Shameless Hoodwives: A Bentley Manor Tale Read online

  Eddie was right: I know how to keep a secret.

  “So what do you do down there at the church?” she finally asks while spooning oatmeal to Tanana.

  “Just a little bit of everything,” I answer, straddling the line of truth. I do perform a little of everything: A little fuckin’, a little suckin’, and a whole lot of blow.

  Shit. I don’t know why I didn’t pick up on Pastor Meyer’s junkie signs sooner. The sweatin’, the wild and watery eyes—it’s all right there. Motherfucker has one hell of a hustle going on.

  I don’t give a shit. I’m gettin’ what I need and I’m a better woman for it. Gone are my suicidal thoughts and the daydreams of hurtin’ my baby. I’m free to concentrate on doin’ what I need to do: savin’ this paper Eddie is breakin’ me off and tryin’ to find my own place, even if it’s my own apartment in this hellhole.

  I glance up at Grandma Cleo and she’s still staring me down like my ass is suddenly going to break down with a confession.

  She should know better than that.

  A fierce pounding at the front door startles everyone at the table.

  “Who in the hell?” Grandma says, jumping from her chair.

  Tanana let loose one of her mighty wails, and I go to take her into my arms when a voice in the hallway stops me in my tracks.

  “Takiah, is yo ass in there?”

  Kameron.

  “Oh, shit.” My heart tries to crack its way through my chest. I snatch Tanana out of her chair and look wildly around for a place for us to hide.

  “You stay right there,” Grandma Cleo instructs firmly and then marches toward the front closet door. “I’ll handle this.”

  “Grandma, no,” I warn her. Kameron is a nigga not to be fucked with, and he can certainly take a seventy-one-year-old church lady down with no problem.

  “You heard what I said.”

  “Takiah,” Kameron roars. “Open this goddamn door! I know yo triflin’ ass in there!”

  Grandma Cleo ignores her infamous Louisville Slugger and instead withdraws an impressive-sized gun from the top shelf.

  When in the hell did she start packin’ that thing?

  Despite Tanana’s bawlin’, I clutch her tighter while feeling rooted to the floor. This is all my fault. I shoulda been more prepared for this moment, and now that it’s here…what?

  The banging continues, and when Grandma Cleo’s hand lands on the doorknob, I call out one more warning, but she seems not to need it.

  In the next second, Grandma Cleo jerks open the door and aims her gun directly into Kameron’s enraged face all in one fluid motion. I’m surprised, but Kameron is completely thrown off his game.

  It’s the first time I’ve seen his face since I’d lit his ass up, and let me tell ya, he ain’t so pretty no more. He looks like something that crawled out of a nightmare. His once smooth, chocolate skin is now splotchy pink, tight and shiny and looks like it still hurts like hell.

  “Whoa, old lady.” Kameron tosses up his hands like he’s just been surrounded by police. “Calm down. I just wanna holla at my wife for a sec,” he says all calm and diplomatic-like.

  “Sounded like you was hollering at the whole damn building,” Grandma Cleo chastises, keeping her aim steady. “And your wife doesn’t have nothin’ to say to you.”

  Kameron’s eyes narrow and I can feel his fury from across the apartment. “Look, old lady. I don’t wanna hurt you.”

  “And I don’t wanna shoot you…but I will if you don’t get away from my door and leave me and my family alone.”

  “Look.” He licks his thick lips. “She got my daughter with her.”

  I hug Tanana tighter and try to quiet her by bouncing her on my hip while Grandma coldly looks Kameron over.

  “Baby don’t look nothing like you,” she tells him.

  It’s the first time someone vocalized what Kameron and I both know. Tanana isn’t his child, and only God really knows who her daddy is.

  “Look,” he tries again.

  However, he’s worn out Grandma Cleo’s patience, and she quickly points the gun to the floor and fires off one round and then points the gun back at his face as fast as any quick draw from the Old West.

  “I said ‘get.’”

  Kameron lifts his head and his hands higher, but there’s a calculating look in his eye. Is he really foolish enough to try and push his luck?

  “Is there a problem, Cleo?”

