Mama (30 page)

Eighteen

W
HEN CANDY TOLD MONEY
she was pregnant, it made him happy. So happy that he married her. So happy that he put in applications at every car company in Detroit, at every construction site he passed, and at every gas station in town. Every day he searched the two-column want ads. ARC Welders (Experienced). Automatic Screw Operators (Experienced). Janitor, $155 a week. Radio Drill Operators (Experienced). All the application forms asked the same questions. Do you have a high school diploma? Have you ever been to jail? Convicted of a felony? Money was too scared to lie.

He did not get a job. He got promises and maybe-soon-but-we-don't-know-right-nows. Come back in two weeks. Try us again next month. Wait till the weather breaks. By the time the snow was a foot deep, Money's patience was as thin as the soles of his shoes. He thought of going back to school, but then the baby would be here soon. And the only thing Candy knew how to do was waitress. Now she couldn't even do that because her feet and ankles had swollen up so bad.

"We need help, Money," she said to him right before Christmas.

"You don't have to tell me what we need," he said, turning his head away. "I'm doing the best I can, and you know it."

"Well, I'm going down to the welfare office today, whether you like it or not. We can't eat no promises."

Money just looked at her and lit a cigarette.

He'd been trying to stay away from the dope man's house and had managed to do a good job of it for a while. But when Candy's water broke and BooBoo came to get him from the Shingle, he found Money sitting on the toilet seat in the men's room, crouched against the metal divider. He was so high that he didn't bother to wipe the saliva dripping out of the corner of his mouth. BooBoo grabbed him by the hair and jerked his face up.

"Money!"

Money opened his eyes and smiled.

"You all right, man?"

"Hey, cuz, what's happening?" he mumbled.

"Candy's in the hospital, that's what. Now come on, let's get out of here." BooBoo pulled Money to his feet and pushed him out the door. His body swayed backward like a brick wall was leaning on him.

"Come on, man, get yourself together," BooBoo said.

"I am together," Money said, closing his eyes again. I'm gon' be a father, he thought. Me, a man with a bright future.

Money had a son.

A month passed. He filled out more applications, but nothing happened. Another month went by. Life was easier behind bars. Predictable. The welfare checks helped, but to Money it was like masturbating. The only reason it felt good was because he couldn't get the real thing.

He'd managed to stay straight for a while, but one night he started getting restless. There was nothing on TV, and there was nothing else to do. Candy was in the kitchen, pressing a girlfriend's hair. He couldn't stand the smell of burning hair. When he was younger, he'd smelled that smell just about every Saturday morning. He sat in the chair in front of the window and puffed on a cigarette, tapping his foot against the tiled floor. Tomorrow he would go to another construction site and ask if there were any openings. But right now Money didn't feel like entertaining thoughts of work. He smashed out his cigarette. He had to get out of this house. Do something. Get some air. He decided to walk out to Bootsey's. He hadn't seen her in so long.

It was cold as hell, but Money didn't care. He wore two turtlenecks and a pea jacket. He pulled his knitted cap down over his thick Afro so it covered his ears. He didn't have gloves, so he dug his hands into his pants pockets until his thighs warmed his fingertips. He would have called to let Bootsey know he was coming, but he and Candy didn't have a phone, and Money wasn't about to spend ten of the last ninety cents he had.

Dove Road was long and dark. An occasional streetlight lit up the lower part of the sky like a small blue moon. His boots made a clomping sound each time they hit the cold pavement. When he reached the third light, he turned onto Fortieth Street. It was pitch black and looked as if it led only to a vaster darkness. He could feel pebbles pushing against his soles. Why did they call this road a street? He kept walking. The cold dampness filled his nostrils and made the hairs stick together. He held his breath to stop from sneezing.

Finally, he turned in to Bootsey's circular driveway, climbed the steps to the front porch, and knocked on the door. He always thought doorbells were meant for strangers.

"Money!" Bootsey answered the door in her bathrobe. "Come on in. You walked all the way out here in this cold?"

"How you doing? I needed a walk." He came in and stomped the snow off his feet. It smelled good in here, like a real home.

