Who Asked You? (23 page)

HOW YOU CARRY IT

M
ister’s been gone now for almost three years. As much as I always made myself believe I didn’t love him, it turns out I did. It wasn’t that Hollywood kind of love: full of flames, hurricanes, or ten-foot waves. It was smooth and steady, the kind that makes you want to stay with a person because they don’t take anything from you. It’s not until they’re gone that you realize how much they added to your life. I didn’t worry about half the things I worry about now. Even at the end, it wasn’t hard making all the arrangements, because he had already made them. Our insurance premiums were always paid up, which is how, after I took care of everything having to do with his burial, I had a little money left to pay down my credit cards and finally trade in that junker for a brand-new one. I bought myself another Buick—since I love me some Buicks—because it was in my price range and I can afford the payments. Of course, the boys wanted me to get one of those SUV things, but with my driving knee begging for surgery, I couldn’t chance trying to lift myself up that high to get in and out of it. They’re happy with the smell of newness. Luther pleaded with me to get black, but since the garage is full of junk I have yet to get rid of, he and Ricky decided that white was just as cool and they seem to love washing it. I’m pretty sure Mister would like it, too.

I hope the next funeral I go to is mine. I’m sick of death, and tired of losing people. We lost relatives we didn’t know we had during Katrina, and some we did, but we didn’t and couldn’t get down there. Of course, our parents lived so far outside New Orleans they weren’t physically affected by it, but mentally is a whole different story. I don’t know how some people survive after experiencing this kind of tragedy. I really don’t. I felt the same way after 9/11. It is one of the reasons why my problems seem small, because they’re at least predictable and manageable.

I’m also glad I don’t live in this house by myself. I don’t know what it would’ve been like without my grandsons being here to help me through the loss of my husband of over forty years. My own sons were no help. Dexter violated his parole, went back to jail, and now has to wear one of those ankle things for a year or else he’s going back to prison. Quentin made an appearance but left right after the service. Of course my sisters were sad to see Mister leave this way, but they also had enough going on in their lives that limited the amount of grieving they could do. In all honesty, Tammy took it harder than my sisters did. She pretends like she’s still trying to figure out how to get Montana and Clementine out of her house. I don’t know why she just doesn’t come out and admit that she likes having them there and stop complaining. Trevor moved out, and what a sour note that turned out to be. Montana changed her mind (again) about teaching and is now turning her attention to beauty. She’ll be thirty before you know it and she seems to be even more confused about what to do with her life now than when she was all set to go to the Peace Corps. I feel sorry for her in a way. And Tammy is not helping.

“Grandma! Thank you thank you thank you so much for frying us chicken!” Luther says, running back to the kitchen and bending down to hug me. Ricky is right behind him. It’s been hard for me to fry chicken for them since Mister’s been gone, and I don’t fry anything that often anymore. My cholesterol went up, plus I know it’s not healthy to eat fried food all the time. Omar, who it turns out is becoming a chef, has been showing me how to broil, bake, sear, and stir-fry. These boys will eat anything you put in front of them, as long as it smells good.

“You’re quite welcome. And how was school today?”

“Boring,” Ricky says, as usual. “But I did manage to get a C-plus on my Spanish test if that impresses you, Grandma.”

“I’m impressed.”

“I just found out I’m going to be in advanced biology when I enter ninth grade, but you didn’t hear it from me, now did you, Grandma?”

“I believe I did.”

I give him a high five. The way he and Ricky give them, with their hands high and palms hitting.

“Is there anything you need us to do first?” Ricky asks.

“Don’t ask a stupid question, Ricky.”

“I was wondering, Grandma,” Ricky says. “Is a puppy still out of the question?”

“A what?”

“A puppy. You know:
woof woof!
” Luther says.

“Who’s going to feed it?”

“We will!” they say at the same time.

“Who’s going to walk it?”

“We will!” they say at the same time.

“If it doesn’t end up weighing more than thirty pounds, and don’t even think about a pit bull or a Rottweiler. It has to be the kind of dog that doesn’t bite, doesn’t bark loud, and enjoys being in the backyard.”

“Are you kidding me?” Ricky says, jumping in the air like he’s pedaling a bicycle.

