Free The Interruption of Everything by Terry McMillan Page B

feels like. Last year he beat up two little boys at preschool because he said he wanted to see if he could hit them hard enough to make at least one of them bleed. He didn’t succeed. He cussed out his kindergarten teacher on the first day of school for making him sit outside of the circle after he pinched a little girl. These kids don’t know who their fathers are. I don’t know if Joy does either. But I’m not asking.
    “Marilyn, you still there?”
    “Yes, I’m here. What’s she doing that’s so peculiar?”
    “You want some examples?”
    “What did I just ask you?”
    “Okay,” she says, and I can hear her sucking on one of those nasty no-name-brand cigarettes. “You know all these plants in here she got?”
    “What about them?”
    “She’s been watering ’em.”
    “What’s wrong with that?”
    “They ain’t real, Marilyn! Every last one of ’em is plastic, except for one in the kitchen window and that’s ’cause Tiecey grew it from a seed at school. For the past few weeks I been wondering where all this damn water been coming from that’s running down the steps and why the carpet is all squishy in certain spots, and then the other day I caught her doing it.”
    “Maybe she was just confused.”
    “But these are her plants. Not mine.”
    “Did you ask her about it?”
    “Ask her what? ‘Lovey, are you losing your mind?’ How do you ask your mama some shit like that?”
    “I’ll drive out there to see her by the end of the week.”
    “Don’t tell her I told you this, please. Her temper is something else and she might just hit me.”
    “Get the hell outta here, Joy. Lovey wouldn’t hurt a flea.”
    “Then that must make me a tick ’cause she’s already done it!”
    I suddenly feel like throwing up for three reasons: 1) The thought of Lovey doing any of these things and with Joy and her kids in the house is quite unsettling; 2) Leon is still gunning that damn motorcycle; and 3) Last night’s meal is stuck in my esophagus. “I’ve gotta go, Joy. I’m feeling sick.”
    “Wait a minute! Can you lend me a couple of hundred bucks till I get on my feet, or not?”
    “Are your kids hungry?”
    “They will be.”
    “Go to Western Union in a few hours. If I get down there and it looks like those kids are being neglected on any level, Joy, I swear to God, first, I’m going to kick your ass myself, and then I’m calling Social Services on you. How’s that sound?”
    “Thanks M and M. But my kids ain’t want for nothing. You been watching too many episodes of Special Victims’ Unit of Law & Order . Three whole hours?”
    I drop the phone on the floor and run into the bathroom and barf into the toilet until my ears are ringing and my head feels like it’s expanding then shrinking. As soon as I stand up and walk over to the sink to get this awful taste out of my mouth, here it comes again. This time I don’t make it to the toilet and as I’m crouched over, holding myself up with both elbows on the sink, I feel Leon hovering above me.
    “What’s wrong, Marilyn? Are you okay? What did you eat? This looks like it could be food poisoning.”
    “I’m okay, now. I hope.” I stand upright.
    “Can I get you something?” His fingers are spread out, grazing back and forth across my back like a slow windshield wiper. “What did you eat last night?”
    “The shrimp pasta. Didn’t you have some, too?”
    “Just a few bites. I wasn’t very hungry when I came in.”
    Lying son of a bitch. It was chicken, but I don’t want to add to my nausea, which feels like it’s subsiding. “That’s not what’s making me barf. I’m pregnant.”
    The weight of his hand now feels like he’s pushing me away. He must realize it, because it falls off my back and now he’s shoveling both hands inside the pockets of his dark green Dockers. He takes a few steps back and then looks at me like I’m some alien. “Did you just say you’re pregnant, Marilyn?”
    “Yes, I did.”
    “How in the world