Who Asked You?

by Terry McMillan

  His face lights up at my bad news.

  “I would love to say I’m sorry for your loss but that would be dishonest. I can count how many times he accompanied you to church on any given Sunday, and a family that prays together, for lack of a better cliché, usually stays together.”

  I don’t know what to say to that.

  “Would you like to get a cool drink, maybe an Arnold Palmer at that diner over there?”

  “Why not?” I say, without thinking that I may be committing adultery, but then I realize I am not doing anything immoral and no one—not a man who was not my husband (and even he has not invited me to do anything except have sex on occasion in twenty-two years)—has invited me for an Arnold Palmer, so I’m going to order the biggest size they have.

  “We can walk, if you don’t mind walking,” Brother . . . Patrick says.

  I pull back into the parking space and turn the engine off and get out. I look at myself in the mirror, hoping I might be attractive and embarrassed for even thinking this on the day I find out my husband wants to divorce me even though I’ve known it for years, and had I not worried about what I would do without him, I probably would’ve ended this marriage a long time ago. I stayed because of our children. I hate the idea of broken homes and did not want to be a statistic. I used the church as the reason for staying even though I know my sisters saw it as an excuse. I don’t know why their approval is so important to me, but maybe it’s more about acceptance.

  Since there’s always traffic, I won’t bother to call until I’m near the hotel. Besides, how long does it take to drink an Arnold Palmer anyway?

  Two hours.

  “That must have been some bad accident,” Arlene says right after I enter this amazing suite BB got for me. I hope she’s getting a good employee discount and I don’t know what I’m going to do in here and how long I’m supposed to stay but I decide to take it one minute at a time. I also can’t remember the last time I stayed in a hotel. Oh, yes I do. It was when Rodney took the kids and me to Disney World in Florida. It wasn’t exactly romantic and since I have vertigo I didn’t go on any rides and we had to stay on the third floor. We’re on the tenth floor here, but no way will I be walking anywhere near those windows.

  “I didn’t really see it,” I say. “Where’s BB?”

  “Finishing up. She was here an hour ago and had to run and pick up the kids and then make sure her white-trash neighbor could watch them until she got home.”

  “You know what, Arlene. I sincerely believe that with your attitude you might be headed straight to hell.”

  “I was just being facetious.”

  “No, you weren’t. You sound like a racist. And it’s an ugly way to feel about people who aren’t black, Arlene. In fact, I think sometimes you’re racist toward black people, too.”

  “You are obviously grieving the loss of your husband, because I can’t even believe you’re talking like this, Venetia.”

  “I’ve been wanting to say this a long time, Arlene, and for your information, I’m glad Rodney’s getting out of my life, since he hasn’t been in it for years anyway.”

  BB walks in just in time to hear me say this and looks stunned. She rushes over and hugs me. She loves me. And genuinely cares about me. I’m sure Arlene does, too. She just has an unusual way of showing it.

  “I know this is hard to accept, and you don’t have to try to sound so brave in front of us especially since it’s probably not how you’re really feeling.”

  “Yes it is, BB.”

  “But I thought you said you didn’t want a divorce.”

  “People do come to their senses sometimes, Betty Jean. My goodness. He was a dog. You deserve better, Venetia.”

  “How would you know, Arlene? When was the last time you were even in a relationship?”

  BB is riled, and although I love both of my sisters, I know they think I have a tendency to be wishy-washy and exercise bad judgment or give too much power to the Lord, but I am grateful that BB doesn’t attack my integrity and in some cases, like this one, comes to my defense.

  “What in the hell does that have to do with anything?”

  “Everything,” BB says. “You have never been married, which means you have no idea what it feels like to get a divorce, so just shut the hell up.”

  “Whoa, what is going on here?” I ask. “Have I missed something?”

  “No,” BB says, and sits down at the dining room table.

  “She’s mad at me because I told her I didn’t think I could let her use my address so her grandsons could go to school in my district.”

