A Day Late And A Dollar Short Part 3

"Can we not get into this right now?" "Whatever," she sighs.

"Look. I've got two midterms this week, Mama just got out of intensive care, and I'd like to drive up there on Sat.u.r.day to see her. Make sure she's doing all right."

"Can I go, too?" Shanice asks. "We'll see."

"You can't go," George says.

Shanice cuts her eyes at him. "Why not?"

"Because your first league meet is this weekend."

"But it's not a qualifying meet, and, plus, I want to see my granny."

"I'd like her to come with me, George."

"I thought you said Viola was going home on Sat.u.r.day."

"That's right."

"Don't you think she needs a few days to fully recover at home?" "I'm going there to help her recovery, George. There'll be a lot of things she can't do."

"I thought you said Lewis was headed over there to be with her?" "He's just the welcoming committee she needs, George. Be serious." "I understand all this, but it just seems like next weekend would make more sense."

"Is there something you need me to do for you?"

"So you did forget about the banquet on Sat.u.r.day. It's an important dinner. And you know that. Everybody's wives will be there. Except mine, of course."

"George, I'm not sure just how bad Mama's attack was, but. . ." "She's still in the hospital; that should give you a clue," Shanice says. "You should really watch the tone of your voice," George says. "Look, we only have this awards dinner once a year. It's been on the calendar for eight months. Your mother's illness is somewhat of an inconvenience, wouldn't you say?"

Self-restraint is something I pride myself on, and it's rare that I even raise my voice at George, but he was taking this much too far. "Well, it's sad when your mother gets sick and has to be rushed to the hospital and may very well have died, but, then, that's not half as important as, say, some dry- a.s.s chicken or overcooked roast beef, and do you think I really want to miss rubbing shoulders with a tableful of phony women who can't even remember my name, just to go to my mother's aid? What a tough decision."

"So this is how you value my colleagues?"

"Colleagues? They're cops, George."

"So-am I supposed to go alone?"

"If I could be in two places at once I would. Please don't make me feel guilty about this."

"So you're going to Vegas, then?"

"I don't have a choice. She's my mother."

"That's so touching."

"Ma, can you take me to track practice today?"

"No, I can't. The only time I could reserve a computer at the library was from five to seven, and I wanted to go to the gym for an hour. I should be home by eight-thirty. I can take you tomorrow."

"I don't mind taking her," George says.

"I don't want you to take me," she says.

"Well, you really don't have much of a choice, now, do you?" He smirks and heads for the salad bar. I know he means well, but Shanice has gotten too grown and her mouth is like sour candy. Sometimes I wish she was going somewhere.

When we get home, it's almost two-thirty. Shanice goes straight up to her room and closes the door. As usual. The music comes on almost automatically. I go out to the garage to look for my Easter stuff, and of course George follows me.

"What are we going to do about her att.i.tude, Janelle? I can't take much more of this."

I see the big blue bunny. He's leaning against the wall in a corner, covered in plastic. "Look. She's going through p.u.b.erty. This is the time when most young girls are difficult. Just try to be a little more patient with her, please?"

"She's got it in for me and you know it."

"I think you're misreading her, I really do." I pull the stepladder below the shelves where I keep all my boxes. They're pretty much in holiday order and each box is labeled-"Xmas Decorations," "Fourth of July," "Valentine's Day," "St. Patrick's Day," etc., and there's "Easter."

"She wants me to apologize for not being her father."

"Well, there's not much we can do about that, now, can we?" I get up on the ladder and look down at George. "Can you help me do this, please?"

"Sure," he says, and we trade places. He hands me all four boxes but then accidentally gives me one marked "Fourth of July." "Not that one!" I yell, and he puts it back like I just screamed "Fire!" or something. I walk over to where all the flags are rolled up, lift the plastic, and flip through them one by one until I find the Easter-egg flag. All holidays deserve to be acknowledged, as far as I'm concerned. It adds a measure of excitement to otherwise boring weeks and gives me something to do.

