Sometimes I feel like they made a mistake in the hospital when they handed Janelle to me. She a case study in and of herself. Been going to college off and on for the past fifteen years and still don't have no degree in nothing. Hell, she should be the professor by now. Every time I turn around she taking another class. One minute it's stained glass. The next it's drapes and valances. But I think she was tired of being creative and now she wanna be a professional. Did she tell me she switched over to real estate? Who knows? Maybe all them years of comparing one child to another messed her up. Treating her like a baby is probably why she still act like one. Me or her daddy didn't have such high expectations of her like we did with the first ones, and maybe this is what made her not have too many for herself. I don't know. But I have to blame Cecil for the chile being so wishy-washy. He lived and breathed for that girl. Spoiled her. Janelle couldn't do no wrong. But back then neither one of us knew we was doing it.
Even still, Janelle is as sweet as she wants to be, a little dense, but the most affectionate child of the whole bunch. She even go to psychics and palm readers and the people that read them big cards. I don't know what lies they telling her, but she believe in that mess. And she say some of the dumbest shit sometime that you can't even twist your mouth to say nothing. The chile live from one holiday to the next. If you don't know which one is coming up, just drive by her house. For Groundhog Day, you can bet a groundhog'll be peeking up from somewhere in her front yard. On St. Patrick's Day: four-leaf clovers everywhere. On Valentine's Day: red and pink hearts plastered on everything. She had seven Christmas trees one Christmas, in every room in the damn house, and a giant one in the front yard! And now here come Easter.
Ever since Jimmy got killed back in '85, Janelle been a little off. He was her second husband. She wasn't married but twenty-two days the first time. He beat her up once and that was enough. But Jimmy is Shanice's daddy. Once Janelle finally got back into the dating game—the last few men she dealt with was all married. I told her it was wrong, but she said this way she didn't have to worry about getting too serious.
Well, guess what? She married this last one. He left his wife of a million years for her. His name is George. He's ugly and old enough to be her daddy. But his money is long and green and he don't mind spending it on Janelle. That's her whole problem: she always want somebody to take care of her. Ain't this the nineties? Even I know this kind of attitude is ridiculous in this day and age and I'm almost a senior citizen. This is the reason so many of us became slaves to our husbands in the first place, and why so many women don't have no marketable skills to speak of now. Can't no man take better care of you than you can take of yourself. Janelle is thirty-five years old and still ain't figured this out yet.
I have tried my damnedest to like George, be nice, act civilized toward him, but I can't pretend no more. He's head of security at LAX, but work for the LAPD. Janelle brag that he got over six hundred people working under him. I ain't impressed in the least. Now, Shanice, she's my granddaughter who's all of twelve, came to spend last Christmas with me and Cecil. That was three months ago. I knew something was different about her but I couldn't put my finger on it. First of all, she wouldn't take off that stupid baseball cap, but I know it's the style these days, so I didn't say nothing. She wasn't here but two days before I noticed how strange she was acting. Not her usual talkative self. She seemed nervous. Downright fidgety. Like her mind was somewhere else. Almost burnt up my kitchen frying a hamburger. Forgot all about it. Dropped three eggs on the floor and sliced off a chunk of her finger helping me chop up the celery for the dressing. When she wasn't the least bit excited after she opened her presents—some ugly clothes she asked for—I said, “Hold it a minute, sugar. Take that hat off and look at me.” She shook her head no. “I know you're not saying no to me—your granny—are you?” She shook her head no again. I walked over and snatched that cap off her head, and when I looked down I could not believe my eyes. All I saw was big beige circles of scalp and strands of hair here and there. “Cecil, get my spray for me, would you?” But I forgot he went down to Harrah's right after the game, and I looked around till I saw one on the table next to the couch and I grabbed it and took two deep puffs. Shanice didn't move and I didn't take my eyes off her. “Why is your hair falling out?” She didn't answer. Just had