Who Asked You?

by Terry McMillan

  I am shocked that all this was going on behind my back all this time and I didn’t have a clue. I never liked Nurse Kim until now.

  “Just tell her,” Luther says. “If she can’t handle it, let it be her problem.”

  “Yeah, right,” Ricky says. “But everything pisses Auntie Arlene off anyway and . . . Can I just swear today, please?

  “Go ahead. But just today.”

  “You’re a grown-ass man, Cousin Omar, so act like one. What can she do? Beat your ass? I don’t think so.”

  “I agree with Ricky. For once,” Luther says.

  I really wish it were that easy.

  Ricky leans over from the backseat again. “Now that we got all this settled, all I wanna know is when are you gonna let me get behind the wheel, dude?”

  Aunt Betty comes out to the car when I’m dropping the boys off. They called her on the way to give her a heads-up, on more than one level.

  “Get out of that car,” she says to me, and I do. And she gives me the same kind of hug she gave those boys years ago.

  Arlene

  I’m a nervous wreck.

  Omar left me a message at the office and said he wanted to talk to me. At my convenience. That it’s important. I returned his call but got his voice mail. I asked him where would he like to meet and what time would work for him. He left me another message when I was out showing a property and said that six o’clock would work for him. That he would prefer somewhere quiet. I called him back and suggested a restaurant we used to love. He sent me an e-mail this time and said, “See you there.”

  I don’t know why he didn’t just want to come to the house, since whatever it is he wants to talk about could easily be said without anyone hearing it, unless it’s going to be something that could qualify as turbulent, although I can’t imagine what that could be. If he’s married or something, I can live with that, though I would have wanted to be invited to the wedding.

  Wait! It could be that he did meet his father and has had a relationship with him all this time, and is about to express his resentment to me for keeping it from him all these years.

  Who the hell knows?

  All of this feels surreal, especially how Omar has pretty much removed himself from my life. Sure, he’s sent me birthday cards, flowers for Mother’s Day, and gift cards from Nordstrom’s at Christmas. But I have missed my son. I have no one to talk to when I get home except my sisters, and I know I get on their nerves but not half as much as they get on mine. I can’t remember the last time I had close friends. In fact, were it not for selling houses and even making some improvements on ours to prepare it for the market, I don’t know what I’d have done all this time.

  Anyway, I’m trying not to talk myself into anything negative as I pull up to valet parking at Shutters Hotel. It’s in Santa Monica. A lot of famous people stay here. I have never had a reason to sleep here, since I live less than thirty-five minutes away depending on traffic. Plus, it’s a hotel made for lovers. Not old ladies who haven’t had sex in more than twenty years and haven’t even thought about it until now. Something is wrong with this picture and I’m beginning to wonder if something might be wrong with me.

  I see my son as soon as I walk inside the restaurant. He looks so different. Like his dad, thirty years ago. He’s wearing a plaid button-down shirt, and when he stands up I can’t believe how nice and slim he is. He must have lost at least a hundred pounds. I don’t know. He smiles at me and his teeth are nice and white, too. I walk into his arms like he’s my long-lost son and squeeze him so hard I can feel his rib cage.

  “I am so glad to see you, Omar,” I say, not realizing I’m crying.

  “It’s good to see you, too, Mom.”

  He steps back.

  “Please don’t cry, Mom.”

  “These are happy tears.”

  He doesn’t look like he’s buying it, and it’s only partially true. I’m crying because I can’t believe I just hugged my son after more than two years and because he feels more like a distant relative. Where’d my original son disappear to? And who exactly is this one? He slides the chair out for me and I sit down. This is already too formal. I look at him again as he sits. I think I liked him better fat.

  “What would you like to drink?” he asks.

  “What I always have, Omar.”

  “You could have developed a taste for something new,” he says.

  “I like the same things I always liked. Don’t you?”

  “Look at me, Mom,” he says, and flings both arms up.

  “Okay, I get it. I’ll have a gin and tonic. What about you?”

  “I’ve already had a club soda, but I think I’ll have another one.”

  When the waiter comes he orders for us both.

  “So, how’ve you been?” I ask him. I can’t believe I’m talking to my son like he’s someone I used to know.

  “I’ve been good.”

  “Are you mad at me for something?” I blurt out.

  “Not at all. What would make you ask that?”

  I just give him a look. Then, “After thirty-two years, Omar, you decide to do something drastic to lose weight without so much as conferring with me about it and then out of nowhere you decide to move out and then get a job on a cruise ship, and now out of the blue you decide you want to talk to me about something that’s so important you have to meet me in a public place to tell me. What is it?”

  “I’m gay.”

  I don’t think I heard him right.

  “Say it again because I don’t think I heard you right.”

  “I said I’m gay, Mom.”

  I look him dead in the eye and realize that he really means this. “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why are you gay?”

  “I don’t know. Because I just am.”

  “Since when did you become gay? It was on that cruise ship, wasn’t it?”

