Who Asked You?

by Terry McMillan

  Ricky is nickel-and-diming me, being on the swim team. Twice a week I sit by that pool and watch him torpedo his way through that water and try not to think about all the hidden costs that I was not prepared for. For seven years old he’s outswimming some of the nine-year-olds in freestyle, and he’s learning the breaststroke even though his little chest barely pops above those waves. I am so proud of him. And it is becoming obvious that his attention in class has improved since being weaned off that medication. Not all pills work, and there are too many kids out here on medication for one thing, when it seems to cause something else.

  I’m grateful Luther doesn’t have expensive hobbies, but the boy is growing like Jack and the Beanstalk. Every time I look around I have to buy him new shirts, pants, and sneakers. He’s still a bookworm and reads anything and everything.

  When I hear my name being called, I cannot believe I get the same bitch that didn’t help me before. When I sit down and she starts looking over my chart, she acts like this is the first time she’s ever laid eyes on me. She is wearing that same boring gray suit and still looks like she has never had sex and doesn’t care. I don’t know who told her red lipstick looks good on her. It doesn’t. Especially on her top two teeth. But I’m not about to say a word.

  “So, what brings you back,” she asks, looking over my form, and then looks back up and says, “Mrs. Butler?”

  I can tell she still doesn’t like me, or anybody else that comes in here, for that matter. I don’t know why some people work in public jobs if they don’t like the public. “My situation has changed.”

  “Did your daughter come back?”

  “Yes, she did.”

  “Sometimes they do. So what brings you here today?”

  I hand her the death certificate. She gives me an evil eye.

  “What happened to her?”

  “What difference does it make?”

  She sucks her teeth and that lipstick just smudges.

  “I need to put the cause of death in the file.”

  “She OD’d in the backseat of a car. How’s that?”

  “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  I want to say, “Once more with feeling, bitch!” but of course all I want to know is how long it will take to get some aid and how much they will be able to help me.

  “Thank you.”

  “I see it’s been six months since she passed on. What took you so long to apply for assistance?”

  “I’ve been a little overwhelmed.”

  “I’m sure you have. Has your financial situation changed since you were last here?”

  “Yes, it has.”

  “In what way?”

  “It’s worse.”

  “Are you still working?”

  “Yes, but I don’t know for how much longer.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because my grandsons require a lot of time and attention and they participate in after-school activities and my husband is terminally ill and . . .”

  “You didn’t say anything about your husband being sick last time.”

  “Well, he is. Do you want me to get the diagnosis from his doctor to prove it?”

  “It might help. And again, I’m sorry. It’s obvious you’ve got a lot on your plate.”

  “Probably no more than most of the folks who come in here.”

  “Well, I’ll do my best to expedite your application but I can authorize some emergency food stamps for you today, if that would help?”

  “Anything would help.”

  “Now, it still might take a few weeks because this is just part of a bureaucratic process, but here’s my card should you have any unforeseen problems.”

  She stands up, walks me to the door, and rubs my shoulder.

  “Thank you for your help,” I say, and turn back around and move my index finger back and forth in front of my mouth. “Wipe your teeth. You’ve got lipstick on them.”

  She does it and then smiles. “Thank you,” she says.

  Quentin

  Mother refuses to answer the phone when I call. She also refuses to call back. She did send a card and a twenty-dollar gift card from Target congratulating us on little Margaret’s birth but she has not said a word about the photos we’ve sent. I know she’s probably angry with me for not attending my sister’s funeral, but I didn’t want to go so I didn’t. It would have been too depressing seeing all those relatives I’ve been estranged from for years, and in some cases, not being able to even recognize many of them. Of course I loved Trinetta, at least I used to, but after she stopped loving herself and her children, I lost all respect for her. Besides, she didn’t like that I married outside our race and she made sure to remind me of it. I always knew drugs were going to be the cause of her demise, and my attending her funeral would only have confirmed it and it wouldn’t bring her back. I in no way could offer Mother any comfort, and I was also worried about my own daughter. She was born with some immune-system issues and I couldn’t imagine leaving her here with Mindy to care for alone even though Mindy’s parents live less than a half hour’s drive away, but they both work, and heaven forbid, should there be an emergency, the thought of being hours away from little Margaret caused me too much strife.

  I did, however, send three hundred dollars in lieu of flowers, with the hope that it would help mitigate the cost of the service, which I know was not covered by any insurance, and since my felonious brother, Dexter, is now living above the garage in a makeshift apartment he now calls home, I doubted that he would be of much, if any, help to Mother under the circumstances.

  I’m in Los Angeles for a three-day chiropractic conference and have decided to pay Mother a visit with the hope that she won’t embarrass me in front of my wife. I’ve already warned Mindy that we are going to be visiting the ghetto and not to be shocked by what she sees. She is prepared and has agreed to not let anyone touch little Margaret without first washing their hands.

