Mama (17 page)

By January, she had enrolled in the community college across the street from where she lived. She went four nights a week. She took an Afro-American history class because Phyllis had made her feel so ignorant about black people. She took sociology because the catalogue had said it would help her to understand social relationships and group behavior. Well, it sounded interesting. She took an English class because she had to if she wanted a degree, and she took a philosophy course because Phyllis had gone on and on about this guy Nietzsche. She was tired of being in the dark about everything. Now she had an ocean of knowledge at her disposal, and it was all within walking distance.

Freda had been living in Los Angeles a whole year before she decided to go back home for a visit. She had deliberately stayed away that long to prove she could make it on her own, though Mildred had never had any doubts about that. Even on Freda's small salary, she'd still managed to send each of them birthday presents.

Mildred went out of her way to make sure everything in the house was clean and cozy. There were new curtains and ashtrays and glasses and towels. Even brand new throw rugs and new sheets and pillow cases on her own bed, where she was going to insist that Freda sleep, instead of upstairs. Mildred didn't want to tell Freda that there were bats up there now. And she hoped Freda wouldn't ask her why the phone was cut off.

Mildred barely recognized her own daughter when Freda stepped off the plane, what with her dark chestnut hair all sun-bleached. And Freda had plenty of extra hair with her, too—a cascade, a mound of curls that looked like someone had just taken the rollers out and sprayed them in place. Her skin, which had always been the color of wheat, was now bronzed. Freda had worked hard to get dark after learning that black was definitely in. Mildred didn't like her color one bit and made sure she knew it.

"You need to stay out of that hot-ass sun. You gon' be as black as Joe Porter if you keep it up."

"Mama, there's nothing wrong with being black. We've been made to believe that being yellow makes us more attractive, but it doesn't. It just makes us look more like whitey, so we feel privileged, but we get treated the same as if we were as black as charcoal. Besides, it's beautiful."

"Yeah, well you was born yellow and you gon' die yellow. You laying out in the sun like you white, and just wait till your ass catch skin cancer. You'll wish you had'a listened to me then."

It was amazing to Freda what could happen to a girl's body in just a year's time. Her sisters had blossomed into young women. Bootsey was sixteen, and not only built full like Mildred, she was the spitting image of her too. Her skin was as smooth as creamy peanut butter and her hair was dusty brown. Before Freda could get comfortable, Bootsey had already told her all about her boyfriend, David, who was six years older than she was. Mildred had told Freda she wasn't crazy about the whole idea, but since he worked at Ford's, she knew his mama was in the church, and David always slipped her a twenty when she needed it and kept the refrigerator stocked with ice-cold Bud-weisers, she said she'd adjusted to him. To tell the truth, Mildred didn't know what the girl saw in him. He had big lips and wasn't much taller than Bootsey, and on top of everything else, he was chubby. Bootsey wasn't satisfied until she had taken one of Freda's suitcases upstairs and tried on some of her California clothes. When she tried on her bikini, Freda noticed a big bruise on her behind. "What's that mark on your butt?" she asked her. Bootsey started laughing. "You ain't never done it on the floor?" Freda was shocked, but said, "Of course I have," even though she had never done it anywhere other than a bed.

And Angel was so feminine it was sickening. She seemed to float when she walked and she whispered when she talked. You never knew what the girl was thinking because she was so quiet and kept to herself. But Freda knew that when Angel got mad or couldn't have things her own way, she could be a real bitch.

Doll was another story altogether. When it came to common sense, Freda had always thought the girl had been left out. She used to have to explain everything to Doll twice, and sometimes Doll still didn't get it. Now, one thing was for sure. Doll was turning out to be the prettiest of them all, just like everybody said she would. She already had hips and little cherry-tomato breasts and had stopped wearing those awful cat-eyed glasses. And it looked like her eyes had finally straightened themselves out.