this blank look on her face. “Is it from a bad perm?” She shook her head no. Shit. Then what? I looked at her hand moving up toward a strand and she started twirling it tight. “You pulling it out?” She nodded yes. “Why?” I'm waiting and trying not to cry, 'cause I want to know what the hell is going on here, but that's when the chile crumpled over all that wrapping paper like somebody had stuck her with a knife. “Tell Granny what's wrong, baby.” She just kept crying. “You scared?” She shook her head yes. “Scared of what? Who?” She wouldn't say nothing. “Is it somebody we know?” She shook her head no, then yes. “Talk to me, Shanice. Sit your butt up and talk to me.” She sat up but looked over at the Christmas tree. “Is it George?” She nodded her head yes. “Has he been putting his hands on you?” When she shook her head no, I wasn't sure if she understood what I meant. I put my arms around her and rocked her. When she finally stopped, she said that George is mean and sometimes he hits her and she's scared of him. “You got any marks on you?” She shook her head no. “You sure that's all he's done is hit you?” She nodded yes, but for some reason I didn't believe her. “Have you told your mama?” She shook her head yes. “And?” She started crying again, but by now I grabbed my spray and snatched that phone out the cradle and got Janelle on the phone. “Shanice just told me George been hitting her and she tried to tell you and you don't believe her. Tell me this ain't true.”
“Mama, George has never hit Shanice. She's been lying about a lot of things lately. She's just being dramatic.”
“Oh, really. What about her hair? How dramatic is that?”
“The doctor said some kids do this.”
“Have you at least confronted George?”
“Of course I have. Mama, look. George is a good man. He loves Shanice like she was his own daughter. He's done everything to get in her good graces, but she has never really cared for him, so this is just another desperation move on her part to get him out of the house once and for all.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“Look. Why don't you send her on home?”
I took a few more puffs off my inhaler, then slammed it down on the counter. I changed ears. “I'll tell you something. A home is where a child is supposed to feel safe, protected.”
“I know this, Mama, and she should . . .”
“Apparently, your daughter don't feel this way.”
“Are you about finished?”
“No. I'm just getting started. I'll say this. You better watch that motherfucker like a hawk, 'cause he doing more than hitting her. You may be blind, but I ain't. And I'll send her home when I'm good and damn ready!” And I hung up.
My granddaughter ain't no actress, and them tears was real. Since she run track and had a big meet coming up, I sent her home, but promised her I would look into this. I told her to dial 911 the next time he so much as bump into her. I just been patting my feet, trying to figure out what to do about this mess. Cecil told me to mind my own business. I told Cecil to kiss my black ass. This chile got my blood in her veins.
The more I think about it, I'm beginning to wonder if we ain't one of them dysfunctional families I've seen on TV. A whole lotta weird shit been going on in the Price family for years. But, then again, I know some folks got some stuff that can top ours. Hell, look at the Kennedys. Maybe everybody is dysfunctional and God put us all in this mess so we can learn how to function. To test us. See what we can tolerate. I don't know, but we don't seem to be doing such a hot job of it. I guess we need to work harder at getting rid of that d-y-s part. I just wish I had a clue where to start.
I won't lie: None of my kids turned out the way I hoped they would, but I'm still proud to be their mother. I did t
he best I could with what I had. Cecil worked two jobs back in those days, which meant I had to do everything: like raise 'em. I tried to teach 'em the difference between right and wrong, good and bad, being honest, having good manners, and what I knew about dignity, pride, and respect. What I left out they shoulda learned in Sunday school. Common sense is something you can't teach, which is why there's some things kids should blame their parents for and some shit they just have to take responsibility for on their own.
I still can't believe they all came out of my body. Grew up in the same house. I tried my best to spread my love around so none of 'em would feel left out. Even lied to 'em so each one would feel special. I've tried to steer 'em in the right direction, but sometimes they just didn't wanna go that way. They had their own destiny in mind, which was okay, except when ain't no clear path in front of 'em you kinda wonder where they headed.
