My face brightened. Mama tapped on my window.
She was in a white slip, soaked from that short walk from the porch to our car, braless, brown nipples on display.
I struggled to get the window down. Papa reached across and handled it for me.
Mama said, “What are you doing out here this time of night, chile? And in this rain, too?”
I answered, “Looking for your car.”
She made a sound. No one had hit her, but she sounded like someone had punched her in the gut.
She said, “Why you squirming so, chile?”
Papa called me Jacqueline. Mama called me chile. Almost always.
I said, “Gotta go potty.”
Her hand was on the door. “Come on.”
I looked over at Papa. He was too busy drowning to acknowledge me.
“Come on,” Mama barked.
Papa muttered, “Dirty filthy trash man.”
I stumbled out of the car, reached for Mama’s hand. She didn’t take mine, just marched toward the junky house with her head held high.
When we made it to the porch, I said, “I don’t want to go in there, Mama. It looks like it stinks.”
She said, “It does.”
“Why you come here, then?”
She said, “No more than ours.”
It was dark inside and, unbelievably, crowded with more junk than was even on the porch. A man without a shirt, but wearing pants met us in the hallway.
He said, “What the fuck, Irene? Who dis?”
Mama said, “Don’t cuss around my chile.”
He said, “Your child? What the fuck, Irene?”
Mama scooted me past him.
I hovered over the toilet in the bathroom for a while.
Mama said, “Thought you had to go so bad, chile.”
“I do.”
“Then go. Your daddy’s waiting for you.”
“Turn on the water, Mama.”
She turned on the sink and let it run. My stale water broke the water in the toilet bowl.
“Wipe front to back. Wash your hands.”
I did.
Mama marched me past the half-naked man. I waved goodbye. He snickered and did the same.
He called out, “You leaving now, Irene?”
I wondered, too.
She said, “In the morning.”
He snickered, “You cold-blooded, woman.”
Mama didn’t reply.
“You need some hep out there?” He left out the L in help. I’d remember that and his naked chest forever.
Guess she didn’t. She didn’t answer. He didn’t ask a second time.
When we got to Papa’s Buick, Mama tucked me in, fastened my seat belt, and said to my father, “Let this be the last time you come looking for my car.”
Papa made that sound again.
No one had hit him.
Mama closed the door, was about to walk off.
Papa said, “You coming home?”
Mama said, “In the morning,” and walked off. The rain washed her as she strolled back to the junky house.
Papa watched her go in silence. He was drowning.
Next day, Mama was home when the rooster crowed me awake. Papa and Mama didn’t speak to one another most of the morning. But by afternoon they had me sit in the kitchen with two boxes of puzzles and they disappeared into their room.
Mama came out some time later.
She was coated in sweat, almost as wet as she was the night before.
Her hair was all messed up.
She looked at me, smiled, said, “I’m thirsty, chile.”
Thirsty. Just like Papa had said.
It was a loud crash, sounded like metal on concrete.
It jarred me. Papa and Mama melted away. A dark room came into focus.
I rubbed my eyes, blinked, sat up in my bed, stretched and yawned.
Red light, it was pulsing in the room like a disco strobe.
I looked around and found the blinking red numbers from my digital clock. We’d lost power. Shit. I was pissed.
I felt the cool air of the room. Dreaming about my parents, I’d kicked off the sheets. The soft red glow of the digital clock’s numbers was the only light in the room. I was blanketed by silence, as well. Damn.
I was upset my time with Papa and Mama was cut short.
Then I heard another crashing sound. And I remembered that I was alone.
Uncle Roscoe and Jimmy had gone off to Tennessee with the beautiful little brown woman, Esperanza. The house was pitch-black and I was alone. I reached for the phone. My uncle had one of those old rotary phones that you had to turn to dial the numbers. I clicked the receiver, clicked it again. Dead. We had no phone service.
I heard a couple more noises.
That was one thing I missed about having a man in my life. I could send him to investigate whenever something went bump in the night.
