Ugly Ways

by Tina McElroy Ansa

  On her last visit to Mulberry the year before, Annie Ruth had sat stunned as she and her sisters listened to the news conference on CNN at Betty's house. Magic Johnson stood at the microphone as handsome and healthy looking as always and told the world that he had the HIV virus.

  Without saying a word, both her sisters swiveled their heads to look her dead in the face. Stating their question was unnecessary.

  "No, I never slept with Magic," Annie Ruth said. She wasn't offended. She knew how her sisters worried about her. "Come to think of it, I don't know how we missed each other in L.A. Lord knows I had my share of professional basketball players."

  They pondered her observation for a second. Then, all turned back to the wide-screen television set, shaking their heads at Magic's situation.

  Even though they didn't discuss it much anymore, the specter of AIDS had a place in all of their minds. They had been or were still screwing around too much not to consider the possibility of contracting the virus. Betty had settled down more or less with Stan even though he hadn't quite stopped dragging the streets for other women. And then there was Cinque.

  Emily, usually in and out of quick relationships when she was younger, was not as sexually active as she had been in her twenties, either. Now, she seemed to give off these nervous signals like radio waves to men that told them she would be trouble, she would be complications, she would be complexities, she would be involvement, she would be commitment. She seemed to let men know early on that she was just what they seemed hell-bent on avoiding. And most did. Long ago, Betty and Annie Ruth had given up on introducing her to any men they knew. Those affairs always ended in acrimony and disaster for Emily. And Betty and Annie Ruth usually ended their relationships with the men out of loyalty to their sister.

  As she had watched the TV screen with the reporters and lights and questions, pictures of Magic's favorite haunts on Melrose, his Bel Air mansion, his pool, Annie Ruth had been reminded again of how much she hated L.A.—the conspiracy of lies that told the world there was lovely weather there year-round, all that fucking driving on slabs of concrete that even felt more hostile and forbidding than other cities' expressways, the expensive houses jammed onto every inch of the hills surrounding the city, the fact that she had yet to find one good girlfriend, the universal hunger there for fame or for just being noticed, evidence of the damn film industry everywhere you went, shooting films on the street, in restaurants, in shopping malls and stores, in churches. It wasn't just the shallowness, the hunger for fame and stardom that left Annie Ruth so empty in L.A. It was other things—women at parties trying so hard to be noticed that they seemed to arch their backs in pain.

  It was the middle-aged black men in silk shirts and their old white women in spandex and silicone, gold jewelry and diamonds. Both pretending so hard—he that he has a job, she that they are in love. The rows of convertible Jaguars and Mercedeses with their cellular phones parked next to a homeless family's raggedy Ford. The danger from random violence on the street that everyone tried to pretend they didn't understand. Having to go all the way across town to see more than three black people laughing and talking together.

  She had had to stop going to parties in the Hollywood Hills because looking down on the smog-choked city below and all the unfortunates who could not afford to breathe unpolluted air made her so melancholy that she would have to find a quiet spot on a deck and weep.

  She always hoped to keep all that and the craziness it evoked in her in abeyance during her visits to Mulberry. But she could feel it taking hold of her from three thousand miles away. Just the sight of that "Hollywood" sign on TV up in the hills over the city made her want to spit.

  Whenever she complained to her sisters about her new home, they would ask sincerely, "Girl, what you doing out there, then?"

  She never could form a concrete sensible answer. Despite her hatred of the place, the people, the "life-style" (she even hated that word), she continued to stay there. Even when news of her on-air nervous breakdown would have made it easier to start anew in another television market, she had taken a couple of days off and returned to her seat between her coanchor and the weatherman as if nothing had happened.

  Annie Ruth had forgotten where she was until she shifted in the tub and splashed water on the floor. The warm bathwater had turned cool while she had traveled back to L.A. and it gave her a chill. She didn't even bother to wash herself. She just flipped the stopper, rose, and stepped out of the tub as she reached for the fluffy lilac towel and began drying herself. She caught sight of her chipped nail polish and made a mental note to redo her nails before she went to bed.