“We need to have a conference about this after dinner,” Luther says to Ricky. “And thank you for considering our request, Grandma, even if it took you almost five years!”

“That’s a supersized thank-you, Grandma.”

“We will hose down the driveway, trim all the dead leaves off the bushes in the front yard, paint, scrub, wash clothes, do the dishes, windows, vacuum—whatever you want us to do until we leave for college—we will do,” Luther says, and he elbows Ricky.

“Speak for yourself, dude. I’m staying right here with you, Grandma. You need somebody to protect you.”

College?

After we eat, I hear the boys outside playing with the hose. They have been more than helpful since Dexter left. What they don’t know how to do, they ask the son of the man who still lives next to Tammy, or they Google it. Luther is very resourceful and has taught me how to Google. I feel sorry for the encyclopedia companies. It’s terrible when something you always thought would be useful becomes obsolete.

Which is how I’m starting to feel. I had to go on and have that knee surgery and was on disability for two months and just went back to work. My doctor told me that losing a few more pounds and keeping them off would speed up my recovery process, but I wouldn’t know. I’ve been trying to learn how to say no to chocolate chip cookies, sour cream potato chips, and sorbet, which I have become too fond of, thanks to Tammy bringing me a pint to sample from Whole Foods. Now I’m addicted to that blood orange and passion fruit and have learned how much tastier they are when I eat them together. Tammy does yoga and wants me to try it now that I’m healed. But I do enough bending and stretching at work. If I had any sense, I’d retire today. But what would I do sitting around the house? It’s something I should seriously be thinking about, because if I blink too long, these boys are going to be gone.

It’s hard to believe that Luther is headed to high school and Ricky’s going into seventh grade. Sometimes it feels like they just got here. Luther has never been off the honor roll, and if he keeps it up, he could end up with a scholarship. He’s about to start playing football even though everybody swore up and down he was meant to dunk. He’s almost fourteen and six foot two. I think he’s still growing. He wears a size thirteen shoe. And even though Social Services did come through, the aid is not enough to take care of two growing boys in this day and age. I can’t get away with buying cheap anything anymore. Ricky isn’t short but he’s not going to be tall like his brother, and he doesn’t care. He’s not as interested in swimming competitively like he used to be, but he still loves being in the water. We did have to put him back on a low dose of that medication a while back but he’s doing pretty well in most of the courses except math and English, which is why I just got him a tutor. Luther helps him, too.

Luther comes in first and washes his hands. We were supposed to watch a movie called
Wedding Crashers
, which the boys promised I’d find laugh-out-loud funny. Why anybody would want to see a movie twice I do not know.

“Where’s Ricky?” I ask.

“He told me he was going to finish putting the rakes and stuff away and he’ll be in in a few minutes.”

“Do you smell a skunk?” I ask.

Luther gets the weirdest look on his face, takes a few whiffs, and says, “No, I don’t smell anything except that fried chicken, and I think I’ll have another piece before we watch the movie, if you don’t mind, Grandma.”

“Knock yourself out,” I say. “But tell Ricky to hurry up, because I know I won’t make it to the end.”

“Betty Jean,” Lorinda tells me through the walkie-talkie we use at work, “you’ve got a phone call. It’s your grandkids’ school calling.”

“Tell them I’ll be right there.”

I know it’s most likely got something to do with Ricky but I’m just hoping it’s nothing serious. I have caught him in so many little lies it’s starting to bother me that he sometimes doesn’t seem to know he’s lying, even after I catch him in one. They’re usually things that can be proven, like: Did you finish your homework? Did you rinse out the shower? Change your sheets? A lie is still a lie, and I’ve just been hoping and praying it’s something he’ll grow out of.

When I get down to the kitchen I go into the office and close the door. The blinking light makes my heart flutter. “Hello, this is Betty Jean Butler.”

“Hello, Mrs. Butler, this is Vice Principal Brooks and I’m calling to advise you that Ricky’s science teacher caught him cheating on a test today, which is a violation of Education Code 316.82 and is grounds for a one-day suspension. We are calling to see if you can make arrangements to pick him up.”

Without thinking, I hear myself say, “I’m at work and can’t leave right now.”

