All About Eva (18 page)

We walked up the long, steep staircase to the upper floor and saw that people were packed in like sardines.

Onstage, a local musician who I recognized as Lil Earl was performing a spirited version of “Sweet Home Chicago.”

A voice in the crowd shouted, “Hey, everybody, Booney's in the house!”

The crowd parted like the Red Sea to make room for my uncle, who has been well known and respected at the Sugar Shack for many years.

The Cantrell family is full of talented people who could have gone all the way and been superstars if fate and circumstances would have been kinder.

Like Gwen, Uncle Booney was also musically gifted, but unfortunately, his only claim to fame is that he was a member of the music group Earth, Wind & Fire before they made it big. He was the star and lead singer of the group until one night after the group played a gig at the old Palladium, someone slipped him a joint laced with PCP, and he had to be hospitalized for two weeks. The diagnosis: Uncle Booney was “stuck,” meaning that he had lost a few of his marbles and would never quite be the same again. (Hence the fashion time warp and the choice to wear a wool coat and leather gloves in the middle of July.)

The other members of Earth, Wind & Fire made the unanimous decision to replace Uncle Booney with an equally talented lead singer named Philip Bailey, and the rest is musical history.

Ever since that fateful night, my uncle has lived under my grandmother's roof and received monthly disability checks that have to be doled out and closely monitored, or else he will end up tricking all his dough on manipulative women who know that he's generous, plus not wrapped too tight when it comes to sound judgment.

Uncle Booney led the way to a table directly in front of the stage, which a couple gladly gave up when they saw us coming.

“This place sure hasn't changed much,” I said to Pam as we took a seat.

“And neither have the people,” Pam said. “Girl, talk about country!” The Sugar Shack catered to an older crowd, I'd say around thirty-five and up. It was true that some of the regulars looked like they were fresh out of the backwoods, sporting finger waves and Jheri curls as if it were still 1985. It was no wonder that Uncle Booney felt so at home there.

“I'm going to go cut a rug,” said Uncle Booney, his eyes following the big behind of a woman who had just walked past him. “I'll catch up with you two later.”

“All right, now, cat daddy,” I said, “don't hurt yourself!”

“And don't put nobody's eyes out with that bright suit!” Pam called after him, as he disappeared into the crowd.

Gwen took her own sweet time in hitting the stage, but when she did, she came out totally transformed. Her makeup was heavy but flawless, and her wig game was proper. She wore black slacks, and a black sequined top that looked like sparkling diamonds when it caught the light.

“Good evening, everybody!” Gwen said. “Before I get started, I want to say a special hello to my two daughters who are both here with me tonight—Eva and Pam . . .”

With that said, she launched into a medley of blues classics, including “Cheatin' in the Next Room” and “Let's Straighten It Out.”

The crowd was loving her, and we were all in agreement that Gwen was giving it her all and was tearing the roof off the mother-sucker.

“Look at your mama; she's a star up in here!” Pam said, like a proud parent.

I was proud of Gwen, but in a way, it felt like I was watching a stranger perform up there, because really, we hardly knew each other.

Later, in the wee hours of the morning, I woke up on Mama Nita's plastic-covered couch to the sound of breaking glass. I got up to investigate, and gravitated toward the only light that was on in the house, which was coming from the kitchen. There was food all over the counter, and my grandma had dropped a glass full of milk onto the floor, and the splatter was everywhere, including down the front of her nightgown.

“Grandma Nita, what are you doing?” I asked, grabbing some paper towels to clean up the mess on the floor.

“I'm making myself a snack, what the hell does it look like I'm doing?” she asked, sounding like her old self, but not really. There was no hint of love in her tone. She was just downright
mean.
“And what are you doing here, anyway?”

“I came to visit you for a while. Didn't Gwen tell you?”

“Gwen who?”

“Gwen, your daughter. . . .” I said, swallowing the lump in my throat. “Your youngest child? My mother?”

There was no flicker of recognition in her eyes, and Mama Nita didn't respond.

Instead, she went back to earnestly slapping together a raw bacon and peanut butter sandwich. “Well, where is LeAnn? She's the only one that I can count on to do anything for me around here.”

