Who Asked You?

by Terry McMillan

  “Did Betty Jean send you here to harass me?”

  I look at her like she’s crazy.

  “Why on earth would she want to harass you and what would make you think she could get me to do it? How are you, Arlene?”

  “I’m fine. Kim, isn’t it?”

  “That’s right.”

  “What kind of house are you in the market for?”

  “Not the kind you’ve built for yourself.”

  She gets up and closes her door so hard the blinds make noise. I cross my legs. I can tell she still hates me. All I can say is it’s not my fault I’m still hot and sexy and I can’t help it if time is not being nice to her. As my granny always said, “A nasty attitude can make you ugly.”

  “Why don’t you tell me what you’re really doing here so we can get this over with? I’ve got real buyers waiting for me to show them real homes.”

  “Who fucked you over when you were a child, Arlene? Would you tell me that?”

  “What in the world are you talking about? You don’t know me well enough to come strolling into my office talking about something you have no idea about.”

  “Somebody did something to make you so unlikable and so judgmental and so goddamn mean. Who was it?”

  She doesn’t say anything, which is a surprise to me.

  “I mean, people aren’t born bitches, Arlene. But you don’t seem to be able to recognize your own symptoms, and I thought you got a degree in psychology or some shit like that.”

  “You don’t know a damn thing about me.”

  “I know what abuse looks like. And I know a lot of women who act just like you. Don’t like no-damn-body. You get your rocks off pointing out everybody else’s flaws and weaknesses but you don’t bother taking a few damn minutes to look at your own. That’s why Omar was so fucked up.”

  “Omar was not fucked up.”

  “Oh, yes he was. You pulled some shit on him you only see on Dr. Phil. Feeding him to comfort yourself. And then when he was finally able to see through the shit, he bailed, and he tried to tell you who he really was and you turned against your own goddamn son for trying to be honest with his own goddamn mama.”

  “Where did you get your information?”

  “The L.A. Times. What fucking difference do it, I mean, does it make? You done pushed your son away. Do you have any idea how hard it must have been for him to know this about hisself all these years and didn’t have nobody to tell it to? And look at what happened when he told your cold insensitive ass.”

  “You don’t have to call me names.”

  “I’m sorry, Arlene. And to find out you haven’t spoken to your own sister because she knew your son was gay before you did and she didn’t bother telling you. Can’t you see why she didn’t tell you?”

  She just nods, and I might be hallucinating or something, because those look like tears rolling down her face.

  “I don’t like being this way.”

  “And what way is that? Can you put a name on it for me?”

  “Mean and judgmental and impatient and intolerant.”

  “Then stop it, Arlene.”

  “I don’t know how.”

  “You can start by twisting your mouth to say you’re sorry, and then accepting that you aren’t always right and that just because people can’t be who you want them to be doesn’t mean something is wrong with them.”

  “His name was Monroe.”

  “And who was he?”

  “My first cousin.”

  “And what did he do to you?”

  “Too many things.”

  “Have you ever told anybody?”

  She shakes her head no.

  “Well, you just told me. And you don’t even like me.”

  “I do now.”

  “I’m glad. Now. Can you show me what you got in the four- to five-hundred-thousand-dollar range with a view?”

  Arlene

  I’m wrong. And I’ve been wrong about a lot of things. I’ve said a lot of things I shouldn’t have said about things that were none of my business. For some reason it has taken me fifty-some-odd years to own up to the fact that what others do is not my business. If someone like Kim didn’t like me because she was able to see right through me, and she’s not even that bright, then it must mean I am a full-fledged bitch.

  Being mean has cost me my sister and my son. I have been lonely and it’s been hard trying to pretend like I don’t have a son or a sister. I have always been jealous of Betty Jean. When we were kids, she was the one who got straight A’s, she was the one who knew all the dance moves, and on Saturday mornings when our parents had people over, she was the one who performed. She’s the one who got applause. Venetia clapped, too. But I just couldn’t. And it’s the reason I cut her hair off. She had too much of everything and more than me, and I wanted her to know what it felt like to have less. I’ve dragged this attitude into our adulthood, except I’m the one who ended up with the college degrees and she didn’t and for a while I was glad her life hadn’t amounted to much (although I didn’t want her to suffer). But she was happy for years, raising her kids, and Lee David was a decent enough fellow. He did the best he could, and I have never known what that felt like, to be loved by a man.

  And now what I have done to my son is right up there with many of the other cruel things I’ve done. My son may be gay but he’s still my son. And I don’t not love him because he’s gay. I think I just wasn’t expecting him to be anything but Omar. But he’s still Omar. Although I have tried hard not to think about it, not to own up to it, but now, everywhere I go and almost everything I do, I’m doing it with or around someone who is gay. I’ve been wondering where they’ve been hiding all these years because it feels like they all just came out overnight. I’m also starting to think that maybe God has made them the third gender. I watched Will and Grace for years and always liked the Jack character the best even though he wasn’t the star but he was by far the funniest, and it dawned on me when I started recording it that I wasn’t bothered by the fact that these guys were gay, and in fact, half the time I wasn’t thinking about it because they were just funny. When I look back, I’m starting to realize that Omar is just a guy who likes guys, and is his being gay hurting me? No, it is not.

