Who Asked You?

by Terry McMillan

  “Can I smoke in here?”

  “You see that No Smoking sign over there?”

  He turns to look. “That’s another thing. You can still smoke in restaurants in Montana. And in Wyoming, which is where I believe I’m headed.”

  “What’s for you in Wyoming?”

  “Everything I just described. Plus I’ve got some friends there. One of whom is a female.”

  “I thought you were asexual, brother.”

  “I’m not a homosexual. You should know better than that.”

  “I said ‘asexual,’ which means you could live without it.”

  “It seems to me that’s more befitting of you, sister, since I haven’t exactly seen you ruffling anybody’s feathers since I’ve been here and you still look like you could benefit from a date every now and then.”

  “I’ve been busy.”

  “You’ve been playing Mama when you ain’t a mama, just like Betty Jean across the street, but at least she’s got a good reason. What’s your excuse? Montana is an adult.”

  “I’m just helping my daughter get on her feet.”

  “I think she’s pretty close to Rollerblading by the looks of things. You appear to be more like a built-in babysitter who doesn’t get paid. Forgive me if I’m out of line, sis, but since I’m about to vamoose, I figured I might as well get a few things off my chest.”

  “Well, don’t let me stop you, Dr. Phil.”

  “Who’s Dr. Phil?”

  “Never mind. I’m all ears. More coffee?”

  “No, thank you. Anyway, that Trevor fella is cheating on your daughter, you know.”

  “How would you know that?”

  “There are obvious signs.”

  “Like what?”

  “Notice how nice he looks when he goes for auditions he never gets?”

  “He also has a full-time job.”

  “Does he pay rent?”

  “Some.”

  “But not enough. Because any man with a kid wouldn’t want to be mooching off his wife’s parents, and in this case, her mother, and notice how Montana only smiles at the baby when he’s in the same room?”

  “So?”

  “When a woman is getting laid, she smiles at the man that’s giving it to her right.”

  What I’m thinking right this minute is how long it’s been since I smiled at a man.

  “How many teeth does Clementine have now?”

  “What? Six. Almost eight. Why?”

  “Weren’t they supposed to have moved out before she started teething?”

  “It’s expensive to live here.”

  “Is Montana crippled?”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Didn’t she get a college degree in something that would make her employable?”

  “Yes. Maybe. No.”

  “Why do parents always make excuses for their kids when they don’t live up to their expectations?”

  “You should talk, Jackson.”

  “My point exactly. I know me and Clay were fuck-ups and we were major disappointments to Ma and Paps, but unlike you modern parents, they didn’t apologize for us. They were pissed off at how we turned out and let us know it.”

  “I’m not apologizing for Montana. She’s just young. And trying to find her way.”

  “Why couldn’t she have found it before she had a baby? And how hard was she looking?”

  I just look at him.

  “Well, I’ve heard her sing. And she sounds like you wouldn’t turn the channel on the radio if you were to hear her.”

  “A lot of people can sing in L.A.”

  “He doesn’t love her anymore.”

  “How in the hell do you know that?”

  “Because he told me.”

  “He told you?”

  “I wouldn’t lie.”

  “Since when did you two get so chummy?”

  “Since he met somebody else.”

  I kick him under the table. “And you couldn’t fucking say anything?”

  “I’m saying it now. Look. He’s not a bad guy, he’s just not that bright. I don’t know why Montana couldn’t see past his good looks, but women see what they want to see in a man, which is why they end up lonely.”

  “You need your own talk show, Jackson, since you’ve got it all figured out.”

  “I didn’t say that, now did I? I’m trying to run into instead of away from myself, for which I thank you dearly because had you not opened your heart and your front door to me, I’d probably be dead, too.”

  “You’re my brother, for Christ’s sake.”

  “Yeah, and so what? But this Trevor is bad news for your daughter and my niece, and he doesn’t know jack shit about being a father and is not interested in being a husband.”

  “He couldn’t possibly have told you all this. Was he drunk or on something?”

  “No. Sometimes people need to talk to whoever’s willing to listen. And that’s all I did.”

  “And what makes you so insightful?”

  “Because I used to be just like him.”

  “So when is it you plan on abandoning me and your niece and maybe her ex-boyfriend?”

  “As soon as I get my next paycheck, which should be in two weeks. I’ll have something for you, too.”

  “Oh, buy yourself a calf,” I say. “And by the way, looks like I’ve got an offer on the rest of the property.”

  “I wish you all the best.”

  “You can have half of what I get.”

  “I don’t want half of what you get.”

  “Why not?”

  He slides his chair away from the table and pulls out his cigarettes.

  “Buy yourself a condo. And move as far away as possible from all these niggers.”

  “Ricky won another trophy,” BJ tells me as we sit in my backyard with our feet in the pool. “I’m getting sick of pools,” she says, and stands up. “I also don’t know where I’m going to put all these doggone trophies. My living room is swimming in them. Get it? Anyway, I don’t know how much longer I can do this swim team.”

  “I hate to say it, but I’m getting a little sick of Ms. Clementine and her mother and her baby daddy, too.”

