Credit

I didn’t wanna be here when Al got home, so, right after work, I stopped by the liquor store and got my lottery ticket and then went to the mall to take back that stupid hat and that ridiculous diamond ring and got the money credited back to my credit cards. Then I went to Red Lobster and treated myself to a steak-and-lobster dinner and three Margaritas. They was weak. I still didn’t feel like going home, so when I saw a movie theater I just parked, got a ticket to a movie I ain’t never heard of, and went in and sat down to watch it, even though all I saw was the last twenty minutes, so I don’t even know what it was about, but it was good enough to keep my mind occupied. I ain’t said but two words to the kids these past few days. They know when something is wrong: I’m usually real quiet and then I explode. They been walking around on eggshells, just waiting. But I’ma fool ’em this time: I ain’t blowing up. I’m keeping my cool.

When I get in the house the kids is eating the leftover oxtails I made last week, and I guess Tiffany called herself making some yams that ain’t nobody eating but her. The kitchen is a mess, as usual, but I ain’t saying nothing. I don’t care if the fucking house collapse.

“Hi, Ma,” Tiff says. “Don’t worry. We’re cleaning up as soon as we finish. Where you been?”

“Out,” I say, and go sit in my chair. “Why y’all eating so late? It’s eleven o’clock.”

“We was waiting for you to get home.”

“I’m touched,” I say. “Leave that stuff and go on upstairs and get ready for bed. Right now.”

They all scurry like mice, even Trevor, who ain’t said a word to me except, “Ma, have you been in my room going through my personal belongings?” and I said, “No. Why? You hiding something?” and he said, “No, I’m not hiding anything, but some people want to keep things hidden because it’s easier. But it’s not.” And on that note he closed his door in my face.

Al is watching the news. “Hi, baby,” he says. “I was worried, wondering where you were. You work late?”

“No, I didn’t work late. I had some errands to run.”

“Is that right?” he says, not taking his eye off the TV. “They fixing to finally let them black Africans vote down there,” he says.

“Down where?”

“In South Africa. They had this Mandela locked up for twenty-some-odd years for some stuff he tried to do, sorta like what Dr. King was trying to do here, and now he out, and people is turning out in droves to vote, and they didn’t thank this many would come. Black people is something else,” he says, chuckling.

“I’m happy for ’em,” is all I can think to say.

“What’s wrong, baby? Something happen at work today?”