  I don’t know how Kim was able to decipher that someone must have done something cruel to me to make me behave the way I do. And even though it’s true, I can’t put all the blame for my adult behavior on him. Still, I hate him. I have hated him for a long time, and for someone with a master’s degree in psychology it shouldn’t have taken me this long to figure out why my tolerance for others is so low and why I don’t hold myself accountable for much of anything I do or say.

  I am ashamed of myself for what I’ve put Omar and Betty Jean through. But admitting I’m wrong is one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to learn, and because I haven’t learned how to do it yet, I’m trying to work up to it.

  I even miss those boys. I remember when they were little. I don’t like a lot of young people but I like them. Venetia has kept me in the know. She told me that Ricky has stayed out of trouble and is doing substantially better in school. Luther (praise the Lord) is graduating with honors and has offers from more than twenty top universities.

  I made my son my center and forgot that one day he was going to grow up and live his own life on his own terms. Just like I did. Our parents didn’t like the idea of me traipsing off to California either. They thought us girls were abandoning them, which we were from their perspective, but from ours, we were trying to find out where we fit in the world, and inside our own skin.

  This is as far as I’ve gotten.

  I pull into the parking lot of the restaurant Omar works at and, from what Venetia has told me, that he might soon be co-owner of, with his partner. It has very high ratings. I Googled it and my heart skipped a beat with genuine delight when I s
aw all the nice things patrons had said.

  I have no idea what I’m going to say, and of course I called in advance to make sure he was going to be in, but now that I’m here I don’t know how to say I’m sorry to my son for what I’ve done to him all these years and what I didn’t do for him.

  When I walk inside, the lighting is dim but the décor looks clean, like I’ve seen in Décor magazine. Most of the tables are full and I’m not sure what to do, but then I hear Omar’s voice.

  “Welcome, Mom.”

  My handsome, slim son is standing in front of me with a smile on his face, but I must have walked through the glass door because I don’t remember how I got in here. He bends down to hug me and I almost squeeze the life out of him. “I’m sorry,” I whisper in his ear.

  “It’s okay,” he says, and leads me to the open fire pit, where a handsome guy who looks Italian or Greek is standing.

  “Hello,” he says, and kisses my hand, then gives me a hug. “I’m Stephen,” he says.

  I hug him back.

  When I walk into the senior center where I understand Betty Jean volunteers twice a week, the first person I see is Tammy, who is reading to a silver-haired black man and what looks to be his girlfriend, who is white-haired, and they’re holding hands on a sofa and look fully engaged. As soon as she spots me, she smiles, which I know is phony because I know she never cared for me. I can’t remember why I couldn’t stand her. Oh yes, because she married a black man. Back then, that seemed like a good enough reason, but of course now it seems totally ridiculous.

  “Happy birthday, Arlene!” she says, and walks over and gives me a big hug. Hell, I forgot it was my birthday. I guess I just turned sixty-five or sixty-six, I haven’t kept track.

  “Happy birthday, Arlene!” at least thirty other seniors bellow out.

  “Why, thank you, Tammy, and everyone,” I say, looking around to see if I can spot my sister, but I don’t see her. “How’d you know it was my birthday? Never mind. Dumb question.”

  “Betty Jean told me. She should be here in a minute or two. She’s just coming back from the park. How’ve you been, Arlene?”

  “Fair to middling. And you?”

  “Good. Just helping Betty Jean, since they’re a little short of staff.”

  “You’re too young to retire, aren’t you?”

  “You’re absolutely right, but I did it anyway!”

  “How’s that work?”

  “If you mean how can I afford it? It’s called investments and property, something you know a little bit about, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I suppose.”

  If I’m not mistaken, I believe she just winked at me, and I think I feel a smile showing up on my face.

  “Betty Jean will be so happy to see you,” she says.

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because she misses you.”

  “What if she’s still mad at me?”

  “She was never mad at you.”

  “Well, I was the one who lashed out at her.”

  “I can bear witness that she did lash out first and got you good.”

  We both start laughing.

  When I see a line of seniors marching through the door, all in exercise clothes, holding hands, and then I see my sister, whose hair is also graying, which means I hope she finally got rid of those disgusting wigs, and it looks like she’s lost a few pounds and is probably a size fourteen, a size she hasn’t been in centuries, and she looks good, damn good, I wave at her and she waves right back.

  Ricky

  Grandma.”

  “Yes, baby?”

  “After I graduate, I want to work underwater.”

  “You mean you want to be a scuba diver?”

  “Nope.”

  “Can you get to the point, please, sweetheart, or I’m going to be late.”

  “Where you going, Grandma?”

  “To a concert.”

