The Interruption of Everything

by Terry McMillan

  Lovey slowly looks around the kitchen at the kids and then me, waiting for one of us to confess.

  Chapter 7

  Arthurine is sitting in the living room with a man who looks like a mortician. “Hello,” I say.

  “Why hello there, sugar. You must be Marilyn,” he says, getting up from the sofa. What a little shrimp of a man he is. I can see how he used to be handsome. Arthurine jumps up to stand near him, as if she’s protecting him from me.

  “Marilyn, this is my very good friend, Prezelle Goodenough. I told you about him, remember?”

  “Yes, I do. Very nice to meet you, Mr. Goodenough.”

  “Please call me Prezelle. I’ve been admiring your lovely home. Arthurine gave me a tour and showed me some of those very unusual whatnots you made. This lampshade, for instance,” he says, pointing to an old lamp I repainted the base of and covered the shade with about a trillion tiny beads. It was always ugly. I was bored. And after I finished, I felt like I’d resurrected it. But some of the stuff I make does not work for everybody, including me, sometimes.

  “Anyway,” he says, leaning forward, “I don’t rightly understand some of their appeal, but different strokes for different folks. Now, I do like this here pillow,” he says, pointing to a black-and-purple suede thing.

  “Why, thank you, sir,” is the only response I can think of.

  Arthurine is actually blushing. She is also wearing her favorite tinted glasses that have slid down her nose until they look like they’re pinching it. There are two empty cups on the coffee table in front of the sofa and a saucer with a few Girl Scout cookies on it that have been in the pantry since last year.

  “You two go right ahead with what you were doing. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

  “We’re just getting to know each other better,” Arthurine says as Prezelle nods his head up and down in agreement. His hair is almost white and his cheekbones are so big they look like golf balls. “Oh, by the way, Marilyn, I think you may have quite a few messages because that phone’s been ringing off the hook.”

  “Thank you, Arthurine.”

  “You’re quite welcome. And how’s Lovey doing these days?”

  “She’s fine. Everybody’s fine.”

  “Praise God,” she says.

  “Will you be staying for dinner, Prezelle?” I ask. I’m praying he says no because I do not feel like cooking.

  “I wish I could,” Prezelle says. “But tonight’s bingo night where I live.”

  “Sounds like big fun,” I say. “Maybe some other time.”

  Arthurine looks at him like she’s bursting with good news. “I’ve been invited to play, too,” she says.

  “But isn’t tonight Bible study?”

  “I know the Bible baby—backward and forward—I just like to go as a kind of refresher. It won’t hurt to miss a class every now and then. Besides, I haven’t played bingo in years and something tells me I might get lucky tonight,” she says, giving Prezelle what I presume is her sexy look.

  “Well, that’s just great,” I say, even more pleased that I don’t have to drive her.

  “But it would be nice if you could give us a lift and pick me up about what time, Prezelle?”

  “Well, that depends on how long you want to play, Reeney. It’s usually over about ten or ten-thirty.”

  Reeney? I’m smiling at this Sudden Senior Sex Goddess in her purple and pink paisley jogging suit. Arthurine’s cheeks seem extra rosy today. “Well, maybe Leon can pick you up. Just let me know when you two want to leave.”

  “About six if that’s all right with you,” Prezelle says. “I’m right up the hill. Not even ten minutes away.”

  I look at my watch. It’s only a quarter to two. “No problem. About what time does bingo start?”

  “Seven sharp. In order to get a good seat.”

  “Well, what are you going to do for fifty whole minutes, Arthurine?”

  “She can either sit downstairs in the lobby where she might get bored or bothered by nosey folks wondering who she is, or she can come up to my apartment and wait until I get cleaned up,” Prezelle says matter-of-factly.