"I'm doing everything I can to be a good father to that girl, but she shuts me out."

I start opening the boxes one by one, looking for the papier-mache eggs. They're almost twelve inches round. I made them in a papier-mache cla.s.s. I didn't like it. It was too messy. "Well," I say after I find the yellow and pink ones, "you'll have another chance."

"Another chance, how?"

"To be a good father. To the next one. Where's the nest? I don't think you got the one with the nest in it."

"What next one?"

"The one in here," I say, tapping my stomach. I spot the box marked "Nest/Baby Chicks/Baskets," and point to it. George leans back against the big blue bunny and it almost tips over. He catches it. "You're not pregnant?"

"I am."

"Janelle, I thought we talked about this."

"We did talk about it. Can you pull my car out into the driveway so I can spread all my things in here?"

"I told you I didn't want any more kids. I've had enough of kids. I've already raised two, and they're finally grown and paid for. I'm fifty-one years old. I don't need to start over. I'm too d.a.m.n old to start over."

"No you're not." I hand him the keys from the hook on the wall next to the door leading to the kitchen.

"I thought you were using protection," he says as he presses the garage- door opener and opens the door of my Volvo.

"Protection from what, George? I can hardly believe it even found its way up there, considering."

He starts the engine, then sticks his head out the window. "Are you complaining?"

"No."

"Well, something managed to find its way," he says, and backs the car out into the driveway.

Cars dart by. I just watch. There's far too much traffic on this street. One day I'd like to find a quieter one to live on. A cul-de-sac, even. When he gets out of the car, he comes back in and pushes the garage-door b.u.t.ton. As it lowers, I blurt out: "I'm having it." The tarp is always in the same place. I spread it out in the spot where my car was and, one by one, place every single item on top of it.

"Look, don't sound so defensive, Janelle. I'm not saying I don't want it. It's not like something you pick up for me at the store."

"I'm thirty-five years old, George. My days are so very numbered. Besides, Shanice has always wanted a brother or sister, and now she can get her wish. Look at Hugh Hefner."

"I'm not Hugh Hefner."

"Well. . ."

"How far gone are you?"

"Seven weeks." There's the pink egg. Thank the Lord. Now. Tomorrow, right after my exams, I can put them all out in the front yard. It'll be lovely.

"Anything could happen," George says.

"What do you mean: anything?"

"There's still time to change our minds."

"I'm not changing my mind," I say, and walk past him toward the kitchen door.

"Sometimes you remind me of my ex-wife, you know that?"

"Don't you dare compare me to her," I say. "I've been compared enough in my life."

"I'm not comparing per se, but she loved to push me into a corner to get what she wanted, too. This feels pretty d.a.m.n familiar." "Look, I've got studying to do."

"I'm sorry," he says apologetically. "I just wasn't expecting this. I've got lots of other things on my mind. You know the two duplexes off Western and Forty-seventh?" "Yes."

"Well, the crackheads are taking over the whole d.a.m.n street, and black people are moving out of there left and right. Between them, the Koreans buying up everything, and the Crips and Bloods destroying it all, the neighborhood's turning into a war zone. I might have to sell both units." "And what fool do you think would buy those dumps?" "Those 'dumps' provide almost half of my annual income, which you don't seem to mind one bit." "I'm sorry." But I don't mean it.

"It's all right. I just have to get used to this whole idea. Give me a few days. At least. But right now I better get Shanice over to the track." "Are you going to wait for her?" "Yes."

"Please don't say anything to her about this. I want to wait until I'm at least ten weeks." "Why?"

"Because I want to get an amnio and that'll tell me if everything s okay." "Whatever."

"And, plus, / want to be the one to tell her," I say, and hold the door open for him to enter.

"Your secret's safe with me," he says.

After they leave I walk into the kitchen to get a banana. I love my kitchen. It's spotless. Just the way I like it. I can't stand for things to be out of place or in disarray. It drives me crazy. Every open shelf in here is filled with black knickknacks I've collected over the years: Daddy Long Legs, All G.o.d's Children, Aunt Sarah's Attic-and any other kind I could find.

