I close the door, walk over, and look up at the stairs. I will put a fresh coat of paint on that railing tomorrow. I will. I know I have to walk all the way over there and then up those steps, but I can't. Not yet. She lied because she was probably afraid. And I believed him. I set the lamp on the counter and force my feet to move. I don't know how I'm going to make it to that top step. But I have to. There's no one here to help me. But there's no one up there helping my daughter either. My legs weigh a ton. All I can do is pretend to be in step cla.s.s and lift one foot after the other until I find myself standing here, outside her bedroom door, which is closed. I knock. Listening for her voice. It cracks when she tells me to come in. She's in there waiting for me. I touch the doork.n.o.b, but don't have the strength to turn it. I try again, but it won't turn. I'm afraid. Afraid I won't know what to say to her when this door finally opens, but even more afraid of what she's going to say to me.

Chapter 5.

Nothing in Common Except Blood I'm trying to drum up the courage to call Mama, but I don't know what to say. She picks the worst times to get sick. When I got a million other things on my mind. We running to the mailbox every day hoping our income-tax checks gon' be in there. But we ain't getting back half as much as we did last year, which was close to eight thousand. Me and AI both put in too much overtime, but it ain't worth it. You kill yourself and still can't get ahead. This house look good on the outside, but on the inside, it's falling apart, little by little, and it need some work or we need to sell this sucker. We might have to take out a second just to make it sellable, but I really don't wanna go that route: double debt is what I call it.

And then there's the kids. Tiffany's having problems at school. Boys pestering her so much she can't keep her mind on nothing. That phone rings off the d.a.m.n hook. She used to make a tent outta her covers and sit under there with a flashlight writing her little poetry, but lately I done caught her under there running her mouth on the portable with no pen and nothing but a blank piece of paper in her lap. I just finished picking Monique up from basketball practice three times a week and since she done got so good on that flute, her teacher is trying to get her to try out for band next year, so now I gotta take her to band practice four frigging days a week. It don't make no difference one way or the other, 'cause I still gotta clock in at the post office Monday through Friday, supervise twenty-six dim-witted mail carriers, listen to the rich folks in Hyde Park complain 'cause their mail wa s l ate or the carrier won't deliver to their house 'cause their dog tried to bite him, and then come home and try to sc.r.a.pe up something to eat, and the weekend is just as hectic 'cause this is when I try to iron and go to the grocery store and pay bills and plus every single Sunday since we been married I gotta bake A1 something sweet and cook him a d.a.m.n southern feast, and last but not least, there's still the upkeep of two losing-money-by-the- minute Laundromats over in Englewood, where half the time I'm scared to get out the car while A1 is in his rig on the road sometimes two and three days at a time.

Where I live, dirty clothes come outta nowhere. I do at least one or two loads a day, 'cause people in my house think they rich and don't wear nothing twice. I been told I should get a housekeeper, but that's why I got kids. Even still, by the time I remind 'em, day in and day out, what they supposed to do, I could do the s.h.i.t myself. But I can't do everything, which is why I'm probably always so stressed out. It's times like this when I wish I hadda went to college. h.e.l.l, if I could ever find the time, I'd like to go back to school: at least take a few cla.s.ses. Not necessarily for no degree. s.h.i.t. Why shouldn't I try to get a degree? People on Oprah and Sally in their fifties and sixties is just learning how to read or getting their GED. They say it ain't never too late.

Speaking of late. This morning I get two messages from my lovely sisters, trying to lay a guilt trip on me for not rushing out to see Mama, knowing I don't get on n.o.body's airplanes. I mean, what am I supposed to do, just drop everything, jump in my Suburban, and drive to Vegas? This household would fall apart if I was gone for more than twenty-four hours. Besides, they can afford to go see her, 'cause they all live out there on the coast. I don't. And I can't. Money don't grow on trees in Chicago.

