A Day Late And A Dollar Short Part 41

"That's bulls.h.i.+t. First of all, I was speaking to Mama. I called her a couple of times but got her machine. So there, Miss Know-It-All. And Mama didn't need me out there because you always Johnny-on-the-spot, running to rescue her and every-f.u.c.king-body, so why should I break my neck when you do everything anyway?"

"I do everything because I can't f.u.c.king depend on anybody else to do it. That's why."

"You don't give n.o.body a chance."

"Oh, stop feeling sorry for yourself, would you? I'm so tired of this woe- is-me and Mama-didn't-love-me-as-much-as-she-did-you bulls.h.i.+t, I don't know what to do."

"It's not bulls.h.i.+t. It's true. Mama always favored you."

"Favored and loved are two different things."

"Not in my book."

"Okay, since we're telling it, I'll just say this. Who had to put all of you little son-of-a-b.i.t.c.hes needs first, before I was even twelve years old? I was a G.o.dd.a.m.n mother before I even had my period! Mama showed me how to get things done and I got good at it. And . . ."

"Just wait one . . ."

"No, shut the h.e.l.l up, Charlotte. I'm not finished, and this time you can't hang up in my face. I can't help it if you decided to get married and have kids and skip college and I didn't. Why do you hate me because I did what Mama wanted all of us to do? It's not my f.u.c.king fault you took a route that didn't manage to upstage me or any of us. It was never a contest, Charlotte. In case you didn't know that. So-you're p.i.s.sed at the wrong people. You should be p.i.s.sed at yourself."

"Ain't n.o.body jealous of your a.s.s. Don't give yourself that much credit."

"Then why do you always make it seem like everything I do in my life is meant to outs.h.i.+ne you? Huh? I want you to be just as happy and successful as me and every-f.u.c.king-body else! Why wouldn't I? All I'm trying to do is live my life. I mean, I used to sleep in the same bed with you. Bathe you. Comb your hair. Keep you warm at night. And now you talk to me with so much hostility in your voice that I can't believe we grew up together. You act like you're the one who always got the short end of the stick when you know d.a.m.n well Mama loved you, and I love your stupid a.s.s, too, even though you keep hanging up in my face every time we have a disagreement. Do you know how humiliating it is to have a misunderstanding with your own f.u.c.king sister and she always hangs up in your face after she says what she has to say, but is never interested in hearing your side? It's such a cop- out. It's so unfair. And childish as h.e.l.l. But it's also a very safe place to be."

"Yeah, well, how safe is it running around trying to act like you perfect, like you ain't got no problems, like you got everything under control? And then you got that perfect son, too."

"I have never tried to act like I'm perfect, or that my son is. Mama's the guilty party there, and I wish you would understand that."

"Yeah, well, she sure did a good job of it."

"I'm not Mama, Charlotte! And stop acdng like she did it on purpose, because she didn't!"

"Well, how come we don't never hear about your problems?"

"Because I don't blab 'em all over the place."

"I'm your f.u.c.king sister, b.i.t.c.h. If you can't tell 'em to me and Janelle, then who can you talk to?"

"Maybe. . ."

"Now you shut the h.e.l.l up. The real deal is, you want everybody to think you so together 'cause you make all that f.u.c.king money, which you good at throwing in our face every chance you get, just 'cause you can take trips and buy a Mercedes or a Lexus or whatever the f.u.c.k you drive, and your son gets letters from all kinds of universities, but, hey, Paris, you ain't got everything under control, 'cause you ain't fooling me. Exacdy what kinda pills is them you been popping all day anyway? Huh? They d.a.m.n sure ain't no Advil o r n o Tylenol. Janelle told me they was prescription. You got a problem with pain? Or just pills? Stressed out about something, Paris? Why don't you tell your little sister what it is? You lonely? Wish you had a husband? Is it something your money can't fix, is that it?"

"f.u.c.k you, Charlotte. What kind of pills I take is my business, and, for your information, I'm not lonely and, whatever the reasons, it's nothing I can't handle."

"Yeah, well, we'll see, won't we? Miss f.u.c.king Perfect!"

"I wish you would stop calling me that!"

