Growl Power!

by Deborah Gregory

  Hot sauce, Houston, and Karma’s Children, here we come!

  Chapter

  4

  I never thought I’d be so happy just to walk through a busy airport terminal—but that’s exactly the exhilaration I feel when we hit George Bush Intercontinental after our six-hour journey, which included a layover in Chicago, where we caught our connecting flight to Houston.

  “Hi, Ma!” Angie screeches, throwing her arms around our mother like she’s been lost at sea, and Ma’s a lifesaver.

  Meanwhile, Ma is peeking over Angie’s shoulder at Porgy and Bess in their cage.

  “What on earth?” Ma mumbles, her eyes twinkling because she knows we are up to something.

  “Um …” I hesitate when Angie looks at me. We have to be very careful what we tell Ma. Angie and I have decided we are not going to tell her about Daddy’s kookiness—drinking concoctions out of the blender and such—and definitely not one word about his new girlfriend Abala, not even if Ma spoon-feeds us turnips for forty straight hours to force a confession out of us!

  “Um—we’ve never been away from Porgy and Bess for a whole week, and we don’t want them getting lonely,” I say.

  “Your father let you bring them down here?” Ma asks, her eyes bright with disbelief.

  “Well, we had to pay an extra seventy-five dollars and the flight attendant didn’t even serve them lunch!” Angie moans.

  “If we’d have known about that, Porgy and Bess would still be home, munching on their carrots!” I quickly add.

  Laughing, Ma grabs the handle of the cage and puts it on the luggage cart. She looks smaller than I remember her. At first I think it must be because Angie and I have gotten taller. But then, looking down at her feet, I realize it’s probably because she isn’t wearing high heels. I wonder why not. Ma always wears high heels with her pantsuits, and she is wearing a pantsuit today—this one is powder blue with a pretty (fake) flower in the lapel of the jacket.

  “You look nice,” I tell Ma, giving her a hug, and savoring the sweet scent of her Shalimar cologne. I sure miss that smell.

  “Thank you, ‘Nettie One,”’ Mom says, stroking some misplaced strands on my bob into place. (That’s Mom’s nickname for me. Angie’s is “Nettie Two.” I guess it’s because I was born first—by five minutes.)

  “I don’t know where your uncle Skeeter is, but he was supposed to come to the airport with me to pick you girls up,” Ma adds, a flicker of darkness passing through her warm, brown eyes.

  I feel a twinge of disappointment, but I try to hide it. I love my uncle Skeeter, and I just assumed he would come with Ma to meet us. Uncle Skeeter is Ma’s younger brother—and a whole lot of fun.

  “How was your flight?” Ma asks, regaining her sweet composure.

  “Everybody loved our corn bread!” I tell her, breaking out into a big grin.

  “We made dinner all by ourselves, for our friends the Cheetah Girls,” Angie explains. “And we thought we’d bring you the leftovers. But you know how bad airline food is. Well, Angie and I ended up feeding half the passengers!”

  “Angie is exaggerating, of course,” I say. “We only fed about fifty.” I chuckle as I hand Ma the last container of potato salad, which we saved just for her. “Tell us what you think—it’s not as good as Big Momma’s, but I think you’ll like it. Our friends loved it.”

  “I’ll bet they did,” Ma says with a big smile. “Thank you, sweeties.”

  “Oh—here are some chocolate cannolis Mr. Garibaldi made for us,” Angie says, handing Ma the box.

  “Who is Mr. Gari-body?”

  “He’s Bubbles’s father—you know, Galleria from the Cheetah Girls,” Angie says, acting kinda “bubbly” herself.

  “We wish you could meet our friends. You’ll love the Cheetah Girls!” I add.

  “Well, I love these outfits—you picked these out yourselves?” Ma asks, curious.

  “No, remember we told you about Ms. Dorothea—that’s Bubbles’s mom, and she’s now our manager, too. Well, she made them for us after we performed at the Apollo Theatre. They were supposed to be a victory gift, but you know—we lost. So she surprised us with them anyway.”

  “Well, they are beautiful,” Ma says, but there is a tinge of something sad in her voice. Suddenly I feel guilty about being so close with Ms. Dorothea. ’Course, I know that’s silly, because Ma wants the best for us, even if she can’t be there to share in all the good and bad times.