  My first thoughts are: is it safe for an old lady to be in an apartment with an old man? But what on earth could they possibly do that wouldn’t be kosher? I can think of absolutely nothing. “I’ll be ready at six then,” I say, and head into the kitchen, past the laundry room. I smell bleach, but it’s not making me nauseous. I’m relieved to be getting over morning sickness and able to tolerate certain smells again. While I deliberate whether to eat an apple or a bear claw, I hit PLAY on the message machine:

  “Marilyn, this is Paulette! And Bunny! And we’ve got an extra ticket to see Jill Scott tonight at the Paramount and we want you to get your dead behind out of the house and come with us. Your husband can’t come. We know you’re preggers so take a nap. We won’t take no for an answer. Fifth-row seats, girl. Don’t bother calling back, just be standing outside the box office at seven sharp.”

  Shit. Arthurine has a date. Lord only knows what time Leon’s coming home. Too bad, I’m going. I bite into the bear claw. I’m not on a diet which is why it probably tastes better than ever.

  “Hello, Mom, this is Spencer. How are you? Fine I’m sure. Look. I wanted to ask you something and you can run it past Dad or not. I wanted to bring a friend home with me for spring break. She’s never been to California and I wanted to show her around. But I need to know by today in order to get the cheapest fares online. So call me back as soon as you get this message, okay? Thanks. Love you. Hi to Dad and Grandma. Oh, Simeon’s got some really cool news to share with you, but I won’t spoil it. Would you mind if we went up to the cabin to ski for a couple of days—no parents—if you don’t mind? You’ve got my cell number. Love you.”

  She?

  I call Spencer first. “Yo, Mom. What up? You got my message?”

  “Yo? When did you start saying that word?”

  “It’s just a cool way of saying hello, that’s all.”

  “When did you get so hip?”

  “If you don’t like it, I won’t say it.”

  “I’ll think about it. It just sounds so out of character. Now who is this girl you want to bring home?”

  “Her name is Brianna. She’s sweet. You’ll love her, Mom. She’s smart, she’s in the premed program. She’s from Georgia and she is truly a peach.”

  “Is she your girlfriend, then?”

  “Well, let’s just say we’ve been getting to know each other better week by week.”

  “Is she your girlfriend or not? Don’t play games with me, Spencer.”

  “Will it make a difference in whether or not she can come?”

  “Of course it does.”

  “Then, yes. She’s my girlfriend.”

  “I’ve got to run this by your father, but as far as I can tell, it doesn’t seem like it should pose much of a problem. She can sleep in the guest room.”

  “You don’t think Dad’ll trip, do you, Mom?”

  “Why should he? He brought me home for Thanksgiving to meet his parents. I would like to talk to her parents, just to make sure this is okay with them.”

  “Mom, she’s almost twenty-one years old!”

  “So what! You’re only nineteen!”

  “What if I told you she was adopted and doesn’t know who her parents are?”

  “I’m ignoring you now. What’s the deal with Simeon?” I ask. Spencer always was the bolder, quicker one of the two. But Simeon was also more poised and reserved, held his cards face down on the table until he had to turn them over. I liked both qualities about them.

  “Sim’s doing great. He hasn’t called you guys?”

  “I don’t have a message from him. What’s he up to?”

  “He should tell you, not me. But you’ll be proud.”

  “You’re driving me crazy, Spencer. At least give me some clue as to what’s going on.”

  “Call him!”

  “Why hasn’t he called me?”
/>   “Because he’s been busy rehearsing. Oh, shit!”

  “What did you just say?”

  “My bad. I meant, oh, shoot.”

  “Rehearsing for what?”

  “Well, let me just say that all those piano and saxophone and guitar lessons are paying off. And I’ll leave it at that. I gotta run, Mom. Love you. Later.”

  I dial Simeon’s number. When he answers I can barely hear him because of the music blasting in the background. “HELLO!”

  “MA, GIVE ME FIFTEEN MINUTES AND I’LL CALL YOU RIGHT BACK!”

  “OKAY,” I scream and hang up.