My house is pretty. Soft. Clean. All lace and pastels. Parquet floors, except the foyer is a creamy marble. It's imitation, but it looks real. I guess my taste is modern with a traditional twist. I bought the entire living-room set from Scandinavian Designs and my dining-room table from Ikea. They've got nice things at reasonable prices. I live for one-stop shopping. One day I hope to be able to afford some real artwork instead of the prints they sell at the mall.

Once in the study, I sit in my beige leather reading chair. It reclines, and has a matching ottoman. To tell the truth, I don't feel like going to the library today, but I'm going. I don't feel like studying either, but I will. I'm trying to teach myself to finish what I start. To follow through. The book on contracts is in my briefcase, but so is my romance novel. Oh, why not? I '111 addicted to love stories. They relax me. Help me escape the ho- humdrummedness of my own uneventful, inconsequential world. Everything that's missing in my life I find in these books. Some nights I thank G.o.d for Danielle Steel, Nora Roberts, and Janet Dailey alone.

The only reason I'm taking this real-estate course is because a psychic once told me I was a "people person," and, plus, I'm trying to find something I like to do. Something I enjoy. No doubt, it's been hard. But I give myself credit for trying. n.o.body else seems to. Yes, I've been going to college off and on for what seems like forever, but I've gained more knowledge and insight than I ever would working at the DMV or the post office, or, say, Nordstrom's. I'm no prodigy, and I'm not all that creative either-this much I do know about myself. But I like people. And I like houses. And I'm sure I can sell them. Especially out here in Palmdale and Lancaster, where they're building them faster than you can blink. If I do it right, I might even go for my broker's license later on. But these cla.s.ses are harder than I thought they'd be-very technical-and you need to be good in math, which was always my worse subject, so, if I don't end up doing so hot, I'm seriously going to look into becoming a personal trainer or a nutritionist.

I'm also very much aware that my family makes fun of me behind my back. I know they refer to me as the slow one in the family. I've been called "Loose Brains," "Dinghy," "Miss s.p.a.ce Cadet," and a host of other endearing names. I'm also known as the Professional Student in search of a major. Lewis told me all of them one morning when he was drunk and I'd taken him to I HOP for French toast and coffee, trying to sober him up. I know they don't mean any harm by these little innuendos and they don't say this stuff with any malice-at least I don't think they do. They're just my family.

I make myself get out of this chair. I even go to the library with twenty minutes to spare. I'm proud of myself, since I'm notorious for being late. But guess what? The computers are down. Some kind of power outage caused them to go off-line or something, and it'll take at least an hour or two before they come back up. It could be as late as tomorrow. At first I don't know what to do, but then I realize there's a six o'clock low-impact cla.s.s that I'm sure won't hurt the baby. I'll shower and shampoo at the gym, then study at home.

When I pull into the driveway, it's almost seven-thirty. I am just about to press the garage-door opener when I remember that all my Easter thing? are still on the floor. George would have a fit if I took his spot and he had to park his Jag outside in the elements all night. I guess it doesn't matter that it's ten years old. A Jag is still a Jag to him. I leave my car in the driveway and go through the front door, something I don't think I've ever done before. It feels strange, walking in your own house like you're a guest. I take my sneakers off, since I usually ask everybody else to remove their shoes. I look up at the stairwell; it could use another coat of white satin gloss. Oh, no! There's a huinongous spiderweb hanging from the chandelier. I didn't see it there this morning. This thing has to go. I take my attache case into the study and drop it on the floor. It is so quiet in here. George and Shanice should be home soon, within a half-hour or so. He usually takes her to get something to eat after practice.

