Free Disappearing Acts by Terry McMillan Page B

least my room is clean. And from what Derek told me, she still working the midnight shift at some brokerage house, running some kind of computer. What she do with all her money I don’t know. And just wait. When one of the kids get in trouble, she gon’ be the first one to wonder why.
    She answered the door—or I should say, took up the door. “How you doing?” I asked. “Thought I’d stop by and bring you this.”
    She snatched the money and moved out the way. I sat down at the kitchen table. The same raggedy-ass plastic tablecloth was hiding it, dirty dishes was piled up in the sink, and the floor looked like it ain’t been mopped in weeks. She’ll never change, I thought. I watched her count the money.
    “Is this the best you can do?”
    “Look, Pam, I’m laid off for a few days, and yeah, this
is
the best I can do right now.”
    “How many times have I heard that? You need to get a better job, that’s what you need to do.”
    “What you think I’m
trying
to do?”
    “Try harder.”
    I wanted to slap her. “What about this dude I heard you supposed to be marrying?”
    “Don’t worry about it. When I’m ready to marry
anybody
, you’ll be the first to know.”
    “You free-fuckin’, or what?”
    “That’s none of your damn business, Franklin. He’s doing more for the kids than you are, that’s for damn sure.”
    “Speaking of kids, where they at anyway?”
    “At camp.”
    “I see you still finding ways to get rid of ’em.”
    “For your information, they like going to camp, and it keeps ’em off the streets and out of trouble. The projects ain’t changed, or can’t you see that?”
    What I saw was that she was up to about three hundred fuckin’ pounds. I couldn’t imagine what this dude must be about or what the hell he saw in her. I couldn’t remember what I ever saw in her, really. And look at her now. It’s a damn shame how some women just let themselves go. You’d think they’d wanna look good for themselves, not just for a damn man. Shit, I work out ’cause it makes me feel good. Women get weak over my body, but that ain’t my fault.
    Now Pam was sitting in front of the TV set—as usual—eating potato chips, drinking a soda, and crocheting. I was still sitting at the kitchen table, looking at the salt and pepper shakers I bought ten years ago. Damn. I got up and walked toward the door. “Tell the kids I said hi, I’ll see ’em soon, and tell Derek to stop by over the weekend to shoot some hoops. I’ll try to bring you some more money next week.”
    “I won’t hold my breath,” she said, and put another potato chip in her mouth. She didn’t budge. I slammed the door on my way out.
    *   *   *
    At four o’clock, I watched “The Love Connection” on TV. I was anxious, trying to figure out if I was handling this thing right. If not, at least my motives would be clear: “I was bullshitting. And I ain’t interested.” I watched “The People’s Court” at four-thirty, and “Live at Five” with Sue Simmons—with her fineself. By twenty to seven, I figured she’d realize I wasn’t coming and get the picture. My stomach was growling. I didn’t have nothin’ to eat, and didn’t feel like cooking on that little-ass hot plate, so I put on a clean T-shirt and went to get me some Chinese food. I had barely turned the corner, and who did I run into? Shit.
    “You changed your mind?” she asked.
    “I got hung up,” I heard myself saying.
    “You could’ve called.”
    “I couldn’t remember your last name.”
    “It’s Banks. Zora Banks.”
    She was pissed off. Damn, she looked even prettier mad. “I was trying my hardest to get there by six, I just had some other business to take care of, and it took longer than I thought.”
    “You don’t have to do this, you know,” she said.
    “I don’t
have
to do nothing but die.”
    “Look, I’m getting bad vibes about this whole thing. You’re the one who offered, Franklin.”
    And she was right. What the