Mama (27 page)

"I'm trying, girl, I swear I'm trying, but if he don't ease up and get his shit together, this ain't gon' work. I can tell you that right now. And if you thought Mama was quick to leave a man, you ain't seen nothing yet."

Freda got a part-time job as a legal secretary in spite of what her adviser had told her. Hell, after she paid her tuition and bought books, she didn't have enough money to get her own apartment. By February, she found a rent-controlled six-month sublet near campus and was happy to leave Queens.

School wasn't so hot. She found most of the students to be incredibly snobbish and cliquish. A lot of the first-year students were working as interns at some of the major networks and newspapers. Freda thought it strange that she hadn't been given the same opportunity. She also learned that most of them already had jobs lined up after they graduated.

Freda had covered everything from political debates and campaigns to garbage strikes and murders, and now she had to get her thesis approved. She waited outside her adviser's door, smoking a cigarette, before he called her in.

Mr. Bernstein barely turned around to look at her.

"So, Freda, how's it going?"

"Fine, I guess."

"I've read over your proposal. So you want to expose some of our so-called slumlords."

"Yes."

"You realize this is an awfully big topic, I'm sure."

"I do."

"Why this particular issue?"

"Why?" She looked at him like he was crazy. "Because, I think it's downright sickening the way all of these rich people who own apartment buildings in poor areas of New York are taking advantage of poor people. There are apartment buildings in this city not fit for animals to live in. And most of those places don't even have heat or hot water. Not to mention rats and roaches that are all over the place." She sat back in her chair. "I think it's disgusting that they violate every housing code in the book and get away with it. They need to be exposed for what they are, greedy and insensitive to the plight of other human beings who don't happen to be rich, white, or Jewish."

Mr. Bernstein glared at her.

"Tell me something, Freda, what do you plan to do with your master's in journalism?"

"I'd like to do investigative reporting for a newspaper, at least that's how I feel now."

"And is this how you think you're going to make your living?"

"Yes."

"I'm not trying to discourage you, young lady, but do you have any idea how much a writer makes?"

"No."

"Well, I'll tell you. The average, and I say average, writer makes around six thousand a year. Everybody wants to work for the-big city dailies, but it's not easy to find jobs there. When you finish here, your classroom and fieldwork won't count for much. I suggest you give writing a long hard thought. If nothing else, if you're dead set on reporting, I'd at least consider going to a small town, anywhere but New York."

"I've got time to decide. Are you going to approve my thesis?"

"Yes, and I wish you the best of luck." He signed a piece of paper and handed it to her. Freda closed the door and went directly to her favorite bar.

***

Tanya, the hostess, was on duty. Freda often chatted with her when she stopped in here after work. Tanya was black, but had freckles and sandy brown hair. She wore false eyelashes and batted them at male patrons when she seated them. But Freda thought she was pretty down-to-earth. She worked here between singing gigs. As a matter of fact, she told Freda, she'd just landed a sweet one up in the Catskills for the whole summer.

"Look, girl," Tanya said, "I've got a one-bedroom a block from Central Park. It's nothing fancy, but it's clean, and it looks like I'll be away at least four days a week, so if you want to, you can stay with me a few months."

"Are you sure you wouldn't mind?"

"Yes, I'm sure. You'll just have to sleep on my little raggedy couch when I'm there."

"No problem, Tanya. I'd pay half the rent, you know. Is it expensive?"

"I'll tell you what. You give me five hundred and that'll cover half of two months' rent."

Two weeks later Freda moved into Tanya's dark basement apartment. The furniture was old and cheap, and Freda thought the place needed some artwork. But Tanya, who said she thought she'd be leaving in just a few days, told Freda she didn't want her to hang anything on her walls. She had a large portrait of herself, holding a red apple, on a wall by itself. On another wall was a scratched mirror. Opposite that was the kitchen, and to the side, the entrance to the tiny bedroom.

A week later, Tanya still hadn't received word as to when her gig started. After three weeks, the only notes she'd sung were in the shower and the farthest she had traveled was to Bloomingdale's. Freda knew she'd been taken, but didn't feel she was in any position to complain.

