Mama (32 page)

"It's against procedures, but under the circumstances..."

She dialed Doll's number but did not get an answer. Money was at work, and too damn far away. Jimmy, across the street, was at work too. Shit. She lit the wrong end of the cigarette. Shit. What was taking them so long?

"Can you get somebody to go by my house? It could be up in flames right now and I'm sitting here in jail over some damn checks."

"Ma'am, I'm sure if your house was on fire, a neighbor would see the smoke. The worst that could happen is that your dinner will be ruined. Take it easy. You'll be home before you know it."

When Doll and Angel walked in the door, both of their bellies protruding like mixing bowls, Mildred jumped up.

"What took y'all so damn long?"

"Mama, we got here as fast as we could. Traffic is backed up on the freeway this time of day and you know it," Doll said, pushing her sunglasses on top of her head.

Angel paid the clerk in cash.

"I left my beans on the stove, and I know they done burnt up. My house could be on fire."

They all got into Angel's peach Mercedes. Mildred's heart beat like a loud clock. "You think I should'a called the fire department, just in case?"

"No, mother. The beans will probably just be scorched," Angel said.

"What did you call me?"

"Oh, I've gotten into the habit of calling Ethan's mom that. Does it bother you?"

"You ain't been calling
me
no damn mother, and don't start now. And besides, if you look over here at me, you'll notice that I ain't white."

"Mama, no one's thinking anything like that."

"You know, I been meaning to tell you a few things. Since you married that white boy, you done changed. Now I ain't never had no problems with him. I like him. But I swear, if I didn't know you was my daughter, I'd swear you was a little white girl. You don't talk the same. You don't act the same. You don't even come by and see me no more—"

"Mama, please, give her a break, would you?" Doll said.

Mildred turned to look at her in the back seat. "You know, you can just shut up. At least she
got
a mother-in-law."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means that you a damn fool to give up your apartment and go live with a man you getting ready to have another baby by even if the first one ain't his, and he still ain't put no ring on your finger."

"We're planning on getting married, Mama."

"You know how many times I done heard that shit before?"

Doll didn't even bother answering Mildred. It was senseless to argue with her.

When Angel turned onto Mildred's street, there were three firetrucks at the curb in front of her house.

Angel pulled up behind the red truck and Mildred dashed out the car and into the side door, which had been pulled off its hinges. The kitchen walls were gray from the smoke. The curtains were singed. Water was everywhere. All the dishes were broken, and the silver pot was on the floor. The beans were black.

"You're pretty lucky," a fireman said to her. "This could've been a whole lot worse if a neighbor hadn't called us in time."

Mildred walked into the living room. Smoke stains covered the white walls. The patio glass had been smashed. All the windows had been broken. She sat down on the wet couch and burst into tears.

"Mama, are you okay?" Doll asked.

"My house. Everything I own is in here. Look at this place."

"Insurance will cover it, don't worry."

"Who gives a fuck about insurance? What about me? I can't live in here now."

"You can come and stay with me and Richard until they fix it back up."

"Or you can come and stay with me and Ethan, Mama." Angel stood in the middle of the room because there was no place dry to sit.

"I don't want to live with neither one of y'all. This is my house!"

The phone rang.

"Answer that, would you, Angel? Whoever it is, tell 'em I ain't home."

Angel tiptoed to the kitchen. "Mama, it's Aunt Georgia."

"What she want?"

"It's Granddaddy, Mama."

Mildred leaped up from the couch. The glass on the carpet cracked under her weight as she stormed into the kitchen and snatched the phone from Angel's hand.

"What's wrong with Daddy, Georgia?"

"He had a heart attack."

"A heart attack? Nooooo..."

"He's in Mercy Hospital, Mildred. They don't know if he gon' make it or not. But the Lord is watching over him."

The inside of Mildred's mouth tasted like chalk and smoke. Her lungs would not let in any air. Her hands trembled and she couldn't stop them. It felt like her heart was beating in the center of her head. She couldn't stand all this noise. She wiped her runny nose on the back of her hand and tried to pull herself together.

"I'll be on the next plane out of here. My daddy need me more than he need the Lord."

