Who Asked You? (3 page)

“What you need, Mister?” Lord knows I wished I could’ve called him
baby
but the opportunity never presented itself. I wanted my knees to buckle when he touched me, but they always stayed stiff and strong. I wanted my heart to light up and maybe sizzle, but it was a no-show, too. I wanted to feel like I couldn’t live without him. But I knew I could. Even still, I have enjoyed his company.

“I could use another beer,” he says, pointing to his plastic glass, which means he wants a refill for his tea.

“Be right there.” I open the white cabinet, the one with the loose brackets, and pull a straw out of the mayonnaise jar I keep them in. I get the pitcher of tea out of the refrigerator, pour it into the light blue plastic glass he likes, and drop the straw inside.

“Here you go,” I say, and hold it up to his mouth. It looks like midnight in this room but I can still see the bags under his eyes and they look three times bigger behind those bifocals.

“Thank you,” he says, without taking his eyes off the TV screen. Of course he’s watching
Dora the Explorer,
like he does every day, all day. I had to go out and buy the DVD because he would get upset when it went off. All he has to do now is press the remote to start it over. “I’m learning how to speak Spanish,” he said rather proudly when he was still able to speak in long sentences.
“Perry como usta senora?”

“Can I get you anything else?”

He flips the blanket up as his way of asking me to slide on under.

“You really do think I’m Thelma, don’t you?” I say, and walk on out of the room. Dementia affects him only from the neck up. Sometimes I have come into the bedroom, like now, in broad daylight, and he’ll be lying there with a small tent in his lap and the stupidest grin on his face, which makes me want to gag. Sometimes I do it just to make that thing go down. But right now, I’ve got six or seven more pieces of chicken left to fry.

I wrap a breast and thigh in aluminum foil for Mr. Jones and put them in a small lunch bag I keep for the boys’ snacks and set it on the table. I finally sit down, since I’ve been on my feet now for way too long. My right knee is throbbing but I don’t feel like taking a pill. I’m still sweating like a pig and I think I might have to break down and use that Sears card. Sometimes, like now, when it’s quiet, I like to sneak and take a few minutes to think about my life. What I’ve done wrong. What I’ve done right. And where I am now.

Truth be told, I think I can rightly blame some of my kids’ problems on this neighborhood. Years ago it was nice here. White and black folks lived side by side, and just like it was on
Leave It to Beaver
and
Father Knows Best
, we borrowed a cup of sugar or a teaspoon of coffee from one another; our kids played together without ever hearing the words
nigger
or
honky
or
peckerwood
. We were all working-class families, proud of our small homes. And it showed. We had smooth driveways. Even some two-car garages. We had velvet grass in our front yards. Sprinkler and drip systems. Every color flower imaginable. Our hedges were all sculpted. The screens dirt-free. Windows vinegar-clean. Our front doors never had to be locked. But then in the early nineties, the drugs moved in. And the gangs. Which is when most of our homes started limping. The majority of white families started leaving. Kids had to play in the backyard unless a grown-up was sitting outside watching them. Lowriders drove slow and blasted rap music and dared you to complain. Folks began to look like they were always hesitating. We swept and hosed our sidewalks, picked up trash on the curb, and people prayed longer and harder but it didn’t seem to help. For most of their childhood, I couldn’t let my kids wear blue or red because our neighborhood didn’t belong to us anymore.

“Where you at, Ma?”

“I’m coming,” I say, and get up. I must’ve fallen asleep back here when I fell across the bed in Quentin’s old room because Lord knows I didn’t want to chance being seduced by Denzel Washington. I hear the boys running over that shag carpet and I walk out to greet them. Luther will be eight this year. Trinetta claimed she named him after Luther Vandross because she always had a crush on him. I don’t know who she named Ricky after, but since I doubt she ever slept with Rick James, I don’t think she had him in mind. He should be six. He was born with slight drug-baby issues and he takes medication that’s supposed to help him be able to do more of some things and less of others. He acts all right to me. He can be a little hyper sometimes, and quiet at others. I don’t trust those pills, and only time will tell how long they keep him on them. Trinetta never put much thought into how she was going to take care of her kids. She just had them. She has treated them like they were mistakes. Which is one of the reasons they’re over here so much.

