of breast cancer when we were little. Our daddy didn’t know what to do with three kids so he left us with our granny, our mama’s mama, moved to Kansas City, got married again, and I heard he had two or three more kids. That’s all we know. That’s all we want to know. Our granny was strict as hell and her middle name was “No!” but we did what she told us to do and things worked in our favor. One of my brothers is an airline mechanic. The other one work for Microsoft.

  It should be obvious that I wasn’t no honor roll student in high school. My favorite class was boys. I graduated with a C+ average, and my granny made me look through the catalog at the junior college near our house and told me to pick something out that looked interesting. I picked nursing. So I went through the LVN program only to find out that hospitals and me don’t get along, just like dead people. So here I am. Just your average, everyday caretaker. I like taking care of people who can’t take care of themselves. Sometimes I go a little overboard, but men like Mr. Lee don’t have a whole lot of time left in this world and I feel good sexing them up and I get a little sumthin’-sumthin’ out of the deal myself. It’s a win-win situation and no harm done.

  “Hi there, you little cuties!” I say with as much niceness as I can. That older one, Luther (what a horrible name to give to a baby), look like he’s staring at my breasts when he waves but I know I’m not seeing right, ’cause he can’t be no more than seven or eight now. But then when that other one runs on back to his room, and Luther sits on the couch and starts smiling at me, I feel a little uncomfortable because that little son of a bitch is looking right through my top.

  “Hi there, Nurse Kim,” Miss Betty says as she walks in with three Mickey D bags in her hand and sets them on the cocktail table.

  What I wouldn’t pay for a Filet-O-Fish and some fries about now.

  “How’re you doing today? And how’s Lee David?”

  Because I like Miss Betty, and she is nice to me, I always try to use my junior college voice with her too, because it’s important to sound like you went to college in front of the people you work for. “I’m good. Mr. Lee is fair to middling. He didn’t have too much to eat today and they might need to step up his meds. But I’m not a doctor. How about you? I see you’ve got the grandkids today.”

  “Yes, Lordy,” she says.

  She collapses in that La-Z-Boy like it’s her life support. But it’s cheap and the back is lumpy and the noise the massager makes can get on your last nerve. She woulda been better off sitting on the couch if Young Mac Daddy here would beat it, but Luther looks like he’s waiting for the right moment to ask for my hand in marriage. He grabs a pillow and props it behind his short little neck, like he ain’t going nowhere no time soon. Miss Betty leans all the way back in her La-Z-Boy and turns on the massager, but then she jerks like something scared her and sits straight up.

  “Lord, it sounds like drums beating, doesn’t it?”

  “Yep. Lots of drums,” Luther says.

  She presses the lever so the chair is upright and walks over to sit down at the opposite end of the couch from Luther. “Forgive me, Nurse Kim. Luther, you know what Grandma does when she gets home from work and she’s tired and her knees and feet hurt,” she says, not like she’s waiting for him to answer, ’cause no sooner has she said “hurt” than she yanks that sad 1985 pageboy wig off and drops it on the end table. She’s got a fishnet on, and even though I only see a few gray strands around her edges, it looks like Miss Betty got a head full of hair. She needs to throw that damn wig in the trash and go to the beauty shop and let somebody bring her look up to 2001, or just buy a new wig or think about trying a weave. Old people wear weaves, too. Now that I can see her face, Miss Betty ain’t a bad-looking woman for somebody about to be a senior citizen. If she lost about twenty or thirty pounds, she could probably be attractive again. A nice foundation and the right lipstick and maybe get those bushy eyebrows waxed, and she could lose about eight or nine years right there.

  She looks over at Luther, who still sitting there looking at me. It’s a little fucking creepy.

  “Luther, why don’t you take your and Ricky’s bags and go on in the back to the kitchen and eat it before it gets cold.”

  “I ain’t hungry, Grandma.”

  Miss Betty cuts her eyes at him and I’m just watching.

  “I mean, I’m not hungry, Grandma,” he says.

  “You were starving a half hour ago.”

  “I have homework, Grandma. I can write, Nurse Kim. You wanna see?”

  “I do, but not today, sugar. Nurse Kim needs to finish talking to your grandma and try to beat that rush-hour traffic.”

  “I can write fast,” the little fucker says.

  “Luther. Say goodbye to Nurse Kim and please do what I just asked you to do.” She picks up those Mickey D bags and hands ’em to him. No drinks?

  He still act like it’s killing him to stand up.

  “I would love to see how well you can write, Luther, just not today, sweetie. Now, perhaps you should do what your grandma asked like a good little boy.”

  He finally jumps up and dashes out of the living room like I pissed him off or something. He’ll get over it. I’m glad Miss Betty told him to beat it, ’cause Lord knows I did not feel like talking to him in my elementary school teacher’s voice another second. I wish I could appreciate what children have to offer but I just don’t see it. I mean, they can be cute and adorable and all that, but some of that sweetness is just a act they put on to pimp their parents so they can get what they want. And it works. All they do is beg. For everything. All the time. They take up too much energy. Your best energy. And they ain’t stupid. They know when you worn out, but they will wake you up from your nap to ask you for a glass of fucking milk. This mess goes on for at least eighteen years. To be fair, I do know that sometimes they can make you proud, but look how long you have to wait to see if you’re going to get a return on your investment. I don’t like the odds.