Twenty-one

F
REDA DIDN'T KNOW
what time it was when she stumbled in her door. She dropped her keys on the floor and didn't bother to pick them up. Turned on the track lights and dimmed them. Then she took off her jacket and flopped in the middle of her brand new couch. It was white with big flowers all over it. She looked at her typewriter. There was a blank page in it, and stacks of paper scattered around it. It was stupid to have bought a glass desk with no drawers, but it was pretty and sophisticated and she had wanted something to make her feel elegant, something besides a negligee. She walked over to the refrigerator and poured herself a cold glass of wine. Freda had given up hard liquor ever since she and James had split up. Besides, she could drink more wine. She picked her purse up off the floor and opened her wallet to get the white triangle that said "snow" on it. Tomorrow was her thirtieth birthday and she had bought this to celebrate. But what the hell, tonight was tonight, tomorrow was tomorrow.

The phone rang once. Her answering service was still on. Freda set the package on the kitchen counter and uncoded the phone. She got a steak knife and chopped up some of the cocaine. She did a few lines and sat back down. She didn't feel like calling to see who had phoned. Didn't feel like talking to anybody.

She lit a cigarette and kicked off her purple pumps. So, tomorrow was her big day. Freda took a long sip of her wine and emptied the glass. Thirty years old and here I am in New York. Alone. No husband, no man, no prospects, call myself a writer and been working on the same damn article for over a year now. Can't get to sleep without a drink. She got up to pour herself another. She did not want to think about this. When the phone rang again she jumped. Shit.

"It's about time you got home." It was Bootsey. "You didn't get my messages? I left three of 'em. What's the point of having a damn answering service if you don't never call it?"

"Take it easy, girl. I was about to call it now. I just got home a few minutes ago. Damn. Give me a break. Is something wrong? It's not Granddaddy again, is it?"

"Naw, Granddaddy got home last week, and Mama been over there helping him get back on his feet. He's doing much better. You know she's selling her house in California, don't you?"

"No, I didn't."

"Yeah. She got Doll handling all the paperwork. She gon' get some insurance money from that fire, too."

"And where is she gonna live? With you? She can't stand Aunt Georgia."

"No, honey. You know me and Mama don't get along. She's too bossy. She fell in love with this brick house up on Oak Street and she say as soon as Doll send her the money from the house in the Valley she gon' buy it. But that ain't the reason I been calling you."

"Well, my birthday isn't until tomorrow, so what's going on?" Freda reached for her glass.

"I'm leaving Dave."

"You're what?"

"You heard me. Next week. Me and the kids is moving back into our old house. I'm serious. I can't stand another minute of him."

"Wait a minute, Bootsey. I thought you guys were so happy."

"You getting me mixed up with Angel."

"You're serious, aren't you?"

"Did you know I was bald-headed?"

"What do you mean, bald-headed?"

"Just what I said. My nerves have been so bad that all my hair fell out. I been wearing wigs for the past six months. I didn't want to tell nobody. Mama know it now. Anyway, I'm leaving him 'cause he ain't gon' never change."

"Why should he change?"

"You remember a few years ago when I told you how I wanted to go back to school and open up my own bridal shop?"

"Yeah." Freda pulled the phone around the refrigerator and did a few lines.

"Well, every time it comes time to register, he comes up with some excuse why it ain't a good time for me to go. We got money in the bank, but he don't want to take a chance on starting no business with no guarantee it's gon' make it. I'm tired of working at Ford's. And he's so damn lazy it's a shame. I do everythang around here. Cook. Clean. Chastise these kids. And all he want to do is watch TV and fuck."

"But Bootsey, can't you guys talk this thing out?"

"He don't like to talk about nothing. What he says goes, but that's bullshit. I've had it, Freda. I mean, I've really had it."

"What about the house?"

"Fuck this house. It'll be here long after I'm in the nuthouse. And if it weren't for me, do you think this house would'a ever got built? Hell no. I'm the one who worked all the overtime. He was always too tired. And girl, I can't even tell you the last time we went out. If I take another nerve pill, I'm gon' explode."

"You taking those things?"

"I gotta take something. But I don't want to end up like Mama did. All strung out."

