Who Asked You?

by Terry McMillan

  “So, how long have the children been in your care?”

  “Four months.”

  This woman is lying through her teeth. Almost all of them do. I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s only been a weekend.

  “And what took you so long to come to Social Services?”

  “Because I wasn’t sure how long I’d have them.”

  Yeah, right. I’ll bet the daughter’s living in a Section 8 apartment with her boyfriend who’s also a drug addict and they’re collecting checks and getting food stamps, which they also sell. It’s a B movie.

  “Are you sure now how long they’ll be living with you?”

  “No, I’m not.”

  This just means she needs another source of income for as long as she can. She probably needs a new car. Maybe behind in a few of her bills. Something. The grandmothers are usually just as bad as their trifling-ass daughters, but will they accept any responsibility for it? No, they don’t. Most of them are uneducated and just as ghetto as their grown children. Which is where they got it.

  “So your daughter has a substance abuse problem.”

  She nods a yes.

  “And what might her drug of choice be?”

  “Crack cocaine is all I know about.”

  Cookie!

  “It says here that your daughter’s whereabouts are unknown?”

  “No, I know where she is.”

  She’s lying.

  “And where might that be?”

  “In the streets.”

  “And what about the children’s father?”

  “What about them?”

  “Oh, so there are two?” Surprise, surprise.

  “That’s how it looks.”

  “Do you know either of them?”

  “No, I do not.”

  “Do you know their whereabouts?”

  “If I don’t know them, how would I know where they are?”

  Who in the hell does she think she’s talking to? I’m the one who determines if I’m going to get her any help at all, so she needs to chill.

  “I have to ask these questions.”

  “Un-hun.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I didn’t say anything. I just want to know how long it might take for me to get some kind of help for my grandsons.”

  “It’s the reason we’re going over your information now. To determine if that’s even going to be possible.”

  “I’m having a hard time including their expenses into our budget is all.”

  “It says here that you own your own home.”

  “Yes.”

  “Which means you could borrow against it if you needed to.”

  “We already have a second.”

  “Don’t we all? So your husband’s retired?”

  “Yes.”

  “He was much older when you married, I see.”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “No need to get defensive, Mrs. Butler.”

  “I’m not. But out of all the things on my application I just find it inappropriate for you to say that.”

  “My apologies. I also didn’t mean to imply that there was anything wrong with marrying someone with such a huge age difference.”

  “I agree. Which is why I married him.”

  Bitch.

  “How long has he been retired?”

  “Two years.”

  “And how’s his health?”

  “Excellent.”

  “And yours?”

  “Excellent, also.”

  “So, this means he gets Social Security?”

  “Yes.”

  “As well as a pension?”

  “Yes. A small one.”

  She is trying too hard to impress me with this woe-is-me hard-luck story.

  “I see you’ve worked in the hotel industry for quite some time.”

  “Yes.”

  “In what capacity?”

  “I work out of our in-room-dining department.”

  “So you deliver food to the guests, then?”

  “Yes.”

  “Which means you should do okay on tips.”

  “It depends on the season.”

  “Based on your salary, it doesn’t look as if you report those tips. Or am I being too presumptuous?”

  “I report them.”

  She must think I just look like a damn fool. I worked as a waitress during college and wouldn’t dream of reporting a penny in tips. But whatever.

  “And how many years before you retire?”

  “I was considering taking early retirement in two or three years, but that may not be possible now. If I become legal guardian of my grandchildren, I’ll probably need to wait.”

  “Well, that’s sort of putting the chicken before the egg, wouldn’t you say?”

  “It’s the reason I’m here. To find out if you can tell me which comes first.”

  I can tell I’m getting on her nerves. But part of my job is to make sure this isn’t some kind of scam. That maybe she’s just trying to get her grandkids so she can get a few extra dollars into the household. Plus, sometimes the parents don’t even need our help. Betty here doesn’t exactly look destitute.

  “I thought as an employee of the state you worked in this department to help in the care of children, especially if it would prevent them from being put in foster care, which costs the state a lot more. Correct me if I’m wrong.”

  I try not to roll my eyes at her and keep reading.

  “What shift do you work?”

  “Morning.”

  “Then how will the children get to and from school?”

  “I’ll have to make some adjustments.”

  “Wasn’t this the same problem their biological mother had?”

  “What exactly do you mean by that?”

  “Her adjustments didn’t include the children and her arrangements weren’t very carefully thought out or consistent, and had they been, these children would not be in your care, would they not?”

  “And your point?”

  “You could answer my question.”

  “Do you have children?”

  “Yes.”

  “And it looks like you work every day.”

  “This isn’t about me. I don’t need financial help from the state.”

  “All I’m saying is that in order to survive in this day and age, to make a decent living, both parents usually work and there are many ways to get them to and from school, including after-school care. Does that answer your question, Mrs. Hunter?”