Plus, I'll be honest, when we all under one roof, they get on my nerves. Seem like everybody gotta compare notes: Who's doing better or worse than the last time we saw each other? Did you ever get new mattresses for the girls' rooms or are you still spending it on stuff you don't need? That's Mama. And who done gained too much weight and need to lose some? That's Janelle. Who's looking older than they should? Whose s.h.i.t is raggedy? And so on and so forth. So I ain't exactly in no big hurry to see all of 'em at one time.

Deep down inside I know Mama probably don't mind my not coming. She ain't all that crazy about me no way. Everybody know it. She dropped me when I was a baby. Everybody know that, too. She was supposed to be giving me a bath, but the story goes that Paris had slammed her finger in the door and was screaming so loud that Mama forgot all about me, and when she went to check on her, I fell off the counter and hit the linoleum. Had to be rushed to the hospital. At first they thought I might have brain damage, but Aunt Suzie Mae told me that by some kind of miracle I broke my own fall and just ended up with a big knot on my head. If things hadda happened differently, I coulda died. But they said I was all right and sent me home a few hours later. To this day, Mama ain't never apologized to me for that.

She always have favored Paris, and I don't think it's 'cause Paris was the oldest either. Paris couldn't do no wrong. She was so perfect. So smart. So this. So that. And Janelle, being the baby, got her way all the time. Daddy spoiled her rotten, which is probably why she turned out to be such a leech. And my one-and-only brother. Lewis. What a poor excuse for a man he turned out to be. But that's Cecil's fault.

I love my family. I do. But I resent the h.e.l.l out of 'em, too. Most of the time I feel like a outsider, 'cause I'm here in Chicago and they all out there. I didn't like California for two reasons: I thought it looked better on television, and my boyfriend, who ended up being my husband, wasn't there. I ain't been to Vegas yet. We might go this summer, if I can get A1 to switch our plans around. We been to see his people in Baton Rouge for the past six years, and I told him point-blank: this time we going to visit mine.

The only time I see all of 'em at one time is when somebody die, get married, or we have a so-called family reunion-which we ain't had since '91. I ain't been out to visit n.o.body going on seven yean, but that's only 'cause my cash flow's been tied up in these Laundromats and I had to remodel the kitchen. It seem like it's always something going on around here that slurps up all my time, and we don't even wanna mention money.

Which is something we could use a lot more of. This is one reason why I'm investigating certain mail-order businesses. There's thousands of low- cost start-up opportunities out here, all you gotta do is take a little time, do your homework, and figure out how to get one going. It ain't no reason why we gotta settle for being middle-cla.s.s when we can move into a whole 'nother income bracket if we just picked up the pace. But I got more energy in my big toe than A1 got in his whole body, except of course when it come to s.e.x. Most of the time he's downright sluggish when it come to getting off his a.s.s and thinking fast on his feet. He don't miss work, I'll give him that much credit. But I done told him a million times: I'm not gon' be living in this imitation house when I retire. No sirree. We can do better than this. Much better than this. I'm investigating certain mail-order businesses. There's thousands of low- cost start-up opportunities out here, all you gotta do is take a little time, do your homework, and figure out how to get one going. It ain't no reason why we gotta settle for being middle-cla.s.s when we can move into a whole 'nother income bracket if we just picked up the pace. But I got more energy in my big toe than A1 got in his whole body, except of course when it come to s.e.x. Most of the time he's downright sluggish when it come to getting off his a.s.s and thinking fast on his feet. He don't miss work, I'll give him that much credit. But I done told him a million times: I'm not gon' be living in this imitation house when I retire. No sirree. We can do better than this. Much better than this.

The portable phone is just there, staring at me. On one hand, I feel bad for not calling Mama before now. Yeah, it was me who slammed the phone down in her face, but she was yelling at me like I was somebody in the street.

And so what if I didn't go to college. Janelle and Lewis never finished neither. I'm the only one who ain't been divorced. I ain't never slept with n.o.body's husband. I didn't marry no low-life pretending to be no lawyer. I ain't never done no kinda drugs and don't have no bad habits worth mentioning. I ain't never had to call her collect or ask her for no money-for nothing, really-except maybe to watch the kids when they was little, and even then, I paid her.

