Pandora's Box

by Allison Hobbs

  Jonee sucked her teeth. “Damn, Bro’, what’s your problem? Why you tryin’ to see a white girl?”

  “I ain’t got no problem, baby, and I ain’t tryin’ to be smart, but if I’m gonna pay for it—then you know…I wanna try something different.”

  “Y’all ain’t even got no Ricans?” the sidekick piped in. “Now, that’s whassup. They some stone cold freaks!”

  “No, we ain’t got no Puerto Ricans!” Jonee snapped. “Whatchu see? Black girls only, right? Now, what y’all gonna do?”

  “I guess I’ll take her, she close enough.” The delivery guy pointed to light-skinned Chelsea.

  Chelsea offered as much of a smile as she could muster, and led the delivery guy to a session room.

  “And what about you?” Jonee asked the sidekick.

  “I ain’t doin’ nothing tonight. I’m just gonna wait for my man. But check it out—can I wait in there with y’all?” He pointed to the lounge.

  “Hell no. You ain’t allowed in there. You gotta wait in the lobby. And it might be a long wait ’cause dude look like he gonna be awhile. You know what I’m saying? He don’t look like the type for no quickie!” Jonee laughed. “So why don’t you come on with me?”

  “Naw baby, I’m cool. Like I said, I’ll check y’all out when you got a bigger selection.”

  Jonee gave up with a groan and retreated to the lounge. “Fuck it,” she grumbled to Victoria. “As tired as I am, I’m not about to beg no ignorant black mothafucka to spend his money on me.” She lit a cigarette and angrily blew smoke in Victoria’s direction, then apologized and quickly fanned it away. “I already made six hundred dollars,” she bragged. “I can afford to lay my ass back down and wait for the next customer. These niggahs ain’t trying to look out for us. They jealous of us anyway.”

  Victoria looked at Jonee quizzically. “That’s right,” Jonee continued. “They don’t want to see us doing better than them. They jealous ’cause we can get money just like that!” she said, snapping her fingers. “And if they ain’t selling drugs, then they gotta take bullshit jobs cleaning toilets or delivering pizza!”

  “Not all black men sell drugs or work at menial jobs, Jonee,” Victoria interrupted “You’re being stereotypical and…”

  “Why you taking up for those two niggahs? They damn sure don’t feel no loyalty toward you.” Jonee took a long drag on the cigarette, coughed and then smashed it out in the ashtray.

  Victoria scolded herself for trying to reason with Jonee.

  “And the young bucks that come in here, don’t even know the meaning of the word tip!” Jonee continued raging. “When the cheap bastards break down and give a sistah a session, they try their damnedest to fuck you half to death. And don’t let ’em fuck up and cum too quick. Oh no, they think ’cause the hour ain’t up yet, you s’pose to be nice and let ‘em go again. And they still don’t wanna tip a dime extra.” Jonee tsked and rolled her eyes. Then, in anticipation of a long wait for the next customer, she yanked off her wig, balled it up and pitched it into her open workbag. She spread two towels over the cushions of the loveseat and curled on top of them before snuggling under a polyester robe that was left behind by one of the girls from the previous shift. Within seconds, Jonee was snoring.

  Victoria settled into the flower print chair, and closed her eyes. Despite being haunted by an image of Justice’s cruel face, somehow in the quiet of the night, the familiar sounds that indicated the conclusion of Chelsea’s session (the low murmur of voices, the opening and closing of doors, water running in the bathroom) were oddly comforting, and lulled her into a light, but peaceful sleep. But that sleep was quickly interrupted by loud angry male voices, followed by an ominous popping sound, and then Chelsea’s piercing scream.

  The delivery guy raced down the hall. There was a gun in one hand, and he was strong-arming Chelsea with the other. The sidekick who had been waiting in the lobby burst through the door. “What the fuck happened, man? You get the money?”

  “No! I had to pop that stupid mothafucka. He wouldn’t open the fuckin’ safe,” the delivery guy shouted back.

  “You popped ’em for nothin’?” the sidekick blurted out, incredulously. “Man, that’s fucked up! Did you waste ’em?”

