The Turner House (5 page)

“Russell's been holed up in Mama's room since he got here,” Cha-Cha said. “I tried to listen through the door, but damnit if they weren't in there
whispering.
”

He leaned into the kitchen from the front entryway.

“Please, Cha-Cha. You know your brother couldn't whisper at a funeral,” Tina said. Every surface in the kitchen supported a tray of pepper-speckled raw chicken parts. She moved from tray to tray, shaking seasoning salt from one hand and garlic powder from the other.

“All I know is that he better be in here in time for this meeting.” Cha-Cha hovered in the kitchen entryway lest Tina put him to work. “If he's gonna show up for the weekend unannounced, he can at least help tend to some business.”

“I keep telling you he sent us an email saying he was coming,” Tina said.

“That man sends an email every hour,” Cha-Cha said. “How am I supposed to wade through all them chain letters for the real ones?” He hurried as best he could manage through the kitchen and into the dining room, where he tried to look busy with a stack of receipts.

“The subject line was ‘coming to Detroit this weekend.' You had to have seen it.”

“That coulda meant that God's coming to Detroit for all I know. Half those emails are always tryna force me to do something or face hellfire. They'll have some scripture, then talkin about ‘click this if you love God,' or ‘if you don't forward this, you'll be damned.'”

“So do you forward em?” Tina asked.

She looked up at him, her gloved hands out in front of her like a doctor pre-operation.

“Of course not! It's probably some people tryna steal folks' metadata, or spyware, or whatever you call it.”

Tina's face did that thing it liked to do when she prepared to say something righteous. Her eyebrows rose, her chin dropped a bit, and her freckles seemed to multiply. Cha-Cha knew the scripture she'd reach for.

“Whoever denies me before men, him I will also deny before my father who is in heaven,” she said, with more seriousness than Cha-Cha thought necessary. He opened his mouth to say something clever—he wasn't sure what—and perhaps a bit combative in return, but Russell came into the dining room from the den.

A career military man like his older brother Quincy but not nearly as zealous, Russell was most similar to Francey in that he'd strike up a conversation with anyone, anywhere. He also had a penchant for creating nicknames, including for people he'd just met. The gift of gab resided within every Turner child—fights for parental attention required it—but to Cha-Cha, Russell's level of gregariousness seemed less a product of genetics and more the result of a dogged, often annoying resolution to remain optimistic. His brother, the fourth child, had survived Vietnam, three decades in the marines, throat cancer, and, perhaps most harrowing, the shame of his firstborn son growing up to be a pro-prison, anti-“big government,” libertarian-leaning Republican. Russell would hold court on any subject except politics. Unbeknownst to all but Cha-Cha and Viola, he contributed the most money to Viola's care, and his mother harbored a soft spot for him because of it.

“I take it all this chicken ain't for me, the weekend guest of honor?” Russell said.

“Not this time,” Tina said. “The women's ministry is hosting a picnic tomorrow.”

“Mmm-mmm, now you know I love a women's ministry!” Russell said. He rubbed his hands together.

Tina swatted her spatula in his direction from the other side of the counter.

“You're just as bad as Cha-Cha. Y'all both need more church.”

Cha-Cha heard cars pull into his driveway and went to open the front door.

Marlene, Francey, and Netti arrived in one car, Troy in another. Cha-Cha worked his way from one sister to the next, doling out squishy hugs and airy pecks on the cheek. He clapped Troy on the back, suppressed the undying urge to give his youngest brother a nougie.

“Where's Mama? In her room?” Marlene asked. “I wanna say hi before we get started.”

She moved toward the hallway, and Russell cleared his throat.

“She just took her pills and
finally
went to sleep,” Russell said. “Don't go in there waking her up. Maybe by the time we're done meeting.”

Marlene turned back to the living room and rolled her eyes at Russell.

“Fine, but I'm not leavin without seeing her, Russ, you'd better believe. She's not no little baby. She can go back to sleep.”

Russell might have garnered favor with Viola through monetary contribution, but Marlene's sense of entitlement to her mother's attention stemmed from time spent and sheer will.

“Anyway,” Netti said. “Anyone heard from Lelah? I called her earlier, but her house phone kept ringing. I think she's got a new prepaid cause the cell number I tried didn't go through.”