  “Why can’t you?” I ask. “I mean, what is the big deal? Everybody in L.A. does it to get their kids into good schools. I’ve done it for quite a few people who go to my church.”

  I look at Arlene. Then at BB. Then back at Arlene.

  “Well, to be honest, I’ve had some time to give it more thought and it doesn’t seem as if it would be much of an inconvenience, and those boys really do deserve to get a quality education, since their home life isn’t as good as it could be.”

  “You know what, Arlene, would it just kill you to be nice?”

  “I’m being nice. I’m nice a lot. You’re just not around me enough to see it.”

  BB holds her head down.

  “You’re right,” I say. “Maybe something is going on in your life that’s making you a little short-circuited? Is Omar okay?”

  “Omar is just fine, thank you. Look, we came here to console you so, why don’t we take a stab at it?”

  “So, should I be saying thank you, Arlene? Because I’m still not clear if you’ve actually agreed to do this or not,” BB asks.

  “Can’t you tell when somebody’s had a change of heart?” Arlene asks as she pours one of those little bottles of whiskey into a glass from the minibar.

  “I can,” I say.

  “Thank you, Arlene. Me and the boys appreciate it.”

  “Now, can we order room service, Betty Jean? I’m starving,” Arlene says. “Is anybody else hungry?”

  “I’m not,” I say. “In fact, as much as I love that you’ve gotten this beautiful hotel room for me, BB, I can’t sleep here. I want to go home and sleep in my own bed by myself, which I’m used to doing anyway, and figure out what the next step in my life is going to be.”

  “Dang,” BB says to me. “What’s happened that has made you have such a change of heart? Did God send you a certified SOS or something? Did you pray on this today?”

  “I pray every day for everybody. But mostly I pray for patience and guidance, and I know I’ve been very patient but now I’m not too proud to admit that I’m tired of being treated like I’m undesirable, when I am. I’m tired of being treated like I don’t matter, when I do. And more than anything, I’m tired of being taken for granted by my kids and my husband. I’m just tired of being tired and it feels good to finally fucking admit it.”

  Arlene and BB look at each other as if these words couldn’t possibly have come out of my mouth, but I can’t believe I just said them either.

  II

  HOW YOU CARRY IT

  Betty Jean

  Mister’s been gone now for almost three years. As much as I always made myself believe I didn’t love him, it turns out I did. It wasn’t that Hollywood kind of love: full of flames, hurricanes, or ten-foot waves. It was smooth and steady, the kind that makes you want to stay with a person because they don’t take anything from you. It’s not until they’re gone that you realize how much they added to your life. I didn’t worry about half the things I worry about now. Even at the end, it wasn’t hard making all the arrangements, because he had already made them. Our insurance premiums were always paid up, which is how, after I took care of everything having to do with his burial, I had a little money left to pay down my credit cards and finally trade in that junker for a brand-new one. I bought m
yself another Buick—since I love me some Buicks—because it was in my price range and I can afford the payments. Of course, the boys wanted me to get one of those SUV things, but with my driving knee begging for surgery, I couldn’t chance trying to lift myself up that high to get in and out of it. They’re happy with the smell of newness. Luther pleaded with me to get black, but since the garage is full of junk I have yet to get rid of, he and Ricky decided that white was just as cool and they seem to love washing it. I’m pretty sure Mister would like it, too.

  I hope the next funeral I go to is mine. I’m sick of death, and tired of losing people. We lost relatives we didn’t know we had during Katrina, and some we did, but we didn’t and couldn’t get down there. Of course, our parents lived so far outside New Orleans they weren’t physically affected by it, but mentally is a whole different story. I don’t know how some people survive after experiencing this kind of tragedy. I really don’t. I felt the same way after 9/11. It is one of the reasons why my problems seem small, because they’re at least predictable and manageable.