  The sensation of lounging in Mudear's tub wasn't nearly as satisfying as she had thought it would be, but she did feel a bit more relaxed and not a bit nauseated anymore.

  CHAPTER 17

  And Annie Ruth got the nerve to be sitting her butt in my own personal bathtub first chance she got. Other daughters woulda kept their mother's bathroom just the way she left it. Woulda even sort of set it up like a shrine or something. You know. Not let anybody use it and got real mad if someone, a visitor or something who didn't know any better, walked in by mistake and sat on the toilet or washed her hands in the sink. But no. Miss Had a Nervous Breakdown on the Air in Los Angeles and Having a Baby for She Don't Know Who, first chance she gets, goes and stretches her pregnant ass out in my personal bathtub with sprigs of my lavender floating around her.

  As a matter of fact, it woulda been nice if one of those girls had had the presence of mind to bring a few pieces of that lavender down here to Parkinson Funeral Home and spread 'em here in my casket for me. It would make things so much nicer for me in all eternity. Of course, the lavender would only keep its scent for a few years. But at least for that time I could be enjoying the smell and all.

  But then, those girls never did really think about anybody but themselves.

  And they got the nerve to say I'm selfish. People just think that 'cause I'm short. Even when I was a girl, people just seemed to get so upset when I spoke up or expressed my feelings on anything. Said all I thought about was myself and my wants and opinions. Used to hurt my feelings, too.

  But then I realized that most of that was 'cause folks just didn't want to hear nothing from no colored woman about what she thought. Not just men, either, just as often it would be one of my girlfriends or their mothers or a teacher or somebody who would be criticizing me for having the nerve to express myself. Humph. "Girl, go somewhere and sit down." That's what they used to say.

  Yeah, I'm supposed to keep every litde scrap of junk those girls send me 'bout their lives—what they did and what they bought and who they interviewed—but they don't even have the decency to keep my bathroom as a shrine.

  I cannot believe those little women. Bitch, bitch, bitch. "Mudear didn't do this, Mudear didn't do that." At first, I thought it might have been a reaction to my passing and all. But now, I'm beginning to think these litde witches really believe some of this stuff. I certainly never taught 'em to whine like that about their circumstances.

  Good God! "Mudear didn't do this. Mudear didn't do that." Whine, whine, whine.

  Those ungrateful, trifling women! Hell, I coulda just walked out and left them orphan girls. But no, I stayed so they could have the benefits of a mama.

  Well, of course, that's not the whole reason I stayed. I'm a person, too, and I had my own needs and likes and dislikes. And anyway I thought, Shoot, I got this house here with my garden growing in back, a man who keep food on the table and usually keep our butts from freezing, three girls—two of them already able to do things around the house. Hell, I had stayed for the hard times, why should I have left just when I saw things getting a little better? Why should I go out in the world and try to make my own way when I didn't have to? But I stayed. Ungrateful hussies!

  It's a damn shame you got to die first before you see how your children really feel about you.

  God! Those girls got ugly ways about 'em sometimes. It's har
d to believe they are my children. They didn't seem to take anything from me ... but my sense of style. And unfortunately, my bad choice in men. But then, I guess as far as choices go, it don't much matter which one you make in a man. They all alike, none of them worth the hard-on they think they got to offer you.

  Now, Ernest is just as good ... or worthless as the next one, I guess. Sure, he made a passable living ... except for that one time ... and we didn't go hungry or anything. But what did he have to offer really? What did he do to make this world a better place than when he entered it? Like the person who invented the remote control. Now, that meant something. Heck, people gonna be smelling and marveling at my flowers growing in the back field long after I'm dead and gone.