  “No, it wasn’t on the cruise ship, Mom.”

  “Then when did you decide to become gay?”

  “It wasn’t a decision.”

  “Well, you weren’t gay for thirty years, why now?”

  “I probably always was.”

  “No, you weren’t.”

  “You don’t know me better than I do, Mom.”

  “I think I do.”

  “That’s always been the problem, you know.”

  “Oh, so are you blaming me for making you gay? Is that what this little meet-and-greet is for?”

  “No.”

  “I thought you were going to tell me you were married or you’d met your goddamn father after all these years and you were going to lay it on me for keeping it from you.”

  “I did meet him.”

  “You what?”

  “I met him.”

  I almost feel like I’m about to have a heart attack. I can’t handle so much bad news at one time.

  “When did this happen?”

  “Two years ago.”

  “And you’re just telling me now?”

  “I haven’t seen you, Mom.”

  “How’d you meet him?”

  “I don’t feel much like getting all into this. It’s not the reason I asked you here.”

  “Oh, so you want to get back to the whole gay topic, then, is that it?”

  “Let me say this. I met the man. I didn’t like him, and I don’t think he cared much for me. We tried to pretend like we were going to make up for lost time, but that’s impossible. I lost his number. And that’s the end of it.”

  “So what am I supposed to do? Be excited and happy for you or something?”

  “It would be nice if you would just accept me.”

  “I do accept you. As my son. Just not as my gay son.”

  And I get up and walk out.

  By the time my car is brought
around, I’m so pissed off I’m ready to drive right into that fucking ocean. Gay? Just the thought of him kissing another man and Lord only knows what else they do is enough to make me want to throw up. Omar should be ashamed of himself. And he should’ve kept this new disgusting habit of his to himself. I wonder if it’s because I spoiled him rotten. Turned him into a sissy. But he never acted like a sissy. I should’ve slapped him. That’s what I should’ve done. He’s got some nerve.

  Without even realizing it I pick up my cell phone and call Betty Jean. “You will never in a million years guess what my son just fucking told me.”

  “That he’s gay.”

  I pull the phone away from my ear and just look at it because what she just said was not a good guess; it was more or less a declarative statement.

  Betty Jean

  You are such an evil bitch,” I said to Arlene, right after she said, “I’m on my way over there and you better open that goddamn door and tell me what you meant by what you just said because if you’ve known this about my son and didn’t tell me, you’ve got some explaining to do!”

  I turn the porch light on and, even though it’s getting cold, I sit on the steps and just wait for her to turn the corner. Tammy steps outside her front door. Puts her hands on her hips. “BJ, what in the hell are you doing out there? I can see your horns from here. Is this going to be on the eleven o’clock news or what?”

  “It’s Arlene. Omar just told her he’s gay and she’s freaking out and coming over here to give me a piece of her mind because she now realizes I already knew. I’m ready for her ass.”

  “Just don’t let it to come to blows, because you know you’ve been storing up a lot of shit to say to her. Try to stay on topic, BJ, because you know we don’t need the po-po on our block since we’ve cleaned it up.”

  She laughs.

  “Anyway, how are Max and Okra enjoying themselves?”

  “It’s Awa. And they’re fine. Loved your meal and my pie! They’re leaving tomorrow to drive up the coast and then on to Napa to look for a place to live.”

  “Good thing some folks are looking, wouldn’t you say?”

  “It may come to blows over here in a minute.”

  “You talk a lot of shit, Tammy, you know that.”

  “I know. I’m just one long contradiction.”

  “Aren’t we all?”

  “Anyway, I’m glad Max has his head on his shoulders, and he is sure in love with that girl. I like her.”

  “That is so nice. She is so black and pretty and her skin looks like grapes. Max isn’t doing too bad either. Looking more and more like his dad.”

  “Speaking of dads, you will not even believe this, BJ. You know Howard lives in Manhattan Beach? Don’t answer that. Anyway, he invited all of us out there for dinner. It was nice. And guess what?”

  “What what what? Get to the damn point before Arlene gets here.”

  “I felt something.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “When I saw Howard.”

  “Well, at least you know you’re still alive.”

  “He asked me out.”

  “Are you serious, Tammy?”

  “I am indeed.”

  “And?”

  “I’m going.”

  “Well, nothing like a blast from the past, as the saying goes.”

  “He still looks good enough to take a bite out of and he’s about to retire and . . . I think that’s Arlene’s Batmobile turning the corner! Yell if you need me to come pull you off of her. Or vice versa!”

  She disappears and slams the door shut. I love that woman.

  Arlene pulls into the driveway and gets out of the car. I just look at her. For someone who has money, she doesn’t dress like it. She is wearing a navy blue pinstripe pantsuit that draws more attention to the stripes than the space between them. The blouse is red. She puts her hands on her hips. “Now, what is it you think you knew about my son that I didn’t know?”