I eased out of the bed, grabbed the flashlight I kept on the nightstand, flicked the On switch and headed out into the hall. The tile floor was cold on my bare feet but that didn’t matter. I took slow tentative steps. I heard another noise that made me stop in my tracks. My heart punched my chest. I swallowed, gathered some courage and started moving again.
I prayed to both of my fathers in heaven to watch over me, keep me safe.
I made it to the kitchen, looked out the window over the sink.
Winds howled, rain poured down. A storm was in full bloom. Damn.
The yard was so dark. I couldn’t see much of anything. At least there was no discernible movement out there. Maybe a stray cat had knocked over a garbage can. Or a gust of wind, perhaps. Noises in the night usually turned out to be nothing, I told myself, especially on a stormy night. It was just after nine, according to my watch. You had to travel down long winding and unlit country roads to get back to my uncle’s place. The drive was difficult during the day, almost impossible at night. Who would make that trip at night? No one.
I was safe. A stray cat.
I heard the loud metal rattling at that point, as if on cue.
My mouth went dry and my legs turned to water but I made it to our door.
I looked through the small peephole.
One of our metal trash cans was lying on its side, rolling with the wind.
If I left it, cats would surely make a mess of it, strewing trash everywhere.
I had to go out there and secure the can.
I used the beam of the flashlight to survey the hall, found what I was looking for. It almost looked like a golf club, housed in a bag that sat in the corner where the wall bent. It was a long wand with power at its end. I’d seen my uncle use it on more than one occasion. I never liked it. But I respected its power. I went ahead and grabbed it out of the bag, got a good grip on the handle.
My uncle called it a “hot shot.” Most people knew it as a cattle prod.
I went ahead and started clicking locks.
I had the flashlight under my chin, the cattle prod in my right hand. Once I got the door open, I put the flashlight in my left hand, kept the tight grip on the cattle prod in my right. I stepped outside. The breeze carried country smells to my nose. I didn’t like those country smells one bit. I missed the smell of the city. The sounds of the city, too.
I reached the can, bent over to right it. Then I felt something. A hand on my shoulder. I turned quickly. A shadow covered me.
I tagged the shadow with the business end of the cattle prod.
Two, three, four times.
The shadow shrieked and so did I. The shadow stumbled to the ground.
I stumbled to the house.
I said politely, “Explain why you were poking around my yard, please.”
Sweat coated his forehead. He was scared. Despite his best efforts to hide that fear, I could see it in his eyes. It was the little brown man from the other day. Mexican, Guatemalan, something along those lines. His frightened eyes were large like silver dollars. They were dark. He tried his best to have them
project an is-okay aura. I had him cornered by the side of my uncle’s house, the hot shot in my hand. Everything definitely wasn’t okay for him.
“Don’t be scared,” I said, feeling empathy. “Just tell me why you were sneaking around the yard.”
He said, “King Kong ain’t got shit on me.”
“What?”
He repeated, “I no scared. King Kong ain’t got shit on me.”
His English caught me off guard. It was close to perfect. There was a lilt of a Spanish accent there, but his diction and articulation were on point.
He rolled his neck, moved his jaw and shook the cobwebs from his head.
His forehead still glistened with sweat. I’d hot-shotted the shit out of him.
I said, “Okay, I don’t know what you’re talking about. But you need to tell me why you are here.”
He looked at me, smiled. He was handsome. Wavy black hair. Skin the color of a walnut shell, a hue that reminded me of an old love. He had thick eyebrows, long dark lashes and a strong rugged jawline. Small and compact, no more than about five-seven, I estimated, with muscular shoulders that sloped down to a torso that tapered off into an athletic waistline. He looked like Antonio Banderas, but more rugged and handsome than the Latin actor. He said, “I sorry about my English. I don’t know much. What I pick up. Training Day.”
“Training Day?”
He nodded. “Denzel Washington.”
King Kong ain’t got shit on me.
