by Meesha Mink
All eyes, including my baby’s, zero in on me. What the hell am I supposed to say? I’d put off coming here for over a month. There are only so many excuses a religious grandma is going to put up with from a freeloading, crack-addicted granddaughter.
Grandma Cleo is on a mission to save my soul whether I want her to or not.
“I understand,” Pastor Meyer says, still smiling patiently. “These things take time.” He captures my hand. “We just want you to know that the Lord is here for you, whenever you’re ready.”
I nod, fighting the urge to yank my hand back; then I see my grandma give him a little elbow. Lord Jesus, what now?
Pastor Meyer looks at Grandma Cleo and then clears his throat. “Takiah, from time to time it comes to my attention that some members of my congregation are in need of a little extra…help on their path to enlightenment.”
My eyes cut to Grandma. “Oh, really?”
“Yes.” He nods, obviously encouraged by my lack of protest. “I’m more than willing to meet with you for further counseling—to help you conquer your addictions. One on one.”
I don’t respond. Trust me. It’s the right thing to do, since my impulse is to cuss them all out for this mini intervention right in front of the church’s door when there are still groups of nosy busybodies crowdin’ our space and eavesdroppin’.
“Just think about it,” he says, finally sensing the storm brewin’ up inside of me.
“She will,” Grandma Cleo answers, and then flashes me a look. “Won’t you, Takiah?”
I just turn and walk away.
The nerve.
10
Keisha
This beauty school shit is kickin’ my ass.
Seriously, it’s not at all what I expected and just about everything I hoped it wouldn’t be. Books, readin’, studyin’, and tests—I thought hair schools just handed you a bunch of mannequin heads and let you do your thang. Now I have to learn about different hair textures, how to spot and repair damaged hair. All of this while havin’ to deal with Jasmine’s strep throat, Jordan tryna fight everybody who calls his dad a crackhead, Jada’s ear infection, and Jackson’s bed-wetting.
I mean, what the fuck? Do I wear a costume with a giant S printed on the front or something?
And if that’s not enough, I have Smokey startin’ in on me just about every night.
“It’s about damn time,” Smokey growls the moment I usher the kids inside the door. He looks at his wrist like he has a watch, knowing damn well he hocked that son of a bitch a long time ago.
“Class ran late,” I tell him, slammin’ the door behind me as a hint that I’m not in the mood for any bullshit. He’s huddled on the floor where our pleather couch used to be. I don’t even have the strength to ask what happened to it.
“This is bullshit,” Smokey mumbles under his breath, and then spots the happy meal boxes the kids are carryin’. “Fuck. What about me? What the hell am I supposed to eat?”
“Shakespeare bought it for them.” I toss him the rumpled bag in my hand that contains his Big Mac and fries. “We didn’t forget you.” I turn to the kids. “Y’all get ready to take your baths.”
Without a “hello” or “how you doin’” to their daddy, the kids shuffle off to their bedrooms. I, on the other hand, turn to face him. “You fell off the wagon again.” It is a question as much as a statement and to be honest, I don’t know why I even bother sayin’ anything.
Instead of respondin’, Smokey chomps down on his burger like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted. During his moanin’ and smackin’, I frown and feel a wave of disgust crash through every pore of my body. In his rank clothes, nasty braids, and nappy facial hair, my husband looks more like an animal than a man.
I watch and wait for that maternal instinct I’ve held on to for so long to hit me, but even that’s elusive to me tonight.
“What the hell are you looking at?” Smokey growls. He looks up at me, a few smeared drops of mayonnaise and catsup cling to his wiry facial hair.
“Nothing,” I mumble under my breath and drop my gaze. My eyes burn like I’ve poured battery acid on them or something. Why couldn’t he beat this?
I did.
“You think you’re better than me, don’t you?”
At the biting accusation, my eyes snap back up to meet his. I don’t answer because…I do think I’m better. I’ve been clean for four years and it’s just through the grace of God that my children show no effects of my idiotic drug past.
