Who Asked You?

by Terry McMillan

  “I know, Auntie.”

  She looks up at me.

  “You have grown into a fine young man, you know that, don’t you, Omar?”

  “I don’t know all about that, Aunt Betty.”

  “Look, your mama is enough to get on anybody’s nerves, but I see you took the reins of your life and lost all that weight, and I heard you’re dating and everything.”

  “I’m not dating anybody.”

  “That’s what your mama told me. Why would she lie?”

  “Why wouldn’t she? I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say that.”

  “Luther said you didn’t want me to tell her you were coming over here. Why not?”

  “You didn’t tell her, did you?”

  “No. I don’t talk to your mama on a daily basis. Sometimes once a week is too much.”

  “Thank you. I’m just taking a little time away from my mom to figure out what kind of man I can be.”

  “I say hallelujah to that. Your secret is safe with me.”

  “Thank you, Aunt Betty. Now, is there anything I can do for you and the boys right now? Buy them dinner?”

  “See how thoughtful you are? I stopped and got them Burger King, which of course I’m not eating, but anyway, I’m sorry for making a spectacle of myself, Omar. I just needed to calm down before I walked into the house. I don’t want the boys to have to deal with any more sadness. They’ve had enough of it. I was just having a moment.”

  She goes to open the door and I hear the front door swing open and both of the boys run out to the car. They jump up and down like they haven’t seen her in years. She hugs them the exact same way.

  Principal Daniels

  As much as I admit to looking forward to seeing Betty Jean again, I dread the circumstances. Unfortunately, I’ve had a lot of them over the years. Sometimes I have felt like throwing in the towel, taking my twenty-six-footer and just cruising around until I reach the end of the world. When I retire, I have promised myself to spend every summer traveling to a place I’ve always wanted to see. Why not? In the winter, which I love, I’m going to spend a month in the snow. Lake Tahoe. Or maybe even Colorado.

  I have spent so many years worrying about the welfare of children that I suppose I might be what is commonly known as being burned out. I am tired of tragedy. Tired of not being able to save these children from the streets and, in too many cases, from their own parents. Teachers cannot parent. They are paid to do one job and that is to teach. Sometimes I fear for their safety in some of the classrooms and have come to understand why charter schools are becoming so popular. No child left behind is an understatement.

  I knew it was a matter of time before these boys’ mother would succumb to what has become a pandemic in our community. I have learned that it has nothing to do with how much or how little they love their child or children. Crack seems to be more of a mental aphrodisiac than physical. I’m grateful that my biggest weakness is olives. Any kind of olive. There is not a day goes by that I don’t devour—at minimum—a dozen of them. Perhaps if I still had a wife, I wouldn’t lust over them, but after thirty years of marriage, she came out as a lesbian and left me for a woman and I haven’t met anyone to take her place. Of course I was hurt, but she made it clear that I was not to blame. That she would always love me. And I her. She is so much happier now, for sure. And although our children are all adults, I was the one who had to persuade them that their mother was and would always be their mother and they should continue to love and respect her. If I could, surely it shouldn’t be that hard for them.

  I also must admit that I had a crush on Betty Jean back in the day but I would not let on that she impressed me save for being a very hands-on mother, which I admired. Her sons had promise, especially Quentin, but Dexter was always somewhat of a hothead and not a very good sport. In fact, he once got in a fight with one of his own team members and I was forced to make him sit out the rest of the season.

  I straighten my tie and suck my teeth to make sure there’s no evidence of the spaghetti I had for lunch and lotion my hands because they look dull. When I hear a light knock, I walk over and open the door. I still find her beautiful but rid myself of the thought or it could be too obvious.

  “Thanks for coming on such short notice, Betty.”

  “I’ve been meaning to bring you the information about getting custody of Ricky and Luther but you beat me to it.”

  “Can I get you a cup of coffee? Water? Anything?”

  She shakes her head.

  I slide the chair out for her, giving her room to cross her legs, which she doesn’t do. I walk around my desk and sit. It feels too formal, so I push the chair back, cross my legs, then fold my hands on my lap. She makes me nervous. “I’m very sorry to hear about your daughter.”

  “I know. I know.”

  “So, I’m sure you’re curious about why I asked you to come in to see me.”

  “I am. Is it Ricky?”

  “Yes and no. Let me say this. He’s a bright youngster who has a few issues that for a while seemed under control, but I’m not sure whether since his mother passed this isn’t having an emotional effect on him that you may not be aware of.”

  “Is he misbehaving in class?”

  “Just the opposite. He’s been rather quiet.”

  “That’s understandable, though, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Yes, but then Luther, on the other hand, has been getting bullied. Hasn’t he told you about it?”

  “No, this is the first I’m hearing anything about this. In what way?”

  “Well, you know he’s tall for his age, and as a result he seems to pose more of a threat to his classmates than he really is.”

  She looks at me as if she wants me to hurry up and get to the point. I wish she could spend the day.

  “You know we have kids here who have siblings who are gang-affiliated, right?”

  “I would imagine.”

