A Day Late And A Dollar Short Part 23

"No, I didn't work late. I had some errands to run."

"Is that right?" he says, not taking his eye off the TV. "They fixing to finally let them black Africans vote down there," he says.

"Down where?"

"In South Africa. They had this Mandela locked up for twenty- some-odd years for some stuff he tried to do, sorta like what Dr. King was trying to do here, and now he out, and people is turning out in droves to vote, and they didn't thank this many would come. Black people is something else," he says, chuckling.

"I'm happy for 'em," is all I can think to say.

"What's wrong, baby? Something happen at work today?"

"As a matter of fact, it did."

"Yeah," he says. He ain't listening. His eyes is glued to that TV, so I just say, "I quit my job today, 'cause I wanna be a full-time prost.i.tute and make babies and then go find the daddies and make 'em pay up their a.s.ses in child support."

"Come again. What you talking about over there, girl?"

"I said, 'I want a divorce.' "

That s.h.i.+t gets his attention. He picks up the remote and turns the volume down and looks at me. "What?"

"You heard me, Al."

"Come on, Charlotte, not tonight."

"Why not tonight?" I say, and reach in my purse and get out that letter and throw it at him. He picks it up and starts reading it, and then let it drop in his lap. He don't say one f.u.c.king word, just sit there like all the bones in his body is leaving. His shoulders start drooping, and the next thing I know he slumped over like he about to fall.

"Sit up," I say like it's a order.

But Al don't sit up. His hand is cupped on his forehead to cover his eyes.

"I was praying this day would never have to happen," he says. He's crying. Al is crying. But I don't really care.

"Well, it's happening," I say.

"I didn't wanna hurt you, Charlotte."

"Hurt me?"

"Yeah."

"I'm confused, Al. Some woman serves you papers for back child support and they take our income-tax checks and you sit here and expect me to believe that you didn't wanna f.u.c.king hurt me? Spare me, would you? You're too kind, Al. Who the h.e.l.l is she?"

"You know who she is."

My heart feels like somebody's sticking darts in it. I know who she is? I'm scared to go over the women I know, and I ain't about to sit here and have no stroke trying to guess. "Who is it, Al?"

"Remember a long time ago when you found that note in my toolbox?"

"Her?"

"She went and had herself a baby on me, and 'cause me and you didn't break up, she told me as long as I sent her some money every month she wouldn't bother me."

"She had your baby?"

"Yeah, she did. A boy. His name is Raynathan. He nine going on ten. They live in South Carolina, which is where her people from."

"What's her name?"

"Alice. Charlotte, she didn't tell me about this rill it was too late to do anything about it."

"You ever seen this boy?"

"Not in a few years. It was too hard. I never loved that woman, Charlotte, and she did this here hoping I would stay connected to her, and it worked."

"How good did it work, Al? Tell me that."

"Well, I been sending her regular money all these years, but you know what's been going on around here with the Laundromats and stuff, and we strapped some months, so I ain't been able to do what I been doing, and I guess she got mad."

"She got mad, huh?"

"Yep. She got mad."

"That's too bad."

"Why? I can fix this, Charlotte."

"You broke it, you should fix it, but you know what, Al?"

"What?"

"Don't waste your energy." I get up and head for the steps.

"Wait a minute, Charlotte!" he says, coming after me.

"No, you wait a minute, buster. I done gave you some of the best f.u.c.king years of my life, and you just keep on deceiving me and lying to me, and now I find out you got another baby-not just one, but two! I don't need to be married to no man I can't trust. And you? You can't be trusted, so all your litde theatrics, save 'em for what's-her-name, Alice. Go tell Alice!"

"Charlotte, please don't do this. Just think about this for a minute. Let's sleep on it."

"No, you sleep on it, Al. Just make sure it ain't here. And if you here when I wake up, I'll go straight to the courthouse and get me a restraining order."

"For what? I ain't done nothing to you!"

"What did you say?"

"I mean, I ain't put my hands on you or nothing like that, Charlotte."

"Oh, but you have, Al. You have. You know what? You feel like a credit card I done had for a long time and now I'm over the limit, so I'm taking the scissors and cutting the motherf.u.c.ker up so I can't use it no more. I got enough credit, you know what I mean?"

"Naw I don't. Charlotte, baby, what about the kids?"

"The kids is gon' be fine. They grown any-d.a.m.n-way."

"I don't want no divorce."

"No? I don't see why not. Then you can be free to f.u.c.k anybody anytime anywhere. That's probably what you been doing all these years in your big rig, huh, ain't it? Is that where you do it?"

