by Zane
Mother turned to me with the paring knife in her hand and, even at seven years old, I understood that I was in imminent danger. I tried to get up and run from the kitchen, but I was not fast enough. Mother grabbed me from behind and I felt the blade of the knife slicing down my left cheek in a jagged line. She let me go and I toppled to the floor, holding my face. I was speechless, and even if I could have found words, I would have been too afraid to actually speak them.
“Now, no man will ever want you,” Mother said. “The curse in the Tatum family ends with you.”
Chapter Six
Turns out that my grandmother was fine. Mother didn’t use the knife on her, only me, the demon. She was beaten-up pretty bad, though. We were both hospitalized for about a week.”
Marcella gulped down some saliva. “I’m sorry that your mother did that to you. Where are your mother and grandmother now?”
“Grandma died when I was young, right before my twenty-first birthday. I didn’t get a chance to say good-bye to her. I was already in New York, but I wrote her letters; no return address.” I paused and took a deep breath. “Mother’s in an institution not that far from here. Based on your profession, one that I’m sure you’re familiar with.”
“I don’t really do a lot of institutional work any longer.”
I drank some water to regain some composure after going back to a place that I never thought I would revisit again.
“Have you seen her?” Marcella asked.
“No. Like I said, I haven’t been back here in decades. Even after she first got locked up, I never wanted to see her. Regardless, Grandma wouldn’t have allowed it. Not after what happened. I heard that the doctors determined that the cancer finally took her, but it was really the emotional pain created by being raped by her own brother, who raped her daughter in return, and fathered her granddaughter. I’ve often wondered if Mother was right and Uncle Donald is really her father. It would make a lot of sense.”
“Do you want to find out?”
“Hell no,” I replied quickly. “My life is fucked-up enough as it is. Why would I want to confirm some sick shit like that?”
“Well, Wicket, I’m glad that you felt comfortable enough to share what happened with me.” She stared at my face. “When did you have the scar removed?”
“Several months after I arrived in New York. Daddy paid to have my face reconstructed. It was Hannah’s idea. She realized he could afford it and thought it would make me feel better.”
“Who’s Hannah?”
That one question made me realize that our session needed to end for the day. I was not prepared to discuss Hannah, or what had happened to her.
“Can we reconvene this later?” I asked Marcella as I stood. “Even though we’re in a spa, I feel anything but relaxed.” I paused and looked down at her. “Are you willing to see me on a regular basis? Money is no object. I can pay you well for your time.”
Marcella stood up. “I would never charge you extra because of your wealth. And yes, I am willing to see you.” She glanced around the spa. “But I do have a suggestion. It would be inconvenient to make such elaborate preparations to meet here all the time. I have a hideaway cottage in Pike County, a little ways from here. Population less than twenty thousand and my closest neighbor is literally a mile away.”
I was stunned. “And you go out there by yourself.” I chuckled. “Oh, mea culpa. You probably have a nice, loving relationship with a man who adores you and goes out there with you.”
She looked uneasy. “I’ve always made it a point to keep my private life isolated from my clients, but I will say that I’m not troubled to go there alone. That’s the point of it being a hideaway. Sometimes I need to unwind and diminish the rest of the world.”
“I can dig it, but I’d have to bring KAD with me. I would be scared to death to go to sleep out there. I don’t see how you do it. I can visit but I need to get out of there before dark.”
“KAD?”
“Oh, that’s my nickname for my three bodyguards.”
She laughed. “First initials?”
“Exactly.” We smiled at each other for a moment. “Your cottage sounds lovely and I would like to meet there. What about this same time next week? I prefer to continue to arrange all of these sessions myself. Even though all of my staff have confidentiality and nondisclosure agreements, in this economy, you never know what people are capable of.”
“Same time next week. I’ll e-mail you the address.”
“Thanks, Marcella.” I reached out my hand. “Even though it was hard for me to discuss what my mother did to me, I do feel some type of liberation for having said it.”
