Who Asked You?

by Terry McMillan

  “This is our hood,” I say, “and we should make sure we keep it that way, don’t you think?”

  “I don’t know right now.”

  “I don’t think I’d want anybody nice moving in next to me,” I say, and he chuckles.

  “Well, let me take some time to think on it,” he says.

  “I understand this is hard. I can’t even begin to imagine what it feels like losing a child. Betty Jean lost her daughter, you know.”

  “I know. And I don’t know how she’s managed to care for those boys.”

  “We do what we have to,” I say.

  He just nods.

  “Do me a favor, Mr. Heaven. And forgive me—but I like your last name, and right now we could all use a little more of it down here.”

  He smiles for the second time in twenty years. “What kind of favor might that be?”

  “Could you please not cut the olive trees down?”

  He looks up at them. “I won’t.”

  Dexter

  January 20, 2009

  Dear Ma:

  I’m sorry to have to write you from here. Again. This time I have no one to blame but myself. As you can see, I’m writing this by hand because the computer just felt too impersonal to say what I have to say.

  Of course I violated my parole for doing something stupid and now I’ll have to do the balance of my time from the previous offense as well as two more years for getting caught with a few too many pills. I’ll be forty-five when I get out but I’m sure you’re not interested in hearing this now. Aunt Arlene has filled me in on a few happenings between you and her and about Omar being gay and how hard she took it. I’m hoping she’ll come around. One day. But we all have to figure out how to accept each other for who we are and not who we want them to be.

  I have to admit something to you after all these years. It was me who told that woman to get out of her car, not Buddy. It was me who pushed a penlight flashlight against her ribs. It was me who took the sixty dollars in cash out of her wallet. It was me who was behind the wheel when we got pulled over. The whole idea was mine. I was only thinking about how exciting it would be to speed off in a car and just drive fast and I knew it would be years before I would ever be able to afford one. I was not thinking about the fear and terror I was causing that woman. Daddy was right when he disavowed me for being so callous and insensitive by thinking this was just a temporary inconvenience for this woman but in reality I may very well have destroyed her life. She might always be afraid to get behind the wheel in a parking lot. I did that to her and I had no right to. I wrote her a letter through her then attorney and apologized for what I did to her. I have no idea if she ever received it, since I haven’t heard from either her or the attorney. I feel better for owning up to what I did after all these years and for finally coming to terms with the pain my arrogance undoubtedly caused someone who didn’t deserve it. It’s probably why I found my way back here. There are still more lessons for me to learn and things I have to pay for.

  I am ashamed of myself, Ma. What I have failed to do with my life especially since you and Daddy did all that you could to raise all three of us right. What has happened to me is my fault. Not yours. What happened to Trinetta just proved how much more power drugs can have over your heart and mind. Because what mother in her right mind would abandon her kids? And whatever is up with Quentin, his need for constant companionship is going to be on him until he can figure out what to do by himself.

  I admit, I’m lost. I haven’t been able to figure out what my purpose is. It wasn’t law. I can’t save anybody until I learn how to save myself from myself. Which has been very hard to do. I don’t know where you find confidence, why it hides from you when it’s what you need, and why hope lives with it. This letter was not meant to be a self-pity letter, but I’m just thinking out loud. You are probably through with me, I would think, by now, anyway, so it shouldn’t matter what I think or feel about myself.

  I just wish I had amounted to more, Ma. I wish I had done something to make you and Daddy proud of me. Not this. I also feel plenty bad that we now have an African-American president and I had to celebrate it behind bars. With thousands of other black men. I also have a four-year-old son, Kwame, who visits me here. I am torn between my own selfishness—not wanting him to not know who I am and not wanting someone else to raise him—but Skittles cleaned up her act, not that her act was ever raggedy—she did a little dancing back when, but it was me who encouraged her because it was fast money. She went to a trade school and now she’s a dental technician (remember that’s what Trinetta was going for?). Chances are Skittles is going to get tired of coming way up here to see me, just like you did back in the day, and I wouldn’t much blame her. As I write this, I’m beginning to think that maybe Kwame will be better off not coming to this place of brick and mortar and steel. I don’t want this place or me in it to be his frame of reference.

  I’ve been here now more than a year. The only thing that’s changed is technology. It has taken me a lot of courage to write you, but even that was selfish, because I’m sure you were wondering if I was dead or alive. I’ve got a pattern of doing things backwards, but one thing I did do was get my GED. I’m just going to work on being a better person while I’m here. They’ve got members from the Church of Latter-Day Saints here trying to spread the gospel, but they’ve also got Muslims spreading theirs, too. I’ll hear what everybody has to say, but I don’t believe there is any specific doctrine we have to follow to be a good person. I want the rest of my life to add up to something. Because I’m tired of subtracting from it.

  I love you, Ma. And please forgive me for all the pain I’ve caused you. I’m sorry.

  Love love love,

  Dexter

  P.S. I don’t expect to hear back from you anytime soon, and it’s okay. I’m going to keep writing anyway.

  January 23, 2009

  Dear Dexter,

  It was very nice to hear from you. Of course I’m sorry you’re back in that place, but you sound like you may have learned something this time around. I’m glad you finally admitted what you did, even though your daddy and me always knew it. I believe in my heart that now God will forgive you, too.