Freda looked at the pile of cocaine and the glass in her hand. She was the one who was strung out, she thought, but didn't dare say it. She didn't want her sister to think she was a failure. Didn't want anybody to think that about her. She tried to listen carefully to every word Bootsey said, tried to sound compassionate, but she was too preoccupied with her own sense of loss. She had lost her enthusiasm, had lost her idealism and self-assurance. And now at thirty, she had somehow lost her will.

When daylight filtered through the living room window, Freda woke up and poured the last drop of wine into her glass. The cocaine was gone. Her fingers were stiff, and she could barely stand up. It was her thirtieth birthday, and she was drunk. Something terrible happened last night. What was it? She pounded her fist against her head, trying to make herself remember. Bootsey. Something happened to Bootsey. Freda started crying because she couldn't remember. She ran into the bathroom and washed her face in cold water. It was nine o'clock. Too early to call Michigan. But she had to call somebody. She had gone too far. The telephone book lay on the floor under her desk. Freda leaned over and picked it up. It was so heavy. She turned to the A's. It was her thirtieth birthday and she was drunk. She put the phone book under the phone and dialed the number as best she could.

"Good morning, this is AA," the voice at the other end of the phone said. "My name is Michael, and I'm an alcoholic. Can I help you?"

Freda tried to say something, but her throat closed up.
I'm an alcoholic.
But nothing came out of her mouth. She moved the phone away from her ear.
I'm an alcoholic.
The words scratched her eardrums. She stared at the phone until she didn't have any strength left to hold it. When it fell on the floor, she picked it up and put it back in the cradle.

Twenty-two

M
ILDRED SAT
in an ugly brown chair in the living room of her new brick house. It was an old vinyl chair with brass tacks in the seams and a back so high it looked like a bass fiddle from behind. It was the only furniture she had here, but she didn't care. She was just grateful that Buster had lent her the money for the down payment and got her away from her sanctified sister. But not long after she'd left, Buster started drinking whiskey and sneaking young girls upstairs to his bedroom through the side door. Georgia was furious, and Buster sent her back down to her own tiny little house so she could share her disgust with God.

Mildred was anxious for Doll to sell the house in California so she could pay Buster back. Seemed like it was taking forever, though. A few weeks ago, Doll had said some Mexicans were interested, but that fell through.

Mildred crossed her legs and took a sip of VO from the tall green glass. She'd bought eight of them from St. Vincent de Paul's for a nickel apiece. She never could pass up a bargain. As a matter of fact, she'd bought an old-fashioned lawn mower for four dollars, which cut the grass down low and smooth in the back and front yards. Mildred wondered how people survived without back yards. She'd also bought fifteen men's shirts for a quarter apiece. Stripes, solids, pastels, and one navy blue with a white collar. A pink angora sweater with white pearl buttons. Somebody would want this stuff, she just knew it.

She took another sip. Since she'd moved in here, seemed like all she'd had for breakfast was rye and ice. Sometimes it burned the lining of her stomach, but by the second or third swallow, all she felt was its warmth. She arched her toes and raked them through the royal-blue carpet. This was about the ugliest carpet she'd ever seen in her life, except for that olive-green stuff Freda used to have when she lived in LA. When the money came from the other house, she was going to pull it up, strip and sand the hardwood underneath, and buy one of those oriental rugs, if she could find one at a decent price. Mildred felt like she always had to plan her life for tomorrow.

She leaned forward when she spotted a streak that looked like smeared smoke on the picture window. Mildred hated dirty windows. Liked everything clean. She had disinfected the whole house with ammonia and Lysol. Even the basement. Mildred got up from the chair and went to the kitchen to get a pail of vinegar and water, then she went back to the living room, and tore off a piece of old newspaper and crumbled it up. Just as she was starting to wipe off the window, the mailman came up the sidewalk and dropped a handful of envelopes in the door slot. One of them would be her welfare check. Then she'd be able to go back and get that forest-green silk blouse and matching slacks she'd seen on the sale rack at Arden's yesterday. Hell, she was going to be forty-eight years old tomorrow. She deserved something new, even if she couldn't afford it.