“Well, if you authorize us to allow him to take the bus home, since he’s told us this is how he gets to school, we can put your verbal release in his file.”

“It’s okay if he takes the bus,” I say, and then hang up. I sit there for a few minutes, grinding my teeth, catching myself and then trying not to, but I’m mad. Ricky must have a short memory. But I will refresh it for him as soon as I get home.

I
’m trying to watch
Monday Night Football
but I can’t hear because Grandma is lighting into Ricky for getting suspended. I’m hoping she whops him for being so sneaky. Ricky has never been a straight-A student but he’s not dumb either. He does a lot of dumb shit, really dumb shit, and I’ve tried to tell him that if he keeps it up, he’s going to get in real trouble, but did he listen to me? No, he did not.

I hear the bedroom door open and turn to look at them both. Grandma looks pissed. Ricky looks like he took a punch or two.

“Luther, can you order a pizza for you two, because I don’t have the energy to cook. Just get my Visa card out of my wallet, please.”

“Okay, Grandma,” I say, and do it.

As soon as she heads for the bathroom to take her shower, I roll my eyes at Ricky.

“Okay, so I didn’t study. Was that a crime?”

“Cheating is. And so is getting suspended, even if it’s only for one day, Ricky. Why didn’t you study?”

“I fell asleep.”

“You seem to be falling asleep a lot. Are you taking your meds?”

“Off and on. Anyway, I’ve already been lectured enough, please don’t you start.”

“Just tell me some of what she said.”

“She asked me if I remembered our talk after our mama died, and I told her I did.”

“You mean about staying out of trouble and what could happen?”

He just nods.

“Then make sure this is as bad as it gets, you hear me?”

“I hear you. Damn, Luther. You sound just like a grown-up.”

“I’m your older brother and I just want to remind you that Grandma is getting up in age and can’t handle a lot of stress or this kind of bullshit, and if this is the beginning of more to come, this is how kids end up in foster care.”

He nods like he gets it.

“Personally, I’m not worried,” I say.

“Me either,” he says. “Can we order the pizza now?”

Grandma is driving us to the bus stop. It doesn’t take us long but since she has to take a different freeway to get to work, this is faster. Plus, we’re old enough to catch a bus and we’ve got monthly passes and now we even go to a charter school, which is also pretty cool, but starting in September I’m going to be going to Dorsey High and I can’t wait to start summer football training. A lot of famous NFL players went to Dorsey, and I hope I’m going to be added to that list one day. I love football. Everybody thought because I’m tall I was going to play basketball, but basketball isn’t as much fun to me because you don’t get to run anywhere. Grandma let me go to football camp last summer, and I’m going again this summer just to get stronger and make sure I can get on the junior varsity squad.

“Are you boys coming straight home after school?”

“I have track practice,” I say.

“I do, too,” Ricky says, lying through his teeth.

“I have physical therapy today, so you can warm up that lasagna and make a salad if you want to.”

“We’ll save you some,” I say, and give her a kiss on the cheek when we get to the bus stop. Ricky leans over from the backseat and does the same.

“Be careful,” she says after we get out of the car. “And give everything you do everything you’ve got today.”

“We always do,” I say, and close the door. She says this every morning and I like it. She said it’s called a mantra. Sort of like praying. If you say something over and over and over it has the power to come true. I don’t think Ricky really says it, though.

We see the bus about five or six stops away and there’s a lot of traffic but Ricky and I stand with a group of other kids around the bus stop pole so that some older people can sit down since it’s starting to rain.

“You better check yourself, Ricky,” I say to him. Most of them can’t hear what I’m saying to him, because almost all of them are listening to music on their iPods. Grandma said maybe we might be able to get one for Christmas, but I really don’t care. Looks like Ricky won’t be needing one, because I saw one on his bed this morning. I just didn’t feel like saying anything.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Luther,” he says as he reaches into his backpack and whips out that iPod and puts those little headphones in his ears.

I snatch them out.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he asks.

“Where’d you get these?”

“That’s none of your business,” he says, and snatches them back. Some of the kids are starting to look at us even though most of them know we’re brothers so they know this isn’t going to lead to any action.