  “Well, one youngster has been picking on Ricky, and Luther got wind of it and took matters into his own hands and—”

  “Wait a minute. What are you trying to say?”

  “Luther beat up another youngster, who told his brother, who happens to be a seventh grader, and he’s threatened to hurt Luther, for lack of a better way of putting it.”

  “Are you fucking serious?” she says, and jumps to a standing position. “I’m sorry for swearing. I apologize. Where’s Luther? And when did this happen? And how did you find out about this? And what’s being done to protect my grandsons?”

  She drops back into the chair. Her shoulders drop, too. I know this is not what she needs to hear, and it is one of the things that break my heart when grandparents take on the burden—which is precisely what it is—of raising their grandchildren.

  “No apology needed, Betty. Luther is in class. He’s fine. We had both boys come in and speak to security and explain what happened. They both lied, of course, but what has become apparent is that the other youngster has put the word out that Luther is a threat. This kind of information spreads quickly, and it’s the reason I asked to see you today.”

  “Can I get a glass of water, please, Mr. Daniels?”

  “Of course. Remember, it’s Warren.”

  “Thank you, Warren. But what am I supposed to do about this?”

  “Just a second.”

  I press the intercom and ask if a bottle of Sparkletts can be brought in. I push my chair up to my desk and lean against the metal. “Let me ask you a few things, first, just so I’m clear. Did you ever file for assistance through Social Services?”

  “I did. First, before Trinetta passed, and they were of no help, and then a couple of months ago, I brought in all the documentation they needed, including her certificate of . . . well, you know . . . and I was given two hundred dollars’ worth of food stamps but haven’t heard anything from them since.”

>   “You have to hound them.”

  “I don’t have time to hound anybody, Mr. Daniels. Warren.”

  “Even if it’s just phone call after phone call, do it until you get on their nerves. Didn’t you get a card from a social worker?”

  “I did. And she seemed so sincere about trying to help and get it all pushed through quickly.”

  “They lie with sincerity. Call. Harass her. Find out who her supervisor is if you have to. That works.”

  A student aide brings in a bottle of water. She must be eleven. She’s a lucky one. Just got a scholarship to attend Perrotta Charter School in the Valley, but it’ll be worth the drive. I smile and thank her.

  “I don’t have a nice way of putting this to you, but I’m just going to ask: Do you have any friends or family who live in an area that has a good reputation for its school district?”

  “I have two sisters who live in nice areas. One is way out in the Valley and the other one lives in Baldwin Hills Estates.”

  “Are you on good terms with one or both of them?”

  “What would make you ask that?”

  “Well, let’s face it. Family is family. Need I say more?”

  “We get along okay. So, tell me what it is you’re suggesting.”

  “Of course, I’m not supposed to suggest anything like this to you, but if there was any way your sister would allow you to use her address, and if there was any possible way that you could get the boys to and from the elementary school—and I’m very familiar with both the elementary and the middle school up there—then you would be doing your grandsons a huge ‘solid,’ as these youngsters say.”

  She looks like she’s going over it in her head. But she doesn’t seem so sure.

  “Let me think about how I’d propose something like this to her, because she can be a real stickler when it comes to doing everything by the book.”

  “People do this all the time. It’s what’s in the best interest of the children. Does she have any of her own?”

  “One, but he’s an adult.”

  “And I’m sure he attended good schools, am I right?”

  She nods.

  “And she has seen for herself what a difference it can make in a child’s future, right?”

  “Well, it sure helps,” she says.

  “So, if she’s at all concerned about the children’s well-being and safety, being ever conscious that you’re trying to do what’s best for them, I would like to think this would be an easy decision for her to make.”

  “I’d like to think so, too.”

  “Then why don’t you discuss the situation with her as soon as possible, and in the meantime please know that the boys are being watched closely by our security guards and I can assure you that they’re safe inside school grounds.”

  She stands up and holds out her hand to shake mine. Instead, I give her a supportive hug. Perhaps I was being too forward, because she steps back, then pats my arm as her way of thanking me.

  “How’s your husband doing, by the way?”

  She just shakes her head.

  Arlene

  I wouldn’t want to be Betty Jean for all the money in the world. Now she’s having some kind of problems with them at their school she needs to talk to me about. I can only imagine. So, once again, I agreed to meet her in another public setting, this time, however, at a restaurant that has a menu that’s not laminated.

  Here she comes now. Looking distraught and forlorn. I am not in the mood for bad news. Omar left me a message and said he wants to pick up his computer and a few other personal items. I wonder if this means he really is moving out, or has he moved out and I just haven’t been willing to accept it? I was just happy to hear his voice. In fact, I played the message about four times. If he has moved out, I’m thinking about taking a vacation. If he hasn’t, I might ask him if he’d like to go on one with me.

  “I don’t want any coffee and I don’t want to eat anything,” she says before she even sits down. She whips out a bottle of water from her purse and sets it on the table. She’s wearing a new wig. At least this one is modern and could almost be mistaken as her hair, which I suppose is the point. I don’t know what her thing is about her real hair. But then again, I haven’t seen it in years.

