Before, After, and Somebody In Between

by Jeannine Garsee

A vampire materializes, spits out his fangs, and tucks them secretively under his black vinyl cape. “Wanna dance?”

  I’d rather not touch the hand he just spit into, but luckily this is a fast dance. I swallow the rest of my second drink as he pulls me over, and I rock and shake and really get into it. Dizzy or not—wow, I feel great!

  The music switches to a slower song, and I find my nose smooshed into the vampire’s sweaty chest. “What’s your name, baby girl? I’m Maurice.”

  Trying to avoid his onion-dip breath, I scream over the music, “Martha!”

  “Martha, yeah baby, you look swe-e-et to-o-night!” He strokes my long braids, then drops his hand down to grab hold of my butt.

  Whoa! I shove my plastic cup under his nose. “Do you mind getting me another screwdriver?” Maybe I can hide while he’s gone.

  With a stupid grin, he dashes off. Tugging my pantyhose out of my butt, I wonder what the chances are of stealing TyShawn away from Shavonne. He’s way cuter than Maurice—square-jawed, puppy-dog eyes, big, sexy lips to die for—and I bet he has nicer breath.

  Too late. Maurice is back, dragging me into another dance. As I hold my plastic cup high, I can feel him rubbing against my skirt, and—holy shit, tell me I’m imagining something hard and strange knocking into my hip bone.

  Do I panic? Do I scream? Do I slam him with my knee? Nope, and here’s why: because the liquor kicks in, and suddenly I don’t care.

  Don’t care that Maurice is blowing onions into my nose.

  Don’t care that his woody’s whacking my thigh.

  Don’t care about anything except dancing my butt off. I gulp the last of my drink, flip the cup over my head, and grab Maurice’s skinny shoulders—and the next thing I know, I’m down on a couch with an extra tongue in my mouth, and omigod, I am so—not—that drunk! I hammer his head and pull at his ears, and a second later I’m on the floor with no idea how I got there.

  “You sneaky bitch! What you doin’ with my babydaddy?”

  Music rips to a stop. Lights shoot on. I’m still not sure who threw me on the floor, but I think it’s very likely my tailbone’s busted. Towering over me is one wildly irate Chardonnay. Maurice, right on cue, babbles like a lunatic. “You got it all wrong, baby, this ho come on to me!”

  “Why, you lying little shit!” I yell up from the concrete.

  Confused, Chardonnay freezes. “What the fuck?”

  Should’ve kept my mouth shut.

  “Girl, I know that ain’t your honky self under all that shit,” she growls, squinting down into my face.

  “Hey,” Kenyatta interrupts. Bravely, she gives Chardonnay one teeny-tiny push. “Ain’t nobody invited you here, bitch!”

  Well, that sets her off, and she starts F-ing this, F-ing that, saying stuff like, How dare I mess with her baby’s daddy, huh? Astonished, I stay glued to the floor, trying to absorb this, till Chardonnay grabs my braids and hauls me to my feet. Outraged, and strangely unafraid, I snatch a handful of her own ratty weave, and let go in horror when I feel it tear away from her scalp.

  Mightily pissed, hair askew, Chardonnay tosses me aside with no effort at all. I see the knife in her hand before I even catch my breath—but then TyShawn steps forward along with his posse. “Hey, didn’t you hear what our hostess said?” he demands as Shavonne darts over to jerk me to my feet. “Your name ain’t on the guest list, ho.”

  “I ain’t lettin’ no white girl mess around with my man!” Chardonnay screams.

  “White?” Dead-meat Maurice stares first in my direction, then down at the greasepaint all over his hands.

  Ignoring Chardonnay’s rapid-fire threats and obscenities, TyShawn and his homies hustle her upstairs with naughty Maurice following far behind. Nobody comes back. And now that my happy buzz has been obliterated, all I want is to get out of here myself.

  Dodging trick-or-treaters, keeping our eyes peeled for trouble, Shavonne and I kick our way through the crunchy leaves back to the projects. At the door of her apartment, she whips open her jacket to show me the full bottle of Kahlúa she ripped off from Kenyatta.

  “Man, what are you? Some kind of klepto?”

  “You see her stash? She ain’t even gonna miss it.”