  We all get real quiet for a second, and that’s when I notice Ma’s nails. The polish on them is chipped—which is strange, because she always keeps her nails nice. I can tell Ma’s still thinking—probably about Ms. Dorothea making us outfits and doing stuff for us. I can tell she feels sad about something.

  We drive onto the Southwest Freeway to get to our house in Sugar Land, which is a suburb in southwest Houston. Mom has put on her dark Gucci sunglasses, and her permed hair is blowing like feathers fluttering in the wind.

  “You just washed the car?” I ask her, admiring the spanking-clean upholstery.

  “Yes, indeed,” she says, taking a deep sigh. “You girls got any concerts coming up?”

  Dag on, why does everybody ask us that? You’d think we were Karma’s Children or something—touring around the world, and only coming back home to Houston for some corn bread and bedtime stories when we got exhausted from all that fame and fortune!

  “No, we don’t,” I respond.

  “Well, when are you gonna start recording for the record company—what’s it called again, Daffy Duck?”

  “No. It’s called Def Duck Records, Ma—but they might as well be ‘Daffy’, ’cuz we sure haven’t heard anything yet,” I huff. “Ms. Dorothea says we just have to sit tight.”

  Ma gets real quiet again. Why is it every time I mention Ms. Dorothea’s name, she seems to get upset?

  There is something different about Ma. Maybe it’s just because we haven’t seen her since June. That’s when we moved to New York, after a whole lot of hushed phone conversations and long-distance screaming. Personally, I think CIA negotiations for hostages went smoother than our parents’ dee-vorce. Oh, well—at least now that it’s over, Daddy and Ma are polite and civil to each other on the phone.

  “Big Momma is expecting us at her house, but I told her y’all probably wanted to hang out at home for a little while first,” Ma says.

  “I know Big Momma can’t wait to see us, but we do need a bubble bath!” Angie chuckles.

  “You know how Big Momma is. She wants to see her ‘babies.’ Egyptian and India are waiting for y’all too.”

  Egyptian and India are our cousins—Uncle Skeeter’s children from his first marriage. They spend a lot of time over at Big Momma’s now that their father is living there. Uncle Skeeter is a grown man, but Ma says he seems to have fallen on hard times. That’s why he moved back into Big Momma’s house.

  “Wait till y’all see the outfit Skeeter put together for the Karma’s Children benefit,” Ma says, chuckling. She doesn’t realize that she has just opened up an old wound for me and Angie. “He went to Born-Again Threads and bought himself some metallic purple bell-bottoms, and an even more ridiculous fedora—oh, and a red fake-fur jacket—”

  “Ma!” Angie says, chiding her.

  “Don’t ‘Ma’ me—just wait till you see Mr. Disco! I told him just because it’s a benefit for the homeless, doesn’t mean he has to look homeless!”

  Angie puts Her hand over her mouth and giggles. She can pretend she isn’t jealous of Karma’s Children all she wants. I know she is just as jealous as I am.

  “I don’t know if we’re gonna go to the benefit,” I blurt out.

  “Why not?” Ma asks, looking at me in the rearview mirror. “I told you, I’ll pay for the tickets.”

  The tickets for the Karma’s Children benefit concert are fifty dollars each. All the money is going to the Montgomery Homeless Shelter, which is in the worst part of Houston.

  Ma is still waiting for an answer, but then sh
e figures it out all by herself. “Don’t tell me y’all are jealous of those girls, just ’cuz they’re famous now. You used to love them. I ’member that time when nobody knew who they were, and y’all wanted to go see them at the Crabcake Lounge. You cried for two days ’cuz I wouldn’t let you go!”

  “We were nine years old—that was a long time ago!” I grumble. “They aren’t any more talented than we are. Why should we go see them perform?”

  “You should be happy they’re doing well—that means you have a chance, too,” Ma says, in that tone of voice she uses when she’s giving us a lecture.

  We all get quiet, for what seems like hours. Then Angie asks Ma, “Do you think Big Momma will mind if we bring Porgy and Bess over to her house, so they can run around in her garden?”

  “I don’t know—you’d better call and ask her first,” Ma says hesitantly.

  “Ooo, wait till they get a hold of her strawberries!” Angie says, snickering.