I've watched 'em make all kinda mistakes over the years. Been scared for 'em. Worried myself gray. Prayed like a beggar. But I done finally learned that you can't carry the weight for everything that happen to your kids. For the longest time I have. But not no more. I'm letting go of the coulda-woulda-shouldas and admit that I was not the perfect mother, but I broke my neck trying to be a good one. I'm tired of mothering 'em. It's time for them to mother themselves. I can't do no more than I already have. And from now on I'm standing on the sidelines. I've made too many trips to this hospital from worrying about husbands and kids, which is why from now on the only person I'm worrying about is Viola Price.
That's me.
I'm pushing fifty-five. Twenty-three more days and I'll finally qualify as a senior citizen. I can't wait! April 15. A day don't nobody want to remember but can't nobody forget. Hard to believe that me and Charlotte was born on the same day. Them astrologers don't know what they talking about. We different as night and day. All I know is when I get outta here this time, things gon' be different. I'm about to start living. I can't wait to start doing some of the things I've been meaning to do but never have for one reason or another. The day after my birthday, I'm going straight to Jenny Craig so I can lose these thirty or forty pounds once and for all. When I look good, maybe I'll feel good. By then, maybe I can figure out what I'm gon' do with the rest of my life. Selling Mary Kay ain't exactly been getting it. I just did it to get away from barbecue and smoke—to stop myself from going completely crazy being home. As hard as I tried, I couldn't take the smell of all that perfume they put in their products, and at the rate I was going it woulda took me about twenty years before I ever sold enough to get me one of them pink cars.
That phone could ring. Paris shoulda told Charlotte's evil ass by now, and I know she called Janelle first, and somebody shoulda put out a SOS to Lewis, and Cecil of all people should know I'm in here. I just heard it through the grapevine that he over there living with some welfare huzzy who got three kids. He must really think he John Travolta or somebody. But his midlife crisis done lasted about twenty years now. Hell, he pushing fifty-seven years old. I can't lie. Cecil was driving me nuts after he took early retirement from bus driving for the school district, and on top of that, he had to quit putting in time at the Shack altogether, 'cause his sinuses took a turn for the worse. We had to hire strangers to run it, and we didn't need no bookkeeper to see that they'd been robbing us blind. Cecil didn't know what to do with so much free time on his hands. Vegas being a desert, and where our little stucco house is, ain't no grass to cut, no hedges to trim, no weeds to pull, no pool to clean, so this is when he started hanging around the crap tables and at the same time discovered he could still drive his truck: ram it into some little dumb cunt who probably thought she'd found herself a genuine sugardaddy. Unfortunately, Cecil's truck ain't had no pickup in years so what this chile is getting I don't know.
In all honesty, I really ain't missed him personally, but what I do miss is his presence. That raggedy house feel even smaller without him in it. Like all the moisture been sucked out. I can't even smell him no more. Ain't nothing to pick up. Or hang. Ain't washed but once this past week, but even that was only a half a load. And plenty of leftovers. Never learned how to cook for just two people, let alone one. If I thought about him long enough, I guess I could miss him.
He stopped by last month to pick up his little pension check, looking all embarrassed, and, boy, was he surprised when he saw all his stuff stuffed in old pillowcases and balled up in old sheets and stacked on top of each other in the storage closet right off the carport. The spiderwebs was already starting to do their business. I only did it to impress him. I wanted him to think I can live without him. I'm sure I can, I just ain't figured out if I want to or not yet. He didn't mention nothing about coming home, and I didn't bring up the subject either. I can't lie: right after he left, I was relieved, like I was getting a much-needed vacation. It was like the part of me that used to love him had been shot up with novocaine. I didn't shed a single tear. I been numb too long. Even still, another part of me is scared, 'cause I ain't never lived by myself. Always had him or the kids here: somebody.