  Yeah, Ernest did do a few little things like going to get my cow manure from the country and picking up some few little bedding plants and supplies at the garden center. But I got most of my plants and seeds from ads in the Georgia Market Bulletin from people, other gardeners like me in Georgia who would sell and exchange seeds and cuttings and plants. Sure, sometimes he would ride out U.S. 331 or one of them roads in one of his no-account peeing-on-the-floor friends' truck and pick up a stone bench or a trellis or a tree he knew I wanted. But I'm the one who arranged that garden. Told him just where to dig that lily pond. I designed that, too.

  I have to give it to him, he could double-dig a garden lot 'bout as good as anybody I ever met. He'd have that soil so loose and friable that I could stick my hands down in it up to my elbows.

  Sometimes, I'd have flowers blooming past first and second frost. And that's something. To say nothing of the fact that people in Mulberry gonna probably be talking about me for even longer than they talk about my garden.

  And, of course, my girls.

  Having them wasn't no big thing. Even a cat can do that. That don't make you a mother, just having them. But I raised my girls. Better than most, in my opinion. They know things ... about life. I guess now they gonna have to learn something about death.

  Yeah, now that old Mudear is dead and gone, they starting to pretend that I wasn't nothing to them. My goodness, people forget so soon.

  But I guess I can't complain too much. 'Cause even though I never forgot one single thing that Ernest did to me, I did try to act like I had and that it didn't matter to me one bit. But you know it did. Sometimes anyway.

  Well, if those wenches start messing up their lives again, it won't be my fault. I certainly went out of my way to teach 'em a thing or two. I remember when the girls weren't all even teenagers yet, I sat 'em down and told 'em how to make it in this world.

  "Now, a man, they like to call theyselves the strongest things in the universe, but let me tell you, listen to me now, if you get a man at the right time. At that point when he all exposed and open and down, that's when you can get him."

  "You mean like get him to marry you, Mudear?" one of 'em, I think it was Emily, said. She always was a fool for getting married.

  "Good God, daughter, no! Why in the world would you want a man to marry you? I mean get him right where you want him. You know, get the upper hand. Don't be acting like you don't understand just 'cause you a little girl," I told 'em.

  I remember Annie Ruth looked kinda confused, she wasn't no more than eight or nine. And Emily, Lord help her and look out for fools and babies, always did have that quizzical expression on her face. "But, Mudear," she said. "I want to meet a man and get married." I told her, "Keep living, daughter."

  Nobody can't say I didn't do my best to tell 'em how men are. I know it sunk in with the oldest girl who I guess was a teenager then and already starting to attract the boys. Betty ain't never had time for nothing but business. And where she think she get that from?

  Didn't do anything for them? What do you call my planting a whole white garden just for them to see at night, I certainly didn't need it. But one of the girls said, "Mudear, can you really see your garden at night? That's hard to believe."

  And what did I do? I went right out there and started a garden with nothing but white blossoms and whitish leaves so my family could see the garden at night the way I did. Did I have to do that? Tell me, did I? No.

  Didn't do anything for them!

  And as if making them the women that they are ain't something.

  Yeah, to let them girls tell it now, I didn't do shit to raise 'em, to help 'em out the way a mother should. Yeah, all that time when I kept an eye on 'em when they was at those "vulnerable" stages when I didn't really haf to. You know? Lots of women who turn they households over to another woman, even if it is her eleven-year-old daughter, they don't pay attention to other changes in the household But I did. Do you think for one minute I wouldn't keep an eye on that man who slept in my bed and make sure he wasn't turning my child into his wife substitute?

  Yeah, yeah, I know most folks don't want to think about, let alone talk about, something like a grown man forcing himself on a child and especially when it's her own father. Hey, I may be crazy, but I ain't stupid. If Ernest knew one thing, it was I woulda killed him dead and gladly gone to serve my time in jail for it if he touched one of my girls. 'Sides, the girls wouldn'a let me go to jail.

  Oh, yes, I know the kinds of things that go on in this world. I ain't lived "out" much, but I know what I know. It seems I was born knowing some things. I think I tried to pretend I didn't know 'em or forget what I knew I knew. I think I tried to do that for years. But I learned you can't do that and not go crazy.