  “Do you eat McDonald’s, Nurse Kim?”

  “Every now and then,” I say.

  “I have an extra Filet-O-Fish and some fries in there I am not in the mood for. You’re welcome to them, if you’re hungry.”

  “Are you sure? You might want to warm it up a little later.”

  “Have you ever reheated anything from McDonald’s, honey?”

  I shake my head no and reach for the bag and try not to act like my dream came true. “Thank you, Miss Betty.”

  She leans over to make sure the boys are doing what they supposed to be doing even though I hear video games and laughing, which mean Luther ain’t doing no homework. Miss Betty look like she got something on her mind and she about to tell me what it is.

  “Trinetta’s into some things she shouldn’t be into so I’m keeping the boys here with me until she gets back on her feet. You understand what I’m saying?”

  “I do. But if you don’t mind me asking, Miss Betty: Has
n’t she been off her feet for some time now?”

  “Yes, she has. I know you’re not blind, Nurse Kim. I’m just trying to do right by my grandsons because I can’t save my daughter.”

  “No, you cannot.”

  “Anyway, I’m going to have my hands full around here and I know you’re applying for that traveling nurse position and it sounds like a wonderful opportunity, but I was wondering if you do get accepted, would you be willing to stay on a little longer, just until I get things figured out around here? Is that too iffy for you?”

  “Not at all, Miss Betty. Anything I can do to help you and Mr. Lee,” I say.

  Luther

  Here come Grandma, Ricky!” I point at all them cars in a line that look just like a funeral but we just happy we getting picked up from school. I’m holding Ricky’s hand. I hold his hand everywhere we at and everywhere we go. He a runt. Big kids like to pick on him.

  Ricky in first grade. He in special ed. But he way smarter than the other special ed kids. He told me. And Ricky don’t lie to me. I’m in second grade. I wait for him outside his room. I like being his big brother. I’m tall for my age: seven and a half. Everybody always saying it: “Luther, you tall for your age, son.”

  We standing with a whole lotta other kids but we can’t move till Grandma’s car is right in front of us. I hope she take us to McDonald’s drive-up window so we can get some McNuggets and I hope we get to spend more nights at her house, ’cause me and Ricky don’t wanna go home today or tomorrow, ’cause we don’t like where we live and we don’t gotta sleep together on the let-out couch and Grandma is nice to us and she don’t call us names or say get out of my face can’t you see I’m busy and don’t no strange men knock on the front door and walk past us without saying hi and just go in our mama’s room and close the door. And don’t nobody bam on the door and wake us up and say: “Yo mama at home? She owe me some goddamn money.” And I ain’t gotta lie through the door and say, “She ain’t home and I don’t know where she at,” even though she be down the hall hiding in Twinkle’s apartment.

  I wave to Grandma since she getting closer. Ricky start waving too. He a copycat. Try to do everything I do but he can’t do everything I do. He can’t spell and he can’t add or subtract and he can’t make a basket. He a runt. He have to take medicine ’cause our mama had drugs inside her body when he was born. I don’t.

  One thang I do know, when I grow up, I ain’t doing no kinda drugs. None. I don’t care if they free. And I will kick Ricky’s ass if he ever try any. We don’t wanna be drug addicts. We don’t wanna live in the projects, either. I’m going to college so I can be somebody when I grow up, even though I know I’m somebody now. That’s what our grandma always be telling us, which is why she always be trying to stop us from talking like we do. She be making us repeat stuff over and over even though she know what we saying. “It’ll all pay off, boys,” is what she always be saying whenever she take us places. I don’t know what she mean by that, but I just know it’s good.

  Anyway, don’t nobody hardly believe me and Ricky is brothers, ’cause we don’t look nothing like each other. I think it’s cool. We don’t know who our daddy is and I really don’t care. Plus half the kids in this school and in the building where we live don’t know who they daddy is either. Whoever he is, I think he got a lotta nerve not showing up for our birthday and Christmas. If I ever meet him, I’m gonna tell him he can kiss our ass.

  We used to have a little sister but her daddy came and got her to live with him when she only had six teeth. She should have a mouthful now. I wonder where she at. I wonder who her new mama is. I wonder if she remember me and Ricky. I wonder if she got her own bed. I don’t know if I really care or if I’m just wondering. I think she still our sister. And I think she probably always be our sister. But you never know.

  Grandma need a new ride. I think it might be old as her. Like seventy or eighty. I don’t know what kind it is but it’s a color that almost ain’t got no color. It look like my milk after I eat all the Cheerios out the bowl. I ain’t about to complain, ’cause at least me and Ricky ain’t gotta walk home today. Sometimes we run. So nobody won’t mess with us.