“I tried that prepaid number, and she didn't answer either,” Cha-Cha said. He chose a barstool over a dining chair to give his left knee some relief, as did Russell. Turner knees, the left one in particular, became untrustworthy as one aged.

“I don't know why that girl won't go ahead and get a regular contract,” Netti said. “She's like one of them drug dealers on TV, doesn't want the government to track her down.”

“You've gotta have good credit to get a contract, don't you?” Troy said. “Y'all know Lelah ain't had good credit since high school.”

“Oooh,” Marlene and Netti said in unison.

“What happened today, Officer Troy? You in a bad mood?” Netti said.

“Alright!” Francey said. “It looks like it's just gonna be us. Three boys and three girls. That's good enough. It's almost like a quorum.”

“Yes indeed, Francey-pants,” Troy said. “If you wanna make it real official, you can go ahead and take the minutes.” He stepped past her to the refrigerator and pulled out a beer.

“I just
might
take minutes, thank you very much. And I'll be sure to note your intoxication levels in the official report.”

“Never mind Officer Troy. Can we kindly get this show on the road?” Marlene asked. “I'm tryna catch a rummage sale in Windsor early in the morning, so I need my beauty rest.”

“
Roomage
sale?” Russell said, imitating their mother's pronunciation. “Thought it was called a flea market nowadays. You turning into an old lady on me, Marly Marl?”

“Mama pronounces it
roomage
, I'm gonna at least say rummage, out of respect. You know what I mean.”

Viola no longer had the energy for the requisite bargain hunting and haggling, but Marlene still ran the clothing booth that they had manned together at a local flea market for years. She handed half of the proceeds over to Cha-Cha to help in Viola's care.

“Alright,” Cha-Cha said, trying to sound formal. “Let's get to business.”

“Yes, let's,” Marlene said.

“After being on hold for forever, I finally talked to the bank about Mama's house. Apparently, under the advice of I don't know
who
, Mama refinanced in '94 after Daddy died. A couple years before I got in charge of her affairs.”

“That was my advice,” Netti said. “And it was good at the time. All of y'all were broke or busy feeding your kids, and those social security checks weren't enough for Mama to survive on.” Netti, the seventh child, worked for an accounting firm. She was a lead administrator, not a CPA, but she had a general handle on money, always put more aside than most.

“Nobody's blaming you, Netti,” Francey said. “Cha-Cha is just laying out the facts.”

“Thank you, Francey,” Cha-Cha said. “So anyway, Mama owes about forty thousand, but that house, even though it's the nicest one on Yarrow, is only worth four thousand dollars.”

Gasps and epithets filled the dining room, even a “What in the
hell?
” from Tina, the born-again non-curser, in the kitchen.

“That's the same thing I said,” Cha-Cha said, referring to one of the curses, or maybe all of them. “But let's not act like Yarrow ain't been doin bad for a while now.”

“Doin bad, sure, but four thousand dollars?” Netti said, “You can't even buy a car with that.”

“The appliances me and Richard just put in there cost almost half that amount,” Francey said.

“I
know.
But four thousand is just a number we're all gonna have to accept. This meeting isn't about that number. It's to decide what we're gonna
do
about the Yarrow Street house.”

“What do you mean,
do?
” Marlene asked.

“Well, it's pretty obvious,” Cha-Cha said. But here he paused a beat too long, which made everyone fearful of what he'd say. “We'll have to short-sell it, unless we can come up with some other option.”

There was no uproar here, no additional curse words flung into the air. Instead all the siblings got familiar with the carpet on the dining room floor, ran through assets and expenses in their heads. Everyone knew what short-selling meant; the depressed housing market had made the term commonplace. You stopped making payments on your house, then the bank agreed to sell it for what it was currently worth. You didn't see a penny of the sale money, but at least you didn't owe the difference. Each sibling also took a quick assessment of the level of personal guilt in the situation. When was the last time they'd lived on Yarrow? The last time they'd visited, or added equity to the house in some way or other? There was an email sent out by Marlene, right around the time of Cha-Cha's accident, asking who might be able to come live on Yarrow, to help Mama manage, so she wouldn't be alone. Everyone had been too busy with mortgages, or their own grandkids, or spouses. Well, everyone except for Lonnie, who was out in California and living God knows how, but no one wanted him back on Yarrow, getting into God knows what kind of trouble with his old friends. Silently, to themselves, the six siblings in the dining room all concluded that they were culpable in some way or other, even if it was just for not having enough money saved up to hand over the $40,000 right now.