  “I would like to think so. That little girl will be in kindergarten before you know it.”

  “Yeah, and I’m worried that Mr. Movie Star’s love appears to have strayed, but he is in no position to leave just yet.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “I’m just assuming. I hear them upstairs arguing low-like and they don’t smile at each other like they did before Clementine got here. I’m just tired of running a nursery and a free hotel.”

  “Then tell them to leave.”

  I just look at her.

  “Come on, Tammy, you’re letting them take advantage of you and you need to put your foot down and speak up. I don’t know why you’re so scared to say something.”

  “Maybe I will.”

  “What about your brother? I haven’t seen him in weeks.”

  “He decided to move away from ‘freaks, smog, and niggers,’ unquote.”

  “And he couldn’t say bye?”

  I just look at her.

  “Turns out some stereotypes are true. I had given him the benefit of the doubt. But some folks just aren’t ready for prime time. Anyway, how are you? I hardly ever see you these days. You look tired as all hell.”

  “I don’t even know where to start, Tammy.”

  I’m sitting on the second-to-last stair that leads upstairs when I hear Trevor’s car pull into the driveway. I’ve had two glasses of wine, I won’t lie, because I needed a little assistance to say what I’ve been wanting to say.

  “Hi there, Tammy,” says Mr. Movie Star, surprised, of course, to see me relaxing on t
he stairway looking like I was waiting for somebody. He’s wearing some kind of denim getup you see in music videos. His hair looks wet even though it’s dry. He whitens his teeth about once a month, which is why I can see them glistening from over here. He has a membership to one of those tanning booths. I know because he dropped it on the front porch one day and I hid it. Now, all of a sudden, he’s got muscles galore but does not belong to any gym to my knowledge.

  “How are you today, Trevor?”

  “I’m okay, I guess. Is everything all right?”

  “You tell me.”

  “I’m not sure what you mean. Should I sit down for this?”

  “Suit yourself.”

  “Did I do something wrong?”

  I try hard not to cut my eyes at him but I’m not so sure I succeed. “You know I don’t like you, don’t you?”

  He walks over and sits down at the far end of the white sofa, which his daughter has smeared with orange yogurt.

  “No, I didn’t know you didn’t like me. I know you’ve had issues with me, but that’s different, isn’t it?”

  “What did you tell my brother?”

  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “Didn’t you tell him you didn’t love Montana?”

  “Are you serious?”

  “And you’ve met somebody else?”

  “You are serious. First of all, Tammy, I love Montana and she knows it. I never had a conversation with your brother about anything except our daughter. And if this were true, why on earth would I tell him?”

  “I do not have an answer for that.”

  “I feel like a loser, if you want to know the truth, because I have brought a child into the world and can’t afford to take care of her. I didn’t plan this.”

  “So, are you saying that Montana did?”

  “No. But she knew why I came to Los Angeles, to pursue my acting career. She said she was going to the Peace Corps in a year. We fell in love and the next thing I knew she’s pregnant and she said she wanted to keep it. And here we are.”

  “And here we are.”

  “What do you want me to do, Tammy?”

  “What can you do, Trevor? Tell me that, would you?”

  “Keep working at my craft with the hope that it’ll pay off soon and Montana and Clementine and me can move into our own place.”

  “You guys did this all ass-backwards, you know that? I was not this dumb when I was your and Montana’s age. You don’t bring a kid into the world and then move in with your parents until you get your shit together. You move out of your parents’ house and get your shit together on your own.”

  “I agree.”

  I stand up because I’m tired of talking to him. I wish I had the nerve to tell him to get out of my house and take my daughter and that granddaughter of mine with him. But I can’t. They’re just young. And stupid. And who knows, maybe one day they’ll thank me for the hospitality.

  Omar

  My mother is too honest as well as dishonest. She has lied to me about a lot of things, the most important one being who my father was. It’s also taken me twenty-eight years to understand how much she’s done to make me dependent on her. How she used food to make me love her and she used food to cripple me. I know it wasn’t on purpose, but now that I’m on to her, there is no tactful way for me to tell her, which is why I didn’t tell her I was getting the Lap Band and why I chose to leave the way I did. If I’d told her, she would’ve done everything possible to try to talk me out of doing both.

  I was tired of being fat. Tired of not saying no to myself even when I wanted to. Tired of her asking me every time I walked out the door where I was going and what time I was coming back. I was tired of jerking off every day, too. Tired of not knowing what it felt like to be inside a girl, or hell, a woman. She made me afraid of them. Her list of requirements was so high no girl could’ve fulfilled them. Which is why I had to learn how to fuck by watching porn. It has taken me probably two hundred jars of Vaseline to finally realize it was time to touch a woman, but first I was going to have to learn how not to be afraid to talk to one. I did not want to do it weighing three hundred pounds.