It hit me. I repeated the line. Laughed so hard I couldn’t catch my breath.
He said, “Breathe dawg, breathe.”
That was another line from the movie. I laughed some more.
When I finally got myself together, I said, “Your esposa is not here. My uncle is not here. What do you want?”
“¿Esposa?”
“Esperanza.”
He said, “She is not my wife.”
“Girlfriend, then. Tu amor.”
He said, “No, beautiful lady. Sister. Esperanza is my sister.”
Beautiful lady? He rolled his Rs seductively. Sister sounded like see-ster.
I felt goose bumps prickling on my skin. Some kind of arousal.
I said, “What do you want?” I’m sure my voice quivered.
He stammered, “Eh…glam…glam.”
I said, “Spit it out, taco boy.”
“Glam…glam…glam. So beautiful.”
“What are you talking about?”
His face shone the pain of our language barrier. He leaped up suddenly. I rose to attention, held up the hot shot. He put his hands up in surrender, nodded toward the house. “I go?”
“What?” I said. “Go in there? No. No. No.”
He said, “I must show you.”
“No, taco boy.”
“Manuel.”
“No, Manuel.”
“Please, beautiful lady.”
I gave in. “One minute. You have one minute to show me.”
He clasped his hands together and quickly climbed the stairs.
I walked in behind him, hot shot in my hand.
He said, “Dark.”
“We have no power.”
He knew his way around, though. He’d told me he did a lot of work for my uncle, had been to the house before, and his familiarity settled me. He wasn’t lying about that, at least. He moved to the kitchen with no problem. Stopped by a wall and pointed.
There were three frames on the wall. The Lord’s Prayer, the famous “Footprints” poem, and a shot of me with my makeup and hair done. Glamour shots, right after I met Todd. I was feeling good during that time, took that picture because even a thousand words couldn’t convey how happy I was with Todd. I’d sent my visual joy to my uncle as a present. Not because we were particularly close; he’d let me down when I was thirteen, but time heals all wounds. I’d sent him the portrait because he was Papa’s brother, my only relative, and I wanted him to know how beautiful Papa’s little girl had turned out. Mama was gone by then. Walked out on Papa and me around my eighth birthday. We looked for her car for months, never did find it. I never discuss the details of that tragedy. Papa was gone, too. Weak heart. Right ventricular dysplasia. Right after my thirteenth birthday. He was all I had after Mama left. His passing destroyed me for the first time, sentenced me to five years of foster care because my uncle couldn’t bear to even look at a child that reminded him of his brother’s wayward wife. Time, like I said, heals all wounds.
Todd killed me in my second life. I’d died two deaths, was working on my third.
Manuel pointed at my portrait. “Glam…glam…glam.”
I said, “Glamour shots,” slowly so he could process the words.
He said, “Beautiful lady.”
“Me?”
“Oh yes. You are why I come. I fall for love.”
The passion in his voice let me know it was true. Sincere.
In love. With me. From a portrait.
I wanted to tell him I was used goods, unworthy of love.
He said, “I work for your uncle. I see the picture. Love, love, love.”
I shook my head.
He said, “Yes.”
I said, “No.”
Then he surprised me yet again. Reached across and kissed me in the darkness. I surprised myself. I kissed him back.
We were in the bathroom, enjoying a sensual bath with candles all around.
Me.
And Manuel.
He squeezed my fluffy pink bath cloth in his strong hands. He squeezed it above me so that warm soapy water drizzled down over my breasts. My nipples were erect like black chess pieces. I couldn’t contain my excitement. I played with my nipples, twirled them between my thumb and pointer fingers. Manuel sighed, shook his head, dropped my fluffy pink bath cloth in the water, licked his lips and touched them with two fingers. It was the same gesture Denzel had made in Mo’ Better Blues.
I said, “Say it, Manuel.”
He shook his head, tired of playing my game.
I barked, “Say it.”
He sighed. “King Kong ain’t got shit on me.”
My mind was raw. I was filled with so many emotions.
