" 'Cause it was Mama's, that's why."

"It isn't Mama's. It's not even paid for."

"She was paying for it."

"But it's not paid for, Charlotte. It's still at the store. It's not even in the house."

"Me and Mama had the same taste, and I don't see why I can't have something to remind me of her. If I wanna finish paying for it, that's my business, not yours!"

"Look, I'm the one who gave her the two thousand dollars to put it in layaway, and I'm getting the money back to help pay for the funeral."

"You just always have to be in control of every-f.u.c.king-thing, don't you, Paris? You make me sick, you know that! You're so f.u.c.king manipulative, you think everybody's too dumb to see it, but I see right through you! b.i.t.c.h!"

And here we go again. Click. "She never ceases to amaze me."

"But it's not right, Paris. She shouldn't feel entided to anything. None of us should. How could she think that furniture belonged to Mama when it's on layaway with your money? And, besides, there's a whole lot of things in here she could have. If she was here to see it."

"Yeah, but, as usual, she's not," I say, and leave it at that.

I ask Janelle go into Manias big closet first, and then I go in. After pulling them from every shelf and box we open, we sit on the floor, surrounded by purses. Most of them are black and dark-brown leather; but I see one navy, burgundy, and cream Dooney & Bourke; a cherry-red shoulder-strap bag; and ail occasional small yellow, fuchsia, or mint-green silk or linen handbag emerges, and we know these were for Easter or Mothers Day. What are we going to do for Mother's Day? Do not think about this right now, I say to myself, as 1 open a green Coach bag I know Charlotte sent Mama last year, although it looks like she never carried it. It's empty, as are the next six or seven we go through. Janelle is steadily zipping and unzipping, snapping and unsnapping them. She's not exactly rising to the occasion, and I didn't really expect her to. I just wanted her here for warmth.

I pick up a dilapidated, ugly brown purse with those puzzle pieces of leather shaped like cities on a map sewn together with zigzag st.i.tching, and I get a smile on my face, because I've been hounding Mama since the late eighties to get rid of this sucker, but she wouldn't do it. I slide my hands inside, and when I feel something, Janelle sees it all over my face.

"What is it?"

"I don't know! d.a.m.n. Give me a minute," I say, slowly easing out what feels like a bunch of papers or envelopes. When I take my hand out, that's exactly what they are. I pull the rubber bands off and start sorting through them one by one.

"What are they?" Janelle asks again.

"Wait a minute! Here's Mania's birth certificate. Look at her litde footprints!"

She reaches out to take it and both of us stare at it and freeze, and then we try our d.a.m.nedest to sit up straight and not fall apart in this closet. I wipe my eyes. Janelle wipes hers. She kisses the birth certificate, then hands it to me, and I inhale it, and press it against my heart. I take a few deep breaths and then continue. "These are all of our birth certificates. Wait a minute, what are these? Insurance policies. Two of them."

"Why would she have two?"

"I don't know," I say, removing more rubber bands. "Whoa, you won't believe this."

"What?"

"Mama's got two life-insurance policies. Daddy's the beneficiary on one, and all of us are on the other."

"What?"

"Would you stop saying that? d.a.m.n! I don't believe this woman. Daddy's is for twenty thousand and the other is for fifty."

"Thousand?"

"What do you think, Janelle? Mama's had the one for us for . . . almost fourteen years."

"You mean she's been paying these big premiums all this time? I bet Daddy doesn't know about ours."

"Looks like she's been paying about sixty or seventy dollars a month. Mama. You are too much," I say, folding the policies back. "I don't want my part, I can tell you that much right now. I don't need it."

"Well, I do," she says. "And you know Lewis does. I don't know about Miss Lottery Winner, but what are these?" she asks, holding up another bunch of dingy white envelopes that I have to scrunch to read what's written on them because it's in pencil and obviously a long time ago. "This one says 'Paris's first tooth.' And this one 'Lewis's first tooth.' 'Charlotte's . . .' 'Janelle's . . .' And Lewis's braid from his first haircut!"

"Can we open them?" Janelle asks.

"No! We still have quite a few purses to go. So keep looking."

And she does.