Smokey grows impatient through my silence and snarls out a, “You’re not.”
“I didn’t say—”
“You were thinking it,” he shouts.
I clamp my jaw shut. Already during our short, heated exchange, my exhaustion has doubled. I already know where this is going and I don’t want to take it there.
“I told Shakespeare dat dis school shit was a mistake. You already doin’ folks’ hair. What the fuck you need a license fo?”
“I already told you…so I can open my own shop.”
“That’s just some more bullshit.” He crams the rest of his burger down his throat and then backhands his mouth and face clean—as clean as possible, anyway.
Instead of letting it drop, like I shoulda, I defend the small seeds of hope Shakespeare has planted in me. “It’s not bullshit.”
In case you didn’t know, crackheads are quick. Smokey is off the floor so fast, it may be possible he flew.
“You ain’t foolin’ nobody, Keisha,” he says, giving me a faceful of spit. “You tryna go to school like Shakespeare so you can leave my ass stuck in this hellhole.”
“That’s not true,” I lie unconvincingly.
He shakes his head, his eyes more than glossy just from his drug-induced high. “You would leave me, wouldn’t you?”
He searches my face, my eyes and, instead riskin’ gettin’ caught in another lie, I remain quiet.
The blow from his open palm stuns me, and before I can recover I receive another slap that jars my face in the opposite direction. “You ain’t goin’ no goddamn where. You got that?” He’s shouting so loud my eardrum threatens to bust.
Not waiting for my head to clear, I strike out at him. My hands and nails sink into his tough, dry skin, but Smokey’s drug of choice gives him Superman-like strength and his hand wraps around my throat and literally lifts me off the floor.
“You hear me, Keisha? I’ll fuckin’ kill you before I let you leave me in this bitch!”
The next thing I hear is Jasmine’s multi-octave scream. It, along with my lack of oxygen, causes my head to explode with pain. Another scream, and then another. My babies are all filled with the terror that Daddy is gonna kill Momma.
Baby, it’s okay, I want to tell them, but the lie is stuck inside my head since Smokey is determined to crush my neck. I kick and claw at a hand that feels more like steel with every passin’ second.
It’s no use.
This is it.
This is the night my husband is gonna kill me and what’s worse, he’s gonna do it right here in front of my babies.
When I come to, I’m surrounded by white people. This may be no big deal to some but where I’m from it can only mean one thing: somebody had called the police.
I try to move.
“Hold on.” A gruff, redneck-looking motherfucker restrains me and then asks, “Can you tell me your name?”
“What kind of crazy question is that?” I try to sit up, but again was held down. “Will you get the fuck off me?”
The man’s jaw hardens like he’s ready to give me directions on how to kiss his ass, but he maintains control of himself.
“Ma’am. I just need to make sure you’re all right or if we need to take you down to Grady.”
“Grady?” I blink. “I don’t need to go to no damn hospital. I’m fine.” I finally manage to shove him off of me and win my freedom to sit up. “Where are my babies?”
“Downstairs with your neighbor, Miz Cleo.” A mousy brunette squats
next to the redneck. “Where they usually are,” she adds. “And your husband has been taken downtown to cool his heels behind bars—again.”
For the first time I recognize her bony ass. She’s been called out to my apartment a few times before. The look in her dull blue eyes isn’t sympathy, and I find myself barkin’ the same words from Smokey to her. “You think you’re better than me, don’t you?”
She ignores the question and finishes packin’ up her stuff. When she stands and turns toward the door, I still can’t let it go. “I asked you a question,” I shout at her back.
Her cold eyes pierce me. To my relief she still refuses to answer the question.
“Honey chile. Are you sure you’re all right?” Miz Cleo asks the moment she ushers me into her apartment. My eyes mist as I look around and note how much her place looks more like a home than the one I provide for my kids.
“Yeah,” I rasp, despite my sore throat.
