I Almost Forgot About You (15 page)

“Well, the master plan is we're seriously contemplating the benefits of staying here in California to finish getting our degrees, and of course I'll get a job,” Hunter says.

“Really?”

“My parents have agreed to help pay for out-of-state tuition should I decide to get my master's, which I intend to do, but I just don't see the urgency right now.”

“Really?”

“His parents are the best,” Frankie says.

Make that two years in time-out.

“And what about you, missy?”

“Not sure. I might go to San Francisco State. Maybe enroll in their creative-writing program.”

“Their what?”

“Haven't you read any of her stories, Mom?”

“What stories? I've never heard you say you write anything except term papers. Stories?”

“And poetry. Why haven't you shown them to her, Frank?”

“I don't know.”

“They're good. She'll get published one day, and I'm not just saying this because I love her. I know good writing.”

“Really?” I say. This is getting better and better by the minute.

“They're not polished, Mom.”

“So what? I'd love to read some, Frankie. And you lied,” I say.

“About what?”

“That you were confused about what you like.”

“Well, I didn't lie. I just failed to admit it, because I thought it would sound lame.”

I pop her upside the head. “Like I said, the parents are the last to know.”

And then they stand there, looking homeless and hopelessly in love.

“So what about tomorrow and next week?” I ask.

They just look at each other for an answer that neither of them has.

“Where's your stuff, Hunter?”

“In the car.”

“Why don't you go get it?”

“Really, Mom?” Frankie says.

“Really.”

We have a great meal. I learn that Hunter hails from Seattle. His father does something I can't repeat at Microsoft, and his mother is a painter. He's an only. I decide to let them stay in the honeymoon suite for the next three weeks because, hell, what are parents for?

I make sure my door is locked, and I call Wanda.

“Married? Please don't tell me she's pregnant.”

“Who in the hell knows? They never tell the whole story, you know.”

“No, I don't know.”

“Well, Velvet sure is,” I say.

“That's old news. I can keep a secret when I want to. I can't believe that Hunter is black! Isn't this just too fucking ironic?”

“That's one way to describe it.”

“Anyway, as an FYI, Nelson and I won't be able to make it to Mama Early's birthday bash, because it's the same day as the fund-raiser we're having for homeless shelters in West Oakland. But I'll send her love and a gift card.”

“You know she loves gift cards. And you know I'll make a donation.”

“Of course, and we thank you. But one last thing. If and when you kick your daughter and her new black husband to the curb, they can stay in our guesthouse. And I'm not saying it again.”

“I'm getting married, Georgia,” Michael calls to tell me. I'm in Bakersfield, helping to decorate the Rec Center for Ma's party. She's having a Chippendale's affair for all her hot senior friends.

“Is this contagious?” I ask.

“Are you getting married, too?”

“No! But Frankie just eloped.”

“Well, what's wrong with that?”

“Nothing. Anyway, so why are you calling to tell me this?”

“I just wanted you to know.”

“Are you in need of a flower girl or something, Michael?”

He laughs.

Since I saw him, there hasn't been a month that's gone by he hasn't left me a voice message or a text to say “Hello, how are you? Was just thinking about you.” It's been only on rare occasions I've bothered to acknowledge them, like when I knew it was his birthday and I was hoping just to leave a shout-out, but he picked up before I had a chance to say the
M
in Michael.

I sling a strip of black-and-white crepe paper over a rafter. Why folks have color schemes at parties I do not know. What exactly is the point? It's going to look like a room full of senior penguins, myself included.

“I would really like if you would come,” he says.

Before I laugh and say something sarcastic, I realize that Michael is serious as cancer. That's not a good analogy, but it's the best I can do standing on the fifth step of this ladder.

“What on earth for, Michael?”

“Because I want you to see for yourself that it's possible to find love later in life.”

“You mean it's still possible to be recycled?” I shouldn't have said that. But I've already said it.