  Miz Osceola’s voice drifts in from the hall, and I can tell by the sudden stiffness in Kameron’s frame that another gun was now pointed at his back.

  “No trouble,” Grandma says calmly. “This young man was just leavin’. Weren’t ya?”

  I swear if looks could kill, Grandma would be goin’ on to meet her beloved Jesus. I somehow feel like I’m sort of watchin’ all of this like it’s a damn movie of the week until Kameron’s eyes slice toward me with a promise that nearly stops my heart.

  “Weren’t ya?” Grandma asks again.

  Kameron finally pulls his eyes away from mine and gives Grandma Cleo what I think is a smile. “Yes, ma’am. I was just leaving.”

  Slowly, he turns from the door, and I finally collapse in the nearest chair and wait for my heart to return to its regular rhythm.

  I had a long wait ahead of me.

  Later that night after Bible study, Eddie and I snorted a few lines in his office to jump off our little late-night party. Despite being high as a kite, I still can’t get Kameron’s monstrous face out of my head.

  “I think he’s going to kill me,” I whisper.

  The good pastor takes another long snort and then tilts his head all the way back on the leather couch. “Who?” he asks, unzipping his pants.

  “My husband.”

  Eddie’s hand stills on his crotch as his eyes pop open. “Your husband? I thought he was in jail—in D.C.”

  “Well, apparently he got out.”

  “What? He came here?” He sits up, looking around, paranoid. “Is he dangerous?”

  “No. Shit, I don’t know. He could be on his way back to D.C. for all I know. Grandma Cleo warned him off pretty good.”

  “Aw, well, hell. If Cleo handled it, we don’t have to worry,” Eddie boasts, pulling out his small-ass dick and gliding my head down to get on my job.

  I ain’t crazy about doin’ this shit ’cause a bitch can get lockjaw tryin’ to get his limp, needle dick hard. Yeah, he does a bunch of moanin’ and pumpin’ his hips, but gettin’ his ass to cum is a whole ’nother story.

  The only weird thing is how he gives thanks every couple of seconds while I’m gettin’ him off. I’m suckin’ and slurpin’ and all I hear is, “Thank you, Jesus.”

  When he finally cums it’s: “Hallelujah. Hallelujah.”

  Whatever. I got my blow. I got my money. He can take my ass home now.

  “How was Bible study?” Grandma Cleo asks before I get into the door good.

  “Fine,” I answer, avoiding her gaze.

  Silence and then, “It sure is nice of Pastor Meyer helpin’ you out like he is.”

  “I guess.” I peel off my coat.

  “Have you given your life over to God yet?”

  I can’t help but roll my eyes. “Grandma, you said I had to go to counseling or get out. I’m going. You said I needed to get a job. I got one. Is there something else you want me to do that I’m not doin’ good enough for you?”

  “You can check that tone,” she snaps. “You know I don’t abide by none of that nonsense. If you’re living here, you’re goin’ to give me the proper respect.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I’m just asking you some questions. That’s all. There’s been some talk lately.”

  “What kind of talk?”

  She hesitates. “Just some stuff I ain’t wantin’ to believe.”

  “Then don’t believe it,” I say, bored with the conversation. I’m too tired for this shit. “I’m goin’ to bed.” I can tell there’s something else she wants to say, but she choos
es not to say it. Thank God.

  By the next morning, I don’t feel too good. The moment I climb out the bed, I’m racing to the bathroom and doubling over, vomiting in the toilet. I don’t eat much and therefore I don’t have much to let go. In a matter of seconds my belly cramps from dry heaving.

  When I’m finished, I’m not surprised to see Grandma wrapped in her robe and filling up the bathroom doorframe.

  “Lawd have mercy. Chile, tell me you ain’t pregnant.”

  Princess

  Two months and seventeen hours.

  That’s how long I spent locked up by the Fulton County sheriff’s department. That’s one thousand, four hundred and fifty-seven hours or eighty-seven thousand, four hundred and twenty minutes. If time was money, I’d be straight. And if time was love, then I wouldn’t feel so damn alone and scared as I stand outside the jail and try to figure out what the hell to do with myself now that I’m free.