“Well, we're not selling the house, especially not for no four thousand dollars,” Marlene said.

“Yeah,” Netti added. “We sell it today and in ten years Donald Trump or somebody will buy it, build a townhouse, and sell it to some white folks for two hundred grand.”

Everyone, faces stricken, acknowledged the truth in this.

“That's the way the east side is gonna go eventually,” Russell said. He balanced precariously on the barstool; it was a bit too narrow for his behind. “People are just walking away from their houses, and the city's makin it too hard for other folks to buy them. Talkin about you have to pay the back taxes and what all else. Even on empty lots! They should be happy somebody wants to mow the grass.”

“But let some millionaire offer to buy a whole bunch of lots at once,” Troy said, “and all of a sudden the city will start cutting deals for them. Pennies on the dollar, I bet you anything.”

“Well y'all don't have any other ideas, do you?” Cha-Cha asked.

A moment passed in silence. Cha-Cha wondered why he'd even called this meeting in the first place. A Turner family meeting rarely ended in agreement.

“What does Mama say?” Marlene asked. She looked from Cha-Cha to Tina, who was leaning on the kitchen counter, and back to Cha-Cha again. “What's she wanna do?”

Tina coughed and turned away to check on her chicken in the oven.

“Cha-Cha? Please tell me you clued Mama in to all this.” Marlene's eyebrows folded into a frown, causing her high forehead to break into a series of ripples. “I keep telling y'all she's not a baby. It's
her
house, she shoulda been the first one to have a say.”

Cha-Cha would have liked to remind Marlene that he was Viola's legal guardian—a role he took on after her last stroke—and that he would be the executor of her estate when she passed, pitiable as that estate might be. He would have liked to tell her that as far as the law went, Viola might as well be a baby because his decision was the only one that would matter in the end. But Marlene's wrath was infamous, first exhibited at age nine when she plotted for an entire week to get even with her younger brother Lonnie for breaking her Easy-Bake Oven, and finally found vengeance by dropping him on his head in front of the entire family during an impromptu performance of Ice Capades (wherein the children “skated” on socks across the waxed living room floor). Lonnie had needed ten stitches. Cha-Cha had no desire to call forth such rancor now.

“Fine,” he said. “Let's go ask her.”

Viola's room shouldered a burden designed for a much larger space. The pictures that once crammed the common rooms on Yarrow Street had been shoehorned into this one, producing an effect not unlike the famous-patron photos that smothered the walls of pizzerias and Greek diners throughout the city. Every relative pictured looked a little more important than they were in real life. The room, chosen for its abundance of natural light, had belonged to Todd, Cha-Cha's younger son, before it was Viola's, and despite new furniture and professional carpet shampooing, a faint smell of adolescent armpit and athletic socks lingered. Marlene entered first, with Russell on her heels and Francey and Cha-Cha behind them. Troy and Netti stood in the doorway. Tina opted to stay in the kitchen.

A matriarch, even one who demurred at that title and its pressures as often as Viola did, is a hard thing to lose. The Turners had to reckon with the loss of their matriarch every day they laid eyes on her. Viola had been a thickset woman, the origin of the Turner hourglass shape that had set east side men to drooling for five decades. Time had finally claimed those curves in Viola's seventies, and the stroke the year before had withered her still-shapely legs. The right leg was all but immobile now. She'd held together for ages, then every part of her seemed to collapse within six months. Marlene, Russell, and Francey appeared unbothered by the tight confines of the room, but Troy and Netti, more sparing with their visits, were shaken. Cha-Cha lived two bedrooms down from Viola, and still he felt a shock every time he came through her door. His mind held a crystallized image of his mother from a specific epoch in his own life, and it was hard for him to reconcile it with current reality. Cha-Cha would always imagine her in her late fifties, all thirteen children born, wide-hipped and heavy-chested, carrying both of his young sons with more ease than even Tina, thirty-something at the time, could muster. The woman lying on the bed now, not at all asleep, using the remote control on her lap to flip through TV channels, was a stranger. More than Francis Turner, Viola had always seemed the type to just drop dead one day, not wither slowly. She lowered the remote and regarded this incomplete amalgamation of her brood.