"Check this out!" Janelle screams.

"What what what?" I ask, leaning way over and dropping Mama's black straw clutch-which feels empty anyway-into my lap.

"All of our report cards! Since kindergarten, Paris. Since kindergarten," she groans, and we're crying again, but for some reason these tears feel good. Very good. And we keep looking. When I pick up a manila envelope, it slips from my grip and out comes a slew of mosdy black-and-white baby pictures of Charlotte, and then when she's in school, and they're in color up until she graduated. She was always the prettiest. No doubt about it. An d s o smart. She could've done anything she wanted to with her life. I don't know why she hates working at the post office so much. What she does is important.

There are four more envelopes like this one, and I a.s.sume they're more about us kids. I peek inside each one until I see pictures of Mama. I shake them out onto the carpet, and there she is in all her facets. One shot is a black-and-white photo with a group of other black girls; Mama's standing out front, leaning on a baseball bat with both hands, her head is c.o.c.ked to the side. Her hair is parted down the middle with two thick braids sticking out on the sides. She must be fourteen, fifteen, maybe.

"She looks like you, Paris."

"She looks like Charlotte," I say.

"Look! Here's Mama and Daddy when they got married!"

The two of us just stare at them. They look like they're really in love. Mama's lips are red. Her hair is auburn, pulled back in a French twist. She's wearing something that's navy-and-white polka dots. Even Daddy looks s.e.xier than I ever imagined, with a genuine grin on his face. As he looks down at Mama with his arm draped softly over her shoulder, I can almost see why she loved him. I've never seen them look this soft together. Wow. There are no more pictures of them together. Just of her pregnant, and one of her bowling. That one looks recent. Like it was taken on her birthday. It was, because here's her and Shanice eating cake. "Keep looking," I say to Janelle.

And she does. But we don't find anything else. Nothing. We are somewhat disappointed, but mosdy relieved at what we have found: our history, our lives together as a family; and after looking at our mother and father, I think we both realize where we came from and who we are.

"Let's get out of here and get some air," Janelle says.

When I try to get up, my legs are asleep and starting to feel like electricity is shooting through them. I kick and shake them until I'm able to stand. As I'm about to turn off the light, Mama's clothes are just hanging there. I pull out a dress. It's a size fourteen and still has the price tag on it: $59-99 from Marshall's, marked down again to $25.00. She always loved a bargain, bu t w hen was the last time Mama wore a fourteen? I smile as I walk out into the bedroom and feel the fresh evening air coming through her window. I sit down on the bed. I'm crying again. I see Dingus standing in the doorway.

"Can I do anything, Ma?"

I just shake my head.

"You sure?"

I nod, and then it occurs to me that I'm not the only one feeling her loss. Not by a long shot. "How about you, Dingus? How're you holding up?"

"I'm all right," he says. "I just can't believe I'm in Granny's house and she's not here. I wanted her to watch me play college ball. She wanted to watch me. I really wanted her to watch me." He comes over and sits next to me, puts his head next to mine, and I hug him until I hear Daddy's voice in the living room.

I was right: Daddy has aged. His gray roots are inching in, and his eyes are red and gla.s.sy, with deep circles underneath. He looks like he's hurting everywhere, like he's lost. We don't say anything. Not even Janelle and Shanice when they come from the back bedroom. We just take each other's hands and squeeze until we lose our grip.

Chapter 32.

Sock It to Me Cake They almost had to carry me outta that church. I ain't never liked going to funerals, 'cause I guess I take loss too personal. I do everything in my power to avoid 'em, but this time I couldn't. I stared at that big mahogany casket for the longest time, trying to make myself not believe that my mama was inside it. But it didn't work. And all them gigantic floral arrangements started closing in on me and made me nauseous. For a while I just sat there till I felt my body jerking and I couldn't stop it and I guess I musta slid off that bench and was headed up there to save Mama from eternity when somebody grabbed me and sat me back down. 1 screamed and hollered so long that my head went cold, until it felt like I was the only one sitting in the front row during the whole eulogy.