  That Monday after I was locked up, the magistrate gave me a $2,000 bond. Without any money or any help to get the money, it might as well been a million dollars. I thought I might get something called a PR bond, but Queen came testifying that she was scared of me and didn’t want me back to her house. Damn, will she ever stop hurting me?

  Because I was seventeen about to turn eighteen, the cops didn’t even think about transferring me to juvenile detention. I had to stay on lock while I waited for my trial date. So here I am looking at a year for my charge and trying to learn to get used to life in jail. Eat now. Sleep now. Out your cell. In your cell. Lights out. Lockdown. Count. Shit here. Wash there. Do this. Don’t do that.

  What’s crazy is there’s some really cool people in jail. I didn’t make no friends, but I didn’t make no enemies in that crowded and pissy motherfucker either. Some people I will remember; most I will forget.

  I went to court early this morning and coulda pissed my pants when they gave me two years straight probation and a thousand-dollar fine. The probation wouldn’t have been that bad, but I didn’t realize in that commotion I broke a chair on Queen. That took a simple assault and battery to a whole ’nother level.

  When they finally finished up my paperwork or whatever they was doing that took all day, there wasn’t a soul waiting to hug me and be happy for me and to take me home. When I did try to call Queen collect, she denied the charges.

  I’m on my own. I’m free to be homeless and penniless…but not hopeless. I can’t let myself give up. I have to make it. I have to.

  It was mid-December and Georgia or no Georgia it’s cold. The wind whips and bites through the short-sleeved T-shirt I’m wearing. I shake off any sadness or feeling bad for myself as I start walking up Rice Street. I notice people staring at me.

  I can’t really blame them.

  When they took back the jail uniform, I had to put on the same bloody clothes I had on when they locked me up. It’s not like I had anybody to bring me something different. It isn’t a lot of blood, but it’s enough smeared on my shirt and jeans—especially without a overcoat to cover it—to make me look crazy as hell.

  I dig my shivering hands down into my pockets to hold the last ten dollars I have to my name. In my other pocket I wrap my hands around the piece of folded paper my public defender gave to me. I reach for it.

  I never thought I would be in this situation, but I’m homeless and I damn sure need shelter. I unfold the paper to look down at the address and directions. A Helping Hand is just a five minute walk from here. I have to get there in time to get one of the hundred beds they have available for the night.

  I tuck my head to my chest and take off walking as fast as I can as the wind seems to fight me every damn step of the way.

  The line for the shelter is reaching the corner when I get there, but I stand there freezing, my teeth chattering, hoping I ain’t too far back in line to get a bed. “Please, God, look out for me,” I pray as I huddle against the wall.

  God is definitely on my side, because I get the second to last spot and I have to force myself not to damn cry. I learn something about the goodness of people as they give me a used purple sweatsuit to put on. It makes me look like a dried-up Barney, but it’s clean and I don’t have to walk around looking like a murder suspect. I don’t throw the bloody outfit out. Hopefully with a good washing at the Laundromat, most of the blood will come out, and these clothes would be good to go for more wear.

  Ain’t like I had shit else. All my shit is at Queen’s, but as soon as I get myself together I will go straight to the police and go get my clothes and hopefully the little bit of money I have stashed away.

  After a hot shower and an even hotter meal of beef stew and cornbread, we are led into two small rooms painted the color of baby doo with about fifty cots in each one. There isn’t much room to walk, and the room is crowded with women and children who are either playing loudly or crying loudly.

  It’s the best noise I ever heard.

  I make my way over to a cot at the end of the row by the wall and sit my plastic bag on it. It’s a damn shame when you hold on to prison toiletries ’cause you don’t have shit else in the world to call your own.

  I notice a thirty-something white woman with a one-year-old eyeing me from the bunk next to me. I smile at her and look away.

  “Hi, I’m Halle and this is Angel,” she says, obviously taking my smile for an opening.

  “I’m Jamillah but everyone calls me Princess.”

  “Nice to meet you.”