  “Jay-Z or Snoop Dogg?”

  “Maybe next time they’re in town. Anyway, your aunt Venetia and I are going to see Gladys Knight and I don’t want to get caught in traffic. So spit it out.”

  “It’s called underwater welding. You have be a certified diver, which, thanks to you, I am, and then go to welding school.”

  “Well, what exactly would you be doing down there?”

  “The possibilities are endless. Just kidding, Grandma. Okay, really quickly: I’d get to repair or do construction on ships, oil rigs, barges, bridges, and I’d get to be out in the sea and travel all over the world. I’ll stop there.”

  “Well, it certainly sounds interesting. How long does it take to learn how to do this?”

  “At least two years.”

  “Then do your research, baby.”

  “I already have. The school I want to go to is in Florida.”

  “Florida?”

  “It’s one of the best.”

  “They don’t have any of these welding schools in L.A.?”

  “Not as good as the one in Florida.”

  “I thought you said you wanted to stay close to home?”

  “I won’t be gone that long! And like you always said, ‘You have to be willing to give up something to get something.’”

  “Then you were paying attention. Anyway, baby, it sounds very interesting and you seem pretty excited about it.”

  “This is what I want to do with my life, Grandma.”

  “So, is this your final answer?”

  I just wink at her.

  Luther

  I chose USC. Not just because they have a great football team, that’s too obvious. But the coach promised that I’d still be able to play receiver, which is my first love, and I know I’ll be getting a top-notch education, plus I want to stay close to my grandma. She’s getting up in age, and even though Ricky will be here at least a couple more years, I just feel better knowing I can be at her house in fifteen minutes or less if she ever needs anything. I don’t have any guarantee I’ll one day be in the NFL, so I don’t want to count my chickens before they hatch. Plus, as soon as I started getting all those recruiting letters, my grandma said, “You can throw that football, Luther. And you can run fast with those long legs. But I want to see you make touchdowns on and off the field. Which is why you need a backup plan.” I know she’s right. Grandma’s always right. I want a career. Now that we have an African-American president, I will seriously give politics some thought. I hate that I was too young to vote, but I’ll save it for when he gets reelected! Right now, I’m clueless about what I’m going to major in but luckily they give you time to figure out what you like to do and may want to do. But how are you supposed to know what you want to do for the rest of your life when you just turned eighteen? Too bad I can’t major in reading.

  The week before graduation, Uncle Quentin came down and said, “Will you take a ride with me, Luther?”

  At first I was a little skeptical because, although he’s been acting different, Ricky and I weren’t sure what he might have up his sleeve, since I never apologized to him for cussing him out. “Can Ricky come with us?”

  “Sure,” he said, and of course Ricky was in the backseat of that 500 SEL before I could open the front door.

  “How long will we be gone? I have a date,” I lied.

  “With who?” Ricky asked.

  “None of your business.”

  “Just hold on, fellas,” Uncle Quentin said.

  And then he just drove and we were all quiet. I like his Benz but I wouldn’t want one. It screams L.A. When Uncle Quentin pulled into the Toyota dealership, he stopped the car.

  “What are we doing here?” I asked.

  “So you won’t have to take the bus on your date or when you come visit your grandma, my mother.”

  “Get the fuck outta here! My bad. I’m sorry for swearing, Uncle Quen
tin.”

  “I think it’s warranted.”

  “So is this why you were always quizzing me about rides?”

  “I’m good, huh?”

  I chose a black Highlander to get plenty of legroom. I gave Uncle Quentin a high five and a hug and told him I was sorry for all the things I said to him way back when.

  “You don’t have any reason to be sorry” is all he said.

  The graduation cards with hundred-dollar bills, checks, and gift cards have been rolling in. I don’t even know half these people but I am not turning down free loot. It’s really nice to know that people care about you when you didn’t know they knew you even existed. Some of them are from people on our block. Some from people Grandma worked with at the hotel. Even Uncle Rodney! But there are two that threw me off. One was from a prison, and I didn’t recognize the last name and all those numbers didn’t mean anything, but when I opened it, there was a picture of a guy who looked just like me and the card said, “Congratulations! You Did It!” on the outside, and on the inside: “I wish I could have played a part in where you’re headed. I’m just glad you’re headed in the right direction. Love, Your Father, Luther Bridges.” So now I know who he is and where he is and what my last name was supposed to be, but it’s been Butler for eighteen years and it’ll always be Butler. I don’t know if I’m going to write him back or not.

  The other card was from my elementary school principal, Principal Daniels. I couldn’t believe he remembered me, not to mention how he knew when and where I was graduating from, but he put a twenty-five-dollar Visa gift card inside it and said, “I knew you were going to excel, Luther, and I just want you to know how proud I am to have known you as a youngster. Your grandmother has done a fine job with you and your brother. I’ve got season tickets to the Trojans’ home games and I’ll be rooting for you. Congratulations again! Warren Daniels. P.S. I have recently retired. Do give my best to your grandma.”