But I wasn't. Lewis locked his arm through mine, and I couldn't tell if it was to keep me close or to stop me from getting up again. But I felt purged, like I had pa.s.sed through something that had lightened the load I brought here. By the time I stopped shivering and was able to appreciate the breeze from Janelle's fan, I guess it was Lewis's turn to drop. All he did was be his usual pitiful self, 'cause he leaned forward while his eyes was glued up toward that plastic Jesus and started shaking his head back and forth, slower and slower, until he finally said, "What we gon' do now?" What a stupid-a.s.s question. What we been doing? But since I had just barely pulled myself together and this didn't seem like the time or place to be criticizing, I kept my thoughts to myself.

And Miss Keep-Her-Cool Paris shed a lotta tears, but it looked like she was controlling them, too. I ain't said one word to her since she got here, and she ain't uttered a single syllable to me neither. She got a lotta nerve, is all I can say. Of course she staying in a hotel, but Janelle and Shanice is sleeping in the girls' room with them. Through most of the service Janelle squeezed my hand and smudged the left shoulder of my navy-blue dress chocolate brown and red from her makeup, but I didn't mind.

Al sat right behind us. Next to him was Lewis's lawyer. Paris almost had a stroke when her ex-husband showed up. Everybody, including Nathan, knew Mama couldn't stand him. Dingus was the one who called him. But then Nathan turned around and asked if I thought it would be okay for him to come. I told him I didn't see no reason why he shouldn't at least be there for his son. I have to be honest, the only real pleasure I done felt all day was watching Paris grinding her teeth and reaching in her purse to pop whatever kinda pills she taking, after she saw him.

So many folks wanted to say goodbye to Mama that at the last minute we had to switch to a bigger church. Paris had a hissy-fit about that, too. But I took care of it. And everything went good. The choir sang some of the worst songs I done heard in a long time, but mosdy by friends who ain't seen her in at least thirty years, since she left Chicago, but they wanted to honor her by doing solos. That white lady Miss Loretta even came. She gave us all the biggest hug and she smelled good, like Shower-to-Shower powder, and when she told me how much I looked like Mama, her smile was just as warm as when she squeezed my arms. Now I see why she was Mama's friend. A few of her old boyfriends had some kind words to say. Daddy kept a frozen smile on his face and didn't blink once when they got up and started reminiscing about what it was about Mama that got their attention forty-some-odd years ago: Her pretty legs. Her deep smile. Her take- no-prisoners att.i.tude. How far she could hit a ball. How fast she could run. How clean and fresh she always smelled. And one man thanked her for teaching him how to dream. Said he was a surgeon in D. C. After fifteen or twenty minutes, wasn't n.o.body listening to them. We even had to cut some of her close friends' speeches short, 'cause it's obvious when folks get dressed up and got a audience they get long-winded and you can't hardly get the microphone outta their hand.

It had been raining for three days straight, so it was hot and sticky as I don't know what at the cemetery, and I couldn't watch 'em lower Mama into that damp ground. I didn't care how pretty everybody said that casket was. All I kept thinking was, How in the world is she gon' breathe in that thing down there? Deep down, I guess I been playing a game with myself. That I'll see her on her next trip to Chicago. That she's just going on a underground cruise instead of one on water. That she'll still get to see them islands and I can't wait for her to tell me all about it when she get back.

I left everybody out there and went on back to the house to make sure everything was ready when the folks got there. Aunt Suzie didn't go to the funeral, but since she belonged to a Circle Group-which ain't nothing but a bunch of churchgoing old women who love going to funerals and don't care who died-she pretended like it was a stranger who had pa.s.sed and stopped by to help out. They claim their whole purpose is to honor the dead, but it seemed like they really just came for the free food, 'cause they sure was killing it.

I didn't know half the people that showed up. It musta been at least a hundred folks. It's times like this when I wished we had central air conditioning. Next house. She wasn't in here fifteen minutes when I heard Paris tell Al she might run to the store to buy some more fans, since everybody kept saying how hot it was. She love testing me. Everybody did look hot, but what the h.e.l.l they expect? It's ninety degrees outside. It's Chicago. And it's June. I told Al to tell her to keep her American Express in her wallet, that we didn't need her charity. He just told her maybe they wouldn't stay as long; that they could cool off at home.