“Well, hello there, my little chocolate kisses,” I say, even though they’re two different shades of brown. Fudge and maple syrup. Both of them are cute in a peculiar way. Luther’s forehead is big and his head on the square side, but I can tell he’s going to grow into those looks one day. Ricky’s features all coincide with one another but he always looks like he’s thinking about something.

“Hi, Grandma,” Luther says, and he almost makes me lose my balance when he gives me a long hug. His arms don’t fit around my hips. Ricky just waves, sits down on the couch, and starts looking for the remote between the cushions. He keeps busy.

“Hey, Ma,” Trinetta says, and gives me a phony kiss on the cheek. “So, you got what we discussed?” She sounds just like a drug addict. She doesn’t sit, which means she’s either high or in a hurry or both. That’s why I decide to make her ass wait. I wish she would cut those damn dreadlocks off. They look like they need to be shampooed. I used to think people wore them because they had a sense of pride, being black and all, but for some, like my daughter, it’s obvious that it’s just another hairstyle. Trinetta is also disappearing. I can see her collarbone, and even though she’s brown like me, her skin is so thin I can see green veins running up and down her arms like branches on a winter tree.

“Tell me, what kind of job is it this time?”

“It’s a sales position.”

She can lie on a dime. But I am not in the mood for watching her act antsy so I go ahead and reach inside my purse and hand her some folded bills I keep hidden for emergencies.

“Thanks,” she says, and stuffs them in her bra. “And that’s all I can tell you right now. I’ve already started studying for the test.”

“Tell me a lie I can believe, Trinetta.”

“I ain’t—I’m not—lying this time, Ma. Cut me a little slack, would you?”

“Where’s Ricky’s medication?”

“Luther, you got Ricky’s meds in your backpack like you supposed to have?”

“Yep!” he yells from the bathroom.

“Why didn’t you bring some clean clothes for them?”

“I can drop some off later.”

“And should I hold my breath?”

“I thought they had enough stuff over here.”

“Is your cell phone working?”

“It’ll be back on tomorrow.”

“I would really like to ask you a lot of things, but I’m not even going to bother.”

“Good,” Trinetta says. “’Cause I’m really not in the mood for a lecture. Is he in his usual spot?”

“
He
is.”

I don’t know why she has such a hard time calling him Daddy and I’m sick of asking. She walks over and sticks her head inside the doorway. “Hey there, Mr. Butler,” she says, but he doesn’t answer.

“I’ll be glad when you put him in one of those places,” she says, then walks into the kitchen, looks at the chicken, and comes back empty-handed. “You wasting perfectly good money on that
nurse
who look more like a ho if you ask me, and you already said the doctor is only giving him two years at most, so what’s the point?”

“You need to mind your own business,” I say as she goes into the bathroom. It’s no wonder these kids talk the way they do. I turn my attention to them. Luther is now sitting next to Ricky on the sofa like they’re little strangers waiting for a train. I look above their heads. That sofa is still ugly. It’s a shade of gold I’ve never seen anywhere else. Except for Gulden’s mustard. The glass coffee table has been cracked about six years and even has a broken leg. The beige shag carpet is almost insulting to walk on these days. And those burgundy brocade drapes with the sheer nylon curtains behind them aren’t fooling anybody. This is no castle. I don’t know why the fake artwork I bought at the swap meet suddenly looks fake. Now my grandsons look like they’re sitting inside an old photograph because everything in this living room feels wrong. Except them. I wish there was a way I could save them from their mama.