Mildred was deeply impressed with Freda, listening to how well she expressed herself, enunciating every word like she had some sense. And she looked so sophisticated, with all those fashionable clothes. Mildred took the credit for teaching her daughter the rudiments of good taste. She had bragged to everybody in South Park about Freda. "Well, you know my oldest is in college. Yeah, she living out in LA. She done met movie stars, Little Stevie Wonder, everybody, chile." Told Faye Love that Freda was studying to be an English teacher. Told Janey Pearl she was learning how to be a sociologist, though neither of them knew what it was. Didn't much matter, it sounded important. And Mildred told her hairdresser Freda was going to be a model, maybe even do commercials on TV.

When Freda had put away all her bags, Mildred made the girls circle around in front of the couch so she could take their picture. Freda felt like a celebrity. Mildred thought to herself that she had raised a stock of fine young ladies, seeing them all together like this.

"Where's Money?" Freda finally asked. Everybody bowed their heads and acted like they were trying to ignore the question.

"You hungry, Freda?" Mildred asked, fidgeting with the flash cubes.

"No, I'm not hungry. Where's Money?"

"Freda, did you make this, too? It's so pretty," Angel said, touching her blouse.

"Come on, you guys. Stop bullshitting. Where's my brother?"

"In jail," Mildred said, in a tone so low it was barely audible.

"Did you say jail?"

"Yeah, I said jail," Mildred said, only much louder this time.

"What the hell is he doing in jail?"

"Watch your mouth, girl. You may be on your own, but you ain't grown yet. Stealing."

"Stealing! Stealing what?"

"A lawn mower."

"A lawn mower? Why the hell did he steal a lawn mower and from whom?"

"He use dope, Freda, and don't ask me why. I've been trying to figure it out myself. He don't listen to me. He just like his daddy, only worse. But he on it."

"What kind of dope?"

"The kind everybody else on around here. Heroin."

"Heroin? You mean Money's shooting heroin? My little brother? Be serious, Mama."

"I'm serious as a heart attack," Mildred said. "We didn't want to spoil your trip before you came home. He been on it for a while. Was probably dipping and dabbing in it before you left. You didn't notice how aloof the boy was?"

"No, I didn't, I can't remember. Besides, what difference does it make? Is he downtown? How long has he been there and when is he getting out? Can I go see him?"

"Slow down, girl, you just got here. He ain't going nowhere. He only been up there two weeks. He waiting for his trial date. Serve his ass right. Ain't nobody tell him to start messing around with that shit. Hanging around Curly Mae's dumb-ass kids, Chunky and BooBoo. Everybody around here is on it. It's like a epidemic. And the way it make 'em look, like they dying on they feet. I can't see why they want to mess with it. And they'll steal anythang from anybody to get some money so they can buy that shit."

"I'm calling down there right now to see what time I can visit him." Freda had already picked up the white receiver and raised it to her ear.

"Not on that phone, you won't," Mildred said.

"Why not?"

"Because it's dead. And you might as well know all of it. He ain't been back to school, either."

"He didn't drop out of school, Mama? He only had a year to go!"

"Tell him that."

"Don't worry, I will."

Freda had expected to see some demonic version of her brother, but Money looked like himself. He was standing on the other side of a partition, puffing so hard on a cigarette that the smoke formed a wall between them. Freda had to ask him to put it out. She hadn't known anybody in LA who messed around with heavy drugs, let alone shot it, and the most she had done herself was smoke a few joints, like everybody else.

"You look good, sis," Money said, looking somewhat embarrassed. He bent over and kissed her on the cheek. Freda was surprised, because her brother had never even touched her before.

"You sure look tall," he said. "Did you grow since you left, or what?" Money grinned, and he looked just like Crook.

"No, I didn't grow, silly. It's these shoes." She stepped back and pointed down to the two-inch pink platforms. When she looked up, Money wasn't looking at her shoes, he was looking at her.

"Money," she said, "you aren't messing with heroin for real, are you? Don't lie to me."

"No, I ain't shooting no dope. I tried it, but it ain't for me. Besides, that shit is too expensive. And don't believe everything Mama tells you. You know how she always likes to exaggerate. I make one little mistake and everybody's gotta make such a big deal about it. You'd think I was a criminal or something."

"Well, you are in jail, Money. What about school? Why'd you drop out of school when you only had a year to go?"