  “I’m just having decaf. Anyway, I like your new hair,” I say, just to break the ice. I’m nervous and not sure what this little meeting is going to be about that required we see each other face-to-face. But I’m ready for whatever it is. “So, how’ve you been holding up down there? I never see you anymore.”

  “I’m busy, Arlene. But you already know this, so don’t act like you don’t. Wait. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say that or say it like that or use that tone. I’ve just got a lot of things on my mind.”

  “Well, I can’t begin to imagine what it’s like juggling all that you are, and if there’s anything I can do to help, just let me know.”

  “Can I use your address so the kids can go to school in your neighborhood because a gang member has threatened Luther at his school?”

  “You’re not serious, Betty Jean?”

  “Very.”

  “Is this what you wanted to talk to me about?”

  She nods yes.

  “I can’t do that. It’s illegal, and what would happen if I were to get caught?”

  “People do it all the time, Arlene. It’s not such a big deal.”

  “I can’t. This is way outside of my comfort zone.”

  “You don’t have to do anything.”

  “What if the gang members find out where I live?”

  “How in the hell would they figure that out?”

  “They’re hoodlums but they’re smart hoodlums.”

  “And what would be the point? Luther is ten. He’s not on some hit list. The principal just thinks that because he and Ricky have already been exposed to so much this past year, and because Luther’s such a good student and Ricky’s improving, he asked if I had a family member or friend that lived in a good school district who would let me use their address because it would be better for the boys. That’s all.”

  “You mean the principal suggested this?”

  She nods again.

  “Did you ask Venetia?”

  “She lives too far.”

  “You have to forgive me, Betty Jean. I mean, I do care about the welfare of your grandsons, but this is asking a lot. I have a reputation in my community, in my homeowners’ association, not to mention professionally, and what if I got caught doing something like this?”

  “Well, we wouldn’t want you to get thrown into homeowners’ prison, now would we? Never mind, Arlene.”

  “Don’t you have any friends at your job that live in nice neighborhoods who might not have as much to lose you could ask?”

  “No, everybody I work with is poor, Arlene. I said, never mind. Remind me never to ask you for a favor. I’ve gotta get back to work.”

  “Don’t be mad at me, please?”

  “I’m not mad. I should’ve known better.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing. By the way, Arlene, how’s Omar doing these days?”

  “He’s fine. Why would you ask?”

  “I haven’t seen him in ages. Tell him I said hello and the boys are waiting for him to take them to Knott’s Berry Farm.”

  “I’ll tell him when I see him, but we’ve been missing each other since he started back to school.”

  “Then maybe I’ll have the boys call him. He gave them his cell phone number, you know.”

  “No. I didn’t know. But I’ll let him know tonight.”

  “They’ll appreciate that. Nothing like family.”

  She grabs her bottle of water and leaves. She has been in the ghetto far too long. Far too long.

  When I pull into the drivew
ay, Omar isn’t there. I postponed the closing until tomorrow. Told the buyers the loan docs weren’t finished. I don’t like to lie but sometimes you have to. I wanted to make sure I was here when Omar showed up. I’m nervous for the second time today, but this is different. This is my son. And his well-being is of utmost importance to me. I will try not to badger him about where he’s been and why he’s doing this to me and why we couldn’t talk about whatever it was that was bothering him. I want him to get his own apartment and I think it’s a brave thing for him to live on his own, but I just wasn’t expecting him to tell me in the manner that he did. It threw me completely off guard. He could’ve had the common courtesy of giving me, as his mother, some kind of advance notice that he wasn’t happy living at home anymore.

  The door leading to the kitchen isn’t locked, which means Omar has probably already been here. I push it open and rush up the stairs to his room. That door is wide open. His computer and printer are gone, and most of his sneakers. His closet is full of big-and-tall clothes that don’t fit him anymore. On his bed is what looks like a printed-out letter. I pick it up. It’s one page. This now makes three times today I’ve been nervous, but now I feel like I’m about to have a heart attack because why is it that my son of twenty-eight years suddenly finds it hard to talk to his own mother? I’m already crying but decide they might be wasted tears, so I dry my eyes and read:

  Dear Mom: This may seem cowardly to you, and I may very well be doing this all wrong, and it is not my intention to hurt you even though I probably have already. When I decided to lose weight it was the beginning of my taking responsibility for myself as a man. The only problem is that it has been hard if not impossible to do living under the same roof with you all these years. I know you mean well, and I am grateful for all that you have done for me. But it’s time for me to venture out on my own, make my own mistakes, my own decisions, and not feel the need to get your approval. Please understand that I am not “divorcing” you, I just feel I need some time and space to be alone. I sold my car and got an old Honda. I just moved into a studio apartment and am looking into working on a cruise ship. There are many job opportunities and a chance to see some of the world, for free! I have recently met someone from my past who has embraced me, which I won’t get into now. Please know that I love you and as soon as something good happens to me, you will be the first to know. Take good care of yourself, and I hope you finally begin to live your life for yourself, and not for me. I’ll be in touch. Please don’t worry about me. I’m fine. Love you, Omar.