  “How the fuck do I know? Man, I wasn’t checkin’ to see if the mothafucka was still breathing!”

  “Come on, man, let’s roll. Let that bitch go!” the sidekick screamed in a firm voice.

  “Fuck that! I’m not leaving ’til I get some paper!” With the gun at Chelsea’s side, the delivery guy dragged her toward the lounge.

  “Aw, shit. This is fucked up!” the sidekick complained, then followed.

  Aroused by the commotion, Jonee sprang to her feet and leaped across the room to huddle in the chair with Victoria.

  “Oh my God, what’s going on?” she wailed.

  At the sight of the delivery guy marching Chelsea into the lounge at gunpoint, Sheena, awake but groggy, let out a fearful groan.

  The delivery guy pointed the gun at Sheena. “Make another sound, bitch, and your stank ass gonna be leaving here in a body bag.”

  Jonee began to shake violently. Victoria hugged her tight, while fighting to control her own chattering teeth and make some sense of the situation.

  “All right, you bitches better start making ends meet. I ain’t got time to be fucking around, so start handing over the paper.”

  “But I already told you, I gave Rover all my money,” Chelsea whined, terrified.

  “You got money, bitch. I know damn well my dick ain’t the only one you sucked tonight. Now get my fuckin’ money!” He shoved Chelsea onto the sofa with Sheena.

  Seized by panic, the women gaped at the delivery guy.

  “Come on, bitches,” he demanded, waving the gun. “Start digging in your pocketbooks—bras, panties… whatever! I don’t give a fuck—just give me mine, so I can be out!”

  Victoria quickly produced a twenty-dollar bill.

  “Bitch, you know you gotta do better than that,” he cautioned, poking Victoria in the chest with the gun. She could feel the icy-cold barrel of the gun through her flimsy lingerie, but fearing that her heart would stop, she dared not look at it. She kept her eyes fixed on the delivery guy, willing him to be reasonable, compassionate. Please Lord, let this nightmare end!

  “I…I didn’t get a session,” she stammered. “You were the first customer on our shift.”

  “Fuck that…”

  “Here, here!” Jonee screamed and threw a wad of bills, bound by a rubber band.

  “Count that shit, man.” He pitched the money to the sidekick.

  “Okay, now I’m gonna ask you again—where’s your fuckin’ money?” He glowered at Victoria.

  “I…I…” Her throat was extremely dry, her body shook violently, and Victoria could not finish the sentence. She prayed the delivery guy would understand that she was simply incapable of uttering a coherent word.

  “Don’t get scared now, mothafucka,” he taunted. “I ain’t forgot your ass. You wasn’t scared when you slammed that door in my face!”

  Victoria’s face contorted in confusion. What door? Then clarity hit like a body shot.

  “That’s right, bitch. Think about it! You ordered coffee one morning, a coupla months ago, and I was nice enough to bring it to you. And all I did was ask you some questions about the white joints you was working with and you went off on me! Started acting all annoyed and prissy and shit, like I had did something to you personally.” The delivery guy paused briefly, then leaned in close. “But you fucked up when you slammed the door in my face!”

  She didn’t see it coming—the flash of metal that slammed into the side of her face. She lost consciousness immediately and was spared the pain of being hit repeatedly—of being pistol whipped by the furious delivery guy.

  Jonee and Chelsea screamed in horror. Sheena covered her face, and cried into her hands.

  “Come on, man, stop!” The sidekick grabbed the delivery guy’s arm. “Stop
before you kill that hoe. We made six hunnert—let’s roll!”

  “Wait, man. I ain’t collect from the other two bitches.” The delivery guy pointed the gun at Sheena. “Whassup crackhead? How much you got?”

  “Oh Jesus,” Sheena sobbed. “I ain’t got no money; I swear to God. I just got here, and we ain’t had no customers. Oh God, they gonna kill us all!” Sheena’s racking sobs were turning to convulsions. Tears and snot covered her face.

  “She ain’t lying,” Jonee offered bravely, while cradling Victoria, whose bloody face was swelling rapidly.

  Down the hall, Rover came to, awakened by the women’s screams and the searing pain in his left shoulder. His white tee shirt was covered with blood. His blood! He remembered the gunman and his eyes darted to the safe. It was still closed.

