A Day Late And A Dollar Short Part 33

"Which one?"

"I don't know."

"Well, you need to know which one. Or how many. And if you wanna bet on one to win, place, or show."

"I know that means first, second, and third place."

"That's right."

"Which horse you betting on?"

"These two right here," he says, and shows me the ones he's circled: "Moneychaser" and "Imflyin."

"Thank you," I say.

"Good luck," he says. "And if you're gonna bet on this race, you've got three minutes to do it."

"s.h.i.t," I say to Shanice. "I mean, shoot. Sorry, baby. Reach in Granny's purse and hand me my wallet."

She do, and I run over to the window where you place your bets, and when they ask me which horse, I hear myself say, "I wanna put five dollars on all of 'em to win, place, or show."

The man just looks at me like I'm crazy. "That's fifteen dollars each."

"It is? I mean, I knew that." But h.e.l.l if I did. This just sucked up almost all my little check, but for some reason I don't even understand myself right now, I don't really give a d.a.m.n. Maybe this is how Cecil been feeling all these years.

"That was for all of them?"

"That's right."

"Whatever you say," he says, and hands me my tickets.

I hold 'em in my hand real tight and order me and Shanice a Shirley Temple, and when that race starts my heart is pounding so fast, and I hear people screaming and hollering, getting louder and louder as the horses get closer to the finish line, and then a whole bunch of moaning and groaning when the race is over. All except me. My horses won. I sit and wait and then don't know what the h.e.l.l I'm looking at when all them numbers start scrambling up and down like they do at a train station, so I walk back over to that same man and ask him how much did I win? He just look at my tickets and start laughing and shaking his head at the same time. "Beginner's luck," he says.

"How much?" I ask.

"Wait a minute," he says. "Watch that screen over there. It'll tell us in a minute. But you won some money today, sweetness, that you did."

I just stand there holding Shanice's hand real right, and then, when I see the numbers finally stop, I look back at the man and ask him again: "How much did I win?"

"Well," he says, going through my slips, "somewhere in the neighborhood of about eight or nine hundred dollars."

"I know you lying," I say.

"Go on over to the cashier, and they'll tell you," he says, "and congratulations. You wanna be my bookie?"

I just laugh and take my tickets over there, and, sure enough, they count out $898 and they put it all in my hand and I can't hardly control myself all the way outside. When that valet boy brings me my car I give him a five-dollar tip, and when we get in I give Shanice a brand-new crisp one- hundred-dollar bill. We laugh all the way home.

When we pull in the driveway, some white man in a beige suit is getting out a white Saturn in front of my house, but I ain't got a clue who he is. "Can I help you?" I say.

"Are you Viola Price?" he asks.

"Yes I am, why?"

"I have something for you," he says, and walks over and hands me a envelope.

"What's this?"

"I'm not sure. But could you sign here for me, please."

"Okay," I say, and sign on the line next to my name.

"Did I win something?"

"Could be a trip or something," he says, and gets back in his car and drives off.

It's kinda obvious that this ain't no trip or no Clearing House Sweepstakes kinda win. After I get in the house, I sit on the couch and even without my gla.s.ses I can see this envelope is from Family Court. I open it. It's divorce papers from Cecil. "Shanice! Get Granny's spray, would you?"

"Where's your purse?" she asks.

s.h.i.t. "I left it in the car. But it should be one by my bed. Hurry up."

My chest is getting tight again. s.h.i.t. I ain't in the mood for this right now. Cecil want a divorce, huh? Well, good-G.o.dd.a.m.n-riddance. You just beat me to the punch, buster. Save me a whole lotta money. You can have a divorce all right.

"Here, Granny."

After two puffs, I feel better.

"Are you all right?"

"Yeah. Look in the second kitchen drawer on the left and get your granny a pen and then go in my bedroom and pull out that night-table drawer and get me some envelopes, the writing tablet with the birds on the front, and one twenty-nine-cent stamp. And see if we got any messages on the machine while you in there. Paris been in London for d.a.m.n near a week and I ain't heard a word from that huzzy. I asked her to buy me one of them Princess Di hats. She could call some-d.a.m.n-body."

"Okay, Granny. You sure you're all right?" "Yeah, I'm just wheezing. Too much excitement. Fresh paint and gas kinda gets to me. I just need to sit here and relax, do a breathing treatment, and I'll be fine. d.a.m.nit! I missed my stories today! Would you turn on Oprah for me? Wait a minute. On second thought, I don't feel like listening to her a.s.s today. Put it 011 BET."

"Okay, Granny."

"And could you run and get the mail?"

"Okay, Granny."

I hear Paris s voice: "Hi, Mama. Hi, Shanice. I'm having an amazing time over here. And don't worry. I got your hat. Shanice. I got you something cute, too. Hope everybody's doing fine. I'll be home in a couple of days. It's been a very fruitful trip. All around. Call Dingus at his friend Jason's house if you feel like it, Mama. I left you that number, remember? Anyway, I love you. Call you when I get home."