  Inside, she dumps the Kahlúa into a pitcher of milk, and we curl up on her bed, arguing over which movie to watch. She wants The Color Purple—the most depressing movie ever made!—and I want Lord of the Rings, one of my favorites. We grudgingly decide on When Harry Met Sally, and by the time we get to the part where Sally fakes an orgasm in the restaurant, we’re plastered again.

  “Heh, that could’ve been me tonight, with TyShawn. Or you and Maurice!” Shavonne lapses into a fit of evil laughter.

  “Gross!” I yell, slopping more Kahlúa into my glass. The memory of Maurice’s tongue snaking over my teeth makes me want to run to the bathroom and gargle with bleach. And what was with that rock in his pants? Do guys do that all the time and not even care if we notice? “Hey, did you know Maurice was Chardonnay’s boyfriend? You could’ve warned me, you know.”

  “Girl, I was busy with TyShawn. That heifer hadn’t shown up when she did? I mighta gotten me a real piece of that fine brother’s black booty.” She smacks me on the back as I sputter Kahlúa. “You okay?”

  Oh, I’m more than okay. I feel warm and happy, and very, very heavy, my arms and legs filled with liquid sand, and everything we say only cracks me up more. I tell her about Aunt Gloria, how she chased me with a hanger and then busted Jerome’s window trying to slam it on my ass. I even act it out, and Shavonne laughs so hard she rolls off the bed. That gives me a perfect view of her alarm clock: ten thirty-five. “Crap. I better go.” I reach down to pull off a boot, but she waves me off.

  “Naw, you can gimme ‘em back on Monday. Heh, let your momma wonder what you really been up to tonight. You can keep that ugly-ass ring, though.”

  “Really? Aw-w, thank you!” Ugly or not, what a sweet present! I throw my arms around her and squeeze her neck till she chokes. “Oh, I lo-ove you, Shavonne!”

  “Girl, you wasted! Want me to walk you halfway?”

  “Why, so both of us can get raped and murdered?” Again we lose it, howling with laughter as she follows me outside where I instantly plunge down the steps.

  Shavonne drops beside me. “How you gonna walk home like this?”

  Dizzy and sore, I check for damage as a pair of headlights swoop by, and two car doors slam. Seconds later, I hear footsteps approaching.

  “Shit, my old lady and her boss.” Shavonne jumps up, trying to block me from view. “Hi, Ma.”

  Silence. All I can see are two pairs of feet—clunky white work shoes and men’s shiny black loafers—that seem to multiply in front of my eyes. My glasses are in my purse, but I don’t think that’s the problem.

  “I ain’t even gonna ask what devilishness you two been up to.” Mrs. Addams’s tone is highly constipated. “Child, you get up offa the ground before I haul you up by, well, whatever you call that mess on top of your head.”

  I try to say “braids” but hiccup instead. I picture myself all covered in brown paint, smelling like Momma after a two-day bender, and start to giggle—but then my stomach cramps up and the giggle turns into a groan.

  “Hey, Mr. Brinkman.” Shavonne nudges me with her toe but I refuse to budge. One false move and I’ll puke for sure. “This is my friend, Martha, um… Martha…” She can never remember my last name.

  Mrs. Addams stares pure poison down her nose at me. “Your momma picking you up?”

  Still counting the shoes, I shake my head, and then two large male hands fling me up off the ground. The world spins. The puke rises even further. “Never mind. I’ll drive her home after I pick up Nikki.”

  Mrs. Addams whirls on Shavonne who’s trying to skulk back into the house. “Sweet Jesus, I oughta wear you out!”

  Gripping my sticky brown arm, the man leads me to his car and opens the back door. “I’m not allowed to do this,” I mumble, collapsing into the leath
er seat. “Go for rides with strange men.”

  “Well, tonight you don’t have much of a choice.” Switching on the light, he stares at his brown-smudged hand. “What is this stuff?”

  “Makeup,” I answer meekly, squinting against the glare. “Sorry.”

  “Well, try not to get any on the upholstery.” Too late, mister. Over his shoulder he asks where I live, and it takes me a second to remember my address. “First I have to run by the Palace to pick up my daughter. I’ll drop you off on the way home.”

  Palace? I topple over onto the seat, picturing a castle with a moat…and then I’m jolted back to semiconsciousness when the car rolls to a stop. I lift my head long enough to catch a painful glimpse of flashing gold lights—oh, the Palace Theater!—then tighten up in a ball, my face stuffed into the soft leather, hoping my tiny skirt at least covers my rear end.