"Stop it, Charlotte. I told you the truth. I ain't slept with another woman in ten years except you. I swear on my mama and daddy's grave that that's the truth."

"But you a liar, Al."

"Sometimes you gotta lie to protect folks' feelings."

"Look, I'm getting bored listening to you and I'm tired as h.e.l.l and I wanna go to sleep." I walk up a few steps and then I hear him say . . .

"What you gon' do without me?"

I let my foot drop back down a step, and I turn to look at him, even though I ain't exacdy sure how to answer this question or where to start. I just say, "A whole lot more."

"What's that supposed to mean, Charlotte?"

"You really wanna hear it, Al?"

"Oh, so is this something you been thinking about for a while?"

"Let me put it to you this way. I'm so tired of working at that post office I could scream. Let me give you a idea of what I do all day long. Today the computer broke down, so I had to figure out how long everybody's frigging route was gon' take by hand, which meant I had to multiply the rime it's supposed to take 'em to deliver the mail to each mailbox-which is eighteen seconds-by the number of houses on each of they routes. Oh, I forgot to mention that four of 'em called in sick today, so I had to find backup carriers, and then one of the trucks broke down and I busted some of the carriers bulls.h.i.+tting when they was supposed to be sorting out they route, 'cause they'll do anything to get some overtime, and then we got labor disputes going on that they want me to read about in Lord only knows which d.a.m.n contract, and then we get irate customers out front cussing and screaming 'cause their mail keeps going to the wrong address or they ain't getting it until six o'clock, and today I even had to drive to Hyde Park to some rich white b.i.t.c.h's house, 'cause her vicious-a.s.s dog won't let the carrier open the mailbox 'cause he pepper-sprayed the dog a long time ago and now it won't even let him come close to the f.u.c.king box, so I had to go out and tell the woman to keep her dog in the house or she gon' have to come to the post office to get her G.o.dd.a.m.n mail, and the whole time the dog is licking my hand. I don't need to be doing this kinda s.h.i.+t. I got a brain, and I ain't using it! I'm a watchdog. That's what I am. A f.u.c.king guard dog. And you wanna know what I'm gon' do without you, Al? I'm taking my black a.s.s back to school, that's what I'ma do."

"School?"

"That's what 1 said."

"Wait, you ain't quitting your job, I know."

"I am. I'm getting my 401 (k) money."

"Don't be ridiculous, Charlotte. That's our retirement money."

"Our?"

"Yours, ours, it's the same thing."

"No, it ain't the same thing Al. My name is on that 401 (k), not 'Albert Toussaint,' got it?"

"All right, all right. You thinking about going to a real college?"

"1 don't know. Maybe. All I know is I'm tired of getting up at four o'clock in the morning and at the end of the day don't feel like I've done nothing n.o.body even really gives a s.h.i.+t about. I wanna do something for me. Something that makes me feel good."

"I ain't never tried to stop you from doing that, Charlotte."

"I didn't say you did, did 1?"

He takes a few steps toward the bottom step. "Don't come up here, Al. I mean it."

"What you wanna do to make yourself feel good, Charlotte? Tell me."

"I don't know right now. All I do know is, whatever it is, I wanna do it at home."

"Like what?"

"I just told you, I ain't sure! But I'll put it this way. I saw a commercial on television for this international correspondence school and I sent away for some information. I'ma look it over and see if I might wanna try something they got."

"Like what, Charlotte?"

"Why you keep asking me the same d.a.m.n questions? Go! Leave!"

"All right, all right. But this is what I gotta say about this: I'm sorry. I didn't do this to hurt you. I thought I was protecting our marriage by doing it this way, but I was wrong. Sometimes, people make bad decisions, Charlotte, but that don't mean they bad, do it?"

"I don't know, Al, but I don't even know if I really know you no more. I don't know if you really the same man I married. And to be honest, right now I could care less. Good night," I say, and head up the stairs past the kids' rooms. I go in our room and lock the door behind me. I get in the bed with my clothes on and wrap myself inside the covers. I lay here listening, waiting, to see how long it's gon' take him to do what he's gon' do. I'm wondering if he gon' come up the steps and try to fight for me, or if he gon' be a coward and leave. When I hear his engine turn over and the garage door open and close, I guess I got my answer. don't know if you really the same man I married. And to be honest, right now I could care less. Good night," I say, and head up the stairs past the kids' rooms. I go in our room and lock the door behind me. I get in the bed with my clothes on and wrap myself inside the covers. I lay here listening, waiting, to see how long it's gon' take him to do what he's gon' do. I'm wondering if he gon' come up the steps and try to fight for me, or if he gon' be a coward and leave. When I hear his engine turn over and the garage door open and close, I guess I got my answer.