I didn't know how to answer that. LeAnn was my deceased aunt, and my grandmother's firstborn child who had passed away due to a car crash, years before Gwen was even born.

The story behind my aunt LeAnn's death was that Mama Nita was nineteen years old and had just learned how to drive. Car seats had yet to be invented, so when the accident happened, the baby didn't have a chance. Mama Nita was so devastated that it was her inexperience as a driver that led to LeAnn's death that she never forgave herself, and she never got behind the wheel of a car again.

“Come on, Grandma, let me help you.” I tried to steer her toward a chair at the kitchen table, but she slapped my hands away.

“Will you leave me alone and get out of here?” she screamed, and then flew into a fit of rage, wildly raking everything that was on the counter onto the floor.

For the first time in my life, I was scared of her. Not only did my grandmother not recognize me, but she was volatile and many times stronger than I was.

Luckily, Gwen came into the kitchen and took control of the situation.

“Mama, calm down!” said Gwen. “What is it that has you so upset?”

“LeAnn, where have you been, girl?” Mama Nita asked Gwen. “Now, I done told you about inviting strange folks up in my house, now didn't I?”

“Yes, ma'am, you did,” Gwen said, holding my grandmother close and stroking her back to calm her down. “I just had to go take care of a few things, but I'm back now. . . . Come on, let's go back to bed.”

Mama Nita took hold of Gwen's hand as if she were a lost child, and let her lead her back to her bedroom.

Later that same morning was Christmas Eve. I sat at the kitchen table drinking a cup of weak instant coffee and watching the snow come down in big, fluffy clumps. If the snow kept up, it would be a white Christmas in Chicago after all. I was also trying to figure out what gifts to give everyone on my extremely low Christmas fund budget, when Gwen walked in wearing a silk floral robe and a silk sleep bonnet on her head. She was still attractive without full makeup, but she looked a bit worn out and sad.

“How did you sleep last night?” she asked, joining me at the table.

“I didn't,” I said. “I couldn't stop thinking about Grandma Nita and what she's going through.”

“Yeah, it's hard to watch, I'll tell you that. But, as heartbreaking as it is for us to see her deteriorate, it's even worse for her,” Gwen said. “On some level, she knows what's happening to her, and she scared to death. That's why she lashes out like she did last night.”

“Of all people, why did this have to happen to her? She was the most vibrant person I knew.”

“That's life, baby. Sometimes all you can do is learn how to roll with the punches.”

“What hurts the most is that she didn't even recognize me,” I said. “Mama Nita helped raise me, and now she has no idea who I am.”

“It makes you realize that life is so much shorter than you think it is, and one day we're all going to have more yesterdays than we have tomorrows.”

I looked at Gwen wondering when she had grown up, and why she hadn't had all of this motherly wisdom when I needed it the most. If the sweet, levelheaded woman sitting across from me had been consistently present when I was kid, we would have a completely different relationship.

I guess the saying is true: Better late than never.

That afternoon, I braved the cold and the snow and joined the masses of last-minute Christmas shoppers at Woodfield Mall. There was a mall Santa who was popular with the kids, and the place was decorated with millions of Christmas lights and other festive decorations, but the mall was also a madhouse, times ten.

People were shoving each other and practically snatching merchandise out of each other's hands. I'm talking about no Christmas spirit being shown whatsoever.

After about half an hour, I determined that a $200 Visa gift card for the adults and $75 for each of the kids was fair given my circumstances, and called it a day.

Just as I was about to leave the mall and head to Bank of America, I felt my pay-as-you-go cell phone vibrating in my purse.

I was surprised about two things: 1) that I was able to get reception, and 2) that it was Vance. What could he possibly want?

I plugged my index finger in my ear and answered, “Hello?”

“Hey, Eva, how'ya doing? It's Vance.”

“Hey, how are you?”

“I'm good,” he said. “I was just calling to make sure you made it to Chicago safe and sound.”

“Oh, how sweet! Yeah, I made it okay. . . .”