But I can’t. She may have some bad habits, but she doesn’t hit them. They’re well fed. And always clean. But that’s about it. Which is precisely why I go get them every chance I get. It’s my way of keeping tabs on what my daughter is and isn’t giving them. The least I can do is help them see that the world is bigger than their neighborhood. And so they don’t have to watch it on television. It does take a lot of energy to handle two little boys. Believe me, I already know this. I make sure to take my vitamins before we go anywhere. And go we do: to the park, the zoo, the Tar Pits, and every museum in Los Angeles. They love Shamu. Said they want to live in Disneyland. I don’t know how many of those kiddie movies I’ve slept through, because Trinetta makes them watch them all on video.

And that Ricky is a fish. I have to make him get out of the tub and the pool. I’m too scared to let them go into the ocean, because I never learned how to swim, but I take them over to Tammy’s. Her pool is small, but to them it’s Olympic size. Luther is a bookworm. He loves going to the library. Ricky’s too loud and likes to run up and down the stacks. We’ve been asked to leave on too many occasions. They wear me out, but it’s the least I can do, since they didn’t ask for the life they got.

I don’t hear the toilet flush, but out she comes. Looking a little frazzled.

“Say goodbye to your mama, boys.”

They wave. I can tell they’re anxious for her to leave. And before I can say another word, Trinetta is out the front door.

“Hello, Miss Trinetta,” I hear Mr. Jones say. But I don’t hear her say hello back. I pick up the lunch bag and take it to him.

“May God continue to bless you,” he says.

I look at my grandsons. Their hands are clasped together in their laps. They already look bored. I’m too tired to entertain them. But thank God I always go to Target and buy puzzles, crayons, and coloring books and keep them in my big drawer.

“So, what would you young men like to do?”

“I would like to eat some of your food,” Ricky says.

“Me, too,” Luther says. “I love your fried chicken.”

“How do you know that’s chicken you smell?” I ask.

“Everybody knows what fried chicken smell like.”

“Come on back to the dining room, and I’ll fix you both a plate. And then would you like to color or do a puzzle?”

Ricky nods.

“I wanna play video games,” Luther says. “Please?”

“How about first thing in the morning when your grandpa’s sound asleep?”

“Okey-dokey. Then can we put on our new pajamas now?” he asks.

I just look at him.

“Please?”

“Let’s wait until it gets dark and after you have your baths.”

“Okey-dokey,” Ricky says.

“He copied that off me. How many days we staying over here again, Grandma?” Luther asks.

“Excuse me?”

He thinks about what he’s just said.

“How many days
are
we staying over here, Grandma?”

“Two or three.”

“We wish it could be forever, don’t we, Ricky?”

Ricky nods his head.

I don’t even want to think about how long forever might be. I make them wash their hands. They sit at the table. They put their napkins in their laps. They bless their food. Eat every bit of it. They take their baths. Put on their brand-new pajamas. They pile onto the bed next to their grandpa but do not like watching
Dora the Explorer
, so as soon as he is fast asleep they grab the remote and turn to a western. Lee David wakes up, looks at the screen, then turns and looks at them and says, “Ride ’em, cowboy!”

On day three I don’t hear a peep from Trinetta and her phone is still off.

On day four, I wake up knowing the kids have to go to school and I have to go to work, so I call her again, hoping her phone is back on. When it rings, I’m all set to cuss her out when a man answers. “Who is this?” I ask.

“Who is this?” he asks.

“This is Betty Jean. Trinetta’s mother. Where is she and why are you answering her phone?”

“She busy.”

“Put her on the phone. Please.”

“I said she busy. I can relay a message when she finished.”

“Ask her when she’s coming to pick up her kids.”

“What kids? Hey, hole up now. You ain’t done here.”

I hear what sounds like tussling and then Trinetta gets on the phone. “Hey, Ma, this Tri, and—”

“Where are you and what in the world are you doing?”

“I’m at . . . a friend’s house. I’m still . . . studying. So. Would you mind? Keeping. The kids. A few. More days?”