Freda started eating out almost every night, and drinking even more. She did everything to avoid seeing Tanya, because Freda didn't know how to come right out and tell her that she was full of shit.

One night, she stumbled home and Tanya was waiting up for her.

"I need to talk to you," she said sternly. "I haven't said anything to you about eating my tuna fish or using my milk to put in your coffee in the morning, but something even worse has been bothering me."

"I've got a few things that's been bothering me too, like why you haven't gone to the Catskills."

"I'm leaving next week for sure, but that's beside the point. I didn't know when you moved in here that you were an alcoholic. I should've known by how much you drank at Chili's. Still, you seemed like a mature woman, working on your master's, and I just thought you were in a bad way."

"I'm not an alcoholic. I'm just depressed."

"No, honey, you need help, and I can't live with anybody who stumbles in all hours of the night. Last week half the contents of your purse were outside the door. You know how embarrassing that is? I want you out of here by Friday."

"But that's the Fourth of July!"

"I know what day it is," was all she said.

Freda put her coat on and walked back down the street to the bar.

She moved into a woman's hotel, which was worse than living in Queens. It was full of old ladies who never wore anything except a slip and always had rollers in their hair. There were also young girls who had just graduated from secretarial, school or had come to New York to make it as high-fashion models. They were always so full of zest and energy it was sickening.

She hadn't told Mildred or anybody how miserable she was or about her new living conditions. But she had made two decisions. She was not going back to NYU, and she was going to finish her thesis and try to sell it to a real newspaper.

Tonight, Freda sat on the bed in her dingy room, on a mattress that must have been a hundred years old. She could feel the springs on her behind. She poured herself a shot of tequila, picked up the phone, and waited for an outside line.

"Hi, Mama."

"Hi, Freda, how you doing? We ain't heard from you in almost a month. You get my letter?"

"Yes, I got it. I'm fine, Mama. How are you?"

"Couldn't be better," Mildred said, lying. She was sitting in a dark house, burning candles for light since the electricity had been getting too high. But why mention it now? She took a sip of her VO. "What you doing? How is school?"

"School is fine, keeping me busy. Last week I had to cover a story on arms control and some demonstration they were having up in Harlem."

"Don't get yourself killed, girl. Ain't no newspaper article that damn important."

"Heard from Money?"

"Naw, but Bootsey have. Say he be out soon."

"How's Angel and Ethan?"

"Fine, they in Hawaii. Doll and Tony still tripping. That girl is as nutty as a fruitcake. Don't know a good man when she see one. How's your love life, by the way?"

"So-so. Could be better. I've been going out with a nice guy at school," she lied.

"What's his name?"

Freda had to think quickly, and took a name from one of her textbooks on the night table.

"Norman."

"You in love?"

"No, it's not that serious yet, Mama."

"You don't sound so hot if you ask me. Ain't no pep in your voice. You sure ain't nothing wrong?"

"No, Mama. I'm just a little tired."

"Then, take your behind to sleep. Write me a letter."

They said goodbye and Freda lay down on the lumpy mattress. She lit a cigarette and stared up at the cracks in the dingy beige ceiling. She started to cry, but then she stopped abruptly and sat up. For some reason, Freda remembered that once Mildred had said women were just like queen bees. Could do everything except fly.

Sixteen

M
ILDRED COULDN'T SLEEP
. Even the pint of VO she'd drunk didn't make her drowsy. She lay there considering getting up. But for what? The house was so quiet, the only thing she could hear was the refrigerator humming, the clock ticking, and some crickets in the grass in the back yard. Then she remembered she'd forgotten to turn off the pool pump. She pulled herself up out of bed, walked out into the cool night air and just stood there for a minute. It felt good. She flipped the pool light on, and as if she'd been given an order, threw her nightgown on the bar stool and dived in. In all the years Mildred had lived in this house, and all the years she'd dreamed of having a swimming pool, this was the first time she had ever dived in. The water felt like it was running through every pore in her body, gliding through her veins, and Mildred felt like mint. She swam as if she were in the Olympics, and with each turn, her heels pushed off the cement and her body wiggled like a small whale through thick blueness. After eight or nine vigorous laps, Mildred walked up the side steps of the shallow end of the pool and sat there. Out of breath, she pulled her sagging breasts into her hands and cupped them. What good were they? She let them drop flat against her chest.

