Who Asked You?

by Terry McMillan

  At first, I’m numb. But by the time I read it three or four more times, I’m pissed off and hurt by what my son is doing to me and I don’t know why he chose to just up and disappear out of my life and leave me here all by myself to do nothing but worry about whether or not he’s okay, if he’s happy and safe, and I don’t know what would make him decide to get a job on a damn cruise ship. I wonder who put this idea in his head?

  When I left Louisiana, I told my parents far enough in advance so as not to cause them any long-term grief. Plus, I think they were glad to see me go. They were country folk and didn’t rely on books to tell them how to raise their kids, but they certainly could’ve used a few educated tips.

  I thought I was doing a good job raising Omar. I tried to make sure he got all the love a child needed. I may have gone overboard, but I never thought there was such a thing as too much love. Is there? Spoiled is one thing. And I did spoil him, but most onlies are spoiled, since they don’t have to share until they get to preschool. Sesame Street helped. Or so I thought. I have now come to believe that maybe Omar is one of those privileged children who never wanted for anything and now it’s backfiring. He’s throwing it in my face, maybe not knowingly, but it’s how it feels.

  As a parent, how in the world are you supposed to know if the way you’re raising your kids is sufficient until they grow up and you just watch to see what they absorbed or what you may have forgotten to give them? I don’t think this is covered in Dr. Spock.

  I suppose I shouldn’t have lied to him about who his father was, or wasn’t. But I figured knowing wouldn’t do him much good, since Sam was married, and admittedly, I knew that when I met him. But I didn’t care. Back in those days, I was pretty and had a good body and I knew what to wear. It was a game I played, and I played it too well. What I was more interested in was seeing how much it would take to attract them and then to fall in love. I was also pretty good in bed. Somewhat of a freak, as the saying goes. I let Sam, and a few others, do things to me I wouldn’t even consider tolerating in later years. My tactics didn’t work, but quite a lot of them had their share of fun inside and outside of my body. Sex was just sex to them. I learned this the hard way. I kept thinking that being educated would help me win at least one of their hearts, but it never happened. I admit I also never bothered to think about the wives. I don’t know what this says about me, but it wasn’t good. Especially for someone who majored in psychology. In all honesty, I believe it was pure ego. I wanted to know my own power and what it could get me. As it turned out, not much, with one exception, and his name is Omar.

  Betty Jean

  Mrs. Butler, I’m afraid Mr. Butler is having problems I can’t manage,” Mrs. Nurse Hattie says to me.

  “What’s happening?” I ask.

  “Well, for starters, I’ve mentioned how he wishes I were Nurse Kim, whom he affectionately refers to as ‘Kimmie,’ and I’ve told him about a hundred times that I am not Nurse Kim, which usually upsets him, but today, when I sat him up to give him his meds, he pushed the dispenser aside, making the pills go all over the bed and floor, and he grabbed my breasts and tried to pull me down on top of him. So I slapped him.”

  I can’t help but laugh. And it’s finally good to have a reason to.

  “I didn’t hurt him, Mrs. Butler. It was my reflexes that made me do what I did to stop him, but I’m used to this kind of behavior with men who’re suffering from dementia.”

  Now this is even funnier. Mrs. Nurse Hattie doesn’t realize this is a case of mistaken identity because, dementia or not, she is not exactly a turn-on. Like Luther said, she is old and fat and, even though she doesn’t smell like a skunk, she could stand to use stronger deodorant. I have not figured out a polite way to tell her she carries an odor, but I don’t have to be around her all day and Mister obviously couldn’t care less, so I just try to stay out of range.

  “Mrs. Butler, this is not the problem I can’t manage.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “It’s psoriasis.”

  “Mister’s got psoriasis? Where?”

  “Lots of areas I am not comfortable touching.”

  “Really? Did he just break out?”

  “Well, since he is rather dark-skinned and often ashy no matter how much lotion I put on him, at first I started noticing dry patches on his elbows and then the backs of his arms but now they’re turning red and scaly, and when I gave him his sponge bath this morning, I saw that they’re now in an area I consider off limits under the circumstances.”

  “You mean the rash is on his penis?”

  “Not exactly, Mrs. Butler, but in the general vicinity. You want me to show you some of them?”

  “No. I’ll take your word for it. I’ll call his doctor first thing in the morning. Is he itching?”

  “I would think so.”

  “Don’t we have any ointment to rub on those areas?”

  “I’ll look.”

  “And maybe turn on that vitamin D light. He doesn’t get enough sunlight.”

  “If he’d let me take him outside, it would help. But getting him to the bathroom takes all the strength I have. Oh, by the way, Mr. Jones told me to thank you for your years of kindness and fried chicken but today was officially his last day delivering mail.”

  Finally is all I can think. Except I sure hope I’m next.