“I thought you'd be happy for me, Georgia.”

“I
am
happy for you, Michael.”

“I thought you said we were friends.”

“I said we can be friendly, but that didn't mean you were going to be my BFF, Michael.”

“I know that. But I thought we'd put some salve on those old wounds, didn't we?”

“We did.”

“Doesn't sound like it. Do I still detect scar tissue?”

“Not even close. What's her name?”

“Sandra.”

“Well, look, I'm very happy for you, Michael, but I'm in Bakersfield helping to decorate for Ma's party, and—”

“I know. Eighty-two years young. I bought her a new pair of glasses.”

“You did what?”

“Hold on, little lady. I called her to ask what she'd like, and she'd just come from LensCrafters, so she chose some snazzy sunglasses she'd seen there and texted me a picture of them. They're nice.”

“Well, that was very thoughtful of you.”

“One last question. No, two. Are you seeing anyone?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Glad to hear it, Georgia. Is it serious?”

“Too soon to tell. Look, I've really gotta scoot.”

“Okay. But just so you know. Estelle is coming. And it would be nice if you would, too. Bring your new boyfriend.”

The soles of my feet are numb from standing on this ladder so long. I climb down and walk around until I feel the tile. I look around this big square room. All this floating crepe paper and plastic everything else is endearing because it's for my mother.

As I head over to my hotel to get dressed, I realize I can't believe not only that Michael is getting married again but that he actually invited me. Of course I have no intention of going to his wedding. Once was enough.

“I can't wait for you to meet my fiancé,” Ma says to me. We're in her condo. I'm helping her decide which black dress to wear, the one with short sleeves that she bought at the Lane Bryant outlet store or the one with the balloon sleeves that she got at Macy's. They both go to the floor. She also insisted on wearing a tiara over her frosted gray wig.

“You did just say ‘fiancé,' didn't you, Ma?”

I swear to God, she's blushing like a teenager. Her cheeks look like scoops of chocolate ice cream.

“You are talking about Grover, I assume?”

“Now, who else would I be talking about? I'm a one-man woman.”

“I thought you said he was your boyfriend?”

“He was. But we've evolved into something much deeper.”

“Since when?”

“Since we did, that's when.”

“I'm confused. Since you
what
?”

“Fell in love! Do I have to spell it out for you?”

“How can you get married at eighty-two, Ma?”

“You know, for you to be so smart, you ask a lot of stupid questions.”

“I didn't mean to offend you, Ma. I'm sorry.”

“Let me say this to get it out of the way. You can fall in love at any age, but you have to be willing to give your heart permission to let the love in. I hope you get to feel it again one day. Now, zip this dress up.” As she sucks her belly in and holds her breath while I pull, I'm also thinking that I hope I feel love again, too. I step back. I don't like the puffy sleeves. She looks like a fairy godmother, but she's
my
mother, so I'm going to keep my mouth shut and let her decide how she wants to look.

“So where is Grover?”

“He'll be here in a half hour to drive me over to the center.”

“But you can see it out your window.”

“He's a gentleman.”

“How long have you known Grover, Ma?”

“Fifty-two years.”

“What? Well, where's Grover been hiding all this time?”

“Alaska. He worked on the pipeline, and he stayed over there until he got arthritis, and at seventy-six he's retired.”

“Does he have kids?”

“Three. Two are older than you. They're from Bakersfield. And before you ask, his wife died of lung cancer ten years ago, even though she never smoked.”

“That's been happening a lot, it seems. And he's only seventy-six?” I say jokingly.

“Yes, so that makes me some kind of cougar, right?” She cracks up.

“Did Daddy know him?”

“Of course he did. They were good friends.”

“Really? You didn't fool around on Daddy, did you, Ma?”

“Of course not. Anyway, we're getting married in Reno right after Grover recovers from hip-replacement surgery.”

“You are serious, then, aren't you?”