Money frowned. Another lecture. Somebody was always telling him what was best for him. Here his sister had been out in California a whole damn year and now she comes back here on her high horse, acting like she's got everything figured out. "School bores me to death," he said, "always has. Everything except science. You know that, Freda. Remember that time Mama beat me 'cause I got all Fs except that A in science?"

"Yeah, how can I forget it? I had to pull her off of you."

Money started looking nervous, anxious, like he was thinking about a million other things and was just talking to be talking.

"I might go back to night school, really," he said.

But by the look in his eyes, Freda knew he was lying. He would say anything to get himself off the hook. But she wanted to know what he was running from. Wasn't that why people got high? To forget to remember? When their father had died, Money hadn't shown any remorse. After all, Crook had never taken him fishing or to the barber shop or to a baseball game. Had never shaken hands with him or patted him on the back for anything; had never even had a father-to-son talk, at least not that Freda knew of.

And when Mildred and Crook split up Money had become the man of the house at eleven years old. It was Money who picked up the dead mice because everybody else was too scared. It was Money who drained the water from the basement when it flooded. Waded through three inches of water just to put the clothes in the dryer so the girls could wear matching knee socks to school. It was Money who learned how to put a penny in the meter to get the lights and gas back on when they'd been cut off. It was Money who pulled the trash barrels out to the street to be picked up. And when things broke, Money fixed them. No one had taught him; his instincts told him what to do. "I can fix it," he'd said to Mildred when the television went fuzzy, when the electric can opener stopped turning, when the lawn mower died. He'd bend under the hood of the Mercury for hours until he had the engine purring. They all took it for granted that this was his role. He had never had any options.

Now Freda couldn't help feeling that they had treated him like a stepchild, mainly because he was the only boy in the house. Nobody had ever paid much attention to Money, until he got into trouble.

"So, how long you gon' be in town?" he asked.

"A little more than a week. I've got a job, you know."

"I heard. What about a boyfriend?"

"Well, sort of. I don't consider him my boyfriend because I'm not head over heels in love, but we have a lot of fun together."

"When did you start wearing your hair like that?" Money asked, pointing to Freda's Afro, which was crinkled up like a hair sponge. Her fake hair was in her suitcase.

"Oh, maybe six months ago."

"They say it's the latest fad, this Afro thang."

"It's not a fad, Money. It's just one way of outwardly showing how proud you are of your heritage."

"Yeah, where'd you hear that?"

"I read it in a book.
The Autobiography of Malcolm X.
"

"I heard of him. Ain't he the one who says the white man is the devil or something?"

"Yes, he's the one. But there's more to it than that. He'll tell you why you're behind bars instead of working at a summer job, and he'll tell you why you dropped out of school. You're doing just what the white man wants you to do, you know that. They love to see young black men ruin their lives by not getting an education and wasting away on dope."

"I told you I don't use dope. You know, you haven't changed a bit, Freda. You still don't listen to me. Don't believe nothing I have to say, do you?"

"I want to believe you, Money, but I didn't expect to come home and find you here."

"Yeah, well, I'm sorry to disappoint you." Money looked over at the clock. "You gotta go," he said. "It was nice to see you. I know you gon' be busy, so you don't have to come back. I'll see you next time you're in town." He turned his back to her and she left.

After a week of being home, having seen that absolutely nothing had changed, at least not for the better, Freda couldn't wait to get back to LA. She knew she hadn't made a mistake by leaving this hick town. And she also knew she was never coming back here to live. Most of the girls she had gone to high school with were living in the projects with one or two babies, and they were big and fat and quite a few of them needed dental work. The guys seemed to spend all of their waking hours in front of the pool hall, drinking wine or nodding over cigarettes, or parked in the field next to the Shingle, honking their horns at anybody who drove by. Freda couldn't even recognize some of the folks who said hi to her on the street. What's going on around here, she wondered? It couldn't just be dope. It had to be something more debilitating, more contagious. It was this town. This termite of a place, which would sooner or later eat away her mama and the girls too. It already had Money. The thought itself alarmed her. Her sisters stuck in front of a TV all day watching soap operas, on welfare, with a house full of babies. And what about Mildred? Freda knew she couldn't sit back and let this happen to them.