  I’m also glad I don’t live in this house by myself. I don’t know what it would’ve been like without my grandsons being here to help me through the loss of my husband of over forty years. My own sons were no help. Dexter violated his parole, went back to jail, and now has to wear one of those ankle things for a year or else he’s going back to prison. Quentin made an appearance but left right after the service. Of course my sisters were sad to see Mister leave this way, but they also had enough going on in their lives that limited the amount of grieving they could do. In all honesty, Tammy took it harder than my sisters did. She pretends like she’s still trying to figure out how to get Montana and Clementine out of her house. I don’t know why she just doesn’t come out and admit that she likes having them there and stop complaining. Trevor moved out, and what a sour note that turned out to be. Montana changed her mind (again) about teaching and is now turning her attention to beauty. She’ll be thirty before you know it and she seems to be even more confused about what to do with her life now than when she was all set to go to the Peace Corps. I feel sorry for her in a way. And Tammy is not helping.

  “Grandma! Thank you thank you thank you so much for frying us chicken!” Luther says, running back to the kitchen and bending down to hug me. Ricky is right behind him. It’s been hard for me to fry chicken for them since Mister’s been gone, and I don’t fry anything that often anymore. My cholesterol went up, plus I know it’s not healthy to eat fried food all the time. Omar, who it turns out is becoming a chef, has been showing me how to broil, bake, sear, and stir-fry. These boys will eat anything you put in front of them, as long as it smells good.

  “You’re quite welcome. And how was school today?”

  “Boring,” Ricky says, as usual. “But I did manage to get a C-plus on my Spanish test if that impresses you, Grandma.”

  “I’m impressed.”

  “I just found out I’m going to be in advanced biology when I enter ninth grade, but you didn’t hear it from me, now did you, Grandma?”

  “I believe I did.”

  I give him a high five. The way he and Ricky give them, with their hands high and palms hitting.

  “Is there anything you need us to do first?” Ricky asks.

  “Don’t ask a stupid question, Ricky.”

  “I was wondering, Grandma,” Ricky says. “Is a puppy still out of the question?”

  “A what?”

  “A puppy. You know: woof woof!” Luther says.

  “Who’s going to feed it?”

  “We will!” they say at the same time.

  “Who’s going to walk it?”

  “We will!” they say at the same time.

  “If it doesn’t end up weighing more than thirty pounds, and don’t even think about a pit bull or a Rottweiler. It has to be the kind of dog that doesn’t bite, doesn’t bark loud, and enjoys being in the backyard.”

  “Are you kidding me?” Ricky says, jumping in the air like he’s pedaling a bicycle.

  “We need to have a conference about this after dinner,” Luther says to Ricky. “And thank you for considering our request, Grandma, even if it took you almost five years!”

  “That’s a supersized thank-you, Grandma.”

  “We will hose down the driveway, trim all the dead leaves off the bushes in the front yard, paint, scrub, wash clothes, do the dishes, windows, vacuum—whatever you want us to do until we leave for college—we will do,” Luther says, and he elbows Ricky.

  “Speak for yourself, dude. I’m staying right here with you, Grandma. You need somebody to protect you.”

  College?

  After we eat, I hear the boys outside playing with the hose. They have been more than helpful since Dexter left. What they don’t know how to do, they ask the son of the man who still lives next to Tammy, or they Google it. Luther is very resourceful and has taught me how to Google. I feel sorry for the encyclopedia companies. It’s terrible when something you always thought would be useful becomes obsolete.

  Which is how I’m starting to feel. I had to go on and have that knee surgery and was on disability for two months and just went back to work. My doctor told me that losing a few more pounds and keeping them off would speed up my recovery process, but I wouldn’t know. I’ve been trying to learn how to say no to chocolate chip cookies, sour cream potato chips, and sorbet, which I have become too fond of, thanks to Tammy bringing me a pint to sample from Whole Foods. Now I’m addicted to that blood orange and passion fruit and have learned how much tastier they are when I eat them together. Tammy does yoga and wants me to try it now that I’m healed. But I do enough bending and stretching at work. If I had any sense, I’d retire today. But what would I do sitting around the house? It’s something I should seriously be thinking about, because if I blink too long, these boys are going to be gone.