My children, along with Miz Cleo’s granddaughter, Takiah, are huddled around the dining room table in their pajamas and digging through their separate bowls of ice cream. I feel like an ass because I been meanin’ to come over and say hey to the girl. I remember her being sort of fast and a little bit of a troublemaker when she was a teenager, and judging by the tracks in her arms that she was trying to hide, nothing has changed.
We exchange awkward “hellos” and then I feel like a gigantic ass tryna pull my children away from their frozen desserts. “C’mon, y’all. We gotta go home.”
“You know,” Miz Cleo says, undoubtedly touched by the children’s frowns. “They are more than welcome to stay here tonight. I have a couple of extra beds they can share if you need a little time for yourself.”
“Thank you for the offer, but—”
“Please, Mommy. Can we stay?” Jasmine launches into a heartfelt campaign. “I promise we’ll be good.”
“Jasmine, Miz Cleo already has…’’ My eyes inadvertently slide toward Takiah. “Company.”
“Oh, hush, chile,” Miz Cleo says, wrapping a protective arm around me. “There’s plenty of room. Don’t forget, I raised my own four in this place. As long as they don’t mind sharing two to a bed, we’re all gonna get along just fine.”
My babies jump down from the table and surround me in a bouncing circle.
“Please, Mommy. Please?”
I don’t know why, but my kids love them some Miz Cleo. Despite their hopeful faces, I still want to say no, because that would mean I’d be alone in our apartment. I don’t like being alone.
I never have.
“I don’t mind,” Miz Cleo says, hugging me.
“Well…all right,” I say, giving in.
The children explode with a collective “Yay!” and Takiah quickly reminds them not to wake her baby. Damn, I’d forgotten that Takiah came back with a baby.
“Miz Cleo, maybe—”
“It’s all right,” she assures while directing me toward the door. “You get you some rest,” she insists, and then adds for my ears only, “I’ve been wantna tell you how proud I am to see you goin’ to school.”
I literally blush from the praise. “Thanks. Shakespeare, uh, sort of put the idea in my head.”
“Well, good for him. I’m proud of him, too. He didn’t let this place swallow him whole. I’m just prayin’ that you follow his example and stop tryna save everybody instead of yourself.”
Her speech hits me as being hypocritical, but she seems to read my mind. “I speak from experience.” She winks and gives my waist another hug. “Get you some rest and think about what I said.”
I return to my quiet apartment. Tears brim my eyes before I even shut the door good. I hate this place. I hate my life. For these reasons, I know I’m not gonna give up school. No matter how hard it is.
Before today, I was content to die in this place. Now the thought scares the hell out of me. To the point I don’t even want to stay here tonight.
Not alone.
I hate being alone.
Shakespeare doesn’t believe his eyes when he opens the door to his modest brick ranch house on the Gwinnett County line. “Keesh?” he asks, digging the sleep out the corners of his eyes and then glancing out to the street behind me. “What’s up? Somethin’ happened to Smokey?”
Fear interlaces his concern and I instantly know how he feels. How many days have I waited for the ultimate bad news?
“No. Well…he’s in jail.”
Shakespeare’s searching gaze traveled no farther than my bruised neck before he exhales a long breath and steps back from the door.
“What happened?” he asks, once I close the door.
“The usual,” I answer, and then remember the mousy brunette with the cold blue eyes. “He doesn’t like me going to school.”
Drawing in a deep breath, Shakespeare shakes his head because there’s really nothing to say. Didn’t we both expect this?
“I’m not going to quit,” I tell him.
Our eyes meet and somethin’ passes between us. Somethin’ that makes me smile.
“You look like you could use a drink.”
No. I want you to hold me and tell me that everything is gonna be fine. “I’ll take a bottle of whateva you got.”
Nodding, he turns and I follow him to the living room. While he walks, my gaze drinks in his strong profile and it’s quite a sight, since he’s only wearing a pair of black boxers. Muscles ripple beneath his smooth maple-brown skin and I swear to God I wish I had a purse full of quarters to see if I can bounce them off his firm ass.
I realize what I’m thinkin’ and at the same moment Shakespeare turns to me.
“I can make you a—what’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I lie, wide-eyed.