  I don’t really say much more. I just want to lay down and chill. Get my thoughts together. Make some damn plans.

  I turn on my side, putting my back to her as I stare at the shit-colored walls. My eyes are just starting to close when little Angel starts whining and crying inconsolably. I wonder how I will ever have kids of my own when I’m so scared of men. The only man I ever crushed on had a sexy girlfriend that I can’t hardly compete with. Besides, who knows if I will ever see Danger again? And that meant my chance at a record deal is like the rest of my life. Shot to hell.

  Needing a distraction, I turn over and sit up on the edge of the bed. My knees nearly touch Halle’s as I smile into Angel’s big watery eyes and sing “Hush Little Baby” real soft for her ears only.

  Soon she begins to coo and then root around on her mother’s chest before her head falls back over her mother’s arm like a passed-out drunk.

  Halle reaches over to grab my wrist. I jump back from her touch and she pulls her hand away with a smile filled with apologies. She turns to lay the baby on her stomach in the middle of the cot. “Thanks so much. She always goes through this crying fit before she goes to sleep.”

  “You’re welcome.” I lie back down, wanting to get back in my alone zone.

  “You look really young,” she says.

  “I just turned eighteen.” I try to sound all hard so she’ll leave me alone.

  “I just turned thirty myself—”

  I look at her over my shoulder. “Listen, Halle, no offense, but I got a lot going on right now and I just want to rest my eyes and get myself together, you know?”

  She looks hurt and offended, but she just nods as she focuses on rubbing her baby’s back.

  I don’t feel good about dissing her, but I do have a bunch of drama in my own life, and my brain just can’t take getting filled up with somebody else’s story. Hell, it’s not like she has a good one to tell, since she in the shelter with my ass.

  About an hour later, I hear Halle singing to Angel in an off-key voice. She can’t sing a lick, but her version sounds much better than mine because her voice is filled with a mother’s love.

  I turn over on my stomach and watch her through half-closed eyes. She’s lying on her side looking down at her baby as she rubs her back and sings to her. I can tell she loves her daughter, and it makes me wonder if there was ever a time that Queen loved me. Maybe as a baby she had held me close and rocked me when I cried. Maybe?

  Tears fill my eyes. “Hey, Halle, can I tell you something I wish someone ha
d told my mother?”

  She looks up at me, and I can see that she doesn’t know how to take me. “Sure.”

  “Whenever you do get on your feet and get your own place please be careful of the men you bring into her life, because they can change her life in the worst ways you can imagine. They won’t look like perverts and kid beaters but some will be and they can fill her with memories and nightmares she won’t ever outrun. Put your child first. Always. Make sure she don’t go through what the fuck I been through.”

  Halle looks like she wants to say something, but she closes her mouth as she nods at me again. I turn over and hug my thin bleach-smelling pillow close as I cry quietly. I’m sure she has questions. Wanted answers. Needed explanations.

  Thank God she just left me the hell alone.

  The next afternoon I drop my plastic bag onto the cold ground before I kneel beside the grave. I reach out and trace the grooves of Rendell “Lucky” Hunt.

  Like most other shelters, we were given breakfast, but no one is allowed to lounge all day on the premises. Even though I knew I had to find a job, I had to come here first. I had to.

  At first the words won’t come. I just sit there reminiscing on the years of friendship we shared that wasn’t hardly enough. It has been so long since I really talked to anyone. I just been holding it all in. All of it. But I eventually take a deep breath to calm myself, and the words flow like water.

  How good it felt to whup my momma’s ass.

  How bad I felt about whupping my momma’s ass.

  How scared I was when I got locked up.

  How glad I am to be free.

  How scary it is to be free but homeless and penniless.

  The bullshit party some of the girls in prison threw for my birthday.

  How much I loved that bullshit party, because it was the only party anybody ever threw for me.

  How much it hurt me when she died.

  How much I miss her.

  How afraid I am.

  How lonely I am.

  “Lucky, I need you to watch out for me from heaven ’cause I ain’t got nobody else out here on these streets. It’s just me, myself, and I. Right now I can use all the help I can get.”