  I don’t stay in the examination room with Mister but when the doctor comes out, he tells me something I wasn’t expecting to hear.

  “The psoriasis is treatable, Mrs. Butler, but it’s his prostate I’m a little concerned about.”

  “His prostate? He doesn’t have cancer, does he?”

  “I’m not sure, but has he complained about not being able to urinate?”

  “No. He doesn’t complain about much of anything. But he doesn’t seem to have to go very often.”

  “Since I’ve only been treating him for dementia, I don’t see anything in his chart from his previous doctor that shows when he had a prostate exam. Do you recall when he last had one?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, because of his age and since he may not be able to express his discomfort, I’d like to do a simple test to check his prostate while he’s here.”

  “Please, do.”

  “Have a seat in the waiting area. It won’t take long at all.”

  After he closes the door, a few minutes later, I hear Lee David behind it making squealing sounds as if someone is choking him. Two nurses walk past me and into the examination room, I’m sure to hold him down, and I pick up a People magazine and pretend not to hear him and pretend to read it. I pray he doesn’t have cancer. He doesn’t need another disease. Especially one I can’t do anything for. He is a good man and shouldn’t have to suffer any more than he has already. He’s been robbed of real joy the past ten years, and it wouldn’t seem fair for him to have anything else to endure.

  When the door opens, he sits in his wheelchair, not sure where he is or what he’s doing here, and I realize this is what’s left of the man I married, a man who used to come up to the door frame and now can barely reach out to turn the doorknob. I remember when we used to go dancing and he would twirl me around until I was giddy. When he wore Polo cologne and white shirts open at the collar. When we stayed up after the kids were asleep and ate popcorn and watched scary movies and he would wrap his arms around me and kiss me right before I screamed. I remember how hard he laughed at the kids’ corny jokes. And when he climbed that tall ladder and fixed the roof with no help, I made him drink my lemonade so he would stay cool.

  When I see the look on the doctor’s face, I feel a sense of relief.

  “Well, the good news is I detected just a small lump and I’m going to recommend he be tested again in six months, just to be on the safe side. If, however, you notice any changes in his urinary stream, and this can include frequency, and if it seems painful
for him, please let us know immediately.”

  “I will.”

  “And here’s a few prescriptions for the psoriasis. Two are topical and one is medication to help boost his immune response.”

  “Thank you so much, doctor.”

  “If at all possible, it would be good if you could invest in a vitamin D light for Mr. Butler. They help tremendously.”

  When we get home, I catch Dexter in the kitchen, scouring through the fridge.

  “Looking for something to eat?”

  “Just something to snack on.”

  “Would it occur to you to offer to pay for anything, Dexter?”

  “Ma, you know how much I earn working at the SA?”

  “Enough to party on the weekend with Skittles, and I notice you don’t seem to be low on funds when it comes to spending it at Frederick’s or Target, now do you?”

  “Have you been snooping around my room?”

  “Snooping? I beg your pardon.”

  “Well, have you? Otherwise, how would you know what I spend my money on?”

  “First of all, you can watch the tone of your voice talking to me, and second, since you’re too busy to take the trash out but not too busy to fill it up, I happened to see the bags and some of the receipts by accident. You seem to be spending a lot more money than you make. How’s that work?”

  “I work on commission.”

  “At the Salvation Army? What color does stupid come in, Dexter, would you tell me that?”

  “There’s a place down the street from them that sells all kinds of auto parts and stuff and they let me take a cut of everything I sell, and if I help drum up business for them.”

  “Oh, really.”

  “I’m being straight with you, Ma.”

  “Then let me ask you this, son. With your extra cash would it occur to you to ask me if I might need any help with anything? Say, for instance, like food or gas money or maybe you might want to look under my hood and see if there’s anything you can do to help save me a few dollars since you know I don’t have what’s called disposal income?”

  “You’ve never asked me for any help.”

  “Then this means you didn’t read my letters.”

  “I did. But from what I see, you seem to be doing okay.”

  “I feel like slapping your ass across the street, you know that?”

  “Oh, is Miss Tammy home or maybe her racist brother? Oh, my bad, I heard he left the hood and beelined it back to Montana, where no black folks live.”

  I just look at him. This is not my son. He wouldn’t talk to me this way. “Dexter, please don’t tell me you’re using drugs?”

  “What would make you twist your mouth to ask me something as ridiculous as that, Ma?”

  “I know how Trinetta acted, and this feels too familiar.”

  “What is? I’m not even doing anything!”

  “What’s making you talk to me this way?”

  “What way?”

  “Never mind. But I’m curious about something else, Dexter.”

  “I’m all ears, Ma.”

  “Remember when you were in prison and how you were always reading law books and the big plans you made to help some of the other black prisoners when you got out?”

  “Of course I remember.”

  “What happened to those plans, Dexter?”