He cocks his head like an adorable puppy and stares. “Are you sure? You can tell me.”
I can’t help but laugh. “Nothing. I think I can really use that drink right about now.”
He stares at me for a moment longer and then turns toward his box-cluttered living room. A few minutes later, I’m curled up on his leather sofa, tossing back straight shots of Patrone.
“Feel better?” he asks.
The smile I give him feels heavy. “You know me. I take a lickin’ and keep on tickin’.”
“That’s not funny.”
“It wasn’t meant to be.” I pour another shot and toss it back.
“He loves you,” Shakespeare says.
“Is that supposed to make it all better?”
“No.” He takes the glass from my hand and pours himself a shot and then quickly another. “Truth is, I don’t know what to tell you. A part of me wants you to leave him…and another part tells me if you do, it will destroy him.”
“I can’t save him,” I say, feeling new tears brim my eyes. “I’ve tried.”
He nods, pours another drink, and hands it to me.
Wordlessly I take it, and after I drain the glass I welcome the alcohol’s fuzzy warmth like an old familiar lover. “I’m gonna leave him, you know.” I don’t look at him this time. “After I get my license and stuff. I have to.”
“Where will you go?”
I can only shake my head; after all, I’m making these plans up as I say them. “I want to be like you,” I whisper. “I want to make something of myself. I want to be someone my children will be proud of. Someone they will admire.”
“They are proud of you,” he whispers back.
My face burns from the praise.
“It wasn’t easy doing what you did. Four years clean, that’s plenty to be proud of.”
I shrug. “Maybe.”
Shakespeare’s hand lands on top of my knee. “I admire you.”
My gaze shoots up to his sparkling eyes and that warm, fuzzy feeling becomes something hot and dangerous. It’s all the warning I have before our lips find each other. The taste of his kiss is more potent than the Patrone and sweeter than anything I’ve ever known. Swear to God, all I could do is sigh and melt against him. But then Shakespea
re comes to his senses and jumps to his feet and nearly trips over the coffee table.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I don’t know what got into me.”
“Don’t,” I say, shaking my head and finding his gaze. “I’m not sorry at all.” I stand up. “In fact, I’ve been waitin’ for you to kiss me like that for a long time.”
His eyes grow wide as he continues to shake his head. “You’re my brother’s wife.”
I stalk toward him. “Your brother is not here.”
“We can’t,” he says, but the protest sounds weak.
I take his hand and place it against my breast, willing him to feel my heartbeat. “Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve felt like a woman? Do you know what it’s like to ache deep in your soul for a soft touch or a light kiss? For someone to fill you up and awaken your senses?” I press his hand tighter against my chest. “You can do this for me. You can bring me back to life.” I stare into his eyes and I can see him wavering.
“Keesh—”
“Shh.” I press my finger against his lips. “Don’t make me beg.”
Our eyes lock and we stare at each other for a long time. Just when I think he’s gonna turn me away, his head descends and our lips meet, our clothes disappear, and our naked skin kiss.
11
Princess
That Thursday after school, me and Lucky is sittin’ in the hall outside their apartment. Usually Lucky loves talkin’ ’bout boys, clothes, music videos, and stuff. But today is my turn to be as good a friend as she always is for me. It’s my turn to listen to her troubles.
She pulls her legs to her chest and drops her head on her knees. My heart breaks as her shoulders shake with her tears. I ain’t used to no emotions and stuff, so I just pick at a loose string on my jeans. But I can feel her hurt. I feel it like a motherfucker.
“It’ll be okay, Lucky. Fuck him. He ain’t good enough for you anyway,” I say.
She lifts her head and looks at me. Her eyes are red and puffy. Snot and tears run down her face. She looks like hell. “I can’t believe that fool fronted on me in front of that bitch like that. He fuckin’ nasty-ass, crabby-ass, stank-ass Felisha right up in the bathroom at school. Everybody laughin’ at me and shit. And he know I hate that bitch. I’m a beat her ass. You know I’m a beat her ass?”