  I haven’t seen my dad in a couple of years, and although I doubt he’ll even recognize me, it’ll still be good to see him. His funeral I will attend because he has been a good father. It was he who encouraged me to fulfill my dreams of becoming a chiropractor. “What’s a few more years of college?” he said. He’d never been to college at all, and that meant a lot to me. Mother simply liked the fact that I was going to be some kind of doctor, and I believe she put money on my being a success after she saw the highway Dexter was traveling down, and Trinetta meandering down avenues and boulevards with busted-out streetlights. They were always in danger of self-destructing, and what was sad was how easily they managed to accomplish nothing of merit when both of our parents, especially Mother, did the best they could pointing us in the right direction. Her love sustained me, and Dad’s confidence more than compensated for my insecurities.

  I decided to phone first, just for the heck of it, knowing what time she’d be in, since her schedule at that dreadful hotel hasn’t changed. It has lost a star, from what I gather, and I for one will be glad when she finally retires. Although now that she’s taken on a second shift at parenting, I am at a loss as to how she’s going to manage it. Children require a certain set of skills that, over time, would seem to diminish because they have not been necessary or have been used up. Since grandparenting requires a different kind of love, I wonder if it’s even possible to raise grandchildren to achieve the requisite confidence and ambition as well as acquire the myriad skills and facilities one needs to be a success in this technologically driven age. I mean, what are those boys going to be exposed to, being educated in inferior schools where they most likely won’t be able to pass standardized tests?

  If my practice grows in the Bay Area at the rate it did in Portland, I would be more than willing to help aid in these boys getting a quality education. I don’t know if I have the power, or if there’ll still be time, to preempt the pull of the streets.

&
nbsp; “Hello,” a boy’s voice says.

  “Hello,” I say. “And to whom am I speaking?”

  “You are speaking with Luther. And who may I ask is calling?”

  I am impressed not only by his tone but his diction, and he is not mocking me. “Well, Luther, this is your uncle Quentin calling and I was hoping to speak with your grandmother, who also happens to be my mother, if she’s available.”

  “My grandma’s here. Hold on a minute, please.”

  He drops the phone. I like Luther already. He sounds about eight or nine, but you never know. I wait. I’m at a five-star hotel on Wilshire Boulevard and Mindy’s breastfeeding little Margaret, who is being fussy, which is why I chose to come out into the living room.

  “What is it you want?” she asks in a mean-spirited voice.

  “I know you’re undoubtedly still angry with me, Mother, and I do understand, but I also wish you would have understood that my newly arrived daughter was suffering from a health condition we weren’t sure about at the time Trinetta passed, and I am deeply sorry that I wasn’t able to attend and I am hoping that you can find it in your heart to forgive me since Mindy and little Margaret and I are here in Los Angeles for a couple of days and wondered if we could possibly drop by to say hello and spend an hour or so?”

  “You use far too many words to say so little, but I forgive you. Come on over. I’m making dinner, if you can stomach the food we eat in the hood.”

  “We’ll see you in about forty-five minutes, depending on traffic. Is there anything I can bring?”

  “Don’t ask,” she says, and hangs up.

  “Don’t apologize,” Mindy says when we turn onto my old street. “You aren’t the first black man to grow up in this kind of environment, Quentin, and it’s nothing to be ashamed of. I’m going to see to it that as Margaret grows up she gets to see where both of her families come from.”

  “You don’t have to say this to make me feel better.”

  “Oh, stop playing the victim, Quentin. It’s not always about you. Your mother has been forced to raise her grandsons with little or no support, and all you’re worrying about is how things look? Do you not ever watch BET?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “You give new meaning to being black and proud, and I’m not going to let you pass it on to our daughter.”

  I can’t respond to that. I pull into the driveway, behind my mother’s 1986 beige La Sabre. I say nothing but help Mindy get all of the baby gear and then maneuver little Margaret out of the backseat. There are so many hooks to keep them strapped in, I sometimes wonder how you would get a child out were you to be unfortunate enough to have an accident. She whimpers but then gurgles.

  “One hour, tops, Mindy. And if you are uncomfortable before then, just give me a wink and I’ll come up with a reason why we must be going.”

  “Quentin, sometimes you really get on my nerves.”

  I see the porch light come on even though it’s just approaching dusk. My mother opens the screen and stands guard behind two handsome young boys, one of whom comes up to her shoulders already. I assume that must be Luther. They wave and then run down the three steps toward us and hold out their hands to shake mine.

  “Pleased to meet you, Uncle Quentin. I’m Luther, and this is Ricky.”

  “The pleasure is all mine,” I say, and shake both of their hands.

  “Hello, son,” Mother says, and walks right past me toward my wife. “It’s so nice to finally meet you and Miss Margaret, Mindy,” and she wraps her arms around Mindy to give her a hug and bends down and kisses little Margaret on the nose. Mindy doesn’t so much as flinch. “What a cutie. She looks just like you, Mindy. Lucky for her. Come on in, and watch the bottom step. Dexter has been promising to fix it but he works day and night.”

  “Is he here?” I ask, hoping he’s not.

  “No, he’s working.”

  When we walk in I can hear the floor panels under the carpet creak, as if the house is lopsided, which it probably is. Mindy sits down on the sofa I grew up sitting on and places little Margaret’s carrier on the floor by her foot.

  “Can I hold the baby?” Ricky asks as he plops down next to Mindy.