“How you feeling, Vy?”
Well, look who's here: Cecil! At first I pretend like I'm already dead. I want the guilt to eat his ass up. But he can see the oxygen coming through this mask, hear me breathing through these tubes, see that monitor zigzagging with my life in green. He take my hand and I snatch it back. When I open my eyes, he look like a bear. He smell like curl activator. Cecil will not cut off his Jheri Curl to save his life. I told him a thousand times to look around: this “do” ain't been in style for years. But he don't care. He think, 'cause he dye it black, it makes him look younger, which ain't hardly true. He think he still “got it going on,” as Dingus would say. To set the record straight, Cecil look like he about four months pregnant. He wearing his exciting uniform: them black polyester pants that don't need no belt, his Sammy Davis, Jr.–pink shirt without the ruffles (thank the Lord), and those lizard shoes he bought at the turn of the century, when we still lived in Chicago. He look like a lounge singer who just got off work. But other than this, I'd say he still might be handsome, all things considered.
“I was worried about you,” he say like he mean it. “You doing all right?” If I ain't mistaken, them look like tears in his eyes. I know how to do this, too, which is why I ain't the least bit moved by this little show of—what should I call it, emotion? I open my eyes wide—like a woman who done had too many face lifts—grab the little notepad from my tray, write, “Take a wild guess,” and hand it to him. He look somewhat hurt and sit down at the foot of my bed. The heat from his body is warming my right foot. I feel like sliding both feet under his big butt but I don't. He might get the wrong impression.
“Is everythang all right at the house?”
I nod.
“You want me to bring you anythang?”
I want to point to my mouth but I don't. I shake my head no. My friend Loretta promised to bring me my teeth, which I know is somewhere on the dining-room floor, 'cause I heard 'em slide across the wood when the paramedics picked me up and slung me onto that stretcher. But her car's been in the shop. Loretta is my next-door neighbor. She's white and nice and a brand-new widow. She even trying to teach me how to play bridge. I just hope she watering my plants and got the rest of that stuff out the refrigerator, 'cause I was cleaning it when I first felt my chest go tight.
“You looking good,” he say. If I had the strength, I'd slap him. I look like hell froze over and he know it. My hair is still in these cellophaned burgundy cornrows, 'cause they won't let me put my wig on. Cecil just sit there for a few minutes, looking like a complete fool, like he trying to remember something only he can't. I guess the silence was starting to get to him, 'cause he take a deep breath and finally say, “So—when you get to come home?”
I hold up three, then four fingers.
He stand up. “You need a ride?”
I shake my head no.
“I can come back and see you tomorrow.”
I shake my h
ead no. He shake his head yes. “After I get off work.”
My eyes say: “Work?”
“Just a little security job. Part-time. It's something.”
I'm wondering if it's at Harrah's or Circus Circus or Mirage: his second homes. I write the word “SHACK” down.
“Shaquan got robbed again, so we boarded the place up. I can't take the stress no more.”
No more barbecue.
“I'll stop by the house to check on things,” he say and bend over and give me a kiss on my forehead. Either he still love me and don't know it or he feel sorry for me. I don't much care right now, but all I know is that his lips is the warmest thing I've felt touch my body since I was greasing Shanice's scalp and she fell asleep in my lap. I hate to admit it, but Cecil's lips sure felt good.
I turn my face toward the window and close my eyes. I'm hoping these tears can hold off a few more minutes. I hear the soles of his shoes squish against the tile floor. The door opens. A shot of cold air comes in, and then the click of that door. I look at the clock. Cecil was here for all of eight minutes. When that door pops back open, I turn, thinking he done come to his senses, done had a change of heart, wanna say something mushy to me like they do on All My Children: Something that gon' make me feel like I got wings and can fly outta this hospital bed straight into his arms, where I can sink against his soft chest and he'll hold me, rock me like he used to, and I'll be able to take one deep breath after another.
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