  And with great relief, he grabbed the phone and punched 911. Gabrielle would be so proud of him.

  CHAPTER 39

  Victoria’s face was not permanently damaged. Her doctor assured her that the swelling would go down in a few of weeks, but that was little consolation as she stood gaping at her reflection in the bathroom mirror. Her head seemed twice its normal size. Her battered, misshapen face looked permanently disfigured. Unable to stomach her image for another second, she popped a painkiller, turned away from the mirror, and padded into the kitchen.

  Victoria opened the cabinet and reached for a bag of Mocha Java. Spooning dark mounds into the coffee-maker, her thoughts drifted to Jordan. Victoria winced as she imagined her son’s reaction to her appearance.

  But Jordan had spent the night at Charmaine’s and wasn’t expected home for few hours. That gave Victoria time to fabricate a story. She could say that she’d been in a car accident, or that she tripped and fell, or bumped into something. There was no way she could tell her child that his Mommy had been pistol-whipped. That was entirely too much information for a five-year-old to handle. She replayed the events of the previous night, fast-forwarding past the encounter with Justice, the sound of the gunshot and her own horrific encounter with the gunman. She didn’t want to relive any of that.

  After the two robbers were handcuffed and led away, Victoria and Rover were transported by ambulance to Graduate Hospital’s emergency room. Jonee and the others, having no visible injuries, didn’t require immediate attention, and were spirited off to a different hospital. Rover was treated for a bullet wound to his arm. The bullet, it turned out, had gone straight through, doing no real damage, but he was kept overnight for observation.

  Victoria sat down at the kitchen table, with the morning newspaper and a steaming mug of coffee that she hoped would soothe her. She quickly discovered that trying to sip hot coffee with badly-swollen lips was a painful endeavor, but she so needed her Java jolt that she suffered through the discomfort.

  As she turned the pages of The Philadelphia Daily News, she was braced for a bold headline reporting the robbery and murder attempt at Pandora’s Box. It dawned on her that when the police officer had taken her statement, she had groggily given her real name. An article mentioning her name would provide proof—a printed testament to the sordid lifestyle she’d been leading. She’d be disgraced. Her neighbors would point fingers and click their tongues.

  And what about Kareem? How would he react when he found out about last night’s mishap? How would he feel knowing that her profession was no longer just their dirty little secret, but was now public knowledge?

  With brows knitted in agitation, Victoria continued searching through the newspaper, but amazingly, there wasn’t even a blurb.

  Gabrielle, she figured, must have greased some powerful palms and managed to quash the story. For that intervention, Victoria would be forever grateful.

  Still perusing the paper, Victoria came across a two-paragraph article about the strangulation murder of a twenty-one-year-old prostitute. The young woman ran an illegal establishment on Naudain Street, the article stated.

  Victoria gripped the newspaper. In fear of what she was about to read, she squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them as if that action would rearrange the words, change the story. She held the newspaper close to her face and brought the words into focus. Her hands trembled as she read: the residents on Naudain Street confirmed that the white Lexus parked in front of the house belonged to the woman, whose nude body was discovered by a cleaning woman. The victim’s identity is being withheld pending notification of her family. There are no suspects.

  Victoria gasped; her mouth went dry. The dead woman was Arianna! She barely noticed she had dropped the newspaper. She slumped in her chair, motionless. Victoria grimaced at the pictures that flooded her mind. She saw Arianna lying lifeless on the floor; her neck was twisted at a grotesque angle. Unable to shake the awful image, she lowered her head and said a prayer for Arianna’s soul. Admittedly, she had disliked Arianna, but God knew she would have never wished her any harm.

  After a long night of tears and soul searching Victoria thought she was all cried out, but the terrible news of Arianna’s death brought raw emotions back to the surface. With the sleeve of her robe, Victoria wiped away burning tears. She wept softly at first, a low mournful sound that escalated into a full-fledged wail when she admitted to herself that it was reckless…and yes—selfish—of her to jeopardize her safety, and the well-being of her child, by working in a seedy, dangerous place like Pandora’s Box. Had she not survived last night’s attack, Jordan would have ended up a motherless ward of the state, raised in foster homes…or with Zeline. A sharp sensation shot through her heart at the thought of poor Jordan growing up as she had—convinced that he was defective and unlovable.