  Anyway, even though you didn’t ask for any, I have put $200 into your account just for toiletries and things of that nature. I would also like to come visit you, so please send me the forms to fill out and let me know when it might be best to come. I finally retired, and now volunteer part-time at the senior center. I know that sounds funny, but I’m not old. I’m just retired. Some people really do need help, so why not?

  Maybe you can ask Skittles if she can bring Kwame over to visit us sometime. I’m good with kids, you know. It would be nice to get to know all my grandchildren while I’m alive. Your nephews are doing well. Ricky has stayed out of trouble since that Juvenile Hall experience scared the heck out of him. (You may not even know about that.) He’s working to keep his grades up. Swimming some but he really seems to love diving. He’s not interested in going to the Olympics, but he’s certified and might teach little kids in the neighborhood how to swim. He’s in tenth grade now. Luther is still a straight-A honor student, and he’s a senior. Getting letters from almost every college you can think of. He plays football and ran a little track. Did you know he’s 6'5"? I guess his daddy was tall. Anyway, he’s going on these college tour visits and he’s got every color jersey you can think of but he hasn’t made up his mind just yet. I’m so glad the streets didn’t steal them from me. They deserve the best life has to offer and I’ve given them what I could.

  I have decided that I am not going to write you any letters with negative things in them, because all it will do is make you feel bad and I know you already feel bad. All of us make mistakes. And some of us have to pay for them. And if we’re lucky, some of us learn from them. You are not a bad person, Dexter. You still have a good heart and I’m still glad you are
my son.

  Let me know if there’s anything you need. I’ll do whatever I can.

  Love,

  Mom

  P.S. Do you like the font I used?

  P.P.S. I will send pictures of Luther’s graduation.

  Venetia

  Rodney is paying for the thirty-year low-interest mortgage he had on my life. I don’t know why I ever loved him. That is not true. I loved him because he took good care of me and took away my worries. But I know now that it’s healthy to worry about some things, otherwise you take far too much for granted. Rodney was not good for me. He thought he had done me a favor being married to me all these years and my prize was our children and that mansion and being able to stay at home, and because I was hell-bent on impressing him, I went overboard, which is why I never bothered to find out what else I was good at or who I was. I never wanted to crunch numbers, but Rodney convinced me you could never go wrong with a business degree. I wanted to prove I was smart enough to achieve it, but I don’t really think he was all that impressed. I have always found it hard to say no even when I really wanted to, but after years of saying yes to everybody but me, I’m discovering that it’s just as scary to try something new as it is not to try anything at all.

  I have prayed over it and have come to realize that God can’t fix all of our problems, that He can’t heal all of our wounds, that He can’t tell us what to do or which way to go. It’s up to us to pay attention, to slow down long enough to notice the signs, the hints God gives us to look, to change our direction if we ever hope to be astonished. I’m already feeling lighter, even joyous, because I finally own my life.

  I sold the house and moved into a nice condo out here in the Marina. I didn’t bring any of that old fuddy-duddy furniture either. Since I don’t have to worry about where my next meal is coming from I sold it all and donated every penny of it to charities that help feed children. I also didn’t want to be reminded of what used to be, since my new mission is to discover what is still possible.

  I have joined a new church, which I absolutely love. It’s nondenominational and right here in my neighborhood. It looks like America inside, because it’s a legitimate rainbow coalition and everybody is represented, including gays, lesbians, and even the transgenders. I am not afraid of the outside world as much as I used to be, and of course the unknown can be scary, but not so scary it’s not worth taking a peek.

  I have a view of the ocean and for some reason it makes me feel young. In much the same way as when I went off to college. I have invested in scented candles. I have refused to walk on stuffy carpet. No more funeral parlor drapes. I am not a queen and don’t need marble to remind me of it. Everything doesn’t have to shine. I think I am finally hip and have a purple wall to prove it. The kids love it here. They find excuses to visit. To stay over. Sometimes we sleep on the balcony and listen to the waves. Watch movies on our laptops. Eat chips and salsa. Chicken enchiladas. Rice and beans. We guzzle margaritas. Laugh at nothing and at everything.

  “We love the new and improved version of you, Mom,” Zach has said with his head in my lap.

  “So nice to finally meet you again, Mom,” Lauren said when she found out I had moved out of the house before it sold.

  BB likes it mostly because it’s closer to her and Ricky likes being anywhere near water. “I’m glad you figured out what was best for you, Venetia. I’ve been waiting a long time to see you happy and silly. You’re actually fun, now.”

  Even with this housing crisis going on, Arlene would only do the deal if I promised not to talk about Omar or BB. Which is why I let someone else sell the house and help me find the condo. I don’t know why people hold grudges for as long as they do. It’s not solving anything. So one person is right but the other person might be right, too. Duh. I still find it hard to believe that my sisters have not spoken to each other after all this time. I think BB just stopped calling even though it’s killing her inside. She loves Arlene and Arlene knows it.