I wished there was somewhere I coulda hid from all the kissy-huggy- too-much-makeup-and-perfume-wearing relatives I didn't remember, but Janelle seemed to. For the past two hours, all I been doing is watching folks eat and in between bites listening to 'em trying to get us to remember how much they remember about us: how many of our s.h.i.tty diapers they changed; who was there when we took our first step; who burnt our ears and necks with smoking straightening combs and big b.u.mper curlers; who saved us when we almost drowned in Lake Michigan. After a while, I did hide upstairs in my room, but Al found me and made me go back. A lot of people started leaving, 'cause the food was almost gone, and then some folks still begged for aluminum foil and paper plates. Janelle was running back and forth to the kitchen. Aunt Suzie Mae's friends was the last ones to go, 'cause I just came out and told 'em to please leave so family could be with family. Aunt Suzie, she went with 'em.

Last night, relatives and friends who know our family tree stopped by to drop off all kinds of food. I'd spent the past two days cooking and cleaning myself. Had to-to stay busy and keep my mind off why I was doing all this in the first place. A little while ago, the dining-room table, kitchen counters, and all them rented tables was full of Tupperware bowls, roasters, and platters. You couldn't even see the nice lace tablecloths I had put on 'em. It musta been at least four or five hams over there, pots of collard greens, and fried chicken galore. I counted three bowls of potato salad, one coleslaw, and three twenty-pound turkeys, but somebody's dressing wasn't hitting on nothing, 'cause didn't n.o.body touch it. Some of them Pyrex dishes was still bubbling with macaroni-and-cheese and baked beans when we first set 'em out. I made two big pots of string beans: one with potatoes and one with ham hocks and okra. I even put out my good silver trays for hors d'ouevres: carrot and celery sticks, broccoli and cauliflower spears that n.o.body touched even though I put some Thousand Island dressing right next to it. Target had a special on white dish towels, which I used to hang over the edges of the bowls for the dinner rolls and cornbread squares. They been gone.

We had two of every kind of cake you can think of: coconut cake; Seven- Up cake; red velvet cake; four pound cakes-one lemon, one almond; a nasty German-chocolate and a serious Sock-It-to-Me cake, which I cut in half and hid in the breadbox, 'cause it taste just the way Mama always make-I mean made-hers. A lotta people don't bother using a bundt pan or take the time to make the cinnamon, chopped-pecan, and brown-sugar filling, but whoever made this one knew what they was doing. The glaz e d ripping down the sides was pitch-perfect. I cut myself a thick slice, put it on a little paper plate, and put a napkin over it, hoping n.o.body would touch it. So far so good.

The only thing we put out to drink was punch, 'cause people turn into alcoholics after funerals. I even used my good crystal and sterling bowls with a ladle and set out two extra cups for dipping. I dropped a mound of orange sherbet in one. Everybody was just sipping away, but I couldn't help but notice how many of them gla.s.ses landed on top of the bar so Al could add something to give that punch some punch. I sure need one now, which is why I pick my cake up and walk straight over to the bar. Al over there sleep in the recliner. I hope he spend the night. I don't want him to do nothing but hold me, and then he can leave when it's daylight, 'cause death is easier to deal with in the daytime. We ain't back together, but we ain't talked about the divorce since this happened. It's amazing how two tragic things can cancel one out. But I ain't forgot.

Right now I'm swiveling on this bar stool, pouring myself a double shot of scotch, nibbling on my cake, and watching the last of the folks leave. Janelle is at the front door playing hostess, thank G.o.d. The kids is still pretending like they know each other, but as soon as our eyes locked, they got that look of mourning in theirs even though they was horsing around. Dingus is standing over by the garage door talking to his daddy. Nathan look the same. Something good done happened to him, 'cause that's a Armani suit or my name ain't Charlotte. Dingus is taller than he is, and look just like him. How could he not be a daddy to this boy all this time? When I hear a voice I know belong to my sister say, "And what exacdy are you doing here, Nathan?" I swirl this stool all the way around to be nosy. They ain't paying no attention to me.