“Why wouldn't I be?”

“I don't know how comfortable I am about this.”

“I'm almost a century old, Georgia, so I don't need your approval. We have a long history and probably a short future, and we're going to make the most of our forever.”

I admit I'm quite touched by what she's just said that I almost want to crumple over.

Instead I say, “Where does Grover live again?”

“In the building next door.”

“And he's driving over here to pick you up?”

“I've already told you. Some men still understand how important etiquette is to a woman.”

“But why do you have to marry him?”

“I like the other dress better. Would you please unzip this one for me and stop asking all these stupid questions?”

“Can you just answer my question?”

“Because I want to.”

Turns out Estelle's already met Grover and approves. Why she never bothered to tell me, I don't know. She's also seen her grandmother more than I have in the past eight months. I'm ashamed of myself for postponing visit after visit, and now it may look as if the only reason I'm here is because it's her birthday. Which is true. And shame on me. I'm acting like she's always going to be here. I promise to be a better daughter.

“Knock, knock.”

I hear a deep but raspy voice coming through the kitchen window.

Princess Tiana is hiding in her bedroom, waiting to make her grand entrance. “Let him in!” she whispers loudly. “This dress is hot!”

I walk over to the front door, and there stands my mother's future husband. Even with his head partly obscured under his derby, through the peephole I can see that Grover is a good-looking, silver-haired giant of a man and he's wearing a tuxedo! He's waving and smiling at me in what looks like a set of beautiful dentures. I open the door, and before I can reach out to shake his hand, he takes off his derby and bends down and gives me a hug.

“Hello, Miss Georgia, very nice to finally make your acquaintance. So is my queen almost ready?”

“I'll be out in a minute, Grover!” she yells from around the corner. She must think she's in a movie or something. I must say I'm enjoying this whole scenario, because in all honesty my mother has more action in her life than I do.

“I would like to tell you, Miss Georgia, that your mother is in good hands, and I promise to love and protect her until we float to a higher place, which won't be anytime soon. Until then let's get this party started!”

And before I can respond, here comes my mother, living out a much-deserved fantasy in her black taffeta evening gown with the sheer sleeves and her tiara resting gently on top of her wig.

“Hi, Grover,” she says. Blushing again!

I look at Grover, whose eyes are lit up like he's hit the love jackpot. He walks over and takes her by the hand, kisses it, then gives her a soft kiss on her cheek and says, “You look so pretty, Earlene. Happy birthday. Your present is in my pocket, in case you're wondering. Now, shall we go? My chariot awaits.”

“Isn't he funny?”

I nod.

“You need to hurry up and get yourself on over to the center, Georgia. It'll only take you five minutes to walk. Grover and I are taking the long way.”

Unlike young folks, the elderly show up on time to a party. The place is already full, with well over a hundred sparkling senior citizens and some middle-agers who must be the children of my mother's friends. Folks who grew up and probably still live in Bakersfield. I couldn't breathe here, which is one reason I fled for the crisp, cool air in the Bay Area.

I wave when I spot my daughters and new son-in-law seated at the table that has the number 1 perched on top of a metal rod sticking out through a cluster of black and white balloons, and I make my way over. Frankie and Hunter drove down with Estelle, who has given Hunter four out of five stars and told me they're also staying at a three-star hotel. Thank God she left the twins at home with a stranger, a.k.a. their father, because according to Estelle, Justin's been MIA a lot lately and doesn't seem to like being interrogated. Estelle has even fessed up by telling me she thinks he might be cheating on her, but when she confronted him, Justin vehemently denied it.

The deejay, who must be in his late sixties, is testing his speakers. His hair is slicked back and stops at his neck. He's wearing a tuxedo. I can't wait to hear what he's going to play and see who's going to dance, because there's a fair share of people in wheelchairs, but even most of
them
look like they're ready to party.

I bend down and kiss my daughters. Estelle is wearing black and Frankie white. “You both look gorgeous,” I say.