Chapter 19.

Cancer The guy who built this house was stingy when it came to landscaping. The shrubs are downright dwarflike; the trees are spa.r.s.e and nothing more than tall twigs. I can just about count how many flowers there are on one hand. The backyard slopes upward, and because the ground cover never quite took off, the sun and heat have turned the dark-brown bark to a grayish beige. He swore the evergreens would be at least twenty feet by now, but I'd be afraid to put Christmas lights on them. When we moved here two years ago, I promised myself I'd get around to sprucing it all up, and today is finally that day.

I'm basically killing time, waiting for two things to happen. After finally making the time to work on and finish what I thought was still a working draft of my proposal, I was shocked when the agent representing me for my cookbook told me that two or three publishers might be interested. She's supposed to let me know sometime today or tomorrow which one makes the best offer. I almost s.h.i.+t when she told me she wanted "six figures." But I'm not freaking out. I'll be happy with any amount that would help Mama get her condo and car and send her on her cruise. I want her life to improve. Want her to have some fun. Want her to stop worrying so much. Since submitting the proposal, I haven't managed to eke out enough time to write any of the text; haven't even started narrowing down the recipes. All I have is a concept: how to eat healthy and delicious gourmet-type meals in litde or no time and for even less money than you'd think. The agent said they'd want to see a polished introduction within a few weeks. That I'd need to give them a better idea of the structure the book would take.

I'm also waiting for the landscaper to show up. He's black. This'll be a first for me, because 99 percent of all landscapers in California are Mexican. But one of my clients swears this guy isn't your everyday run-of-the-mill gardener: that he's really a "landscape architect." He actually does a design plan. She said he does amazing work, especially with ponds, those koi fish and all kinds of exotic plants. I like to spend my money "black" whenever I can, so this is kind of refres.h.i.+ng. He's already twenty minutes late, but I'm not going to hold that against him.

A pile of mail is sitting on the counter, and I start sorting it-making stacks. At least ten invitations from clients-I drop them in the trash. Two or three letters are for Dingus, from different universities. He's already gotten them from USC, UCLA, Stanford, and a bunch of other schools. He told me this would happen in his junior year. I never got a single letter from any college asking me to come for a visit. Jocks.

It's so quiet in here. So still. Birds are chirping outside, and I realize it's spring. The sun is bright. The kitchen looks like a photograph from a kitchen magazine. It's so perfect. Too perfect, really. I did it all by the book. Bought the best of everything. And here it all is: The Wolf range. The Miele dishwasher. The Gaggenau ovens. The Sub-Zero fridge. But who really gives a s.h.i.+t what I cook on, what I clean my dishes in, or how I chill my food? And did I just have to paint the room b.u.t.ter yellow?

I find myself sliding down the wall until I land on the floor. I wish something good would happen to me. I'm not talking about a cookbook contract. I mean something that would break up the monotony of working too hard. In fact, I should be in my office right now, planning a party or working on a week-to-week meal plan for summer. I'm always planning. Always about to. And it's almost always for somebody else. People I don't even want to know. What they don't know is that the joy of cooking is the cooking itself. It's starting to get to the point where even the presentation is becoming pa.s.se. Because, after they eat it, it's gone. No trace of joy is left.

My energy level is dropping. These are all negative thoughts, thoughts that won't help me do what I've got to do. I need a jump. I hook my foot around my purse strap and pull it over to me. My prescription bottle rolls out and I get one of my pills, swallow it dry, but then realize I'm sitdng next to the sink, so I get up and cup my hands under the faucet and sip the water from my palms.

Without even realizing it, I lean over and look down into the silver drain. I can't see anything. It's too dark down there. I keep looking anyway. I hope that girl isn't pregnant. I know that's what's been bothering me, too, and I don't know why I'm trying to pretend like it's not. This isn't something I can control, and I'm going to have to confront Dingus about it. I really don't give a s.h.i.+t if he gets mad because I eavesdropped. I've spent the last sixteen years of my life, and his, raising him to be a responsible young man. Stressed time and time again the importance of getting a college education, especially for a black man. Instilled in him the importance of being honest, dependable, worthy. Strive to be the best even if he doesn't become the best. That'll be good enough. And how in the world is a baby supposed to fit into this picture? What if that girl decides to have it? Does this boy have any idea what it could do to his future? Please. Don't let this happen, G.o.d. My son may be stupid, but he's smart. He's worked too hard. I've worked too hard to come to this.

I don't even know which sister I dial until one answers. "Charlotte?"

"Yeah."