  I go upstairs to hunt for something interesting to wear that might actually fit. I feel like I may have already gained five or six pounds just since I found out I’m pregnant. As I walk along Leon’s side of the closet to get a better view of my own, my leg bumps into a bag. As I go to push it back, I realize there are quite a few of them stacked on the shelf under his suits and sport coats. It’s obvious they were being concealed. But why? I take them into the bedroom. Bags from Macy’s, Nordstrom’s, Foot Locker, Mr. Rags. I peek inside each bag before taking the items out because I can’t believe my eyes. Leon’s been doing some major shopping. But these clothes look too hip and sporty for his conservative taste: jerseys like the twins wear, Sean Jean and Enyce shirts, an assortment of Rocawear T-shirts and baggy blue jeans that look too small, a pair of Air Force Ones like we got LL last year for Christmas and even a pair of those suede ankle boots all the rappers wear. And Kangol hats just like the ones Samuel Jackson sports. Is he tripping? Maybe these are going to be a surprise for the twins when they come home for spring break. But upon closer inspection, I realize they’re all Leon’s size.

  I want to laugh, but there’s a part of me that’s pissed. Have I missed something? I don’t want to embarrass him, so maybe I’ll just wait for him to make an appearance in one of these getups before saying anything.

  The phone is ringing as I head out of the closet. “Simeon?”

  “No, it’s me, Leon. What’s going on?”

  I turn toward the closet with a smirk on my face. “Nothing, Snoop Dogg! You tell me.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean, Marilyn?”

  “Did you just swear at me?”

  “No, I didn’t swear at you. And please, don’t you start. I’ve got these assholes breathing down my back here, and I’m ready to get on a rocket and head straight for the moon and just say, fuck it all!”

  “Leon, are you okay?” He just said the f-word. I’ve never heard him say the f-word before. Ever.

  “I’m just tired of playing this game.”

  “What game?” This is all news to me.

  “The try-to-stay-on-top game. It just doesn’t add up,” he says.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Never mind. Look, I have to meet a potential client at seven and probably won’t even be home until ten or eleven.”

  “Then we have a problem.”

  “What kind of problem?”

  “Your mother has a date and needs a ride home.”

  “Mother has a what?”

  “You heard me. A date.”

  “With whom?”

  “Her friend Prezelle.”

  “Pre-who?”

  “He walks the mall with her and rides on the bus that takes them. He’s downstairs right now. They’re playing bingo at his complex and I promised to drop her off but I can’t pick her up.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m going to a concert.”

  “You’re going to a what?”

  “You heard me. What? Are you going deaf? A concert.”

  “What concert?”

  “Jill Scott.”

  “Who is Jill Scott?”

  “She’s a down-to-earth jazzy bluesy hip-hop-ish, R&B, sexy sister who writes and sings the kind of songs that tell the truth and speak to us but it wouldn’t hurt for you to listen to her CD since we don’t have an extra ticket and plus you’re not invited.”

  “Who are you going with? Wait, let me guess. The Queens of Oakland: Paulette and Bunny.”

  “Good guess.”

  “But it’s a weekday, Marilyn.”

  “Yeah, and the world turns three hundred and sixty-five days, Leon, not just Friday through Sunday. I’m going because I need to get out of this house and be sociable and you need to figure out how to get your mother home from B-I-N-G-O because I can’t do it.”

  “Then she’ll just have to stay home.”

  “Then you’ll just have to tell her.”

  “I can’t. I’m almost late for my meeting as it is.”

  “Well, that’s just too bad, isn’t it? I’m also tired, Leon. Tired of being the mule that carries the burden for everything and everybody in this house.”

  “But who pays for everything?”

  “You may pay in dollars but I pay in sense. And by the way, Spencer’s bringing his girlfriend home for spring break. Got a problem with that?”

  “No, I don’t. What about Simeon?”

  “I don’t know yet. All I know is I think he’s in a band.”

  “A what?”

  “Oh, stop it, would you, Leon! Call me back when you can hear better.” Click. I hang up. But, I’m certainly not going to leave her out there stranded.

  The phone rings again immediately. “What is it now?”

  “Mom, it’s me. Simeon.”

  “Hi, Sim. Sorry for yelling. What are you doing? What’s with the loud music? And are you and Spencer and Brianna all on the same flight?”