  A door opens, a moment of dead silence, and then I hear a voice whisper, “Daddy, please tell me that’s not a hooker in the backseat.”

  “Just get in,” the man says tiredly.

  “I smell booze,” the girl argues, lagging back.

  “For Christ’s sake, it’s not me!”

  Hmm, kind of testy there.

  The door slams, splitting my head in two, and I flap a hand over my mouth as a spasm hits my stomach. One thing’s for sure, a rich guy like this will not take too kindly to me spewing in his car.

  “How was the show?” the man asks. The girl doesn’t answer, and I can feel her gawking at my curled-up back. “Nikki, please turn around and put your seat belt on.”

  “Who is she?”

  “A friend of the Addamses. I said I’d give her a ride home.”

  After a reluctant pause, this Nikki chick launches into a blow-by-blow of the ballet she just saw, describing every detail of the story, the music, even the tights on some of the more well-endowed male dancers. Her dad chuckles disapprovingly, but he laughs at her jokes and listens attentively, and I’m sucked into a lull by the drone of their voices.

  Then Nikki gasps. “Daddy! You’re not really going down this street, are you?”

  “Hush.”

  I peek up through the window. Yep, my street, alright. The car stops, and I throw open the door, hop out, and promptly trip on the curb, landing face first in a mountain of dead leaves. After fishing for my purse, I crawl to my feet and totter up the driveway. Once I’m safe on the porch, the big elegant car glides soundlessly away.

  I jiggle the doorknob. Damn! Locked out. Teetering, I wonder what to do next—and that’s when it hits me, and hits me good. I hang over the railing and throw everything up: vodka and OJ, Kahlúa and milk, even the pizza pocket I had for supper. Dripping snot and puke, I sink to the floor, the world twirling and swirling like a demonic merry-go-round.

  “Martha!”

  I leap out of my skin. Am I asleep or awake? Through a roaring haze, I hear a way too familiar voice: “Looks like that kid of yours had a little too much to drink, Lou Ann.”

  Oh, no-o. Not Wayne.

  “Martha, you get up this instant!” Momma explodes.

  I roll over instead and hide my face, tortured by the porch light and Momma’s shrill twang.

  “Aw, let her sleep out here,” Wayne suggests. “Teach her a lesson.”

  Yes, please do. Please let me sleep.

  And that’s all I remember till I wake up at dawn, soaking wet and shivering under the rusty glider, one dead leaf sticking out of my mouth.

  16

  At two in the afternoon, I wake up stinking to high heaven with puke in my hair and the mother of all headaches. I rub my naked finger in dismay. I lost the ring, maybe in those leaves last night. I hope Shavonne won’t notice, especially after the big gushy deal I made.

  After a long hot shower and double shampoo, I peek into the living room to see Wayne parked beside a pyramid of beer cans, polishing a gun, chuckling over two screaming, half-naked chicks on TV. When he booms out a belch that I can smell across the room, my esophagus slams into reverse and I launch back into the bathroom.

  My face is still in the toilet bowl when Momma throws open the door. “What the hell were you thinking, comin’ home drunk like that last night?”

  “Sor-ry,” I growl, coming up for air.

  “You don’t sound sorry to me!”

  “Why’re you yelling at me? Go yell at Wayne. He’s the one out there getting shit-faced again.” I climb to my feet long enough to run cold water over a washrag, and collapse back down with it plastered to my face.

  “Never mind Wayne. I’m talkin’ about you! You pull a stunt like this again and you’re gonna be in big, big trouble!”

  “Momma,” I moan, “you’re not even supposed to be around people who drink.”

  “I ain’t drinkin’, okay? You see a drink in my hand?” She whips the washcloth off my face. “I don’t know where you get off tryin’ to judge me all the time.” Her voice cracks on the last word, and she pitches the washcloth into the greasepaint-stained tub.

  “Momma, I’m not judging you, I just—”

  “Just what?”

  “I don’t know why you want to stay with him. Why can’t it just be you and me for a change?” I know I sound like a two-year-old, but honestly, I don’t get it.

  Momma softens, and her green eyes shine down at me. Fat or not, I forget how pretty she can be when she’s not shrieking in my face. “I love him, sugar pie,” she says simply. “And he loves me, too.”

  Right. “So where was he for a whole month if he lo-oves you so much?”

