Who Asked You? (13 page)

W
ell, hello there, Mother. I’m calling just to see how you and Dad are doing.”

“I’d have to say fair to middling.”

“Is something wrong? Is it Dad?”

“No, it’s not your dad.”

“Then it must be you. Are you having health issues?”

“No, I’m fine.”

“Then what is it, Mother? You don’t sound like yourself at all.”

“It’s your sister. About four months ago she dropped the boys off for a weekend and decided to move to Atlanta with a fellow she’s supposed to be married to and I haven’t heard from her since.”

“Then she’s still using drugs, I take it?”

“What’s it sound like, Quentin?”

“So that means you’re taking care of them?”

“No, Quentin. I dropped them off at a group home.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“I could sure use some financial help.”

“How much help?”

“I don’t know for sure, Quentin, but three or four hundred dollars a month would be much appreciated.”

“A month?”

“Well, you asked.”

“You should be able to get help from Social Services in a situation like this.”

“I’ve tried. They’re not as helpful as you think. A lot of legal stuff, and lawyers are not cheap, and too many hoops you have to jump through. And then you just play a waiting game while they decide how you should or will be able to take care of your own grandchildren.”

“I’m really sorry to hear this. Karen’s mother went through this with one of her other daughter’s kids. It was a grueling process, and finally, she just gave up.”

“I do remember your telling me about that.”

“So it sounds like you didn’t fare any better.”

“That social worker made me feel like I was responsible for the whole situation. As if I’m the one who made Trinetta become a drug addict. They make you feel low. And they make you feel like a beggar. But I’m not begging anybody for anything.”

“And you shouldn’t have to.”

We are both quiet. I know I haven’t given her a definitive answer as to how much financial assistance I can offer, but since I wasn’t prepared for such a request, and because my circumstances are also changing, I need to be realistic and give this a little more thought.

I look out of our condo window. I can see three of our ten bridges. Portland is such a beautiful city. Crisp. Cold. Wet. Green. Hot. Clean. And water everywhere. Full of smart people. Of which I would like to think I am one.

“So, I hope you and Mindy are doing well.”

“We are.”

“So, what’s the reason for this call?”

I snap out of my daze of gazing at the Steel Bridge, which is also my favorite. One of the reasons I don’t call home as often as I should, and as often as I would like to, is because there’s almost always some form of turmoil going on. More often than not, it’s about my two siblings, both of whom have made some bad choices, the consequences of which I cannot undo nor remedy. Over the years, my impatience has turned into indifference, which is unfortunate because they are family. But their lives are like bad movies. You walk out before they end.

“Can’t I call just to say hello?”

“Well, you don’t usually call just to say hello, Quentin. So, go ahead, tell me your good news.”

“Mindy and I are going to have a baby.”

I don’t hear anything for a few seconds and because I’m on my cell phone, I walk over to the window and sit in my burgundy leather chair. An airplane flies overhead. Perhaps this is the reason I lost my mother. I end the call and hit redial. “Quentin, are you there?”

“Yes, Mother, I’m here.”

“Congratulations, to you and Mindy.”

She doesn’t sound excited at all. Which is understandable. Considering her circumstances. But I have no children and it would seem as if she could—considering how rarely she gets good news from my siblings—muster up some semblance of happiness. “Thank you, Mother. Mindy’s a super gal, and I’m pretty sure she’s a keeper.”

“I certainly hope so. But you say the same thing about all of them until you divorce them, Quentin.”

“That is so not true.”

“Can you hold on a minute? I hear your daddy coughing and I want to make sure he’s okay.”

She drops the phone without waiting for me to answer. Over the years, Mother has tried to make me out to be fickle when it comes to women. There may be a smidgen of truth to it because I admit to having made a number of bad choices, although I believe it’s because I’m somewhat of a romantic. I can’t help it if quite a few of the women I fell in love with, and the five I married, turned out to have flaws they artfully concealed that became intolerable. I’m getting smarter, and Mindy is proof of this. Mother also thinks I don’t like black women, which is so not true. Can I help it if I happen to be attracted to white women? Is that a crime? She has gone so far as to question whether or not I wished I were white. Which is ridiculous. She thinks this simply because I tend to live in predominantly white neighborhoods (which I choose because they’re safer), because I don’t
sound
black when speaking, and because she doesn’t think I have very many black friends, when in fact I have at least three. I am proud of my blackness. Very proud.

“Quentin, you still there?”

“I am, Mother, and let me say this. The best I can do for now is two or three hundred. Would that help?”

“A month?”

“No. Total.”

“I’m grateful for whatever you can send, Quentin. I didn’t mean to put you on the spot. But it’s been hard.”

“I can only imagine. Anyway, the other good news I want to share with you is you’re going to get a chance to meet Mindy very soon.”

“I know you’re not coming to the hood for a visit?”

“Why would you say that?”

“Because you avoid coming down here except for weddings and funerals. At least that’s the way it looks.”