“Thank you, Mamacita,” Estelle says without standing, and she reaches up to kiss me back. God, does she look like a female version of her dad when he was young. She's wearing a dress I gave her for Christmas a few years ago. A silk scarf is wrapped around her neck like clouds.

“Hi, Mom,” Hunter says, pretty dapper in a black suit and a white shirt. “You look very nice,” he says to me.

“Thank you. And you clean up well!”

He grins wide.

“So, Mom,” Frankie says, “you're looking pretty sexy—and I'll take that dress off your hands when you get tired of it. You ready to get down?”

“Yes I am. I'll just pretend this is Studio 54.”

“What's that?”

“Never mind,” I say.

“This is sweet,” Estelle says, glancing around at all the elderly folks who look like they're thrilled to be all dressed up, ready to drink punch and eat some cake. Grover took care of the catering. There's ham and fried chicken, collard greens, potato salad and corn bread, and not a drop of anything to drink with a percentage symbol on the bottle. (Of course I brought the mac and cheese I promised, and it's sitting in a deep dish in my mother's fridge with a bow on top of the aluminum foil.)

“Has anybody heard a peep out of Dolly? She should be here by now, you'd think,” I say to the girls.

“She's not coming,” Estelle says, trying not to laugh.

“And why not?”

“She's sick.”

“What kind of illness is it this time?” I ask.

“Grandma said she's got shingles and hates having to miss the party.”

Two tall men who are Grover clones walk over to our table and stop. This is obviously a generational party.

“Hello,” the one who has to be closer in age to me says. He bends down to shake my hand, and all I can think of is that he sure smells good and is not too bad on the eyes, but I stop myself.

“Hello,” we all say to both of them.

“I'm Grover Jr., and this is my son, Grover III,” he says, and smiles.

“I'm Georgia, and these are my toddlers, Estelle,” I say—and she nods, and then I turn—“and this is Frankie, who was going to be named after her dad had his name been Frank. And this is my brilliant new son-in-law, Hunter.”

We're all laughing when in walk the birthday girl and the future groom arm in arm. “Isn't She Lovely” starts playing, and I swear that if Miss Early weren't my mother, I'd be cracking up, but she is my mother and she does look lovely and happy.

Everybody stands up and applauds, but then Mr. Grover releases her and lets my mother waltz out into the middle of the room, under the black-and-white crepe bouquet hanging from the chandelier, and she waves to everybody and then blows us a kiss like she's on a float in a parade. Grover follows her out to the dance floor, gives her a twirl, and then walks over to their very own table.

“Those two are something, aren't they?” Grover Jr. asks, but he's not really asking.

I smile and nod yes, as do the girls. His son isn't feeling any of this and is obviously here out of respect, and a few minutes later, after he excuses himself to go to the restroom and comes back with a sudden mood change, he looks like he could stay all night.

My mother is surrounded by well-wishers as she comes off the dance floor, and then we sit as our dinner starts being served. Lou Rawls's “See You When I Get There” comes on, and I apparently am pantomiming the lyrics, which is when Grover Jr. blurts out, “You don't remember me, do you?”

“Should I?”

He chuckles as my daughters settle into these uncomfortable folding chairs, hoping to hear something juicy. This would make three of us. Hunter's just digging the old-school music.

“Middle school: Mrs. Hill's science class and Mr. O'Connor, music. You liked dissecting, but you couldn't carry a note.”

That's funny to everybody. Including me.

“I need more details.”

“I was the only eighth-grader on the junior varsity basketball team.”

I don't want to, but I decide to give him a long, hard look, and all I see is the handsome man he's turned into and the shoulders he must have inherited from his father, not to mention his Barry White baritone. He's not wearing a wedding band, but not to worry, since he's soon going to be my stepbrother.

“I didn't like basketball back then,” I say. “What other reasons would make you memorable?”