  I half-expect a smack for that one, but instead she says, “He just had some things to work out, things with his family. Sometimes they don’t always treat him so good.”

  Huh, wonder why. “So did he?” I ask, to be nice, only because she’s trying to be nice.

  Momma sighs, one elbow resting on the towel rack. “Some things you just can’t work out, sugar pie. He had it rough his whole life. His daddy’s a big, mean, nasty old man who never did nothin’ except treat him worse’n a dog. And now he’s really feelin’ low, ‘cause he can’t go back to work.”

  “How come?”

  Momma whispers, “They fired him, said he took off too much time. But everything’s fine between us,” she insists in a happy, hopeful way, and before I can add my two cents, she pats my damp head. “Gotta run now, ‘cause he’s driving me to work. Now you get up and behave yourself. See you when I get home.”

  As soon as they leave, I swallow some Tylenol, put on Beethoven’s Ninth, and throw myself across my bed to wait for the pain to go away. Just as it starts to ease up, though, I hear Wayne tromp back in.

  I jump up to slam my door, but I’m a fraction too late. He stops it from closing with the toe of his king-sized boot. “You got a bad attitude, little girl.”

  “I don’t even know”—I grind my shoulder into the door—“what you’re talking about!”

  “No? Well, what was it you called me in front of your momma? Shit-faced?”

  I change my mind and swing the door toward me instead. As he catches his balance, I plow past him and snatch up my hoody. No way am I staying home alone with this dirtbag!

  Wayne beats me to the front door by a nanosecond. “See? This is what I mean by bad attitude. In case you forgot, little girl, this is my house, okay? Now I’m gonna do my best by your momma, but you remember one thing—the only reason you’re here is ‘cause I’m letting you stay.” I inch along the wall till he barricades me with an arm, then lock my eyes to the faded words on his sweatshirt—Gun Control: Use Both Hands—and don’t move a muscle. “But that’s gonna change, you don’t start showing me some respect. If I didn’t respect my daddy, he’d whup the hell outta me, and make me thank him for it, too.”

  I’ve seen Wayne crabby before. I’ve even seen him get nasty.

  But I’ve never seen him look this evil before, and that’s because I never really saw him drunk before. Now I know what people mean when they say booze brings out the very worst. I can s
ee the worst in him right now, like staring a devil in the face.

  “Okay,” I say nervously, flashing a final glance toward the door.

  “Okay what?”

  I force the words out. “Okay. I respect you.”

  “You don’t sound like you mean it.”

  “I respect you! Now let me out of here!”

  This doesn’t satisfy him, and he pokes me hard in the shoulder. “See? That’s what I mean. No goddamn respect.” He steps back from the door. “You watch your mouth from now on, ‘cause the way I see it? Your momma needs me right now a whole lot more than she needs you.”

  The smell of the beer on his steamy breath—the same beer he’s been drinking right in front of Momma who’s trying so hard to stay sober—rips away my fear and makes me spit out my next words as I reach for the door. “Oh, yeah? What for? You don’t even have a job anymore, loser.”

  Next thing I know, Wayne grabs my hair exactly the same way Chardonnay grabbed it last night. I can hear it crunch in his fist as the phrase “kick him in the balls” comes to mind, but it’s like watching a slasher film, starring me as the doomed bimbo. I’m petrified with horror.

  “I ain’t tellin’ you again—you watch your fuckin’ mouth!”

  With that, he flings me outside, and the momentum sends me flying down the porch steps and into the grass. Then I’m up and running—down the sidewalk, down the street, around the corner, past old Luther Lee Washington in his wheelchair. As long as I’m running, as long as I’m moving, I don’t have to think about Wayne’s fist in my hair. Or about Momma, goddamn her. How, how did she ever hook up with this maniac?

  When I run out of breath, I trudge the rest of the way to the projects, shivering in the chilly air. Shavonne’s hungover worse than me, but perks right up when I give her the gory details. “What—a—psycho!”

  “Can I spend the night? My mom doesn’t get off till midnight.”

  “I guess. My mom’s kinda sick, so we gotta be quiet.”

  “What’s wrong with her?” She looked fine last night.

  “She’s sick,” Shavonne repeats. “Been working too hard.”

  We sprawl on her bed and watch a sappy Lifetime movie while Shavonne works on a disturbingly realistic drawing of Chardonnay’s skull with her brain fully exposed.