"Mama always thought you was perfect, and you think you know everything and go around acting like can't n.o.body do nothing right except you. That's how you always been, Paris. You just gotta run the whole G.o.dd.a.m.n show, and you don't give n.o.body credit for nothing they do."

"I told you: I know I'm not perfect, and I don't always feel like I have to be in control."

On that note, I grab my Sock-It-to-Me cake and throw it at her, but it hits her in the face. I didn't mean for it to get her there. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to do that."

"Yes you did!" She's crying.

"What you crying about, Paris? It didn't hurt. But if it'll make you feel better, go get another piece and throw it back in mine."

"I don't want to do anything to hurt you, Charlotte. I never have and never will. But I'm so out of here it's not funny. I was trying to help clean up, but just f.u.c.k it!"

"Fine, then, leave. I don't need your help. And by the way: don't look for me at Thanksgiving."

And then, out of nowhere, I hear Janelle say, "You'll be there or I'll throw more than some G.o.dd.a.m.n cake in your face, Charlotte. And, Miss Leaning Tower of Pisa, you better lay out the red carpet when she gets there."

"Shut up, Janelle. This has nothing to do with you," Paris says.

"Oh, really? Have you both already forgotten about our mother's request, or are you going to ignore all rationality and that litde thing called respect and let your anger decide what you should do? And you've both got the nerve to talk about being in control? Where's yours? Do you two think this is how we should be behaving on the same d.a.m.n day we bury our mother?"

"She started it."

"You started it," Paris snaps. "Criticizing me about something that didn't even concern you!"

"Stop it!" Janelle screams.

"Okay, but one last thing. From the sound of things, Charlotte, it seems like this s.h.i.+t started a long time ago," Paris says. "I don't know what I've done to you to cause you to dislike me so, but I wish you'd tell me what it is."

But I can't think of nothing right now. I need some time to remember. And besides, I don't like being put on the spot like this. "I don't feel like getting into it right now."

"Well, what breaks my heart more than anything is that you seem to have convinced yourself that I'm out to get you, when I'm not. I love you, Charlotte, but you're making it awfully hard to like you."

"Yeah, well, the feeling is mutual."

And on that note Paris throws the dishrag in the sink and walks right past me and Janelle and heads out to the garage, where I hear her rental car start up. Janelle is just standing there with her hands on her hips. The house is d.a.m.n near empty now, and it's a mess. Paris did say she loved me, didn't she? I feel kinda bad but relieved at the same time.

"I hope you're satisfied now, Charlotte."

"What you mean by that?"

"Nothing," she says. "Let's just get this place cleaned up so we can all get some sleep. It's been a long day, and you must have confused it with the Fourth of July, because these grand-finale fireworks were truly magnificent." She bends down to pick up my Sock-It-to-Me cake saucer, but then stops herself. "Why don't you pick this up?"

"I will."

"Good. Mama's probably turning over in her grave already if she was watching you two act like two b.i.t.c.hes on a side street. It's a d.a.m.n shame."

"I said I'm sorry!"

"Sometimes that's not enough, Charlotte. Sometimes that's just not enough. As a matter of fact, you clean up. I'm tired, and I'm going to bed. I'll get up early and help. But I can't right now."

She's crying. And as soon as she leave, I pick that plate up off the floor and slide my index finger through the frosting and lick it. But it taste terrible mixed with tears.

Chapter 33.

What I'm Fighting For "Hey, get away from that car," I yell.

"We ain't doing nothing to this f.u.c.king car," one of the Mexican dudes says. It looks like there's about four of 'em, but I can't be sure. I'm kinda f.u.c.ked up. I've been kicking it with Silas all day, 'cause he just had a baby and we were celebrating the birth of his son. He left a few hours ago, and I guess I kept the celebration going.

"Look, I asked you nice once. That's my car and I don't want you guys sitting on it."

"This piece of s.h.i.+t!" one says.

"Yeah, but it's my piece a s.h.i.+t! Now, get off of it or I'ma have to go call the police, 'cause it's my personal f.u.c.king property and I don't want your drunk a.s.ses on it!"

"f.u.c.k you!"