When Shanice comes out with what I asked her to get, I pick up them papers and sign 'em so fast it makes me laugh out loud.

"What's so funny, Granny?" Shanice asks, after coming in with the mail and slamming that screen door.

"What's 'a fruitful trip' mean, and how many times have I asked you not to slam that door?"

"Sorry, Granny. It means productive, good, something happened that you wanted to happen."

"Where you learn such a big word and you ain't but in the eighth grade?"

"It's not a big word. Granny."

"And sorry my behind. Slam that door one more dme and I'ma make you go get a switch off one of them trees out there I ain't got. Any good news?"

She's laughing now. "This big envelope's from Dingus."

"Open it, would you? And hurry up, hurry up!"

"What's the rush. Granny?"

"I wanna see! I just wanna see! He promised to send me a picture of him at his junior prom and some of them college letters he been getting. I just wanna see some for myself "cause I ain't never seen no letter from no college asking n.o.body to come to their school. I'm so proud of that boy I don't know what to do."

"What about my mom and Auntie Paris?"

"I don't mean them kinda letters. These colleges is begging Dingus to come. Hurry up, Shanice!"

After taking her sweet time and finally getting the envelope open, she holds up what I know from the back is a picture. "She's cute," is all Shanice says, and then hands it to me. "Dingus might look a whole lot better when he gets all that metal out of his mouth, and he may not know it, but Cleara- sil and Oxy Pads could help his cause. Nice tux, though."

"Be quiet, girl." I turn that picture over and see my handsome grandson, who don't look like he got no pimples on his face, standing with his arm around this pretty little chocolate cupcake of a girl, and it's written all over her that she come from good stock. Paris said her daddy's a preacher, so that mean she been raised right and probably ain't fast like a lot of 'em is these days. "He sho' know how to pick 'em, is all I gotta say," and then I start flipping through what looks like eight or nine different letters Shanice just handed me. "Would you get Granny's gla.s.ses for her, baby? Please?"

"I don't know what you'd do without me, Granny. Don't you want me to stay and be your private maid?"

I'm nodding my head yes, chuckling, and getting teary-eyed at the same time when I start reading the names of the schools written in big colorful letters across the top of each piece of paper that I don't need no gla.s.ses to read: Stanford University and the University of Southern California and Michigan State University and Ohio State University and the University of California at Berkeley and the University of Miami, and I stop right there, 'cause it's enough. My grandson is going to college all right. And he got choices. And they asking him do he wanna come to their school. Times have sure changed, thank you, Jesus.

"Shanice, what exacdy do a three-point-eighty-seven GPA mean?"

"It means he's getting almost straight A's, Granny."

"Un-huh," I mumble, and read every word of each one of them letters even though they all said the same thing. He's a great quarterback. He's had a great junior year. His grade point average is impressive, and they hope he considers playing and getting his degree at their school, and then they list all the reasons why he'd like it there. I let the letters fall in my lap, and Shanice conies over with a Kleenex and wipe my eyes.

"I hope I can make you proud one day, too, Granny," and she gives me a big hug and squeezes me so tight that I accidentally pull off her litde curly hairpiece, which, to my surprise, she just throws on the c.o.c.ktail table.

"You know what, baby? I'm already proud of you. I'm proud of how well you've handled all this terrible stuff that's happened to you, and I pray on my knees every single night that you grow up and become a strong, healthy woman. I pray that, if you can't forget this, which you probably won't, that you bury it somewhere so deep you can't find it. So deep that it won't never have to haunt you. Watching you smile makes me happy. I won't lie, now that I know what a GPA means, yours was a three-point-oh if I'm not mistaken, so you might wanna work on getting it up a litde higher next year- which will be your first year in high school, am I right?"

"You're right, Granny."

"And don't worry: I'll be there to watch you run that hundred and two hundred and them relays faster than Flo Jo. How's that sound?"

"It sounds good. Granny. It sounds real good."

"Okay," I say as I open up my tablet and start writing.

"What are you writing, Granny?"

"None-ya."

"None-ya?"

"None-ya business. But when I finish writing whatever it is I'm writing, I'ma want you to take it over to Miss Loretta s for me, okay?"

She nods her head yes, and I start.

I been tossing and turning all night, 'cause my chest been getting tighter since this afternoon. I took my pills, gave myself a breathing treatment. h.e.l.l, what more can I do? I ain't feeling too swift, I know that much. I been here too many times before. But I'ma just lay here a litde longer and see what happen, plus, I don't wanna scare Shanice if I have to call 911. Sometime this mess pa.s.s. What time is it? I look over at the clock and it say 1:40. s.h.i.t. I start coughing again and put my hands over my mouth, 'cause thi s g irl laying right up under me, but I can't stop. s.h.i.t. I been wheezing all day. I knew I shouldn'ta stayed in there with that paint or that carpet for as long as I did. s.h.i.t. What difference do it make? I'm hungry. Maybe if I eat something I'll feel better.