“That's great! I also wanted to say Merry Christmas, and to tell you that I have some meetings in Los Angeles coming up, and I thought I would make a stop in Chicago on my way,” he said. “If that's all right with you.”

“Yeah, it's cool,” I said. “When are you coming in?”

“In a couple of weeks, but I just wanted to give you a heads-up,” said Vance. “I'll be staying at the Ritz Carlton downtown, and I'll give you another call just as soon as I get in.”

“Well, cool! I look forward to seeing you.”

“Same here,” Vance said. “And, Merry Christmas, Eva.” He said it with a degree of tenderness that is usually reserved for lovers.

I didn't know why Vance was making a pit stop to see me on his way to the West Coast, but I was certainly intrigued. It had only been a day since I had last seen him, but at that moment, I realized that I kinda missed him.

Being in the midst of my family for the first holiday season since I had left home years before felt wonderful.

It wasn't exactly a Waltons' family Christmas, but it did feel like old times, and at least there was no bloodshed like the year second cousins Bridget and Marcia got into a death match over an unpaid loan.

Pam and I cooked dinner while the kids played in the living room, and my grandma sat on the couch staring blankly at the television, which was tuned to TBS and
A Christmas Story
marathon. She hadn't uttered a word all day, which was much more terrifying to me than the violent outburst she'd had on my first night home.

In the kitchen, I prepared my specialties of homemade cranberry sauce, yams topped with marshmallows, and banana pudding. Pam was now the best cook in the family because Mama Nita was no longer able, so she took care of the turkey, ham, cornbread dressing, and all the other fixings.

Uncle Booney was off somewhere spending the day with one of his many lady friends, and Gwen had left earlier that morning for the annual Christmas Day Blues breakfast where she was performing. It was a BYOB event put on by the radio station WHPK FM and is a big deal among local blues lovers. They get a chance to dress up and go dance, eat, and get drunk from eight in the morning until one in the afternoon.

It was just as well that she wasn't there, because nobody wanted or expected her to cook anything, anyway. Gwen liked to drink wine while she cooked, which we have all learned the hard way is a big no-no for her. More often than not, all she does is end up ruining everything she touches.

For example, one year when I was about fourteen, Gwen happened to be home for the holiday and was supposed to be helping Mama Nita in the kitchen. She had been sipping on Carlo Rossi sangria for most of the day, and accidentally put two cups of salt in the sweet potato pie instead of two cups of sugar. Our aunt Anita got so sick after taking a big bite of that nasty pie that she had to be rushed to the emergency room because of her high blood pressure.

“So what's up with all that missing money, girl?” Pam asked in a whisper, as if the house were bugged.

In the middle of slicing bananas for the banana pudding, I threw my head back and sighed. “Not you, too! Look, you know me,” I said. “If I had an inkling where that money was, please believe that we would all be living on our own secluded island somewhere with pink sand and turquoise water, and I would be paying my own personal team of scientists to come up with a cure for Alzheimer's.”

“Now, that's true. . . .” Pam said. “But listen, I have something in the works that has the potential to make us all rich. I'm talking about dream house, and hand-over-fist money.”

Pam was just as bad as Gwen was when it came to pie-in-the-sky ideas, and was always on the lookout for a big come-up. She was thirty, three years older than I was, but she had started her illustrious career as a hustler at the tender age of seven, with the usual lemonade stand and paper route. Around age thirteen, Pam got wind of a hair product called Rio Hair, which claimed to straighten even the toughest grade of hair without lye or other harsh chemicals.

Supposedly, all you had to do was comb the product through your hair, rinse, and enjoy. My sister saw Rio Hair as her ticket to riches, and saved up her allowance money she got from her dad and bought several jars. Me being an impressionable ten-year-old, I was all too eager to have long, illustrious hair like the woman on the jar, so I agreed to let Pam use the product on me.

You see where this is going, right?

Let's just say that it is very damaging to the self-esteem of a ten-year-old girl to be “ball-headed,” as Jamal Junior would say.

In the years following the Rio Hair debacle, Pam's list of get-rich-quick schemes would grow to include Quixtar, phone cards, Kirby vacuum cleaners, vitamins that promised to cure all ailments, including diabetes and cancer. And the list goes on and on.