  “Whoa. Slow down, Mom. First of all, I can’t come home for spring break.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m in a band and we’ve got a gig at this really cool jazz club here in Atlanta and it’s a great opportunity and I don’t want to blow it.”

  “When did you become part of a band?”

  “Not long after we got here. Some dudes who could play were trying to hook up this sound and we worked it out.”

  “What do you mean by ‘this sound’?”

  “It’s called jazz fusion. It’s a combination of jazz, rock, the blues, a little country. It’s sweet.”

  “That’s nice. But you haven’t quit school or anything stupid like that, have you?”

  “No no no no. I’m not crazy, Mom. But I am changing my major.”

  “To what?”

  “Computer music and its applications.”

  “To what?” Now I’m sounding like Leon.

  “It’s basically a new form of music production.”

  “Your father’s going to have a stroke.”

  “I don’t see why, it’s my life.”

  “I couldn’t agree more.”

  “So, it’s all right with you?”

  “It’s fine with me, Simeon. Just as long as you know what you’re doing.”

  “I think I do. And when I don’t, I’ll call. Isn’t that what you always told us to do?”

  “Yep.”

  “Well, look, Mom, we’re rehearsing like mad hours and we’re videotaping our best session and I’ll send it to you on the computer to check out.”

  “Wow, technology is something. You do that,” I say.

  “Oh, and I haven’t met Brianna. Just Morgan, Faith, Dasia, Nadine, and Chanelle. Your other son is quite the Casanova down here in Atlanta, you know, but you didn’t hear it from me. Love you. Peace out.”

  Peace out?

  Prezelle’s senior citizen facility is really a very nice apartment complex. They have a better view of the bay and San Francisco than we do from our house. I tell Arthurine that I’ll try to be here between ten and ten-thirty to pick her up. Jill may have sung enough of my favorites by then to hold me for a while. I do not, however, bother to tell Mr. Spitfire.

  I look through the buzzing crowd for someone tall that’s sparkling and has lots of cleavage, and I spot Bunny. She’s waving to get my attention, or to get attention, which she gets, as she gulps the rest of
her drink down. “I can’t believe you actually bailed yourself out of Housewife Prison to join the party people, Marilyn. Two stars for you!”

  “Baby and all!” Paulette says from behind, pinching me on my butt. Thank God she has finally taken those dreadful braids out of her hair. Now it looks like a short curly wig, but when I turn around to hug her, I can see her scalp. It’s her own hair! Her eyes, however, are now green. Dare I say anything?

  “I’m here to enjoy myself, not to be ridiculed, so shut up and let’s go sit down.”

  Jill is sold out. People are standing outside, begging to buy unused tickets. Luckily our seats are good. Bunny has all kinds of connections. A pleasant group warms up the crowd, but we’re waiting to be wooed by the woman herself. I tilt my head back to look up at the paintings on the domed ceiling of this magnificent theater, which has been painstakingly restored to what appears to be its original state. My head swirls to follow the floating women whose eyes look both sad and happy. I’m feeling drunk from the vastness of the ceiling, the flowers, and the sudden appearance of angels.

  A tap-tap-tap on my shoulder brings me back down to earth. A baritone voice from close behind me says, “Don’t tell me you still haven’t found what you’re looking for, Marilyn?”

  The weight of Gordon’s words enter my eardrum like heat. I don’t believe this. But when I turn around, there he is, my first husband, the man I knew for sure was my soul mate, the man who was so smart and courageous that he scared me. I divorced him because he wanted me to know who I was before I was ready. His love was impatient. Mine, too young. He had too much faith in me. More than I had in myself. He was the first person to tell me that if I used my eyes and hands together, one day I would be an artist. I didn’t believe him. I hadn’t created anything. He had all kinds of gifts. He taught others how to accept magic. I resisted. His heart was like a sponge. He cared fiercely about our condition as black people. He was not afraid of the world or his role in it. I wasn’t sure what mine was. It was his clarity and vision that first appealed to me, but then I found it intimidating. Because he expected more of me than I even knew I had to give. And when you’re scared, you back away.

  “Well, how in the world are you after all these years, Gordon?”