“I smelled that shit and Grandma did, too, and wherever you’re getting it and however you’re getting it, you better not bring it anywhere near Grandma’s house or I’m going to kick your ass myself. You got that?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Luther.” He plugs his earphones back in and gets in line ahead of me when the bus pulls up.

When I get on, he’s already sitting next to a Mexican kid, and I walk right past him like I don’t know him and sit next to a black girl, who happens to be pretty but I pretend like I don’t notice. Most of the kids on this bus are black, Mexican, and Korean, and now a lot are Armenian, even though I don’t know why.

“Hey,” I say to the girl.

“Hey,” she says back.

And that’s that.

I look out the window, wishing I had that little umbrella Grandma has told Ricky and me to keep in our backpacks because “you never know when it’s going to rain and you can’t go by what that weather girl says.” Today, like most days, Grandma’s right, and now it’s starting to pour down. I really like the rain a lot and I don’t know why. Maybe because nothing ever falls from the sky here in Los Angeles and rain makes it feel like a different season. I know one thing for sure: I want to go to college somewhere where it gets cold, and maybe even snows. I like snow, even though I’ve never touched it before. It’s pretty and looks clean and soft, and I would love to throw a snowball or make a giant angel like I’ve seen on TV. Plus, it seems like it makes more sense to have four seasons instead of just one.

“Noxema, did you finish your book report?” I hear the girl behind me say to the girl sitting next to me.

“Of course I did. You know my mom would kill me if I didn’t.”

That girl did just call her Noxema, didn’t she? I had a little sister with this same name and I’m just wondering how many of them could there be in this neighborhood? I don’t want to stare, since she’s sitting right next to me, but she did just say that her
mom
would kill her so maybe she isn’t who I’m thinking she could or might be.

“What grade are you in?” I ask her without thinking about it.

“Why?”

“Just curious.”

“Sixth. Are you in high school?”

“Almost. I’ve never seen you on this bus before.”

“We just moved.”

“Who is we?”

“Why are you so nosy?”

“I’m just curious because a long time ago I had a little sister with your same name.”

“And what happened to her?”

“I don’t know. Her father took her from our mother when she was a baby.”

“Really,” she says, like she’s not that impressed. “Who is ‘us’?”

“That boy up there with the fat neck wearing earplugs.”

“Oh, that’s Ricky. He’s bad news. Sorry to tell you.”

“I thought you said you just moved here?”

“I just moved to this neighborhood but I didn’t have to change schools and my parents just started letting me take the bus.”

“Why is Ricky bad news?”

“I don’t know if it’s cool for me to be telling you stuff about your own brother.”

“Tell me.”

“He’s been hanging around people we don’t like to hang around.”

“You don’t mean like a gang or something, do you?”

“I don’t know. But he’s in my science class and he sleeps through most of it and sometimes at lunch he’s selling joints.”

“And you know this for a fact?”

She turns around to look at her friend, who is nodding her head up and down.

“Okay. Well, thanks for the heads-up.”

“So let’s get back to the whole parent thing, or do you smoke the stuff, too?”

“Are you kidding me? College is in my future.”

“Anyway, I was adopted when I was two because my father was raising me all by himself, but he got killed in a head-on collision and I ended up in foster care and my parents adopted me, so I could be your sister. Wouldn’t that be something?”

And she starts laughing. Like cracking up. I don’t think this shit is one bit funny. I mean, what if I’m really sitting next to my half-sister?

“What’s so funny?”

“You believed me.”

“What if you are our sister?”

“That’s impossible because I live with my real parents. I just made that shit up. I make a lot of shit up just to see if I can make people believe me. And you did. I want to be an actress.”

“What about what you said about my brother?”

“Oh, Ricky? That shit is true. So pay attention before he ends up in juvie.”

When the bus comes to a stop, all the kids jump up and rush off. Ricky ignores me. I’ll be so glad when I don’t have to take this bus and so glad when I don’t have to look at Ricky’s face in the cafeteria or in the hallway, because he is starting to not only get on my nerves but I would really like to kick his ass because of some of the shit he’s doing that he knows he shouldn’t be doing. That girl Noxema waves to me, and for some weird reason I don’t believe what she said to me. I’ll bet she is our sister. She’s just too scared to admit it. But then again maybe she doesn’t know. And maybe I shouldn’t care.