  I have eaten at the very chic restaurant Omar works at, and from what I understand he and his boyfriend might buy it. Omar made me the most unbelievable dish called Ravioli di Costine (I have the menu right here in front of me), which was fresh handmade ravioli filled with shredded braised short ribs and topped with brunoise vegetables, orange zest, and port wine reduction at a cost of $15 but he gave it to me for free since Betty Jean told me where the place was and it was his birthday and he couldn’t believe I remembered. Of course I remembered. We have the exact same birthday. He has kept the weight off, and I didn’t want to bring up his mother and he didn’t bring her up either but I invited him and Stephen to church and they said they’d love to come one Sunday.

  I have prayed for all of us to come to our senses even though I know it’s an ongoing process. We’re not getting any younger and family is family. It is also the reason why I’m taking a Zumba class at a gym where they make you hot tea. I will try yoga in the future, but right now I am loving my jewelry-making classes and might consider selling some of my wares, since people are starting to ask where I bought them. I have started taking long drives, something I’ve always loved to do. I sometimes go five or eight miles over the speed limit and usually go very early along the Pacific Coast Highway. I roll my windows down so I can hear the birds and the wind and the tide. Sometimes I let the cool mist on my face be my latte.

  Zach did work on President Obama’s campaign. He knocked on doors to make sure people were registered to vote. For the first time in my life I volunteered. I made phone calls to folks in those battleground states asking if they were going to vote for Barack Obama. A lot of them hung up on me. Some swore. But quite a few of them said, “Absolutely!” I was Zach’s date for the inauguration. Of course we didn’t get to sit down and we almost froze to death but we didn’t care. We were there along with two million other folks of every race, packed so closely we couldn’t move, many of us crying loudly and unable to wipe the smiles off of our faces at the same time. We waved to him, gave him high fives in the air, chanted, “Obama! Obama!” As he was being sworn in, you could hear a pin drop as we listened to him tell us what he hoped to do for us as a people, and for this country over the next four years. We left knowing he had our backs, and we were there because we wanted him to know we had his.

  I am also proud of my children. And, I like them. They know what they stand for and they make sure you know it. I am learning a lot from them, and I am getting such a kick watching them become whomever and whatever it is they’re growing toward or into.

  I have been on my own for a while now, and I have made and am continuing to make changes in my day-to-day life. I finish what’s important, not just what I start. It excites me to let the laundry pile up. I am no longer afraid of mildew. If I see dust balls forming, I either ignore them or blow on them so the housekeeper can destroy them. I iron nothing. There is a laundry and dry-cleaner downstairs. I rarely cook for myself, because I realize it’s a waste of time, plus I’m not very good at it. It’s also cheaper to eat out or order in, and now that I am no longer embarrassed for being divorced or single or even alone, I often sit in the window of a restaurant and smile at people who walk by, especially children, and sometimes even men. I’m not trying to pick up a stranger. I’m just trying to get used to not being one.

  Quentin

  I’m engaged.

  Mindy divorced me after a year of counseling that did more for me than it did her. I discovered how screwed up I really am. For starters, I am an Uncle Tom. But not because I want to be, and not because I reject blackness. Growing up, I wanted our neighborhood to be clean and safe and beautiful. But it wasn’t. It felt hostile, which is why I chose to escape. This is when I started living a lie. I fabricated a faux world, one in which I insulated myself from anything and everybody that reminded me of where I came from. Unfortunately, this included my parents. I believe it was my way of punishing them because they seemed more concerned, preoccupied, and w
orried about Trinetta and Dexter than me. They were the fuckups. I take that back. They were fucking up. My sister and brother were just as smart if not smarter than me, and it angered me how easy it was for them to be seduced by the lure of the streets. They gave their power away and let the streets win. To me, it was cowardly, how they took the easy way out, which turned out to be a whole lot harder on them. I was angry at them for not following the example I was trying to set. As the oldest, I spent six years in college to become a medical practitioner because I wanted to make people feel better. I wanted my parents to be proud of me. I wanted them to express it with even half of the energy they showed in their concern for my sister and brother. Dad did. But Mother didn’t. She seemed more critical of my personal choices and my accomplishments took a backseat. It hurt not to be celebrated for doing what they wanted for us: to get a college education and become a success. I wanted this for my sister and brother, too. I wanted us to be happy and proud. I didn’t want us to disappoint our parents but especially ourselves.

  Now that we have the first African-American president, I couldn’t be prouder. I voted for him, and not because he is black, but because he represents what integrity looks like on us. He is living proof of the slogan “Yes We Can.” I’m hopeful that youngsters growing up where I came from will understand that they have more power than they think. They can change the world. They can follow in his footsteps. They can renounce poverty and failure if they’re willing to swim through all the muck until they reach clear water.

  I’ve been trying to change things about myself that have alienated and hurt the people I care about most. My mother has been fed up with me forever. Sometimes I don’t think she likes me. I’m sure she thinks I’m elitist, but that’s not true. It has cost a lot for me to pretend others don’t see my skin color when in fact they do. I don’t blend in and I finally get it. I’ve been trying to prove my worth to strangers. My mother’s acceptance is far more important to me, especially now that she’s getting up in age and I’m all she has left. I want her to know that she can count on me.