The air was causing her to shiver, so Mildred jumped up and ran inside. She toweled her face and body like a rich woman would—pat pat pat—and dabbed herself softly here and there. Then she wrapped a bathrobe around her tingling body and poured herself a drink. Straight. Now what? she thought, looking around the room. She was not sleepy. She slid over on the gold sofa and stared at the telephone, then the clock. It was one o'clock in the morning. Four in New York. She hadn't spoken to Freda for weeks. If she had called, Mildred would have discovered that Freda was having a hard time getting to sleep too. Freda had just poured herself another shot of tequila and was contemplating whether or not to call her mama. But she thought it was too late.

Mildred walked around the living room, looking at the pictures of her daughters. Her grandchildren. All of their faces, just smiling at her. Freda had turned out to be a fine young woman, and so damn smart. All she need is a good man. And Bootsey. Just like me, too much like me. Stubborn as hell, and can't nobody tell her nothing. Living good. And Angel. In love with a white boy. He better watch her like a hawk, too, or she be gone. And Doll, she a little on the dingy side but she still my baby. Mildred let out a deflating sigh. Why couldn't Money's picture be up here and make everythang complete? Who knows? Them bars might just turn his head around straight.

Her hands moved to her stomach. It was sticking out like a woman four months pregnant. All that junk food she swallowed with her daily fifth of VO was catching up with her. She had also started dying her hair more often, because the gray that kept coming up at the roots scared Mildred.

She walked into the bathroom and stood in front of the full-length mirror behind the door. The crinkles of skin and sacks under her eyes weren't lying. I'm getting old, Mildred thought. It's right there in that mirror. And what have I done with my life, besides giving birth to five kids? What the hell have I done? Here I am in sunny California in this house by myself with no kids no man and not even a damn dog. Nothing but these birds Doll and Little Richard gave me for Mother's Day. Yeah, I got these fucking birds.

She heard a car door slam, and went to the front door and flipped on the porch light. It was Jimmy, across the street, pulling into his driveway. A nice man, married to a woman who had never spoken to Mildred.

"Is that you, Milly?" Jimmy called out.

"Yeah, it's me, Jimmy. Out kinda late, ain't you?"

"Yep, went bowling. What you doing up so late?"

"Couldn't sleep."

"What you got to drank over there?"

"VO."

"Want some company?"

"I need something."

Jimmy put his bowling bag back in the trunk of his car and walked across the street. Mildred closed the door behind him and tightened the belt on her robe, then decided to let it hang loose.

Shit.

It had been so long since she had even touched a man—not since Percy—and Mildred hardly knew how to contain herself. She just about devoured poor Jimmy. "Hold on a minute, baby," he finally said. "Take it easy. I ain't used to so much at once."

Mildred slowed down, reluctantly, because he felt so good inside her and she realized that she wasn't as old as she thought. And with each stroke, she regained another year of life.

She got up and went to the bathroom. Now her face had some color to it and the wrinkles seemed to have disappeared. Her eyes were sparkling like fresh-cut diamonds and Mildred could've sworn it was morning. She heard the birds twirping in the living room, and damn, she loved those birds. She cleaned herself up and walked back into the room, where Jimmy was still trying to catch his breath.

"Damn, Milly, you kind of spunky ain't you, gal?"

"That ain't all I am," she said, as cool as she could be now.

"I thank I better be getting on home, wouldn't you say?"

"I would say so too, Jimmy."

In the morning, Mildred was trimming her shrubs in the front yard and pulling up weeds along the sidewalk when Jimmy came outside to water his lawn. They said their usual hellos, and Mildred gave him her regular neighborly smile. Jimmy looked disturbed.