I ease out the bed and go on out to the kitchen and open up the refrigerator. It's some leftover spaghetti and meatb.a.l.l.s in here, and that sauce was good. It ain't been in here but three or four days. It should taste even better now. I put some in a bowl and microwave it and sit at this raggedy table that I can't wait to get rid of once I get my new set outta layaway. I'ma put some of my horse-winning money on it to lower my balance.

After I finish, I put the plate in the sink and get a can of ginger ale and take it back to the bedroom. Shanice done turned her back away from me, thank the Lord. I take a few swigs and lay on back down. My chest is still tight, and I ain't feeling no better. s.h.i.t. I ain't in the mood for this. Not tonight. I reach over and take a puff off my inhaler and lay on back down. And wait. It ain't helping. I know I should call 911, but if I lay here for a few more minutes, maybe it might let up. Sometimes it do. You just never know. I feel like turning on the TV, but that might wake Shanice up, and I don't wanna do that when she gotta get up and go to school. Wait a minute. No she don't. Tomorrow is Sat.u.r.day. Maybe if I turn it down real low she won't hear it. I pick up the remote control and some old movie is on, something I almost remember but I can't put my finger on right now. I need something to take my mind off my chest. It ain't working. s.h.i.t. My throat is closing up and I can't hardly get no air. s.h.i.t. I push Shanice as hard as I can and say as loud as I can, "Call 911."

But it came out like a whisper. She rolls over, wipes the sleep outta her eyes, and when she see me looking like I'm gasping for air, she screams, "Granny!"

I grab her arm so hard I know it must hurt but it's the only way I can say, "Call," again, and this time she jumps over me and dial 911 and I hear her yelling: "My granny is having an asthma attack, please send an ambulance right now to 4807 Bledsoe Avenue! It's a light-blue house! Hurry up, please!"

Seem like I feel a little relief. "It's okay, Shanice," I say, fanning myself with my hand. "I just need to sit up and try to be still. They'll be here in a minute and it'll be all right. It's gon' be all right." I sit all the way up and fall forward, 'cause it's the only way it helps you feel like you can breathe easier. Sweat is starting to run down my face and my nightgown is getting sticky. I wish I could take it off.

"Granny, you want me to get your machine under the bed? Want me to get it out for you?"

I cough so hard that all this mucus comes up and when I try to sit up it feels like my neck and chest and ribs is being pulled like rubber bands. I don't wanna scare my granddaughter, but my chest is hurting again. Now my nostrils is flaring out, 'cause when I try to inhale ain't hardly no air coming in. I open my mouth and try to take little sips, 'cause it's all I can do. But now it feels like somebody got a straw down my throat blowing a tiny tunnel of air. This ain't enough. I'm trying not to move, trying not to cry, but now I'm scared. Please hurry up and get here. Please, G.o.d, let 'em hurry up and get here. Be still, Viola. Keep your big a.s.s still. One. Two. Three. Buckle my shoe. Four. Five. Six. Shut the door. Seven. Eight. Nine. Pick up sticks.

I hear the sirens coming up the block and I close my eyes and wait to hear that loud knock on the front door and I say thank you Jesus to myself. Poor Shanice, she been standing in that doorway watching me and watching the front door, then she disappears and I hear her open it.

"Where's your grandmother, honey?"

"In there!" Poor thang. She don't need to be here. She don't need to see me like this. Somebody get her outta here. Please. Two paramedics come through the door and I hear the sound of the gurney popping open and then one comes over to me with his bag and look at me sitting here with my head down in my lap, rocking. "How you doing, ma'am?" this one say grabbing that thing out his bag and clipping it to the end of my finger.

I nod my head up and down and say, "I'm fine."

"That's good. Don't worry, we're gonna get you fixed right up here."

I try to grab onto the sheets and at the same time he tries to open my gown up and I grab his hand and he press that cold thing against my chest and say, "Try to calm down for a second, ma'am. I need you to take a deep breath for me."

But I can't.

"Come on. Let's try once more."

I try again, but don't know if I do it or not.

"I've got wheezing in all fields!" he says.

I hear the other guy say, "Her respiratory rate is over 33. Can you try to relax, ma'am? We need you to slow your breathing down."

If I could I would, don't he know that? But I can't. Just hurry up and give me something! Look at my eyes, G.o.dd.a.m.nit!

"I'm gonna put you 011 some oxygen now and this should help you breathe easier," he says. The next thing I know that mask is covering my nose and mouth and for a minute I feel relieved.

"Her number's still low. Get the albuterol," one says, and then I hear Loretta's voice.

"Vy, it's gonna be okay, sweetie. Don't you worry about anything."