Maybe You Never Cry Again by Bernie Mac Page A

wipe down glass so there wasn’t even the ghost of a streak. And he taught me how to dust corners right.
    I was making sixteen dollars an hour. That was a fortune to me.
    Nights I’d go home to Rhonda and we’d make love and fall asleep listening to the got-damn mice. I was killing half a dozen of the little critters every night. Get up to fetch a glass of water and it was WHAM, BAM—got two of them. Rhonda hated the mice. Kept her up half the night. I wanted her to get her rest. The baby was coming, and between the kickin’ and squeakin’ she wasn’t getting any sleep at all.
    One weekend I got to talking to the other tenants about the mice problem, and we decided to go on a rent strike. Everybody was all for it, but none of them held out. One by one, they caved and paid their rent, until the only ones still owing were the Macs. So sure enough the landlord kicked us out; said he knew all along I was behind the insurrection.
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    We moved in with one of Rhonda’s aunts—she had a little room in her basement—but a week later I found a place on116th and Harvard. We tried to make it nice. We found a couch with no legs and put books under it to hold up the ends. When you sat down, the springs would pop up and attack you. It was like something out of Alien. The building wasn’t much, either: Seems like we’d picked the most popular crack house in the neighborhood.
    But hey, we had each other. Why crank and moan?
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    Christmas we went over to Rhonda’s house. Her family is very close. It was wall-to-wall people, most of them new to me. But I had A.V. there, home from college, and Billy Staples. Big Nigger was off in the navy.
    We played pool and had a few beers and listened to music and ate a big dinner. That family of Rhonda’s, they’ve always been big cookers. And you know me: I appreciate a good meal.
    People kept comin’ by to pat Rhonda’s belly. She was getting bigger every day; fit to explode.
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    One January morning some weeks later, she woke up looking scared. “Bernard,” she said. “It’s time.”
    I drove her to the hospital. She was in some bad pain, only the nurses said it wasn’t time, so we went home. Then late in the afternoon, Rhonda got that look again.
    â€œBernard, it’s time.”
    â€œYou sure?” I asked her.
    â€œBernard, I’m sure. Don’t be interrogating me!”
    Hokay! Step away! Lot of hormones happenin’ here.
    So we waddled down to the car and I drove her back to the hospital, but—wouldn’t you know it—it still wasn’t time. I didn’t say a word. I didn’t even look at her funny. I just drove us back home like a good husband.
    Shortly before midnight, though, Rhonda got into some serious hollering. I told her to lie down and began to rub her belly, and before long she fell asleep. I fell asleep right next to her.
    In the middle of the night, I heard a scream. I jumped out of bed and went into the bathroom and found Rhonda there, looking at the floor.
    â€œMy water broke,” she said.
    I got her dressed and drove her to the hospital, third time now, and she was hollering all the way there, clawin’ at my shirt and lashing out and punching my leg.
    We got to the emergency entrance and they wheeled her away, still hollerin’. But they didn’t seem worried; they saw women in that condition every day, maybe forty times a day. They told me to have a seat, that it would be a while.
    I went down to the cafeteria and got a sandwich and brought it back, and just as I was finishing my sandwich the doctor came out. “Mr. Mac,” he said. “It’s showtime!”
    I got dressed in that blue gown and put those booties over my shoes and they took me into the delivery room. Rhonda’s laid out there, legs up, sweatin’. She’s not even remotely happy to see me; she’s in too much pain. They had nurses there,