I've done everything in my power to prove to Mama that I'm just as smart and just as capable as Paris, but she just gotta put her on a pedestal, like her s.h.i.t don't stink. Paris ain't no saint. And she ain't hardly perfect. Yeah, she can cook. But so what? I can burn, too. She ain't the only one in this family who can read a d.a.m.n recipe. The only reason she in the position she in is 'cause she know people who know people. These the ones I heard buy her fancy food. But, h.e.l.l, anybody can start a catering business. If I just wanted to, I could, too. But food don't mean all that much to me.

Now, Janelle is the one Mama should be handing out advice to by the plateful, 'cause she's the one with no d.a.m.n sense, no scruples, and no major ambitions whatsoever. They got books out about women like her, being codependent and s.h.i.t. She screwed her way to middle-cla.s.s. She sent me p ictures of where she live. Didn't look like n.o.body even lived in the d.a.m.n house. It looked like one of those model homes, only Janelle got weird taste. No cla.s.s. No taste. No pizzazz.

But let's face it, Lewis is the real victim in this family. He got some emotional problems. It would help if he stopped drinking so much of that crack-in-a-bottle otherwise known as Schlitz Malt Liquor or Old English. Lewis is a alcoholic, but he seem to be the only one who don't know it. If he could get some help, maybe he'd be able to help Donnetta pay for his d.a.m.n son.

And speaking of kids. Mama ain't never got nothing nice to say about mine, except maybe Trevor, but then she went and accused him of being gay. Janelle told me she said it. Well, my son ain't n.o.body's f.a.ggot. I know this for a fact. He's girl-shy, and he'll grow out of it. Every time I look around I gotta hear about Dingus did this or Shanice did that in the two- hundred meter and how many books she read a month and even Lewis's son, Jamil, who's around Tiffany's age, and who don't n.o.body even hardly see no more, made that all-star soccer team that travel all over (she done sent me the newspaper clippings three years in a row) and broke her neck telling me all the details of how he got accepted to the junior ROTC program and that he been skipped a grade. s.h.i.t, Monique can play the flute like ain't no tomorrow and she the leading rebounder on her basketball team, but all Mama seem to remember is that she got ADD-like they don't have it out there in Vegas. And so what if Tiffany can't grasp math or science? She write poetry as good as Maya Angelou, but have Mama ever bragged about her? It's common knowledge that both my daughters got good sense, they just going through growing pains-waiting for their periods to get here- and things should turn around and quiet down in this house once they do. Trevor's my bright star. He gets d.a.m.n near straight A's, but do I ever hear about Mama bragging on him?

s.h.i.t. Here I go again. I need to stop this before the kids see me getting all worked up. I take a sip of my Asti Spumanti and push the lever on the re- cliner so it go back as far as it'll go. I'm sick of this blue s.h.a.g. It shows when you spill anything. And I'm getting rid of this plaid couch and get one of those leather sectionals, since leather's supposed to be so "in." I wipe my eyes on my sleeve. Why do I always have to cry when I think about Mama? Probably 'cause I know that, no matter what I do, it ain't never good enough. Sometimes, when I really think about my family, it feel like we ain't got nothing in common except blood.

The girls is out there in the backyard playing in the last of the snow. The wall clock says it's 5:46. That means it's almost four o'clock in Vegas. She probably taking a nap. Mama always nod off after her stories go off. I hear A1 coming from the garage. I ain't speaking to him either.

He got a lotta nerve. Last night, right after we did it, he says, "Oh, baby, I forgot to tell you. Me and Smitty going ice fishing for three days. I took a vacation day. We leave Friday." And that was it. I pushed him all the way over to the edge of the bed and put a pillow in between us in case he didn't get the point. He told me 1 was being childish. "You can go to h.e.l.l," was all I said, and this morning, when he did not get his grits and eggs and bacon and wasn't no coffee waiting for him, he knew what the deal was. And now he's home, and, like always, he probably in there making hisself a gin and tonic, then he'll take it upstairs and sip on it while he take his shower. I sit here and pat my feet till I hear the water come on, and then, before I know it, I'm standing up in that bathroom, watching him undress.