“I do have one last question, if you don’t mind.”
“Yes?”
“Did you come here to get revenge on your mother? You’re not planning to harm her or have her harmed, are you?”
“Relax, Marcella. I don’t plan to chop off anyone’s head or have them thrown into a pool of acid or lye. And no, this has nothing to do with my mother. She’s an extremely sick and revolting woman, and she’s right where she belongs.”
“Then who is it about?”
“Might we discuss that next week?”
She seemed doubtful, but, being a professional, she recognized when to let it go. “Sure, we can wait until then.”
“Feel free to stay and experience the spa. It’s paid up for until three. You can have it all to yourself, since you don’t mind that sort of thing.”
She chuckled. “It’s tempting, but I’m going to go change and head back to the office.”
“So where is your office?” I asked, making general conversation as we headed off into the dressing rooms.
Chapter Seven
I really should have been an actress in addition to being a singer. Overall, entertainment is entertainment. But one thing was for sure. The day that I met Bianca Hudson and Cherie Thompson for lunch at Acoustix Jazz on Marietta Street, I delivered an Oscar-winning performance. I had Nikki make arrangements with Frank Ski, the owner, to have a private lunch, since they actually did not open until six for dinner service on Saturdays. The worst thing about being famous is the inability to go someplace and enjoy a meal in peace, so unless you want paparazzi all over the place disturbing your meal and everyone else’s meal in the joint, you have to get creative.
After we exchanged pleasantries and I pretended like I had never laid eyes on Cherie in my life, we settled down at a corner table and ordered. I ordered the John Coltrane, Bianca ordered the Charlie Parker, and Cherie ordered the Ella Fitzgerald, which came down to steak for me, blackened tilapia for Bianca, and roasted herb chicken for Cherie. We also did the Frank Taylor crab cakes, Cab Calloway fried calamari, and Chick Corea spinach dip for appetizers. Women tend to order a ton of food when we go out to eat, but rarely ever finish it. Americans, as a whole, order in excess when it means being able to afford to do so. But I went with the flow and even ordered two bottles of wine—one white and one red—to accompany the meals. Since they had invited me to lunch, even though I arranged the place, it was on them anyway to pay, and they wanted to prove they were affluent enough to be in my presence. Straight bullshit!
Kagiso and Antonio were out front standing guard, and Diederik was chilling over by the bar, watching a special on ESPN but still completely alert to our surroundings. I stared at his side profile for a few seconds and wondered what it would actually be like to sit on his face one day. He had always asked, but that was a no-go like everything else. I was convinced that all three of my bodyguards traded war stories about how each had attempted to get inside me to no avail. By now, it had to damn near be a game. I wondered what they called it and if any monetary bets had been made. It was all shameful, but it was my life and everything served its purpose for the moment.
Cherie was really trying too damn hard to alter her appearance. Again, at least I had an excuse. The Cherie that I remembered from high school was dark-skinned with a smooth complexion, with dark brown hair and eve
n darker brown eyes. The Cherie sitting before me now, about to hit forty like me, had attempted to bleach her skin and it looked a hot mess, she had dyed her hair blond and had in green contact lenses. She looked completely ratchet, but I had to hand it to her—the outfit was banging. Surely audition-wear to convince me to let her design clothes for me. She had on a strapless burnt-orange dress with shoes to match while Bianca was donning a hunter-green pantsuit with matching shoes. I have never been a huge fan of trying to match shoes and purses exactly with an outfit, but it was working for them. Of course, I was not about to admit that to either one of them.
“Thanks for taking the time out for this lunch, Wicket,” Bianca said with her pretentious grin. “We truly appreciate it.”
“It’s no problem,” I lied. “I don’t have a lot of time for this little soiree, but Nikki said that you’ve been blowing her phone up trying to set this up.”
Both of them looked embarrassed.
“I wouldn’t say all of that,” Bianca stated defensively. “I certainly haven’t called more than a few times.”