  “Big Momma will have you in that garden on your hands and knees replanting fruits and vegetables till you’re ninety, if you don’t watch out,” Ma warns us.

  She pulls her Katmobile into our four-car garage, and it finally hits me: We iz home!

  Once we’ve hauled all our things inside, I ask, “Ma, is it okay if we call Galleria and tell her we made it here?”

  “Who’s Galleria again?” Ma asks absentmindedly, clearing some plates off the dining room table.

  I can’t believe my eyes. This place is a mess. If we had left the house like this, she would have grounded Angie and me for the rest of our lives!

  “Galleria Garibaldi. She’s the leader of the Cheetah Girls—our singing group,” I say in a sarcastic tone, since Ma obviously doesn’t remember things that are important to us.

  “Oh, I don’t think you ever told me her name,” Ma says.

  “Her mother, Ms. Dorothea, named her after the Galleria mall here in Houston—ain’t that funny?” Angie says, trying to be helpful like always, even though Ma isn’t really listening. “See, Ms. Dorothea was here in Houston working—I think she was modeling for some catalog—and she was pregnant. She went shopping at the Galleria and bought her first pair of Gucci shoes, so that’s why she named her daughter Galleria.”

  “Lucky for her she could afford Gucci shoes,” Ma says firmly. “When your father and I were raising you, by the time we finished paying for everything, I was lucky to be able to get a pair of Payless pumps.”

  Finally, Angie gets the message. Meanwhile, I have dialed Galleria’s bedroom phone, and luckily she’s there. “We’re home!” I say, trying to sound chirpy.

  “That’s good,” Galleria says, sniffling.

  “What’s wrong, Bubbles?” Now Angie is hovering by me, trying to hear the phone conversation.

  “Nona is not coming after all! She went to Turin for a mud bath, and she slipped and broke her hip. Daddy is flying over there to be with her, but Ma’s working, so we’re stuck here!”

  “Oh no, I can’t believe it!” I say, trying to console her. “Angie and I are gonna say a prayer for you.”

  “We’re gonna say one for you, too,” Galleria says.

  Ma throws me a look. “You two better start getting ready.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I say without thinking. I can feel tears welling up in my eyes. That’s the first time Galleria has ever said anything about praying. She always used to make fun of Angie and me with our church stuff.

  You know what? God really does work in mysterious ways….

  Chapter

  5

  If there is one thing we miss about Houston, it’s taking a bite out of Big Momma’s peach cobbler! Well, finally our long wait is over. Stepping out of Ma’s car as we pull up in front of Big Momma’s house, I notice that some of the kids hanging out down the block stop to stare at us. This one boy, with red kinky hair and freckles, starts walking toward us, waving.

  “Who is that?” Angie asks.

  “I don’t know,” I respond, watching him and thinking how much faster he could walk if he tied his sneaker laces.

  “What, y’all moved up to the Big Apple and forgot about us?” the redheaded boy screeches as he approaches.

  “It’s Beethead!” Angie whispers.

  It sure is—even though his hair is not as bushy. Major “Beethead” Knowles is the reason why I have seven stitches in my left knee and don’t like wearing skirts. When I was about four years old, I was swinging real high, showing off, of course. Beethead kept throwing rocks at me, to see if he could reach my head. He did, causing me to fall off the swing and bust my knee on a jagged rock edge. Big Momma told Beethead never to come anywhere near us again. And he hasn’t—until now.

  “Hey, Beethead,” I exclaim, and he breaks out in a grin.

  “Check y’all out,” he says, examining our cheetah outfits. “Y’all sure look different.”

  The other kids are still staring at us, too—like we’re in a zoo or something. I guess we’re gonna cause quite a stir in Houston with our new “cheetah-ness.”

  “I’ll see y’all inside,” Ma yells as she walks up to the front of Big Momma’s house. Beethead waves at Ma, and she waves back, smiling.

  “Y’all got tickets yet to the Karma’s Children’s concert?”

  “No, we haven’t,” I reply.

  “Well, you better get ’em soon, ’cuz they’re almost sold out,” Beethead says, trying to be helpful.

  “Well—we’ll see,” I respond, without further explanation.

  Beethead props himself against the big oak tree outside Big Momma’s house. I never noticed that he had such long eyelashes before—almost like a girl’s.