  It’s hard to believe that Luther is headed to high school and Ricky’s going into seventh grade. Sometimes it feels like they just got here. Luther has never been off the honor roll, and if he keeps it up, he could end up with a scholarship. He’s about to start playing football even though everybody swore up and down he was meant to dunk. He’s almost fourteen and six foot two. I think he’s still growing. He wears a size thirteen shoe. And even though Social Services did come through, the aid is not enough to take care of two growing boys in this day and age. I can’t get away with buying cheap anything anymore. Ricky isn’t short but he’s not going to be tall like his brother, and he doesn’t care. He’s not as interested in swimming competitively like he used to be, but he still loves being in the water. We did have to put him back on a low dose of that medication a while back but he’s doing pretty well in most of the courses except math and English, which is why I just got him a tutor. Luther helps him, too.

  Luther comes in first and washes his hands. We were supposed to watch a movie called Wedding Crashers, which the boys promised I’d find laugh-out-loud funny. Why anybody would want to see a movie twice I do not know.

  “Where’s Ricky?” I ask.

  “He told me he was going to finish putting the rakes and stuff away and he’ll be in in a few minutes.”

  “Do you smell a skunk?” I ask.

  Luther gets the weirdest look on his face, takes a few whiffs, and says, “No, I don’t smell anything except that fried chicken, and I think I’ll have another piece before we watch the movie, if you don’t mind, Grandma.”

  “Knock yourself out,” I say. “But tell Ricky to hurry up, because I know I won’t make it to the end.”

  “Betty Jean,” Lorinda tells me through the walkie-talkie we use at work, “you’ve got a phone call. It’s your grandkids’ school calling.”

  “Tell them I’ll be right there.”

  I know it’s most likely got something to do with Ricky but I’m just hoping it’s nothing serious. I have caught him in so many li
ttle lies it’s starting to bother me that he sometimes doesn’t seem to know he’s lying, even after I catch him in one. They’re usually things that can be proven, like: Did you finish your homework? Did you rinse out the shower? Change your sheets? A lie is still a lie, and I’ve just been hoping and praying it’s something he’ll grow out of.

  When I get down to the kitchen I go into the office and close the door. The blinking light makes my heart flutter. “Hello, this is Betty Jean Butler.”

  “Hello, Mrs. Butler, this is Vice Principal Brooks and I’m calling to advise you that Ricky’s science teacher caught him cheating on a test today, which is a violation of Education Code 316.82 and is grounds for a one-day suspension. We are calling to see if you can make arrangements to pick him up.”

  Without thinking, I hear myself say, “I’m at work and can’t leave right now.”

  “Well, if you authorize us to allow him to take the bus home, since he’s told us this is how he gets to school, we can put your verbal release in his file.”

  “It’s okay if he takes the bus,” I say, and then hang up. I sit there for a few minutes, grinding my teeth, catching myself and then trying not to, but I’m mad. Ricky must have a short memory. But I will refresh it for him as soon as I get home.

  Luther

  I’m trying to watch Monday Night Football but I can’t hear because Grandma is lighting into Ricky for getting suspended. I’m hoping she whops him for being so sneaky. Ricky has never been a straight-A student but he’s not dumb either. He does a lot of dumb shit, really dumb shit, and I’ve tried to tell him that if he keeps it up, he’s going to get in real trouble, but did he listen to me? No, he did not.

  I hear the bedroom door open and turn to look at them both. Grandma looks pissed. Ricky looks like he took a punch or two.

  “Luther, can you order a pizza for you two, because I don’t have the energy to cook. Just get my Visa card out of my wallet, please.”