Read Some Things I Never Thought I'd Do Online

Authors: Pearl Cleage

Tags: #Fiction, #African American, #General, #Family Life, #Contemporary Women

Some Things I Never Thought I'd Do

Some Things I Never Thought I'd Do
“Cleage writes with amazing grace and killer instinct.”
—The New York Times
“Pearl Cleage is one of America's finest young writers. We fall in love with her characters—but maybe ‘friends’ is a better description—all over again. We laugh and cry and get frustrated with and hope for and all the things you do when you realize that these may be characters on a page or… they could be you. Another triumph for the true black Pearl.”
“Pearl Cleage deftly balanc[es] complex social issues with a warm narrative voice …
Some Things I Never Thought I'd Do
won't disappoint.”

Some Things I Never Thought I'd Do
is not only smart, sexy, magical, romantic, funny, nuanced, otherworldly, surprising, scary, and right on time, it's also political. And did I say a fabulous read? Pearl Cleage is historian, archaeologist, realist, lover, and a magnificent storyteller. Instead of offering escape from life, Cleage's words summon the possibility of life's wonders. You will know the women and men who populate her novel—or want to.”
Some Things I Never Thought I'd Do
] demonstrates [Cleage's] gift for engaging storytelling, identifiable characters, and sister-to-sister dialogue.”
—The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
“Witty, engaging, tender, and bittersweet … There's no better ‘praise song’ to love, living, and the wondrous imperfection of humanity than
Some Things I Never Thought I'd Do
. Laugh, cry, nod your head in recognition, for Ms. Cleage has captured life on the page.”
Some Things …
] sets the standard for fiction that not only entertains but raises important issues relevant in the real world.”
—Black Issues Book Review
“Cleage's follow-up to the bestselling
What Looks Like Crazy on an Ordinary Day
is both an offbeat love story and an inspirational portrait of a vibrant urban community worth fighting for.”
Also by Pearl Cleage
Babylon Sisters
Babylon Sisters
I Wish I Had a Red Dress
What Looks Like Crazy on an Ordinary Day…
Mad at Miles: A Black Woman's Guide to Truth
Deals with the Devil and Other Reasons to Riot
We Speak Your Names: A Celebration
(with Zaron W. Burnett, Jr.)
Books published by The Random House Publishing Group are available at quantity discounts on bulk purchases for premium, educational, fund-raising, and special sales use. For details, please call 1-800-733-3000.

For Michael Jondré Pryor Lomax,
who made me start thinking about grandsons in the first place;

For Deignan Cleage Lomax,
who allowed me to be there for the miracle;

And for Zaron W. Burnett, Jr.,
whose name should be on the cover.

Robin D. G. Kelley
Erykah Badu
Special thanks to Kristin Cleage Williams and the other members of my expanding family for their love and support. Thanks also to my friends and neighbors, including Jondré Pryor, Karen and A. B. Spellman, Walt Huntley Jr., Cecelia Corbin Hunter, Ingrid Saunders Jones, the Honorable Shirley Franklin, Valerie Boyd, Michael L. Lomax, Zaron W. Burnett, Jr., Ray and Marilyn Cox, Lynette Lapeyrolerie, Tayari Jones, Meghan V. Underwood, Jill Nelson, Tina McElroy Ansa, Donald Stone, Jimmy Lee Tarver, Marc and Elaine Lawson, Debra Thurmond, Granville Edward Freeman Dennis, the Broadway and Burnett families, Bebe Moore Campbell, Don Bryan, Ouida and Andrew Collins, E. Lynn Harris, Travis Hunter, Carolyn Monteilh, Maria Broom, Curtis and Barbara Jackson, Watt Hackett, ROOTS International, the Shrine of the Black Madonna, Nia Damali and Medu Bookstore, and the hardworking brothers and sisters at the Post Office and the Publix who always find time to ask me how my work is going. As always, thanks to Denise Stinson, Howard Rosenstone, and Nancy Miller for taking care of business, and to Bill Bagwell, because a deal is a deal.