"If I came home from work one day and just told you I was taking a few days off to go gallivanting with one of my girlfriends, can you stand there and tell me you wouldn't be mad?"

"First of all, Charlotte, you don't have no girlfriends," he says, getting out of his clothes. He don't know what he talking about.

"I do have some girlfriends. But that ain't the point. Why you gotta go ice fishing with Smitty all of a sudden? Why's it so important?"

"First of all, it ain't that it's important, Charlotte. I wanna go. It don't hurt to do something with your friends every now and then. Smitty s wife ain't mad. And I can't for the life of me see why you making such a big to-do about this."

At first, I don't say a word. I know he just trying to make me feel guilty. Well, just f.u.c.k you, Al, I'm thinking as I look at his long hard body through the shower door. His skin is the color of straw, his eyes a piercing gray- green, his lips thick, he's got good hair-thick and wavy-and a quarter- inch gap between his two front teeth. He's still pretty, a luscious Louisiana Bayou man, and sometimes I wish to h.e.l.l I didn't love him as much as I do, which is exactly why I don't want n.o.body else to have no part of him. "How do I know you going with Smitty and not meeting some woman at a motel for three days?"

"You really ought to quit it. Right now. I'm going fishing. When I get back I should have some fish. If I really wanted to go off with some other woman I think I could come up with a much better lie. So stop it, would you? Could we just not have the melodrama for once?"

"Why didn't you ask me to go?"

"I just told you! It's a man thing. As a matter of fact, it's a whole group of us going. Union guys. And since you already mad, I might as well tell you, next month we going hunting, so get it all out your system now."

"You got a lot of nerve, Albert Toussaint. A whole lotta nerve."

"You the one being selfish and foolish. Now, if you don't mind, could I take my shower in peace?" He stands there wet and naked, all six feet of him, with his hands gripping both sides of his waist. I wish I could drown him for a few minutes, but I just slam the bathroom door in his face. I don't really care about him going fishing. It's the way he did it. He just told me he was going. He didn't ask if I minded and didn't bother to ask if I wanted to go with him. We do everything together. I can't remember us ever going somewhere without the other. And, plus, deep down inside, I don't trust Al. No man can be trusted. Period. Given a opportunity to get some free coochie, they'll take it every single time.

I got my reasons for feeling this way, and he know it. A few years ago- but I guess it was more like ten-I was cleaning out the garage and, like a fool, tried to lift his toolbox to put it back on the workbench, but I dropped it. Screwdrivers, pliers, hammers, nails, and nuts-everything-fell out and clanged against the cement floor. I started putting the stuff back in and came across a dirty piece of crumpled-up notebook paper. I flattened it out and noticed it had writing on it, and then, as soon as I started reading, realized it was a love letter to A1 from some woman who didn't sign it. She was telling him how tired she was of doing this. That it's been going on too long and it's clear he ain't getting no divorce. And then, "I love you too much but I love myself more. Call me when you've made your move."

Call me when you've made your move? I threw every single tool, including that toolbox, at his Thunderbird, 'cause I couldn't believe this s.h.i.t. I wasn't hurt. I felt betrayed. Double-crossed. Deceived. And as much as I loved Al, and as good as he was in bed and all the freaky s.h.i.t we did together, and he's f.u.c.king somebody else? He always swore I was the best piece he ever had. He lied. And what else did he lie about? That can't n.o.body out- cook me. Can't n.o.body starch and iron his shirts the way I do. Can't n.o.body cut his corns without making him bleed the way I do. h.e.l.l, I should have at least a hundred gold medals for all the things I'm so d.a.m.n good at. And what else did I do to please Mr. Man? Made sure I looked good all the time. One thing he claimed he loved about me most was looking at me: how black and smooth and tender my skin was, and how he loved it that men was always trying to hit on me and everybody thought my hair was a weave or a wig and n.o.body ever thought I was thirty-four-five-six-or-seven years old and had had three kids. s.h.i.t, back then I still wore a ten, and Al always told me how proud he was to have me for his wife. How proud. And here he was f.u.c.king somebody else? He was obviously confused, so I packed a bag and took the kids over to Aunt Suzie Mae's house for three days. Al was frantic when he came home and we was gone. And as soon as he found out that I found out, he was worried sick I would leave him. But I had left him. That's why I was over to Aunt Suzie s. I was trying to figure out my next move. But he just had to come over there. Wanted to talk.