She’s right. I don’t like the ghetto. And never have. It’s dangerous and scary and it’s the reason why I chose a college as far away from it as possible. I do not understand why Mother and Daddy still live in that pinched neighborhood on that ugly street in that same run-down house we grew up in.

“That’s not true, Mother.”

“When was the last time you were here?”

I’m thinking. I can’t remember. I do know there was no funeral or wedding, whenever it was.

“Well, I’ll try to be better, especially now that we’re moving back to California!”

“Well, that’s good news.”

“Now that Mindy’s pregnant, she really wants to be closer to her family, and they live outside of San Francisco, right across the Golden Gate Bridge in Marin County, so we’re going to be moving back to California in the next three to four months. I’ve already joined a new practice, and of course Mindy’s going to stay home with little Margaret. I hope you can take some pleasure in all of this, Mother.”

“Nothing would make me happier.”

And she hangs up.

I
n-room dining!” I yell after ringing the buzzer. I’m hoping there’s no answer, because I’m just here to pick up their breakfast tray. I delivered it two hours ago. Walked in on something I do not understand. There were two women in the bed all snuggled up but it was a man who came to the door in his terry-cloth robe. Like always, I pretended not to see what I saw. I learned a long time ago not to judge but there are some things I just find hard to accept. There are a lot of freaks that stay in hotel rooms. And a whole lot of cheating goes on, too. I’m just glad I’m not in housekeeping, because people with money sure know how to trash a hotel room. And some of them are just downright nasty. It’s hard to imagine how they live at home. On the other hand, most of the guests who stay here don’t seem to have much respect for people who clean or deliver their food. Sometimes when I walk in I say, “Good morning,” or “How’s your day going so far?” If they’re on their computer or talking to each other or just watching TV they act like they don’t hear me or point to where they want their tray and just sign when I hand them the leather folder with the bill inside and then they hand it back, sometimes without even looking at me.

“In-room dining!” I say a little louder this time and press the buzzer again. The rule is, if there’s no Do Not Disturb sign hanging on the door handle, we wait until we hear movement or they yell out, “Come back later!”

“In-room dining!” I say for the last time, only because Lorinda warned me before I brought up their breakfast that these folks were Russian and maybe even a part of the Russian mafia, so I should be extra nice to them. After I enter, I stop, lean forward a little, and say, “Good morning?” When I don’t get a response, I walk into the large room and look at the king-size bed with the fake headboard that’s nailed to the wall. The duvet, top sheet, and bath towels are piled up like a white mountain on the floor. That tray is sitting where I left it: on the big wooden table in front of the brown velveteen sofa. These folks use the furniture for things it wasn’t meant for. There are grooves and scratches that will never come out until the hotel is renovated, which they’ve been promising they’re going to do for the past four years. Sometimes I count cigarette burns on the carpet in nonsmoking rooms and dread lifting up the tray when it’s next to the bed on the floor.

For some reason, I sit down on the couch and my left foot pushes the tray over to make room for my other foot. I look around. I have never stayed in a hotel. I don’t know what it feels like to be waited on. I wonder what it feels like to call room service. I wonder what it feels like to come back and your room is clean. Bed made. Fresh towels in the bathroom. I don’t really know why I pick up the remote control and press the red
ON
button. I click the channel button and stop when the screen is full of thousands of tropical fish swimming in what the announcer says is the Great Barrier Reef. I know this is Australia. I watch, for how long I don’t even know, and when the fish become a blur of moving colors it’s because of the tears that have suddenly started to run down my cheeks.

Even though I haven’t told anybody, I’m scared. What if I can’t handle all this responsibility? What if I’ve forgotten how to be a parent? It takes so much energy. What if I don’t have enough to last? What if my daughter comes back next week or next year and wants them back? What if I die? What if I give them the wrong stuff like I did my kids? I don’t want them to turn out like mine did. I want them to be proud, honest, dignified, civil, kind, and loving. I want them to be strangers to trouble.

And then there’s Mister. I don’t know how close he might be to going home. I know everybody wants me to just ship him off to one of those places, but I don’t think I can. He’s my husband. And I’m tired of folks telling me what they think I should do with him, like he’s a pet that needs to be put down or something. He’s my husband. I know I’m going to have to get used to him not being anywhere one day, but until that day comes, it won’t kill me to be there for him.

I unroll the linen napkin and wipe my eyes on it. When I get up, I feel better even though I didn’t know I was feeling bad. I just don’t like to worry. It can wear you out and it doesn’t fix whatever it is you’re worrying about. This isn’t even about me. It’s about my grandkids. And they need me to take care of them and that’s what I’m going to do. I hit
OFF
on the remote, pick up the tray, and leave. I take the service elevator down to the kitchen, where another order is waiting for me.

“Hi, Grandma!” Ricky says after jumping into the backseat and slamming the door like I’ve asked him a hundred times not to do.

“Hi, Grandma!” Luther says after doing the same, except he leans forward and kisses me on my ear first. He is such a sweet boy.

“Hi there, boys. And how was your day?”