This man is actually sitting behind that great big desk telling me he's going to take my house. The house I was born in! The house my mother was born in! He must be crazy.

I know I'm the one who borrowed against it. I know I'm the one who didn't make the payments on time. I know
that. That's the first thing they teach you in rehab, to accept responsibility for the stuff you did when you were a stomp-down dope fiend,
and I do
, but I never thought they would actually take the house. What good is trying to reform if you have to spend the rest of your life paying for the stupid things you did when you still got high and didn't give a damn?

Of course, I don't say all that to this little weasel-faced white man who probably has no life at all outside of this windowless office where he gets to bring up your file on his computer and then swivel it around so you can see all those missed payments and bounced checks, daring you to deny them.

He clearly does not want to hear my tale of woe. Having your heart broken and thinking cocaine can fix it does not qualify as an appropriate topic for discussion with your banker. I know this from experience, so I skip the explanations and start right in on the serious begging.

, I say,
I'm okay now. I just got a good job. I'll have enough to bring everything current if you can just give me a little more time.

He ignores me. He's heard all this before. He knows the house has been in our family for three generations. He knows I was born there. He knows my grandparents got married there. He knows it is more than a house. That it is an essential part of our family history, our memories, our dreams. He knows it is a sacred trust passed from one woman in our family, to the next one, and the next one, and, finally, to me.

He knows all this because I have told him many times. I want him to understand that losing this place is not an option. I'm not going to greet my mama in paradise and tell her I snorted up
mama's house because I wanted a man who didn't want me. If I tell her that, I'll have to tell her that during that same amazing eighteen months, I also lost my credibility as a journalist by sleeping with all the editors I wasn't doing drugs with, missing deadlines like it was a sport, and, in the last few months before I finally went into rehab, behaving badly at several important Washington social events, culminating in the unforgettable evening when I cussed out a congressman, spilled a drink on his wife, and wrecked my car all in one fortyfive-minute period.

But that was
This is
. I've been clean for almost six months, and as soon as I get paid from this new job, I'll pay the weasel what I owe and he can go swivel his screen at some other poor fool. All I need is a ninety-day extension.
Just three months
, I hear myself still begging.
I'll be able to bring everything current. I promise!

The weasel raises his eyebrows to let me know he doesn't buy it for one second. He glances down at the screen again, and I mentally prepare myself to segue from begging to groveling. I'm ready to roll around on the floor and tear my hair, if that's what it takes. I'm the one who messed everything up, but I'm also the one who is going to make it right. Starting with this house.

The weasel is still staring at the screen. He better hope whatever he needs to see there to give me my ninety days shows up in the next sixty seconds because I am
this close
to dragging him across that desk and whipping his smug little ass until somebody comes to pull me off him.
This close.

Then he sighs deeply and looks up.
Sixty days
, he says, like it's killing him.
I'll give you sixty days.

And I want to say,
It's not even your money, so why are you acting so shitty in a moment that is already shitty enough without your adding a single thing?

But it's not his fault. I wouldn't even be sitting here if I hadn't done the things I did. The reason he's acting like he's doing me a favor is because he
doing me a favor. They could have taken the house two months ago, and no amount of world-class begging could have stopped them if the weasel hadn't let me slide. Being mad at him is a waste of time, and if I've learned anything, it's that time is all you've got.

Thank you
, I say, standing up to go before he can change his mind. He stands up and reluctantly shakes the hand I offer. He's giving me that disapproving stone face like he's Robert Young on
Father Knows Best
and I'm Kitten trying to hide a bad report card.

I'm at the door when he calls my name, and my first reaction is to keep walking like I don't hear him, but that would be gutless, and courage is one of the things I'm supposed to be working on, so I stop and half turn back toward him.

Good luck
, he says with a smile that's almost human.
, I say, smiling back, even if he is my banker.
I'm going to need it.

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