"It's not what you think it is, Charlotte."

"Oh, so I must just be crazy. I didn't really read no letter from no woman talking about how much she love you, and by the way, did you want a divorce, Al? 'Cause, according to her letter, you been promising to get one. Where's the papers? Bring 'em over here and I'll sign the G.o.dd.a.m.n things right now! Or, better yet, I'll get my own!"

"I don't want no divorce. This was a mistake I made, and it was so long ago I had forgot all about it."

"A mistake? And you forgot about it?"

"It was more than five years ago, Charlotte. When you was pregnant with Monique. You was having a rough time those last four months, remember?"

"So. If every husband went off and had a affair 'cause his wife is having a hard pregnancy, where would that leave us? This is so tacky, AJ, I swear it is."

"I'm sorry, Charlotte. I'm very, very sorry. It wasn't about nothing. I was just feeling lonely, and I broke it off right after Monique was born, 'cause I got the woman I married back. I don't even know what happened to her. I'm sorry."

"Why should I believe you?"

"Because I'm telling you the truth. I love you, Charlotte, and if I wasn't happy, I wouldn't be here. I'da been gone."

"Oh, really. How decent of you. I need to stop by the house and get the kids some clothes. Please don't be there when I get there. They wanna come home, and I'd appreciate it if you would make arrangements to find yourself someplace to live."

"Don't do this, Charlotte," he pleaded, but I slammed the door in his face. Right afterwards, I couldn't believe that my marriage was over. Just like that. That it could end with a few words in a few seconds. I was messed up. I told Aunt Suzie Mae everything. "Sit down, baby," she said to me, tapping the top of the kitchen counter with her fingers. Thank goodness, this was before she lost her scruples. "And let me tell you something."

"I don't wanna hear it. Aunt Suzie."

"You gon' hear it," she said, and adjusted her wig. She looked just like a older black version of Roseanne Barr. She was standing in front of the stove, adding tomato paste to a giant pot of chili. "You acting foolish. Now, I know you hurt and everythang, and this ain't something a wife likes to go through, but at some point all men cheat. Most of the time, if they good, they don't get caught, which makes it easier on everybody. But when they do, and they act truly pitiful and say they sorry, sometimes they mean it. If you still love that man, drop your pride and give him another chance. G.o.d asks us to learn to forgive."

"But how can I ever trust him again, knowing he did something like this to me?"

"He didn't do it to you, baby. He did it for hisself. It wasn't meant to hurt you. That's why he snuck and did it. But you can't pretend it don't hurt. You won't forget this business either. But what you can do is put it in a corner of your mind you can do without and get on with your lives. Women do it every day."

"But what if he do it again, Aunt Suzie?"

"Then that would leave you with one of three choices: divorce his a.s.s; get you somebody; or blow his brains out." Then she started laughing so hard I could see her gray edges.

Two days later, I went home. But only after hours of crying and negotiations and threats and promises of never-will-I-cheat-agains. Al went out of his way to show me how happy he was to have us back. He took me shopping, took me to the movies, let me get on top, and swore that this was the only time during all our years of marriage that he'd ever messed around. I decided it was easier to take him back than it was to leave.

So here we are. A little more than ten years later. I guess we still in love, but we got more problems than fish. That much I do know.

"Ma, what's for dinner?" Trevor is asking me.

I look over at him, looking just like his daddy-except Trevor got my Maxwell House color, but those green eyes from them Toussaints. He's much taller than Al-almost six four-and the doctor say he still growing. How I don't know. I get on up out this chair. "Order a pizza," I say. "I don't feel like cooking. Go tell the girls to come on in and get started on their homework. And I don't wanna hear no whining today."