So much pain, so much trouble and so much heartache.
I found it easier to run from my troubles, much easier than trying to face them down.
I whispered, “I need this.”
Manuel said, “I give it to you.”
“Give it to me good.”
He furrowed his brow, bit into his lip, looked as troubled as I was.
He repositioned himself in the water, eased as close to me as the tub would allow. He looked at me with appreciation. He shook his head, whistled.
My mind was raw. I was filled with so many emotions.
A weak heart stole my father from me when I was thirteen.
He was all I had. Irene, my umbilical cord provider, had taken the coward’s way out of a life she felt wasn’t fulfilling. Daddy held me down as best he could; he never once complained about his wayward wife and the child she left him to care for. Worked two and three jobs at a time to make sure I had three square meals and a roof over my head. And, six months after I turned thirteen, five years after Mama left us, he was gone, too.
I was about to make love to a man I couldn’t even communicate with very well. Any man would do at that point.
My mind was raw. I was filled with so many emotions.
Manuel reached out his hand for me. I took it and stood from the water. He patted me dry with a large towel, and then did the same to himself. He slid into a paisley pair of boxers. He made me remain naked, wrapped the towel around my waist, but kept my breasts free. A smile played at the corners of his mouth as he watched me. God, I loved his lips. He had the best lips.
We moved to the bedroom. He removed the towel and gently guided me to the bed. He stood at the foot of it and watched. He was a voyeur, so I decided to give him the show he wanted to see. I reached for the nightstand, grabbed the bottle of K-Y Warming Liquid and squeezed a
penny-size drop of it on my fingers. I took those oily fingers and rubbed them hard against my clit. After a moment, I abandoned my clit, slid a finger inside. It was warm, wet and comfortable. I hooked my finger and searched for my G-spot. Manuel watched, then after a beat he cracked his neck, smiled his handsome smile, moved to me.
He was down between my thighs before I knew what was happening. He moved aside my hand. I could feel his hot breath on my vagina. It sent a tingle up and down my spine. He kissed the inside of my thighs, licked my lips, and did awesome things to me with his mouth alone. My vagina was shaved. He kissed it, too. Then his tongue was probing inside me. I imagined my juices on his lips. I imagined myself kissing him, and tasting myself. My heartbeat quickened.
“Eat me,” I cooed.
He opened me wide with his strong hands, licked around the bowl of my vagina. I could feel his wet tongue flicking at my clit. He didn’t stay in one place for too long, and he varied his technique often. Sometimes he licked. Kissed. Blew on my vagina. Flicked at it with his tongue. Licked it up and down, side to side, in circles. I was hotter than the hottest part of Mexico. Manuel was incredible. He ate pussy with passion and deep skill.
I gripped his shoulders. “I want to feel you, baby. All of you.”
He repeated back, “You want to feel me?”
My arms were around his waist, his were around mine. I said, “I want you inside of me, knee-grow. Can I have you inside of me?”
The fact that he wasn’t a knee-grow, and that he didn’t understand a word I was saying, that didn’t derail the passion I was feeling.
“I want you inside me,” I panted.
“Go?” He pointed at my vagina.
I said, “Yes, go,” and tried my best to catch my breath.
“I go. This good. Is fat for you, Jacqueline.”
I don’t know what excited me more, the hope of that “fat one” or the sexy way he said my name.
“Put it in me, Manuel.”
He said, “I put it in.”
He eased out of his boxers. His penis was flaccid but long. Beautiful. Dark black in some spots and a lighter shade that was close to a paper-bag brown in others. His penis held all the colors of Africa. Mexico. I gripped it in my hand, kneaded it in circles. It grew in my touch. Long and thick. Its temperature rose. I was playing with fire, harnessing it in my hands. I repositioned myself, became a flame eater. His penis filled my mouth. He tasted like good nutrition and careful hygiene. I sucked his cock with the same passion as when he ate my pussy.
Counterfeit Wives Page 11