Now, I understand that you are a single mother, and have to do all that is necessary to make it and provide a good life for your kids, but if it sounds too good to be true, then it usually is.

“What do you have going on now, Pam?” I asked, trying to sound enthused, but failing.

“Sis, let me tell you!” she said, launching into a long-winded presentation about a proposed business that would operate like a personal assistant to single mothers in the Chicago area. From running errands to picking the kids up from football practice, whatever was needed Pam's proposed business would take care of it for you, for a reasonably priced annual fee.

“Members can donate their gently used children's clothes, and in exchange, buy things for their own kids at very affordable prices,” Pam said, her eyes shining with excitement. “And they'll also get discounted rates from local businesses, like day care, dry cleaning, housekeeping services, you know . . . stuff like that.”

“Do you have a business plan?” I asked, cautiously.

“Oh, yeah. The Small Business Administration has been helping me work on my business plan for the last month or so, and I'm almost done,” said Pam. “Then the next step after that is to try to secure funding.”

I thought it over for a minute or so, then put my knife down, wiped my hands on a dishtowel, and gave Pam a big hug.

I was impressed. Rather than coming up with yet another go-nowhere, boarding on illegal scam, my habitually conniving sister had come up with a very unique and practical idea that could actually net profits.

“Me likey!” I said, giving Pam a high five. “If I were a single mother, I would definitely be interested in a service like that.”

“See, and you thought it was gonna be about some bullcrap, didn't you?”

“Well, it's not like that hasn't been your M.O. all these years, but I'm happy for you, sis,” I said. “What are you going to name the business?”

“That is yet to be determined, but right now, I'm leaning toward Mother's Helper.”

“Perfect!” I said. “Say no more, done and done!”

“Aww, thanks, Eva,” Pam said, initiating another hug. “It's so good to have you home, I missed my little sis. Even though little sis is all grown up and getting into trouble on a much bigger scale.”

“Girl, tell me about it! And it's not even like its some shit that I actively participated in. Contrary to what it may look like, it's all completely circumstantial.”

“I know, but those are some hellified circumstances,” Pam said. “The media has you looking like Queen Bee of the Ponzi scheme, and like you and Donovan sat at the kitchen table and planned all that shit out from day one.”

“And that's the part I hate the most,” I said. “Lord knows there's nothing I hate worse than being accused of something I didn't do.”

Pam laughed. “Shoot, don't I know it!” she said. “Remember that time you wanted to fight me every day for a week because I told Grandma you broke her big, crystal candy dish, when I was really the one who had done it?”

“Oh, yeah, I remember!” I said. “I got the butt whooping of life,
and
was put on punishment for a month behind that lie, so I had to get you back some kinda way.”

“Mama Nita did not play when it came to tearing stuff up around her house! I felt so bad, but my thinking at the time was ‘better Eva than me!' ”

I laughed at the memory, which was another reminder of how vibrant my grandmother used to be. She was very much alive, but in a way, it felt like she had already passed on.

“What do you think she would say about this whole situation with Donovan?” I asked.

“Whoo! Girl, so many things,” Pam said light-heartedly, “but I think the main thing she would say to you right now is hold on tightly to your faith, and somehow, some way, this too shall pass.”

I nodded. “That sounds about right.”

And if I were completely honest with myself, I would have to admit that Mama Nita would also be disappointed that she had sent me off to New York with hopes of being a shining star and leader in my field, but I had inadvertently become a woman of leisure and was now embroiled in a scandal that could possibly land me in prison.

Just when everything was all done, and it was time to eat dinner, Gwen walked in the kitchen with all the grandeur of a Dream Girl. Big bouffant wig, full makeup, and a gold, sequined beaded dress that looked like it weighed about a hundred pounds. “Hey, my babies! I see ya'll have everything under control in here.”

“Yes, we do,” I said. “Which is more than I can say for you. Seriously, when you're drunk at two in the afternoon, where do you go from there?”

Gwen cupped my chin and sang, “You got'ta take it
higher!
” she said, putting her own spin on the old James Brown hit.