  My mother has a good heart but she’s a control freak and I can’t do anything about that. I just need a break from her. I want to know what it’s like not to have to hear her opinion about everything. And I mean everything. I want to not have to hear her criticize everything and everybody. I want her to stop making excuses for me, about why I still haven’t managed to find my place in the world or why I haven’t managed to get an AA degree from a junior college. I wasn’t born to be a failure even though I’ve failed at a lot of things. I don’t know what I’m good at because I haven’t been given the chance to find out. “Try this,” she’d say. “It’ll look good on paper.” But I don’t want to just look good on paper. I want to feel excited about something—hell, anything. My mother has tried to find a career for me, which is why I don’t have one. Deep down inside, I have wanted to please her, but I also wanted to disappoint her. I didn’t want her to take credit for anything I did that would make me succeed.

  When I left her that message a few months ago telling her I was leaving in an attempt to do some serious soul-searching, I meant it.

  It wasn’t hard finding out who my father was. I’ve known who the motherfucker was for years. All I did was go through her papers, which she kept in a trunk at the foot of her bed. I didn’t need the key, since one of my homeboys from shop class taught me how to pick a lock—and trunks don’t even count. I don’t know if or when I’m going to tell her that I found two different birth certificates in that trunk. One had “Unknown” next to “Father” (which was the one she used when I went to camp), and the other one said “Samuel Nelson” (which is the one she used to get my passport when we went to Mexico). I didn’t feel like telling her I knew who he was after years of her telling me he was dead. What a rotten thing to do. But when I really thought about why she did this, I figured she must have had a good reason. I could find him if I really wanted to, but at this point in my life, I honestly don’t know what difference it would make. I’ve got enough identity issues right now without adding him into the mix. Who knows, if my curiosity ever gets the best of me, I’ll find him.

  Right now I’m driving along the Pacific Coast Highway in my new used Honda because I sold that stupid 325i I never wanted in the first place and rented a large studio apartment. I’m not going anywhere in particular when my cell phone rings. It’s Luther. My little second cousin I think of more as a nephew and who thinks he’s a cool cucumber ’cause he can read damn near anything. For not even being ten, I see a future in his future. Him and Ricky need some kind of a big brother or uncle figure, and since Uncle Dexter doesn’t seem to be bringing anything to the table, I told Aunt Betty I would always be available to take them to the movies, Disneyland, the Tar Pits, the beach—hell, anywhere they want to go—just to give her a break. I told her this way before Trinetta died. I saw this coming a long time ago. One thing I am grateful for is never having any interest in drugs. As quiet as is kept, if Trinetta were here, I’d like to kick her ass. I know it’s not cool to speak ill of the dead, but she could’ve found a better way to get off, one that wouldn’t rob her soul and put her kids’ well-being on the bottom of the totem pole. But who am I to talk? A lot of folks thought I had the same kind of love affair with food, that I was on the verge of eating myself straight toward a heart attack, and I probably was.

  “What’s up, little smurf,” I say to Luther.

  “This is Luther, Omar.”

  “I can see the phone number on my cell phone, son. How many times do I have to tell you that?”

  “Whatcha doing?”

  “Driving.”

  “Where are you driving to?”

  “Nowhere. Just driving.”

  “That’s kinda dumb to be driving nowhere, Omar. Then how
are you supposed to know when you get there?”

  “You ask too many questions. What can I do for you?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Then why’d you call me?”

  “Just to say hi.”

  “Where’s your grandma?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What do you mean you don’t know?”

  “She didn’t come home from work yet.”

  “Is Nurse Hattie still there?”

  “Yep.”

  “Who picked you and Ricky up from school?”

  “Miss Tammy.”

  “Why?”

  “She said Grandma was not feeling good and had to stop at the hospital but she would be home for dinner. But it’s already dinner and she ain’t . . . she isn’t here yet.”

  “Did you try her cell phone?”

  “Yep. She didn’t answer. Wait. Hold on a minute.”

  I’m already off the highway and heading toward Pico. I don’t know if I should be afraid or not, but this doesn’t sound right. A few seconds later, Luther comes back on the line.

  “She said to tell you she’s fine and will be home in fifteen or twenty minutes. She had to get a shot in her knee at the emergency room. She asks me to ask you to stop on by if you could.”

  “Tell her I’m on my way. But do not call my mother.”

  “Why not?”

  “That is none of your business. Would you please just tell her what I said?”

  “Okay. Ricky said hey.”

  Aunt Betty is my favorite aunt. I like Aunt Venetia too, but being around her is like being in church. Everything with her is a sermon. I like Aunt Betty’s spunk and especially when she slips and swears. When I pull in front of the house Aunt Betty is parked in the driveway, the engine off, just sitting in her car. This is not cool. I walk over to the driver’s side. She’s crying. I knock on the window and she lets it roll down.

  “Aunt Betty, what’s wrong?”

  “I’m too old for all of this,” she says.

  “Too old for all of what?”

  She flings her hand up so high it hits the roof of the car. “Everything,” she says. “I don’t know what made me think I could take care of two growing boys, no matter how much I love ’em. I’ve got a dying husband inside that house I can’t do anything for. I can’t afford to retire but my knee is finally starting to give out and I’m on my feet for almost eight hours, five days a week. I’ve got arthritis in the right one and these shots only last so long. I so need a vacation, baby. Just someplace to go and sit back and be waited on.”