"You want something to drink?" Bootsey asked.

"Sure, why not. Where's Dave and the kids?"

"They went bowling, thank God. I finally get a minute to myself. What you drinking?"

"Anything."

Money looked around while Bootsey went out to the kitchen. She had fixed this house up like some kind of decorator. Pastel blue chairs, thick carpet, French provincial couch. Everything he and Candy owned would fit in this one room alone.

Bootsey came back, handed Money a drink, and turned off the TV. She sat at the opposite end of the couch.

"You hungry?"

"Nope," he said.

"I made some chili and rice and homemade biscuits."

"Thanks anyway."

"How's Candy and the baby?"

"They fine."

They were both silent a few minutes, listening to the wind outside the window and the fire crackling in the fireplace.

"Money, you remember Juanita Witherspoon's son, Danny? They lived across the track?"

"Why?" He turned to look at Bootsey. Somehow Money already knew what she was going to say. He'd just seen Danny yesterday going into Tate's. Everybody knew Tate was passing bad dope. Money hadn't scored in over three weeks. He took a gulp of his drink and sat it down on the carpet. It almost tipped over so he picked it up and held it with both hands.

"You ain't heard? They found him slumped over the steering wheel of his car last night, out on the Interstate, right outside Detroit."

Money turned back to look at the flames. "And?" he said loudly.

"He's dead, that's what. And if you don't check yourself, you gon' end up just like him."

Money's eyes burned. A whole lot of people he knew had died because of heroin. He had damn sure had his share of close calls. And where had it gotten him? Closer and closer to nothing. He sat his glass down. All of a sudden, Money felt lucky.

"We getting out of here," he said to Candy a few weeks later. She was feeding the baby.

"And go where with what?"

"California."

"I thought you didn't like it out there."

"That was then, and this is now."

"If you can't find no job here what makes you thank you gon' find one out there?"

"'Cause it's different out there. It's worth a try, damn. Give me some credit for trying, Candy. Besides, ain't shit happening for me in this dead-ass town. If I don't get away from here, I'm gon' go crazy. Keep on getting high when I get depressed, which is damn near always. I'm tired, can't you understand that? Sometimes a person just gets tired."

"Whatever you wanna do is fine with me, Money, but you better call your mama." She wiped the milk away from the baby's mouth with the sleeve of her housecoat.

When Candy had fallen asleep, Money collected all the change he could scrounge up and went down to the drug store to use the phone. Mildred answered right away.

"How you doing, Ma?"

"Money?"

"Yeah, it's me."

"I'm fine. I can't believe you ain't calling me collect. How you doing?"

"Not so hot."

"You ain't back in jail, are you?"

"Nope. Ain't going back, either."

"Yeah, well I'm glad to hear it. What about my grandbaby, how he doing? Big and fat, I betcha."

"He fine. Everybody's fine, Mama. I've been thinking."

"That's a good sign."

"Since Candy had the baby, I can't find no work here, at least nothing that pays much more than what we're getting on welfare. And I was wondering ... if—"

"Yeah, y'all can come out here and stay with me."

"But, ..."

"Wasn't that what you was gon' ask me?"

"Yeah."

"Then come on. It's about the most intelligent idea you've had in years, boy."

"Hold it a minute, Mama. We don't have no money."

"Sell your furniture."

"What furniture?"

"Well, sell somethang and brang that boy and Candy on out here as fast as you can."

Mildred was already excited. Now she would have some company, some activity in the house. Doll was so busy sneaking around behind Tony's back that she didn't come to see Mildred that much. And the only time Angel came by was when she and Ethan weren't speaking.

"But I'ma tell you something, boy," she went on. "Don't come out here with no losing-ass attitude, 'cause I couldn't stand it. I get depressed enough as it is."

"Don't worry, I'm coming with the right attitude, believe me."

Nobody wanted to buy anything Money had to sell, and to his surprise, Bootsey offered to give him the money for the trip.

A month later, Money and his family caught a bus to Los Angeles. Mildred and Doll met them at the station. On the way home they made small talk. Mildred smothered the baby with hugs and kisses, but as soon as they got inside the house, her mood changed. She looked Money straight in the eye while he sat on the couch.