  “No. But moving on.”

  “Let me say this. I’ll do whatever it takes to make them feel safe and secure. It wasn’t as if I planned this.”

  “I believe you, but it doesn’t matter if I believe you or not.”

  “I’m not trying to convince you of anything. I’m just telling you why I’m here.”

  “Has your daughter ever disappeared like this before?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s the longest she’s been absent?”

  “A week. Maybe two.”

  “What would you do if she suddenly reappeared and wanted her children back?”

  “It depends on her situation.”

  “Well, I can tell you from experience, once they abandon their children, they usually appear out of nowhere and swear they’re going to clean up their act, but it rarely lasts. Until your daughter gets treatment for her addiction, and can prove that she’s been drug-free for at least ninety days, I suggest you file a petition with Family Court about getting temporary custody, at which time you come back to see us and we’ll determine what we can do to help you at that time.”

  “So, you mean you can’t help me even with food stamps?”


  “Did I not make myself clear?”

  “Very.”

  She gets up in a huff without so much as a thank-you for giving her a clue as to what steps she needs to take. She should be glad she has a source of income. Some of the grandparents that come in here are living on Social Security and food stamps. We are not a charitable organization. But they think just because they have trifling kids who didn’t need to become parents in the first place, that it’s our responsibility to pick up the slack. Everybody’s got a sob story. I’m burned out listening to them. Burned out watching them act like beggars. I am tired of this job. Tired of being depressed all day long. Tired of not being able to fix everybody’s lives. Tired of not breaking the rules and people hating me for it. Which is why I’m putting in for a transfer to a different department—any department—where no one is asking for money.

  Quentin

  Well, hello there, Mother. I’m calling just to see how you and Dad are doing.”

  “I’d have to say fair to middling.”

  “Is something wrong? Is it Dad?”

  “No, it’s not your dad.”

  “Then it must be you. Are you having health issues?”

  “No, I’m fine.”

  “Then what is it, Mother? You don’t sound like yourself at all.”

  “It’s your sister. About four months ago she dropped the boys off for a weekend and decided to move to Atlanta with a fellow she’s supposed to be married to and I haven’t heard from her since.”

  “Then she’s still using drugs, I take it?”

  “What’s it sound like, Quentin?”

  “So that means you’re taking care of them?”

  “No, Quentin. I dropped them off at a group home.”

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  “I could sure use some financial help.”

  “How much help?”

  “I don’t know for sure, Quentin, but three or four hundred dollars a month would be much appreciated.”

  “A month?”

  “Well, you asked.”

  “You should be able to get help from Social Services in a situation like this.”

  “I’ve tried. They’re not as helpful as you think. A lot of legal stuff, and lawyers are not cheap, and too many hoops you have to jump through. And then you just play a waiting game while they decide how you should or will be able to take care of your own grandchildren.”

  “I’m really sorry to hear this. Karen’s mother went through this with one of her other daughter’s kids. It was a grueling process, and finally, she just gave up.”

  “I do remember your telling me about that.”

  “So it sounds like you didn’t fare any better.”

  “That social worker made me feel like I was responsible for the whole situation. As if I’m the one who made Trinetta become a drug addict. They make you feel low. And they make you feel like a beggar. But I’m not begging anybody for anything.”

  “And you shouldn’t have to.”

  We are both quiet. I know I haven’t given her a definitive answer as to how much financial assistance I can offer, but since I wasn’t prepared for such a request, and because my circumstances are also changing, I need to be realistic and give this a little more thought.

  I look out of our condo window. I can see three of our ten bridges. Portland is such a beautiful city. Crisp. Cold. Wet. Green. Hot. Clean. And water everywhere. Full of smart people. Of which I would like to think I am one.

  “So, I hope you and Mindy are doing well.”

  “We are.”

  “So, what’s the reason for this call?”

  I snap out of my daze of gazing at the Steel Bridge, which is also my favorite. One of the reasons I don’t call home as often as I should, and as often as I would like to, is because there’s almost always some form of turmoil going on. More often than not, it’s about my two siblings, both of whom have made some bad choices, the consequences of which I cannot undo nor remedy. Over the years, my impatience has turned into indifference, which is unfortunate because they are family. But their lives are like bad movies. You walk out before they end.

  “Can’t I call just to say hello?”

  “Well, you don’t usually call just to say hello, Quentin. So, go ahead, tell me your good news.”

  “Mindy and I are going to have a baby.”

  I don’t hear anything for a few seconds and because I’m on my cell phone, I walk over to the window and sit in my burgundy leather chair. An airplane flies overhead. Perhaps this is the reason I lost my mother. I end the call and hit redial. “Quentin, are you there?”

  “Yes, Mother, I’m here.”

  “Congratulations, to you and Mindy.”