  Then a blazing anger began to dull the pain. It was unconscionable for a mother to allow a child grow to up as she had, believing that her birth, her very existence, was wrong.

  Zeline, oblivious to Victoria’s pain, had no idea how badly scarred and messed up her daughter was. She didn’t know that as a child, Victoria had been crushed to overhear her telling one of her friends, in a hushed, martyred tone, that Victoria’s birth was a tragic mistake, the result of an inept abortionist.

  Well Victoria had had it. She was tired of skulking through life as a culprit, the walking wounded. It was time to end the self-punishment.

  “Nana,” she whispered, crying. “Please forgive me. I’m sorry for losing the money you left me. I’m sorry for what I’ve done to myself, and I’m sorry for any harm I may have caused my son. I’m in a lot of pain, Nana, and my wounds are not going to heal easily. I know I need help. Professional help. And I’m going to get it. Then, when the pain and the anger subside, when I’m feeling stronger, I’ll reach out to her. I’ll offer my love again and again. I won’t give up on her. I love her so much—my mother, your daughter, Zeline.”

  EPILOGUE

  “Hey, Victoria,” Kareem yelled. “Slow down. I thought this was supposed to be a nature hike.”

  Victoria looked over her shoulder and smiled. “This is a nature hike,” she said, without breaking her stride. “Look at all this nature,” she said pointing to the trees, the rock formations, and running streams.

  “I know, I know,” he said, panting. “But shouldn’t we be walking at a leisurely pace, taking in the scenery?”

  “You’re the picture of health, beautifully-buffed, but you need to work on your endurance,” she teased. “Come on slow-poke, at least try to keep up.”

  Victoria smiled to herself as she continued to race-walk, and then broke into a jog along the rugged terrain of the orange trail in Fairmount Park’s Valley Green. Kareem lagged far behind.

  It was the beginning of spring, and all of God’s creations were in their full glory. She could hear the sound of the running stream as she approached it, and was overcome with joy. She loved this particular spot in the park, and thought it her sacred place.

  At her therapist’s suggestion, she’d begun to keep a journal. She pulled it out of her backpack, and sat on a huge rock beside the stream. Pen in hand, Victoria quickly conveyed her appreciati
on for the beauty of nature and especially for the new life she called her own. She held out her left hand admiringly. The diamond Kareem had put on her finger glimmered beautifully in the sunlight. Jordan was attending the Charter School in Wynnefield, and doing very well. Victoria thought it important to be home when her son arrived from school. Fortunately, she could restrict her club dates to weekends. She spent her days guiding Jordan toward becoming a well-adjusted productive man, who could appreciate the strength of a black woman without fear, without threat.

  A smile crossed her face. The man she wanted Jordan to become sounded a lot like Kareem. Kareem had played such an important role in her healing. Through his production company, he found her gigs in intimate jazz clubs that were becoming so popular in the area. He was also using his connections to shop her demo.

  And where was Kareem? Victoria stuffed the journal into the backpack and stood. He should have caught up with her by now. She should be hearing his footsteps crunching twigs and pebbles along the path. She trotted back in search of Kareem.

  In the distance, she spotted him. He was bent at the waist, palms pressed against his thighs.

  Victoria ran to him. “Kareem St. Claire, you know that’s a shame. You really gotta get in shape if you wanna keep up with me.”

  “I guess I’m gonna have to hold you down if I expect to have a conversation with you,” Kareem countered. Then very softly, he asked, “You feel like traveling, baby?”

  “Yeah, I guess,” she said, not knowing where the conversation was leading.

  “And when does Jordan get out for spring break?”

  “Two weeks.”

  “Perfect. Start packing. We’re going to L.A. We can spend a day or two at Disneyland. Let Jordan have some fun before we get down to business. I gotta talk with the folks at Interscope Records. They can’t wait to meet their next big artist.” Kareem paused. “That’s you, Victoria, the lady with the voice of an angel.”