and in memory of our mother

Madeline Tillman (1933–1993)

“who never missed a beat”

Author’s Note

This is a work of fiction inspired by my emotions and personal responses to issues that have arisen for many families, and in some instances, perhaps even in my own. However, neither the characters portrayed here nor any of the events that take place in this story should in any way be understood or construed as real. Rather, they are the product of my imagination.

The Way I See It

Can’t nobody tell me nothing I don’t already know. At least not when it comes to my kids. They all grown, but in a whole lotta ways they still act like children. I know I get on their nerves—but they get on mine, too—and they always accusing me of meddling in their business, but, hell, I’m their mother. It’s my job to meddle. What I really do is worry. About all four of ’em. Out loud. If I didn’t love ’em, I wouldn’t care two cents about what they did or be the least bit concerned about what happens to ’em. But I do. Most of the time they can’t see what they doing, so I just tell ’em what I see. They don’t listen to me half the time no way, but as their mother, I’ve always felt that if I don’t point out the things they doing that seem to be causing ’em problems and pain, who will?

Which is exactly how I ended up in this damn hospital: worrying about kids. I don’t even want to think about Cecil right now, because it might just bring on another attack. He’s a bad habit I’ve had for thirty-eight years, which would make him my husband. Between him and these kids, I’m worn out. It’s a miracle I can breathe at all.

I had ’em so fast they felt more like a litter, except each one turned out to be a different animal. Paris is a female lion who don’t roar loud enough. Lewis is a horse who don’t pull his own weight. Charlotte is definitely a bull, and Janelle would have to be a sheep—a lamb is closer to it—’cause she always being led out to some pasture and don’t know how she got there.

As a mother, you have high hopes for your kids. Big dreams. You want the best for them. Want ’em to get the rewards from life that you didn’t get for one reason or another. You want them to be smarter than you. Make better choices. Wiser moves. You don’t want them to be foolish or act like fools.

Which is why I could strangle Lewis my damnself. He is one big ball of confusion. Always has had an excuse for everything, and in thirty-six years, he ain’t changed a lick. In 1974, he did not steal them air conditioners from the Lucky Lady Motel that the police just happened to find stacked up in the back seat of our LeSabre way out there in East L.A. Lewis said his buddy told him they belonged to his uncle. And why shouldn’t he believe him? All of a sudden he got allergies. Was always sneezing and sniffling. He said it was the smog. But I wasn’t born yesterday. He just kept at it. Said he couldn’t help it if folks was always giving him stuff to fix or things he didn’t even ask for. Like that stereo that didn’t work. Or them old tools that turned out to be from Miss Beulah’s garage. Was I accusing him of stealing from Miss Beulah? Yes I was. Lewis was always at the wrong place at the wrong time, like in 1978 while he waited for Dukey and Lucky to come out of a dry cleaner’s with no dry cleaning and they asked him to “Floor it!” and like a fool he did and the police chased their black asses all the way to the county jail.