"I'ma tell you two thangs right off the bat so ain't gon' be no misunderstandings. Number one. If you look like you going into a nod or I find anythang around here that look like dope, you out of here. Two. You got exactly one month from today to find a job and a place for your family to live. I ain't running no hotel and I don't want no sad-ass sob stories when your time run out. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yeah," he said, lighting a cigarette. "But Mama, what if I don't find no job in a month? What you gon' do, put us out in the street?"

"You already starting out on the wrong foot. You asking the wrong damn questions. Instead of thanking you ain't gon' find no job you need to be thanking about what kind of job you gon' get. Shit. I don't know who you got your brains from. It had to be Crook's side of the family, 'cause ain't nary a member of mine this damn dense except for—" Mildred started laughing. She was glad to have her only son here. "You too tired to take a look at my washing machine? It won't spin." She peered at Money with one eye closed.

He grinned at her and got up from the couch.

***

Money knew he couldn't afford not to get a job, so this time he lied on all his applications. Yes, he had a high school diploma. A few college credits. No, he had never been to jail, let alone been convicted of a felony. He scored so high on the aptitude test that an aeronautics company hired him as a mechanic on the spot. A month later, they asked him if he wanted to go to school. Money said yes.

Nineteen

"W
OULD YOU PLEASE
stop at that liquor store over there for a minute?" It was late, and Freda was taking a cab home after working all day at one law firm and four hours at another. She got out of the cab and went into the store. It was crowded. She bought a pint of gold tequila and got back in the cab. Then she slid down in the seat and twisted the cap off the bottle. The first gulp burned as it went down. The second one loosened the ring around her head. By the third one, she knew she didn't want to go back to that miserable room.

She told the driver to drop her off at Ninetieth and Columbus.

"You sure now, lady?"

"Positive." She took another sip and slid the bottle into her purse.

Beaucoup's was her favorite bar. The bartender made the best margaritas she'd ever had. Tonight there were the typical late-night diners seated near the foggy glass windows. Big leafy plants hung from the ceiling. A candle burned on each table, making everybody's face glow. She sat her bag down on the floor, unbuttoned her coat, and hopped up on a stool.

"My favorite person," the bartender said. He was from Antigua, extraordinarily handsome, and gay. "The regular, sweetheart?"

"Yep. It's been a long day."

"What's the scoop?"

"Here I am, supposed to be a writer, but no one wants to hire me as one. Today I had an interview for a job in the newsroom it NBC, and this woman wanted me to take a typing test! 'Do you know how many of our female executives started out in the typing pool?' she asked me."

The bartender liked Freda's spunk and smiled at her.

"I don't care how Barbara Walters got where she is. Experience, she said. How are you supposed to get it if no one will give you a job?" She took a sip from her drink. "Chucky's in Love" was on the juke box. Freda loved that song.

Someone tapped her arm. "Excuse me, is anyone sitting here?

Freda turned to see the most handsome face she'd seen close up in a long, long time.

"No. No one's sitting here."

"Do you mind if I do?"

"Not at all." She was already nervous and sipped the fizz off her drink.

He ordered a Jack Daniel's and sat down on the stool next to hers. He was having a rough time positioning his long legs, and Freda had a chance to look him over quickly. His lips looked succulent, and his mustache was thick and shiny. His eyebrows were black and bushy and his golden cheeks high. She tried to sip her drink slower than usual.

He finally got comfortable and looked at her.

"What's your name, if you don't mind my asking?"

"Freda. And yours?"

"James. You live in this neighborhood?"

"Sort of." She didn't want to answer too many questions. This guy could be a rapist, a murderer, anything. This was New York. But then there was something about him that made Freda feel at ease. "What about you? I've never seen you in here before."

"I live in Brooklyn. A friend of mine lives upstairs in this building, and I was supposed to meet him at eleven, but he's always late."

"Oh." Freda didn't know what else to say. She already had a nice buzz and was grateful for it. This past week had been one big letdown after another. So now she figured she'd better find out if this guy was for real.