  “What’s that?” Beethead says, pointing at Porgy and Bess’s cage.

  “That’s our guinea pigs,” I reply.

  Beethead heckles so loud, I almost expect him to expose hyena fangs any minute. Ugh. Now I don’t think he’s cute at all.

  We say good-bye to the heckling Beethead, and go up the front steps. Angie chuckles, and says, “He sure got skinnier.”

  “He sure did,” I say, then coo at Porgy and Bess. “That’s okay if Beethead doesn’t like y’all. I’ll bet Big Momma’s gonna love you.”

  Big Momma never did have the pleasure of meeting Porgy and Bess when we lived at home, because she never came upstairs to our bedroom. These last few years, she has slowed down quite a bit, and she uses a cane to get around.

  “Look at y’all!” Big Momma says, standing still in the doorway so she can get a look at us. She peers closely at my cheek—I guess to see if there’s a beauty mark.

  “It’s Aquanette, Big Momma,” I say, helping her out.

  “I know how to tell my grandchildren apart, Nettie One,” she says, shooing me with her hand. “My, my, my—those are quite some get-ups y’all got on!”

  “This is what we wear when we’re the Cheetah Girls!” Angie exclaims, and we pose so Big Momma can admire us.

  “Don’t just stand there, take off your coats—the pawnshop’s closed!” Big Momma says, chuckling at her own joke.

  I set Porgy and Bess’s cage down, and hug Big Momma real tight. Then she hugs Angie. Our cousins Egyptian and India come running into the foyer. Egyptian is ten and India is almost eight, but she is the same height as her older sister.

  “We’re so glad y’all finally got here—now we can eat!” India says sassily. She has big bug eyes, just like Uncle Skeeter, but her demeanor is more like her mother’s—Aunt Neffie—high and mighty.

  Personally, I don’t think Aunt Neffie’s name is really Nefertiti like she claims, even though Ma says that now she sure is a queen, “sitting alone on a throne.” (She means because Aunt Neffie and Uncle Skeeter got separated.)

  “Is Uncle John coming?” Egyptian asks me, even though she knows Daddy moved to New York because he and Ma got dee-vorced.

  “No. Is Aunt Neffie here?” I ask, playing the same game. Aunt Neffie doesn’t come to Big Momma’s now that Uncle Skeeter is living back home.
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br />   “Oooo!” India says, eyeing Porgy and Bess in the cage.

  Now Big Momma sees them too, and grunts, “Guess there ain’t much bacon under those hides. Not worth cookin’.”

  “Big Momma!” I squeal, then grab her waist. She’s just joking, though. Big Momma wouldn’t hurt a fly.

  “Can we take them out to the garden?” India asks, picking up Porgy and Bess’s cage.

  “That’s where they belong,” Big Momma says, smiling.

  “Why didn’t Skeeter meet me to go to the airport?” Ma asks Big Momma as she helps her put the “good” silverware on the table. (Big Momma always puts out the good stuff when company comes.)

  “I don’t know,” Big Momma says, distracted. “I think it’s time to get the corn bread out of the oven.”

  She hobbles over to it, and Ma runs to help her. “Sit down now—I’ll take care of everything.”

  Egyptian cuts me a look and tries to mouth something to me, but I can’t understand what she’s saying. I put my finger up to my mouth and tell her to “shhh” and tell me later.

  “Big Momma, how was the Quilt Festival this year?” I ask quickly, so she doesn’t know we were whispering. Even though she’s slowed down some, Big Momma wouldn’t miss the Quilt Festival for anything.

  “Junie—how many quilts did they have there this year?” Big Momma turns and asks Ma.

  “I think more than nine hundred,” Ma calls out.

  “They sure were beautiful,” Big Momma says.

  Egyptian starts mouthing at me again. I shake my head at her and tell her to stop. She probably is trying to give me a blow-by-blow account of one of Aunt Neffie and Uncle Skeeter’s battles.

  Angie and I feel bad for Egyptian and India because they’re younger than we are, and it’s hard for them to understand that sometimes grown-ups are better off separating than staying together and being miserable.

  “Are y’all gonna go down to Kemah’s Boardwalk to audition?” Egyptian asks nonchalantly, dabbing pink lip gloss on her lips from a Glitter Gurlie tube, like she’s grown.