  Heh-heh-heh-heh-heh.

  I can't help it, I got to laugh when I think of how I coulda gone on for years and years like I was if it hadn't gotten so cold that winter. And the baby hadn't had whooping cough and Emily had meningitis so bad.

  It was almost like it was planned by some holy power or something. What was that show Eartha Kitt was in? Kismet. Yeah, like it was kismet. But then, I always knew I was meant for something big in this life. I really did. Even as a child, I couldn't wait for the next morning to come to see what it would bring. My Mudear told me that when I was just a little thing, no more than five or six, I said to her, "Come on, Mudear, put me to bed early tonight so I can hurry up and wake up and see what's gonna happen tomorrow."

  That's the kind of child I was.

  CHAPTER 18

  Ernest tried to stretch out in the bed again and go to sleep, but whenever he closed his eyes he saw Mudear as she had looked the last time, dead in her hospital bed. Her face in deadly repose was as untroubled as it had always been in life. Somehow, he had always thought that Mudear would die screaming and crying, clawing at her sheets and slobbering at the mouth, in pain for all the pain she had caused in her life. But it wasn't like that.

  She had been a little weak from the pneumonia infection and a litde short of breath, but otherwise she had looked as she usually did: sleeping undisturbed, no lines at the corners of her wide mouth, no slashlike wrinkles under her eyes, her fluffy hair pressed flat and comical by sleep, thick curly black eyelashes like a child's resting on her lids like two sleeping butterflies. He had been there when she breathed her last. She had opened her eyes, looked over at him sitting by the side of her hospital bed, and pointed to the glass of water on the bedside table. Poppa had gotten up, poured a fresh glass of water from the plastic pitcher on the tray, and held the straw to his wife's lips. When he had looked down into her face, their eyes met a moment and she laughed that sardonic Mudear chuckle.

  "I always told the girls that you don't never know who's gonna be around to give you that last drink of water," she had said softly. She had chuckled again, then she closed her eyes, breathed heavily, and died.

  Poppa knew she was gone because the machine hooked up to her arm stopped beeping and emitted a long flat whine, just like he had seen on hospital TV dramas.

  After he had wearily settled up his bill and signed all the papers that the woman at the hospital desk pushed before him, he had walked out the wide visitors' entrance and into the night. Even the hospital clerk, whose job it was to see that bi
lls were taken care of in the midst of grief, was surprised at the amount of insurance the tall thin graying black man seemed to have. He had tried to get in touch with Betty, but no one picked up, and he just left a message on her machine.

  Once outside, it took him awhile to find his car. At first, he wandered around the hospital parking lot trying to remember what color his car was. He had to go through all the cars he had ever owned in his life to come to his present one.

  Let's see, there was that old raggedy black heap not too long after we got married. Then, we had the tan Chevrolet that we drove to New York in. Esther always did especially hate that car. Then, the green sedan when I got my first promotion and raise, God, I was proud of that car. Then, the Toyota, first foreign car I ever bought.

  When he finally remembered what his current car looked like, he couldn't recall in what lot he had left the brown Ford Tempo. His wandering around the parking lot seemed to do him some good and relieved his pounding head a bit. But he was so weary and sweaty when he finally pinpointed his automobile, he had to lean against the side of the car for a while to catch his breath and get back some strength before going on.

  Once he was safely behind the wheel of his car, his first instinct was to head back toward Sherwood Forest and home. But the blood had begun to rush so furiously through the back of his neck and up to the top of his skull when he even thought about walking back into his house now, Mudear's house, seeing her flowers in the back, smelling her smell all through the house—cinnamon candy mixed up with her herbal and flowery potpourris—that he could barely hold his head up.

  He started to reach under the driver's seat of the car for the half-pint of Old Forester that he always tried to keep there, but he felt he needed some company as much as he needed a drink. Besides, he could hear his wife's voice saying, when she came upon him on the porch or in the rec room having a little taste, "You know, I heard on TV that it's a sign of an alcoholic to drink alone."