  “I had to find a job, and you and I both know how long that took, and look at what kind of work I’m doing.”

  “And is this my fault?”

  “Does it sound like I’m blaming you, Ma? I blame society for discriminating against us once we do our time and try to rejoin society.”

  “But you didn’t do all of your time. You’re on probation.”

  “I did enough time for a crime I didn’t commit.”

  “Let’s not go there, again, Dexter, please. I was just wondering whatever happened to those plans, because you seemed to care about some of those men who’d been wrongly accused.”

  “I still care. But first things first. And right now I’m just trying to make it from one day to the next.”

  “Well, since you’re obviously earning a few extra dollars, I would appreciate it if you would start giving me at least fifty to seventy-five a week.”

  “A week?”

  “You can’t stay in a cheap hotel or eat at Denny’s for that much, and not only that but you use my water to bathe and to wash your nasty work clothes and you eat up my food and you don’t do a goddamn thing around here to help me. So yes.”

  “Starting when?”

  “How about right now?”

  He reaches in his back pocket and pulls out a wad of bills. He hands me five twenties. “Will this help?”

  I just look at him. Something different is in his eyes. He looks wound up. Tight. I haven’t seen him like this before. Or maybe because of us passing in the night, I just haven’t noticed.

  “Everything helps,” I say.

  “Good. Is there anything you need me to do?”

  “When was the last time you checked in on your daddy?”

  “A couple of days ago. All he does is sleep or hide under the covers, and lately he seems to be scratching. What’s up with that?”

  “He’s got psoriasis.”

  “Well, at least that’s curable.”

  “Where does Skittles live?”

  “Why are you asking me this out of the blue?”

  “Because if you don’t change your attitude, you might have to ask her if she has any room for you.”

  Venetia

  I just got served,” I tell Betty Jean.

  “What do you mean, ‘just’?”

  “This morning.”

  “Where are you?”

  “At church.”

  “Get up off your knees, Venetia. Right now. I mean it.”

  “I’m in the parking lot.”

  “Then back that damn car up and meet me at my hotel. I’m booking our best suite for you and don’t say no and don’t stop by your house to pick up anything, just drive. I’m not leaving until you get here.”

  Click.

  And she hangs up.

  I make a big mistake and call Arlene.

  “Fuck Rodney,” she says. “Where are you? And please don’t say church.”

  “I’m on my way to BB’s hotel. She’s booked me a suite.”

  “I’ll meet you there.”

  Click.

  I don’t know why they always have to swear to make their point. I understand they do it for emphasis but they should know it’s not necessary. On the other hand, I have to admit that since Rodney’s been away I have found myself saying s-h-i-t and occasionally the “F” word to myself, and what is odd is how I’m finding swearing to be a new way of releasing stress, like this morning, for instance, when my doorbell rang. Right after I opened the door, I already knew what it was, when the well-dressed but homely blonde handed me an envelope and smiled while she did it, like she was an old friend here to get reacquainted. Years ago she would’ve been the Avon lady. Our mother used to sell Avon and the house always had a confusing smell of talcum powder and flowery perfume, but I’ve watched enough people getting served on television to know, and I know they would never have let her through the front gate if she wasn’t legal. All I said was “Thank you. And tell my husband I said, ‘Fuck you, you lying, cheating son of a bitch, and I hope you enjoy your young whore but be very clear that I’m not moving and do remember how much Yale and Stanford cost because you’ll be paying for the next five years!’” And I slammed the door. Ephesians 4:29 tells us, “Do not let any unwholesome talk come out of your mouths, but only what is helpful for building others up according to their needs, that it may benefit those who listen.” I really believe that is exactly what I was doing.

  As I pull out of the park
ing space, Brother Armstrong holds his hand up to stop me. Not only is he one of the few Caucasian men I have found attractive, but whenever I find myself in his presence he always seems to cause me quite a bit of female unrest. I don’t know if it’s because he’s tall and reminds me of Cary Grant when he was young, although Brother Armstrong must be in his mid- to late forties and has been suffering the loss of his wife, who died of breast cancer a few years ago, but he always seems to love it when I take his hand and squeeze it, and, unless it’s all in my head, he doesn’t seem too keen on letting go until I do.

  “Well, hello, Mrs. Parsons,” he says. “What a pleasant surprise.”

  “Hello, Brother Armstrong.”

  “Please, call me Patrick.”

  “Hello, Patrick. And you can call me Venetia.”

  “Are you okay? You look a little flustered, and I’ve never seen you here except on Sunday.”

  “I’m fine. I was thinking about going in but changed my mind. What brings you here?”

  “I was thinking about going in but changed my mind when I saw you.”

  I am starting to feel warm and the steering wheel is feeling rather sticky so I turn up the air and say, “I was going to pray for my soon-to-be ex-husband. What about you?”