"Can I go get the pizza?" This means he wants to drive. He just got his license a few months ago. How, I'll never know. As Mama would say: His mind ain't long as a toothpick. He so busy watching what everybody else is doing that he don't pay enough attention to what he doing. He can't parallel-park to save his life, and the way he change lanes scares me, but what the h.e.l.l. It's only down the street.

"Go," I hear myself say. "And pick up my lottery ticket, would you? I forgot."

"What about some money? Who should I get it from, you or Daddy?"

He standing right next to me and I gotta look up to him. He's not only taller than Al, but better-looking. Even though I didn't think that was possible.

"Ask me what?" Al says, standing in the doorway.

"For pizza money," Trevor says, as he heads toward the sliding gla.s.s door to go yell to the girls.

"Did you hear the messages on the machine from Paris and Janelle about your mama?"

"Yes."

"So-she's all right, then, ain't she?"

"I haven't talked to her yet."

"Why not?"

"I was gon' call her later."

Al just look down toward the floor, then back at me. "Later? One day it might just be too late, Charlotte. You oughtta stop acting so childish."

Next thing I know, Al is reaching for the phone, but I go over and s.n.a.t.c.h it from him. "She's my mama, not yours!" I yell, and start crying again.

"What's wrong with Ma, Daddy?" Tiffany's asking. Her and Monique are standing in the foyer, unzipping their ski jackets. Looking at them, you'd swear Monique was older, since she's taller. Both of 'em are prettier than any of those girls that be in them music videos on BET. Run circles around a whole lot of Miss Americas, too. People forever telling me that Tiffany is Vanessa Williams's double.

"Your Granny Vy is in the hospital, but she's gon' be all right," Al says.

Tiffany walks around to see if she can get a better look at me. My eyes must be red and shiny, 'cause she looks at me like she can't believe I been crying. The kids ain't used to seeing me act weak and stuff. I usually cry when I'm mad, not hurt. I straighten up. Crack a smile. Tiffany cracks one, too.

"You guys go do your homework. Trevor's going to get a pizza."

"Yeah!" Monique yells.

"Anybody wanna come with me?" he asks.

"Nope," Monique says.

"Not me," Tiffany says. They don't like his driving either.

"Just order the thing, go, and come right back," I say. Al reaches in his pocket and gives him a twenty. After the girls go upstairs and Trevor heads toward the garage, Al stands there and looks at me with the phone in my hand.

I'm thinking: I wanna call, but what am I gon' say? Sorry for hanging up on you and not calling for four months? Why you have to be so stubborn, Mama? You coulda called me, too, after all, you the one who was yelling at me.

"Well?" he says, shaking his head, then goes on back upstairs and turns on the TV. I look down at the Essence magazine I wrote the number to the hospital on, but for some reason I find myself dialing Smitty s number instead. When his wife answers, I'm tempted to hang up, since we ain't never been close except sitting next to each other at company dinners or in the same row at church and what have you, but I figure she might get suspicious and accuse Smitty of something stupid if I do, so I say, "Hi, Lela, how you doing?"

"Charlotte?"

"Yep. It's me."

"What a surprise. How's everything?"

"Fine, Lela. Look. Can I ask you something, woman to woman?"

"I guess so. Like what?"

"You ain't mad about Smitty going fishing?"

"Going where?"

"Fishing."

"When?"

"This weekend. With Al."

"Smitty ain't going nowhere this weekend except in the backyard. He's been promising to build us a shed, and unless we have another snowstorm, that's exacdy what he's gon' be doing. Plus, his uncle died and the funeral's on Sat.u.r.day. You sure he said this weekend?"

"I thought he did, but maybe I got the dates mixed up."

"It don't make no sense to me. Smitty's scared of water unless it's in a bathtub," she says, and chuckles a litde. "So-how's everything else, Charlotte?"

"Well, my mama's in the hospital."

"Is she gon' be all right?"

"I think so. I'm about to call her now."

"I'll pray for her," Lela says.