  She doesn’t sound excited at all. Which is understandable. Considering her circumstances. But I have no children and it would seem as if she could—considering how rarely she gets good news from my siblings—muster up some semblance of happiness. “Thank you, Mother. Mindy’s a super gal, and I’m pretty sure she’s a keeper.”

  “I certainly hope so. But you say the same thing about all of them until you divorce them, Quentin.”

  “That is so not true.”

  “Can you hold on a minute? I hear your daddy coughing and I want to make sure he’s okay.”

  She drops the phone without waiting for me to answer. Over the years, Mother has tried to make me out to be fickle when it comes to women. There may be a smidgen of truth to it because I admit to having made a number of bad choices, although I believe it’s because I’m somewhat of a romantic. I can’t help it if quite a few of the women I fell in love with, and the five I married, turned out to have flaws they artfully concealed that became intolerable. I’m getting smarter, and Mindy is proof of this. Mother also thinks I don’t like black women, which is so not true. Can I help it if I happen to be attracted to white women? Is that a crime? She has gone so far as to question whether or not I wished I were white. Which is ridiculous. She thinks this simply because I tend to live in predominantly white neighborhoods (which I choose because they’re safer), because I don’t sound black when speaking, and because she doesn’t think I have very many black friends, when in fact I have at least three. I am proud of my blackness. Very proud.

  “Quentin, you still there?”

  “I am, Mother, and let me say this. The best I can do for now is two or three hundred. Would that help?”

  “A month?”

  “No. Total.”

  “I’m grateful for whatever you can send, Quentin. I didn’t mean to put you on the spot. But it’s been hard.”

  “I can only imagine. Anyway, the other good news I want to share with you is you’re going to get a chance to meet Mindy very soon.”

  “I know you’re not coming to the hood for a visit?”

  “Why would you say that?”

  “Because you avoid coming down here except for weddings and funerals. At least that’s the way it looks.”

  She’s right. I don’t like the ghetto. And never have. It’s dangerous and scary and it’s the reason why I chose a college as far away from it as possible. I do not understand why Mother and Daddy still live in that pinched neighborhood on that ugly street in that same run-down house we grew up in.

  “That’s not true, Mother.”

  “When was the last time you were here?”

  I’m thinking. I can’t remember. I do know there was no funeral or wedding, whenever it was.

  “Well, I’ll try to be better, especially now that we’re moving back to California!”

  “Well, that’s good news.”

  “Now that Mindy’s pregnant, she really wants to be closer to her family, and they live outside of San Francisco, right across the Golden Gate Bridge in Marin County, so we’re going to be moving back to California in the next three to four months. I’ve already
joined a new practice, and of course Mindy’s going to stay home with little Margaret. I hope you can take some pleasure in all of this, Mother.”

  “Nothing would make me happier.”

  And she hangs up.

  Betty Jean

  In-room dining!” I yell after ringing the buzzer. I’m hoping there’s no answer, because I’m just here to pick up their breakfast tray. I delivered it two hours ago. Walked in on something I do not understand. There were two women in the bed all snuggled up but it was a man who came to the door in his terry-cloth robe. Like always, I pretended not to see what I saw. I learned a long time ago not to judge but there are some things I just find hard to accept. There are a lot of freaks that stay in hotel rooms. And a whole lot of cheating goes on, too. I’m just glad I’m not in housekeeping, because people with money sure know how to trash a hotel room. And some of them are just downright nasty. It’s hard to imagine how they live at home. On the other hand, most of the guests who stay here don’t seem to have much respect for people who clean or deliver their food. Sometimes when I walk in I say, “Good morning,” or “How’s your day going so far?” If they’re on their computer or talking to each other or just watching TV they act like they don’t hear me or point to where they want their tray and just sign when I hand them the leather folder with the bill inside and then they hand it back, sometimes without even looking at me.

  “In-room dining!” I say a little louder this time and press the buzzer again. The rule is, if there’s no Do Not Disturb sign hanging on the door handle, we wait until we hear movement or they yell out, “Come back later!”

  “In-room dining!” I say for the last time, only because Lorinda warned me before I brought up their breakfast that these folks were Russian and maybe even a part of the Russian mafia, so I should be extra nice to them. After I enter, I stop, lean forward a little, and say, “Good morning?” When I don’t get a response, I walk into the large room and look at the king-size bed with the fake headboard that’s nailed to the wall. The duvet, top sheet, and bath towels are piled up like a white mountain on the floor. That tray is sitting where I left it: on the big wooden table in front of the brown velveteen sofa. These folks use the furniture for things it wasn’t meant for. There are grooves and scratches that will never come out until the hotel is renovated, which they’ve been promising they’re going to do for the past four years. Sometimes I count cigarette burns on the carpet in nonsmoking rooms and dread lifting up the tray when it’s next to the bed on the floor.