“Are you accusing my assistant of lying about you calling seventeen times?” I took a sip of red wine and waited until the two bitches digested that. Bianca did not respond. “I thought not.” I sighed, cut my eyes at Cherie, who lowered her head in shame, and then glared back at Bianca. “That’s a moot point, so let’s get down to business. What do you two broads want?”
Cherie squinted so hard that one of her green contacts almost fell onto her plate. “Broads? How rude!?”
“If you feel like my personality does not mesh well with yours, don’t let the doorknob hit you on the ass on the way out.” I engaged in a staring contest with her until she gave up and looked away. “Let’s not get this shit twisted. I am American royalty and you are trying to jump into my playpen. Both of you want me to expend my hard-earned cash on the shit you’re peddling. Whether it’s a ten-dollar ceramic mug that I purchase in a Mexican street tent or a ten-thousand-dollar dress or some painting you think will look good over my stove, the shit is still peddling. So that makes you both peddlers.”
Bianca and Cherie gazed into each other’s eyes. Both of them were itching to curse me out, but neither one of the whores had the nerve. I was intentionally being an ass. If they were two women who I did not know from my childhood, two women who I was not aware were capable of trying to kill me, I would have been pleasant and noncombative. However, the two of them were lucky that I had not taken my steak knife and shoved it into both of the carotid arteries in their necks.
I lightened my mood and let out a laugh. “Don’t take it so seriously. It is what it is. We wouldn’t be here if you didn’t want something from me. Surely, you know I do not want, nor need, a damn thing from either one of you.”
Cherie cleared her throat. “Actually, I only wanted to meet you today. I admire and respect your business acumen and consider it an honor to even hold a conversation with you, however brief.”
It is a damn shame how greed will make someone give up their self-respect so easily, I thought to myself as I watched Cherie resolve herself to basically kissing my entire ass. I was only just beginning.
“That’s better,” I replied, cutting into my steak. “I always keep it real, and I don’t like playing games. We’re not here to eat. There is food everywhere. We’re here because you want to talk me into giving you money for clothes and design work.” I looked at Bianca. “So, I looked over the suggestions you sent over five times.”
Bianca started to say something but bit her tongue.
“Or was it six times? I can’t recall,” I said, adding insult to injury.
Cherie decided to ask what Bianca should have. “What did you think? Bianca’s amazing, isn’t she?”
“I wouldn’t go so far as to call her amazing, but I was feeling a few of the suggestions. Overall, she needs to go back to the drawing board and bring me something more exceptional and unique before I’d be willing to sign a contract. I can’t have the most valuable residential property in Atlanta sporting a mediocre interior.”
“Mediocre?” Bianca exclaimed.
“Did I stutter?” I replied. “I believe I know the issue with all of this. You don’t imagine on my level because you’re not on my level. Nowhere near it.” I paused so they could let that sink in. “I may have to hire an interior designer from Europe who’s done some palaces, citadels, fortresses, or some regal shit like that. I want my home to be a castle and I don’t mean like a White Castle burger joint.”
“Who in the hell do you think you are?” Bianca yelled, lashing out at me.
Diederik immediately got off the barstool and headed in our direction to toss her ass out. I held up my right palm to stop him. He gave me a confused look and went to sit back down but stopped watching ESPN and glued his eyes on the action at our table.
“If you have to question who I am, you don’t need to be here,” I replied sarcastically. “You’re getting all caught up in your feelings. You’re exhibiting a true lack of professionalism. It’s obvious that you cannot handle criticism well. This is not a good fit.”
Bianca swallowed her pride. “I apologize. I’m just not used to—”
“Being slapped back into reality with the truth?” I asked. Then I turned to Cherie. “Look, Cherise, right?” I pretended like I could not recall her name, even though I had known her forever.
“No, Cherie.”
“Cherie, that’s a cute dress you have on. Not sure it’s my style, but if you want to put together a sample portfolio for me to peruse over, I’ll check it out.”