  “What difference does it make, Arlene?”

  “I want to know how in the world you knew my son was a faggot before I did.”

  “He’s not a faggot. He’s gay, which means he’s a homosexual, and don’t use that word in front of me again.”

  “You didn’t answer my question, Betty Jean.”

  “Nurse Kim told me.”

  “How in the hell would that ho know what my son was?”

  “Because her brother is gay and she says she just knew.”

  “Oh, so what is it? You need some kind of special senses or something to automatically be able to tell?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “And you just took her word for it?”

  “I never questioned Omar about it, if that’s what you mean.”

  “But you just assumed it after that? Just because he never had a girlfriend?”

  “No. But maybe it was because he didn’t want one. You ever thought of that?”

  “How in the hell was I supposed to know I was raising a damn faggot?”

  “You need to watch your disgusting mouth! Right now! Before I slap you in it, Arlene!”

  “I meant exactly what I said and I don’t know who—”

  That’s when I haul off and smack her dead in her mouth. She is stunned and I give her an I-dare-you-to-act-like-you-want-to-hit-me-back look.

  “It’s no wonder you don’t have any friends and you’ve never been able to find a man, let alone keep one! No, you always had to try to steal someone else’s, not caring about anybody but your damn self, Arlene. I sometimes wonder if your heart is made out of rubber, because you don’t seem to have an ounce of warmth in your entire body. Just look at what you’re doing to your own son, for God’s sake! Don’t you know that people have feelings, Arlene? It’s not always about you! I swear to God. Sometimes I wonder if we really came from the same family! I still love you and I do apologize for slapping you and swearing so much but you have really pissed me off.”

  “You can keep your love to yourself,” she says, and storms over to her car, opens the door, and turns to look at me and says, “I have tolerated your weaknesses and your years of making one bad decision after another, which is why your kids are all so trifling and why you’re stuck taking care of your goddamn grandkids, who I feel sorry for since you obviously did such a great job with your own. Maybe if your dumb ass had gotten a college education you might be more qualified to offer them more than a roof over their head, and oh, what a ghetto-ass roof it is! And let’s be clear about something right now. I will never speak to you as long as I live. Have a good life.” She gets in the car, backs it out slowly, and drives off.

  “She doesn’t mean that,” Tammy says, walking across the street and sitting next to me on the steps.

  “Oh, yes she does,” I say. “Oh, yes she does.”

  Of course I’m sorry for slapping my sister but I can’t take it back. I’ve called her but she won’t answer when she sees my number, and over the past few weeks I’ve left quite a few messages apologizing for the mean things I said but I didn’t take back any of it. I skipped over that part mostly because I meant it. Arlene said some pretty cruel things herself. Some of what she said was true but I’m not going to hold it against her for the rest of our lives. I just wish there was a way we could disagree without being so disagreeable. Maybe I need to learn how to keep some of my thoughts to myself and stop telling her so much of what goes on in my life. I might have to put Venetia on the same list because she tells Arlene everything I tell her and then they discuss and debate about my problems, as if they have the remedy for them. Which they don’t. Just like I can’t fix theirs.

  I wave to my neighbor, the one who lives on the left of Tammy. His name is Eli Heaven. A weird last name for a black person if you ask me, but after all these years, he barely says two words to me, and none that I know of to Tamm
y.

  “How are you?” he says, and almost gives me a heart attack.

  “I’m fine. And you, Mr. Heaven?”

  “Fair to middling. After a hundred years, I think it’s okay if you call me Eli.”

  “Okay then, Eli. I haven’t seen your son in quite some time. How’s he doing?”

  “Against my wishes, he joined the U.S. Marine Corps last year and is on his first tour in Iraq.”

  “I suppose it’s okay for me to say I’m sorry to hear that and I’ll pray that he stays safe from harm.”

  “I appreciate that. I was sorry to hear about your husband passing a while back. I put a card in your mailbox. Did you not get it?”

  “Not that I remember, but thank you for your thoughtfulness, Eli. You know there was a lot of theft going on around that same time, remember?”

  He nods. He’s a giant of a man, and if it weren’t for his soft voice he could scare you. I always understood why Tammy never complained about all those damn avocados, lemons, and olives that fell over the fence into her yard. There’s only so much guacamole you can eat.

  “How are your grandsons doing?”

  “How do you know they’re my grandsons?”

  “Because it’s obvious, Mrs. Butler.”

  “You can call me Betty Jean.”

  “Okay, Betty Jean. Are they good boys?”

  “They are very good boys.”

  “That’s good to hear. You know how much influence these streets can have over these youngsters, which is why I sent my son to private school.”

  “If I could’ve afforded it, I would have. But they take the bus up to Baldwin Hills.”

  “Good. So, what’s going on with your house?”

  I turn around to look at it. “What do you mean? I know it could stand to be painted and those front steps need to be redone and maybe new window frames, but other than that . . . Do you see something I don’t?”