The next thing I know, one of 'em picks up a jack and is running towards me with it, but before I can even do anything, two of the other dudes are pulling my arms behind my back and I feel that hot steel hit my head and see blood gus.h.i.+ng down my face, in my eyes, but because I got so much malt liquor in my system, the full extent of the pain ain't registering. It's this f.u.c.king alcohol that gave me all this G.o.dd.a.m.n courage to come storming out to this parking lot when I heard these motherf.u.c.kers out here partying, drinking beer, and blasting their loud-a.s.s Mexican music.

But now that jack is landing in my chest and, f.u.c.k, I can't breathe. Somebody else is kicking me in my back and on my side, and when I fall forward my face hits this pavement. When I roll over I see some guy swing that f.u.c.king jack like a golf club and I feel it slice the skin over my right eye off. I know it's supposed to hurt more than it is, but all I see is blood and more blood. Blood and more blood. That's all.

When I open my eyes, I can't believe I'm in a hospital. I know these dudes didn't hit me this bad. But I feel like 165 pounds of crushed ice and hot coals all at the same time. I can't wait to find the motherf.u.c.kers when I get outta here. I remember exactly what they look like. I think.

"Hi, Lewis," I hear Janelle say.

"What are you doing here?"

"That's a stupid thing for you to ask under the circ.u.mstances."

"Under what circ.u.mstances?"

"You almost died, Lewis."

"What the h.e.l.l are you talking about, Janelle? Some dudes jumped me. I was trying to protect my property, and . . ."

"Lewis, you were so drunk when the paramedics got there that, in addition to your head injuries, your nose wouldn't stop bleeding."

"They hit me in the head with a G.o.dd.a.m.n jack and I fell face-flat on the concrete!"

"I know they did."

"How do you know?"

"Because they were caught."

"Really? How?"

"Don't worry about it right now. Listen to me, Lewis, this is serious."

"I know it is."

"No, I'm talking about your health. You didn't just bleed where they hit you. You bled from your eyes and ears, and take a look at your G.o.dd.a.m.n fingernails."

I'm almost too scared to, because Janelle is too shook up and I have never heard her swear. But she's right, 'cause when I look down I see dried blood around my cracked cudcles. "What the h.e.l.l do you mean, I bled from my eyes and ears? And how does a person bleed from their fingernails?" "You want the truth?"

"Of course I do, Janelle."

"You've been drinking so much for so long, Lewis. ... Do you realize you've been in this hospital for four days?"

I just look at her. Four days? That's impossible. I got here last night. Didn't I? But my sister wouldn't lie to me, and all I can do is shake my head.

"Anyway, the alcohol you've been consuming all these years has finally caught up with you. The doctor said it's destroyed your platelets-the stuff that clots your blood-and when you came in here your level dropped all the way down to forty in just a few hours."

"So what does that mean?"

"Well, I'll put it this way: they said a normal level is about a hundred and forty to four hundred."

"Oh," I say. "So I f.u.c.ked up."

"No, you didn't just f.u.c.k up. You almost died."

"You serious, Janelle?"

"You want me to go get the doctor and have him repeat it?"

"No. Don't."

"You've got twenty-two st.i.tches in your head and six across your eyebrow, and your right shoulder's been fractured."

I know my head feels like a watermelon full of boiling seeds and my eye like it's being stretched; I can't lift my right arm, but I still say, "Is that it?"

"No, Lewis, that's not 'it.' You better take your a.s.s to AA every single day for the rest of your life or you're going to die, for real. And it's no joke. We just lost our mother, we don't want to lose you, too."

"We?"

"Your sisters. Your family."

"Don't worry. But, Janelle, please don't tell me you told Paris and Charlotte and especially Daddy?"

"I just got the call a few hours ago myself. From some girl named Luisa. She said she's the one who called the paramedics, because she was dropping off some homemade tamales for you and she said when she saw those guys running and everything, she recognized one as her brother, but then she said, when she saw you down on the ground like that, she was so scared she ran and called 911, but didn't know what else to do until today, when she went over and got your key and looked around your apartment and found my number. She said she remembered me because she saw the note I left on your door about Mama way back in the spring."

I just stare at the light-blue wall behind my sister. And then, just for the record, I say, "I almost died for real, Janelle?"

"You could have. Yes."

"And Mama's dead," I hear myself say.