“Thank . . . thank you.” Cherie seemed relieved. She was willing to take even a slight opportunity to get some of my cash. “I’ll have it to you by next week.”
“No problem. Take your time.” I looked over at Bianca. “I’ll come back to you with some specific requests, particularly for the front rooms that my guests will see upon entry. I don’t want the wow factor. I want the ‘oh my goodness, this shit is off the chain’ look.”
“I can make that happen for you.” Bianca finished off her glass of white wine and pushed her plate away.
“You don’t like the food?” I asked, knowing that I was the one who had robbed her of her appetite like a thief in the night. “My steak was incredible.”
“No, everything was great.” She waved the waitress over to ask for the check. “Thanks again for meeting with us.”
I decided to flip the script and act polite for a moment. “It was my pleasure. I don’t have a lot of female friends and I realize that I can be somewhat harsh, but you two seem lovely.” I was lying my ass off. “Maybe we can become good friends, hangout buddettes, over time.”
Cherie perked up. In her mind, being able to actually claim me as a friend stepped up her game a million percent. “That would be cool. Bianca and I are both upwardly mobile here in Atlanta and—”
“Upwardly mobile?” I had to suppress a hiss. “I hear that term quite often. Define it.”
Bianca and Cherie both looked foolish, using terminology that they clearly had no clue about.
“Does it mean steadily climbing in social and financial status, perhaps?”
“Something like that,” Cherie said. “We’re constantly striving to obtain more success in life.”
“Are either of you married?” I already knew everything about the two fake broads but wanted to feign interest. “Are your husbands successful as well? What do they do?”
Bianca could not wait to brag. “My husband, Herman, is an orthopedic surgeon. He has a private practice in Buckhead with state-of-the-art surgery facilities.”
“Oh, that’s nice. He gets to play with crusty feet and toes all day.” I watched as Bianca pulled out a black American Express to pick up the tab, holding back on a snide comment that was dying to leave her lips to counteract mine. I paused long enough to give her time to swallow it. “How long have you been married?”
She sighed—weak broad. She should’ve called me on t
he fact that an orthopedic surgeon was not the same as a podiatrist, but she was too busy kissing my ass. “We were high school sweethearts, actually. We’ve been together for twenty-five years and married for nineteen.”
“Do you have kids?”
“Two; a boy and a girl. Twins. They’re juniors in high school this year.”
I looked over at Cherie. “And you?”
“Well, I’ve been with Michael about the same amount of time, but we’ve never married and have no children . . . as of yet.”
I whispered, “Hmm,” and gave her a sympathetic look.
It was a damn shame for her to stay with trifling-ass Michael Vinson, who was not even halfway attractive no less, for that long without a ring. She must have been hard up. In retrospect, the two of them deserved each other.
“I assume you’re at least shacking.” I did not wait for a response. I knew they were. “And what does your man, Michael, do?”
“He’s an actor.” For once, her face lit up. “He’s exceptional, too.”
“Oh, what’s his last name? Maybe I’ve seen him in something.”
“Vinson. Michael Vinson.”
I frowned and said more as an insult than a statement: “Never heard of him. Is he a working actor? When was the last time he was in something?”
Bianca seemed embarrassed for her friend. She probably wondered if Cherie was going to tell the truth and shame the Devil or go for broke and make some shit up.
“Well, the last major movie he was in was New Jack City. He played a drug dealer who was part of Wesley Snipes’s posse.”
“I’ve seen that several times. Did he have a speaking role?”
“Not exactly, but—”
“Baby girl . . .” I decided to stop the madness. “New Jack City came out in the early nineties, ninety-one if I remember correctly. If your man hasn’t done anything since then, that can’t be considered his career. That’s like me not putting out an album for years, decades, and still calling myself a professional singer. I’m not one to get into someone else’s business, but you need to stop being dick dumb and tell his ass to get a fucking job or stop fucking him altogether. We get what we settle for. You know what I’m saying?”
