paying closer attention? And why in the hell did I believe him when he said he hadn't harmed her in any way? I blot my eyes. Because you wanted to believe him, that's why. Admit it, Janelle. Because harm equals abuse, and that meant I'd lose everything. We would be on our own. And I've never been on my own. I don't even know if I can make it without someone holding me up.
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 class 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 doorknob, 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 damn 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 scrape 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 damn 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
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 class 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 doorknob, 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 damn 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 scrape 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 damn 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
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