"Dag, Ma. He came to offer his condolences like everybody else."

"It's true, Paris, f came to show my respect. And I come in peace. Truly, I do." He bends over to give her a hug and her body twist and lock up like a piece a rope.

"Who told you about Mama?"

"I did," Dingus says.

"I cannot believe that after all these years of not hearing from you that you would have the nerve to show up at my mothers funeral."

Now I turn my back away from 'em and take my fork and cut another little slice off my Sock-It-to-Me cake. I guess she must be walking away, 'cause then Nathan say, "Wait a minute."

"What?" Paris say, real nasty.

"Will I get a chance to spend some time with you and Dingus while I'm here?"

"With me and Dingus? You can spend as much time with Dingus as you want to in the next twenty-four hours, because that's when we're going home."

"Well, the good news is I'm flying out to San Francisco for a week when I leave here to look for office s.p.a.ce."

I gotta see this, so I turn around again. She done stopped dead in her tracks and then she turns around to look him in the face. This is getting good.

"Things have worked out well for me, Paris. I miss the Bay Area, and quite a few of my athletes are from California, so I thought this would be an opportune time to come back home to recruit and practice."

"Home?"

"Look, Paris. No need to jump up and down with joy right now, and under the circ.u.mstances I can see why you wouldn't be too keen to hear my good news, but there are a lot of things about me that have changed. For starters: I've grown up. My practice is booming. I'm an inch from making seven figures. I've even done the therapy thing. I'm a new man. A different man, but the same man you fell in love with."

"Word up," Dingus says, and Paris hauls off and kicks his young stupid a.s.s. I just pretend to be eating, but I ain't been able to swallow the last two bites.

"If you so much as dial my number when you get to San Francisco, I will hire someone to blow your f.u.c.king brains out."

"Ma?"

"Shut up, Dingus!"

"Well, it was worth a shot."

"And Dingus," she say pointing to him, "you can love the one you're with if you want to, but just make sure you tell him that he'll have to buy a season pa.s.s to your games, and if he does, they better not be within spitting distance of mine."

After she do her movie-star thing and storm off like she got the last say in the matter, Dingus and his daddy go on out to the garage. I'm about sick of her and her high-and-mighty role, like whatever Paris say is law. Like what she say is final. I've had it with her thinking she Queen of Sheba. Well, she don't run me. And since we ain't got no audience except for a few stragglers, and most of them is drunk anyway, and since don't n.o.body else seem to never have the nerve to tell her, I think it's time somebody put this b.i.t.c.h in her place. She walks right behind me to the kitchen, where she act like she getting ready to start cleaning up. I hop off this stool and follow her and set my little paper saucer down on the counter. "That was cold," I say.

She do that Linda Blair thing from The Exorcist with her neck and says, "Who the h.e.l.l do you think you're talking to, Charlotte?"

"I'm looking at you."

"No, you're not looking at me, you're gawking. And what I say to my ex- husband is my business, not yours."

"That's true, but you ain't got no right telling Dingus how to deal with him. That's all I'm saying."

"You've got some nerve. You haven't spoken to me since I got here and these are the first words you open your litde monologue with? Spare me."

"You just always gotta be dramatic, don't you, Paris?"

"Dramatic? Hah! First of all, who was it that put on a show at the funeral?"

"That wasn't no d.a.m.n show."

"Yeah, well, you know what the old folks say, don't you?"

"No, you tell me."

"They say whoever yells the loudest is the one who feels the most guilt. And the reason you couldn't look at Mama was 'cause she'd be looking back at you, and you know you did some nasty s.h.i.t to her that you never quite fixed, am I right?"

"f.u.c.k you, Paris. First of all, I ain't got nothing to feel guilty about. I loved Mama just as much as you and everybody else."

"n.o.body's doubting that, but I beg to differ with you on the guilt issue, little sis. First of all, you weren't even speaking to Mama when she died. You didn't bother to come out to see her when she was sick. You couldn't even manage to come out and help me and Janelle go through her things. And then you seem to have had this sense of enddement when it came to her furniture. Seems like all Charlotte really thinks about is Charlotte."