  “I hope Grandma take us to McDonald’s, don’t you, Luther?”

  “Yeah,” I say, and pull his Spider-Man backpack up on his shoulders. Ain’t much in it but his stupid meds that sometime I forget to give him, some coloring, and a whole buncha sideways papers with the same alphabet letters he write over and over and some not even on the line. I remember when I had to do the same thing. Kindergarten got on my nerves. I looked out the window a lot ’cause Miss Prince just said the same thing over and over and over. I wanted to say, “You must think we all dumb or something!” Plus she talked to us like we was retarded. Some days she was real nice and talked like white people on TV but then sometimes she would yell at us when didn’t nobody even do nothing and she would pinch our ears or make us hum a song or stick our tongues out for like a lot of minutes or make us sit there and not move for like a year and then she would laugh and give us all hugs. She didn’t teach me nothing except how to sit up straight and how to pay attention and not to point. I wish I coulda skipped kindergarten and went straight to first grade. I’m glad Ricky didn’t get her and I ain’t even seen her in the hallway no times, so maybe she went to another school.

  I like second grade. I get to write real words. A lot of words. Writing is easy. And so is math. But math is funner. I like adding and subtracting. Borrowing and carrying. I don’t gotta sit there writing so hard the lead on my pencil break or till my desk look like orange sand from erasing so much. And I don’t gotta guess either. I see the answers in my head. Which is why I get A’s in everything. I’m smart. And I can’t help it. Sometimes I wish I wasn’t, ’cause a lot of kids tease me. “Smart-ass!” My mama told me to kick they ass but if I do that I get in trouble and I don’t wanna get in trouble and plus they got big brothers and sisters and some of them is Crips and Bloods so I just act like I don’t hear ’em or like it don’t bother me. It don’t. I rather be smart than dumb any day. Ricky ain’t dumb either. It just take him longer to learn.

  Now that Grandma is closer she look weird. She got on that brown wig I don’t like and I can see her gray hair going from one ear to the other like the headbands our mama wear. Grandma look like somebody whispering in her left ear. Something she don’t wanna hear. Maybe when I tell her the question I got to ask my teacher today it a cheer her up.

  “Hi, Grandma!” I say real loud so everybody can hear me. I bend down and open the back door and push Ricky in. We put on our seat belts.

  “Hi there, my sweet boys,” she say and then, “You two want to go to McDonald’s?”

  Me and Ricky just look at each other, then give each other high fives. We can’t believe our grandma know what we be thinking. We like her. Then, at the same time, we scream, “Yeah!”

  “What did you boys just say?”

  “We mean ‘yes,’ Grandma,” I say for me and Ricky. He just nod about ten times.

  “That’s much better. Thank you.”

  Then she don’t say nothing for about three blocks.

  “We gotta go home after McDonald’s, Grandma?” My fingers is crossed ’cause I want her to say no.

  “No, you boys are going to stay with me and your grandpa for a little while.”

  Me and Ricky give each other high fives again. But then I wanna know how long is a while so I ask. “How long is a while, Grandma?”

  “It depends. It could be a week or a month or maybe even longer, I don’t know right now.”

  I wanna know why we staying at her house for a while, so I ask, “Why we staying at your house for a while, Grandma?”

  She don’t say nothing at first, like she trying to come up with a good lie or something, like me and Ricky do when our mama ask us do we like her orange macaroni and cheese or what happened to those dollar bills in her purse. Be
fore she get a chance to tell us the truth since we don’t think Grandma would really lie to us, we pulling up to the drive-up window, but it’s a long line and we at the back of it.

  “Is her dead?” Ricky asks, like he’s hoping he guessed right. “Did her OD like NoNo’s mama did?”

  “No, but she needs some time to do some things that will make her feel better.”

  “Drugs make her feel better,” Ricky says.

  “No they don’t!” I say. “They just make her high and she act crazy and say mean stuff.”

  “She wants to stop,” Grandma says. “What do you boys want?”

  “McNuggets,” Ricky says. “Please,” he say, ’cause he just remembered we always supposed to say please and thank you when a grown-up asks you if you want something or if they give you something.

  For some reason now I don’t want no McNuggets. “I would please just like a cheeseburger and fries, Grandma. Thank you. And our mama don’t want to stop using drugs,” I say.

  “How do you know that?”

  “Twinkle’s brother told us. His name is Wally. He live on the first floor. One day he stopped me and Ricky by the elevator and he said, “Yo Mama gon’ end up dead at the rate she going ’cause she don’t know how to say no to them drugs.”

  “Does Twinkle have a job?”

  “Yes!” Ricky says before I get a chance to say, “No she don’t!”

  “Her sell pussy. On Crenshaw.”

  “Shut up, Ricky!” I say.

  “Please don’t let me hear you say that word again, Ricky.”

  “You mean pussy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, but her do. I ain’t lying. Mama said hers is better than Twinkle’s ’cause Twinkle only get twenty dollars for her p-o-s-e and Mama said she get fifty for hers.”