I go upstairs to change into some clean sweats, and when I step outside my bedroom, I walk out to the landing with a towel to see if I can reach that spiderweb, but I can't. That's when I notice Shanice's backpack down on the hall table by the kitchen. I didn't hear them come in. I walk down the hall to her room, and as usual, her door is closed. Because she's not allowed to lock it, out of courtesy and respect for her privacy I always knock. For some reason, tonight I ease it open. I don't know why I'm not shocked when I see George sitting on the edge of Shanice's bed with his hand pressed on top of hers pushing up and down inside his black pants. His eyes are closed peacefully, but Shanice is scrunching hers so tight I can tell it hurts, because she's biting her bottom lip the same way I am. An inferno invades my whole body, and then, suddenly, feels like a block of ice. George's eyes open wide and he looks frightened. Shanice drops her head. In a split second, I look at these walls, which I can't even tell are yellow because they're plastered with magazine photos of probably every hip-hop singer and rapper on the planet. Four pair of sneakers are lined up under her bed. They should be in the closet. Why aren't they? I'm tempted to do it, but now I'm sinking in water so deep I can't move. I shake my head back and forth, trying to get to the surface, but it's sealed tight. I try to take a deep breath and leap, push, but I'm stuck. This f.u.c.king room is too small. Stuffy. And suffocating. Why'd we put her in here anyway? And why's it so noisy? Why's that stupid music blasting so loud all of a sudden? Who turned it on? I wish those kids on the walls would stop singing and rapping. "Shut the h.e.l.l up!"

George is trying to zip his pants and stand up at the same time, but it doesn't matter. He has to get past me. I have been spared. I have thawed out. I don't need air to stop him. Which is why I grab the halogen lamp from the desk near the doorway and walk toward him and stop. We are eye to eye. He opens his mouth to say something, and maybe he does, but I don't hear a word of it. I start pounding him over the head with this lamp until the sight of blood and Shanice's screaming stops me.

"I'm sorry," he screams, trying to flee from the room, holding his head.

"You get back here, you sick motherf.u.c.ker!"

"Mama, stop it!" Shanice yells.

"I'm really sorry," George says again, and runs out the door. I hear him heading downstairs.

"f.u.c.k you, George."

"I swear it."

"She's my baby."

"But I never hurt her."

"You should leave now."

"But this is my house."

"f.u.c.k you and this house!"

"I want to explain."

"I said get out! Now!"

"Can I at least take something with me?"

"You've already taken more than enough. Now, get out of here before I call the police! Oh. I forgot. You tire the f.u.c.king police!"

Now I'm shivering and can't stop. There's blood on my hands and wrists, and I realize I'm still gripping the lamp as he heads toward the garage. I could kill him. I should kill him. But I don't move. I listen as he starts up the car and the Genie lifts and then the garage door closes shut. I stand in the kitchen for the longest time until, finally, I open the door to make sure he's gone. My Easter stuff looks stupid out there. I should stop doing this silly s.h.i.t. I really should. n.o.body cares anyway.

Shanice's cleats are on the top step. They look worn out. All she ever wanted to do was run track. Break records. Fly. Like they say on those Nike and Reebok ads. She pushes herself so hard. Harder than I've ever pushed myself to do anything. Maybe that's why he wanted her. Because she's young and beautiful and can still fly. But I used to be her. Stop lying, Janelle. You wish you were her. She knows what she likes. What she's good at. She's more focused at twelve than you are at thirty-five.

Why didn't I see the signs? When she stopped giving us both good-night kisses? That was over a year ago. Now I'm confused. I have to think back. I have to replay the last year or two in my mind. But now I'm wondering just how long he's been doing this s.h.i.t to my baby. And what if he's lying? Wha t i f lie's touched her the same way he's touched me? Why didn't I see it? Why wasn't I paying closer attention? And why in the h.e.l.l did I believe him when he said he hadn't harmed her in any way? I blot my eyes. Because you wanted to believe him, that's why. Admit it, Janelle. Because harm equals abuse, and that meant I'd lose everything. We would be on our own. And I've never been on my own. I don't even know if I can make it without someone holding me up.