  “Sure, you can. Do you know how to hold a little baby?”

  “Yep. I mean, yes. I mean, no, maybe if you showed me.”

  “I know how,” Luther says.

  “Would you two mind washing your hands first?” I ask.

  “Grandma made us wash them right before you got here ’cause she knew you were gonna have a real live baby and she wanted to make sure we were clean, right, Grandma?”

  “That’s right.”

  Mindy just gives me a look to not press this, and places little Margaret in Ricky’s arms. He looks down at her, breathing on her, and I do my best not to blow a gasket.

  “So, it’s nice to finally meet you, Mrs. Butler,” Mindy says. “And you, too, boys.”

  “The feeling is mutual. You can drop the ‘Mrs. Butler’ and just call me ‘Mom’ or ‘BJ’—short for Betty Jean.”

  “I like ‘Mom.’”

  “Well, Mindy, I’ve got a soulful dinner here for you to enjoy unless you’re one of those vegans or a vegetarian or worried about your cholesterol.”

  “I’ll eat whatever you put on my plate.”

  “Quentin, your father’s asleep, but if you’d like to take a peek at him, that would be nice.”

  “I will in a sec, Mom. Just want to make sure the boys handle little Margaret with kid gloves.”

  “Her mother is sitting right next to them, Quentin, and I’m standing in front of them. What are you worried about?”

  “Please repeat that, Mom,” Mindy says.

  “Oh, never mind. I can’t help it if I’m an overprotective dad. She’s my first.”

  I walk back to Mother and Dad’s room, and I’m almost afraid to turn on the light but I do, since it’s the only way I can see what’s left of him. He is small and he looks unfamiliar. His eyes are closed and he doesn’t move. I go over to touch him just to make sure he’s warm, and am relieved that he is. I remember when Dexter and I used to jump on this bed like it was a trampoline and Dad wouldn’t tell Mother how the slats broke after we’d gotten too big. When I hear little Margaret begin to cry I dash out to where everyone is now sitting, and Mother is holding her and giving my daughter a bottle.

  “Is she okay? I can take her.”

  “Babies usually cry when they’re hungry or need to be changed, Quentin.”

  “I know that, Mother.”

  “Why do you keep calling her ‘little’ Margaret?” Ricky asks.

  “Because she’s little.”

  “Will you call her ‘big’ Margaret when she grows up?”

  “I don’t think so,” I say. “Mother, although we appreciate your going to all this trouble to make dinner for us, we really can’t stay.”

  “Yes, we can, Mom,” Mindy says.

  “I was already frying pork chops when you called, Quentin. So I didn’t go out of my way.”

  I try to smile but I am finding it difficult to understand why Mindy has contradicted me from the time we got here and doesn’t seem the least bit concerned about our daughter’s health.

  “I’m dying for a pork chop,” Mindy says. “And what else is it that smells so good?”

  “Macaroni and cheese, candied yams, and steamed broccoli,” Mother says.

  “One day I hope you’ll show me how to make all of it!” Mindy says. “Unless you have an objection to it, Quentin.”

  Everybody looks at me. Including little Margaret. I grab a plate and begin to fill it up with all the things I no longer eat.

  After dinner I pull Mother aside while Mindy and the boys play with little Margaret. I can’t believe Mindy didn’t ask them to wash their hands again; after all, I could see chocolate frosting o
n Ricky’s knuckles.

  “I like this one,” Mother says before I have a chance to ask. “She’s got your number, so I’d calm down if I were you.”

  “She loves me.”

  “Anyway, although you’re still on my shit list, I’m being civil because I don’t feel like getting ugly in front of your lovely wife or the boys, and as much as I do love you, you have a way of getting on my last nerve because of how you do things without any regard for others. Most of us are not perfect like you seem to think you are, and mark my words, if you don’t learn how to accept anybody who falls short of your standards, you’re going to end up a lonely old man. Thanks for stopping by.”

  Tammy

  I can’t live here,” Jackson says to me.

  “Oh, really,” is all I can say to that.

  “L.A. is too big and spread out, it’s ugly, smoggy, full of freaks, it’s way too crowded, and there’s too many goddamn cars on the freeway. It takes too long to go nowhere and I think it’s one overrated city and I prefer to watch stuff that goes down here on TV, because that’s where it seems a whole lot more real. I also don’t like how hard everybody here tries to be beautiful. Even men. As if it’s really worth the price they put on it.”

  “Is that about it?” I ask. We’re having breakfast at Denny’s, Jackson’s favorite haunt. He doesn’t even know he’s white trash, and what I love about him is he doesn’t give a shit what I or anybody else thinks about him. I have to give him credit, though, for cutting back on ale, learning how to drive a big rig, and owning up to how many years of his life he wasted doing nothing.

  “I’m better off out in the plains and prairie. I’m better off where there’s horses and elk. Where you can actually see the mountains. Where you can drink the water right out of a stream or river and not worry about what’s in it that might kill you. I’m better off where everybody isn’t a stranger.”

  “So, what are you saying, Jackson? You come here in bad shape and bring me bad news and I do my best to help you get on your feet, get used to having you around, and now you’re ready to bail on me?”