“I was good, Grandma! I even got a Sharpie! See!” Ricky says, and holds up a green one. I suppose the medication must be working, though I’m praying for the day when he can get off it.

“Principal Daniels wrote you a letter for me to give you ’cause he don’t have your address and it’s in a white envelope in my backpack, Grandma. My teacher wrote one, too. I didn’t do nothing—I mean anything—bad or anything like that. I might get to skip third grade and go to fourth.”

“How would you know that?”

“I read both of the letters and they say the same thing. They think I’m smart. And I am. Second grade is way too easy and it’s boring.”

“Well, we’ll talk more about this later after I have a chance to read the letters, okay?”

“Okay.”

“And you should never open mail that is not addressed to you, Luther.”

“But what about if it’s about me?”

“It needs to have your name on the envelope.”

“Well, that’s silly.”

“It is silly,” Ricky says, then closes his eyes and drifts off. This is what I don’t like about this new medication he’s on.

“Can we go to Disneyland for my birthday, Grandma? Please please pretty please with bubble gum on top?” Luther asks me for the third time in two days.

“Yes,” I say, matter-of-factly.

“For real?”

“First I need to find out if Nurse Kim can go with us because Grandma can’t do all that walking and I want to be able to take Grandpa with us, too.”

“Goodie! Goodie! I hope Nurse Kim can go! Can I push Grandpa in his wheelchair some of the time, too?”

“Yes, you can,” I say.

As soon as we walk in the door, Nurse Kim jumps up from the recliner, where it is obvious she’s been snoozing, and tries to act perky when she stretches out her arms for her boyfriend, Luther, to run inside them for his much-needed hug fix. Ricky is not aroused by Nurse Kim at all and just waves to her.

“Grandma said you want to go to Disneyland with us for my birthday and we can take Grandpa, right?”

Nurse Kim tries to act surprised. “You mean I’m invited?”

“Yep!”

“Maybe I can bring my new boyfriend.”

“What new boyfriend?” Luther asks.

“Yeah, what new boyfriend?” Ricky asks.

“His name is Wendell.”

“I don’t like that name,” Luther says.

“I don’t like that name, too,” Ricky says.

“Well, he’s a very nice guy, but there might not be enough room for him anyway. We’ll see.”

“I just hope he don’t—I mean doesn’t—want to be your husband,” Luther says, and then, “Because I want to marry you when I grow up. I will make a good husband and you will love me way more than him.”

And he walks off to the back bedroom and Ricky follows him.

Nurse Kim just winks at me and tells me that Mister actually had a good day.

On Saturday morning, after washing and folding four loads of clothes, I carry the last basket down the hallway into the living room and can’t believe I’m walking in water. When I look out toward the sunporch, there is Ricky watering the plastic flowers and plants from an empty Miracle Whip jar. “Ricky, what are you doing, baby?” I ask, trying to be very careful not to sound too worked up, which messes him up and then he gets wound up even more than me.

“I’m watering the plants, Grandma!”

“Well, I appreciate your help, but have you ever seen Grandma water them?”

“Nope, and that’s why I’m doing it. We planted beans in a cup at school and Ms. Jenkins said all plants have to be watered or they won’t grow. My bean is growing already. And I want to help your plants grow, too.”

“Grandma really appreciates your help, Ricky, but these plants don’t need water, because they’re not real.”

“They look real. How come they not real?”

That was a good question and I didn’t have a good answer, so I just said, “Now that I know you’re a good gardener, we can buy some real ones. How does that sound?”

“It sounds good. I can do a lot of things, you know.”

“I know, Ricky. You make Grandma so proud I just want to hug you.” And I do. And then I take that Miracle Whip jar back to the kitchen and put it back in the recycle bin. Ricky follows me, walking right over the wet floor without a care in the world.

“Ricky, are you good at mopping up water?”

“Yep,” he says, and flies past me out to the back porch to get the mop. As I hold the door open for him, I hear the phone ringing.

“I’ll answer it,” Luther yells from my bedroom, where he’s been curled on the bed watching cartoons all morning with his grandpa. When Ricky and I come back I ask Luther who it was that called.

“It was one of those collect calls from Uncle Dexter, so I hung up like we always do.”

The phone rings again.

“I’ll get it!” I say and reach for it. It’s Dexter calling back. Which means it’s important. I accept the call. “Hi, Dexter. Is something wrong?”

“Not at all, Ma. I’ve got great news. I’m finally going to be paroled!”

“Well, that is good news.”

“Yes, it is!”

“How soon do you get released?”

“Well, that’s the tricky part. Maybe two weeks but it can take up to another month. My parole plan is being sent to my parole officer, who has to look it over and approve it. He’ll probably be calling you soon.”

“Why would your parole officer be calling me?”

“Because he’s going to have to review all of the rules you have to abide by having a parolee living with you.”

“Who told him you were going to be living with me?”

“I did. Just for the first hundred and eighty days after I get out, find a job, and am able to get back on my feet. I thought you said I could, don’t you remember?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Don’t worry, Ma. You won’t even know I’m there. I promise.”