God Don’t Like Ugly

by Mary Monroe

  “Why don’t you get some from Scary Mary, Mr. Boatwright? I saw a bunch of rubbers in her kitchen.” I sighed. He walked along with me in his housecoat, with a cup of coffee in his hand, as I moved toward the door. I couldn’t wait to get to school to get away from him.

  He gave me a thoughtful look as he rolled this information around in his head. “Say what?” he gulped.

  “In a bowl on top of her refrigerator. I saw them the other day when I went to get you that beer.”

  “How you know about rubbers?” The words shot out of his mouth like spit. He tilted his head to the side and glared at me out of the corners of his mean eyes.

  “One of Scary Mary’s ladies told me,” I lied. A couple of fast girls at school talked about them and brought them to school all the time.

  “Which one?” he mouthed, giving me a suspicious look. He folded his arms and blocked the front door.

  “Um…the one that got killed.”

  “Rosalee. Poor thing wasn’t even saved,” he said hoarsely, shaking his head. Sweat was sliding down the sides of his face.

  “I could sneak a few rubbers from Scary Mary every time I go over there. Nobody would have to know,” I offered.

  “Mercy!” he said, grinning as he opened the door for me.

  The very next day I grabbed a handful of condoms from Scary Mary’s bowl and delivered them to Mr. Boatwright.

  “Umph,” was all he said.

  Even with the money from his disability check that Mr. Boatwright contributed, Mama still worked six days a week for Judge Lawson and up to ten hours a day.

  Some mornings she would be gone by the time I got up, and sometimes I would be in bed when she got home. Not a week went by when she did not remind me, “You better do everythin’ Brother Boatwright tell you, do you hear me?” And I did even if it meant fighting with him first. Now that I had a powerful friend, I felt a whole lot better. I knew that it was just a matter of time before I told Rhoda what was happening. Somehow, I knew that eventually, Rhoda would be the one to rescue me.

  “Did a grown person ever do something real bad to you and tell you not to tell?” I asked her at lunch a few days later. I put my fork down and prayed she wouldn’t see my hands shaking.

  “Yep. Uncle Johnny slipped some whiskey into my Pepsi one time so he could see me stumblin’ around the house.”

  “Did you tell on him?” My hands were shaking harder now, so I put them on my lap.

  “Nope. It was fun bein’ drunk. He lets me drink from his beer all the time now. Don’t you dare tell that Pee Wee. He would blab to my daddy, and I would get a whuppin’.”

  “I won’t tell him something like that. I don’t think getting drunk is that bad. I was talking about something real bad. You know like…um…rape.”

  Rhoda put her fork down and looked around the room for a few moments, making me more nervous. “Will you tell me who is botherin’ you, Annette?” Rhoda whispered, her eyes scanning my face.

  “I didn’t say it was me—” My hands were still shaking, but I picked up my fork again and continued eating.

  “I know it’s you, girl. Just look at the way your hands are shakin’!” She wiped her mouth and pushed her tray away. A thoughtful look appeared on her lovely face. “Well?”

  “Well what?”

  “Are you goin’ to tell me who it is?”

  “I can’t. I can’t tell you that right now.”

  “Why not? Is it a preacher? Is it Judge Lawson?” she gasped.

  “No!”

  “Then who is it?”

  “I’ll tell you, but not now. I have to think it through some more.”

  She put her hand on my face and caressed it. I needed a hug more than ever. And just like she was reading my mind, she leaned over and put her arms around me and gave me the biggest hug I ever received.

  CHAPTER 14

  Two weeks before Thanksgiving, Mama learned that she had to work on Thanksgiving Day and because of that, she expected me to help Mr. Boatwright prepare our holiday dinner. A few days later, I went to Rhoda’s house for the first time.

  Her parents socialized a lot with white people, and it made Mr. Boatwright and Caleb jealous. Mr. Boatwright was convinced that Rhoda’s daddy was doing something shady other than processing dead people. He just didn’t know what. When I asked him why he was so sure Mr. Nelson was a criminal, he told me that that was the only reason white people would waste their time with spooks.

  The Nelsons lived in the biggest, most ornate house I had ever seen Black people live in. It was a huge, two-storied, white-panneled structure. There was a flagpole on the left side of the front yard with a large American flag fluttering proudly. A life-size statue of a woman naked from the waist up pouring water into a birdbath sat near the flagpole. There was a big black sign with white letters hanging from wrought-iron hooks on the front porch that read: NELSON’S FUNERAL HOME. A white garage, where the undertaker kept his big black hearse along with his Cadillac, was on one side of the house. You couldn’t see it from the street, but if you walked around the side of the Nelsons’ house, you could see the mortuary. It was connected to the back of the house, but it was only one level, with high, dark windows you couldn’t see through. Pee Wee had dared me to go with him to look at it one Sunday while the Nelsons were still in church. There were rosebushes on both sides of the mortuary, but just knowing what it was for almost made me sick. It was the last place I wanted to be.

  The front yard of the Nelsons’ house was flanked by rosebushes, and several fruit trees inhabited the backyard. There was even a life-size dollhouse in the backyard, beyond the mortuary section, that Rhoda’s daddy, her brother Jock, and her uncle Johnny had built for her. Before going to Rhoda’s room, we ran around the side of the main house, rather than pass through the mortuary, to get to Rhoda’s dollhouse.

  “You have a million dolls!” I exclaimed. In addition to dolls of various sizes and colors, there was a bike, some skates, and an assortment of other toys. I looked at Rhoda, and she had this proud look on her face, and her chest kind of stuck out. “I wish I were you,” I said. She laughed at me, but I meant every word I said literally.

  “Wait’ll you see my bedroom!”

  “Does your bedroom door have a keyhole?” I asked nervously. I had even filled my keyhole with gum one night to keep Mr. Boatwright from peeping at me, and he had pushed the gum out with a toothpick.

  “Of course my bedroom door has a keyhole, silly. Why?”

  “Well, maybe some nasty man might peep in and see you naked one day.” I didn’t realize what I was saying until I had said it. I immediately wished that I could take back my words.

  “Why would some man do a nasty thing like that?”

  “Because they are nasty, I guess.” I shrugged. She knew I lived with just Mama and Mr. Boatwright. I was surprised that she had not asked me if he was the one who was tormenting me. I couldn’t imagine what she was thinking.

  “There are no men in my house who would do such a crazy thin’ as peep in my keyhole,” she assured me. “Not even Uncle Johnny. Well, maybe he would. But then he’s the family fool. Remember that time he raped that dead woman?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Look, girl. You’ve been tellin’ me all kinds of weird shit about rapists. Now you talkin’ about men peepin’ in keyholes. Why don’t you just come on out and tell me who is botherin’ you so I can help you out of this mess. I bet it’s one of those Italian men from down the street. You know those types always like Black girls. They are always sneakin’ into Scary Mary’s house. I’ve seen them.”

  “Oh I know all those nasty Italian men go to Scary Mary’s to pester those prostitutes. But none of them have ever bothered me,” I admitted.

  “Then who is botherin’ you? Tell me and tell me now, dammit.”

  “What could you do, Rhoda? If I tell you—” I moved back a few steps and turned away from her. “Can I go see the rest of your house now? I can’t stay over here too long. I’ll get another whup
ping.”

  I thought that she was going to continue badgering me about my rapist, but she didn’t. She just gave me an exasperated look, then motioned for me to follow her.

  “Wanna see a dead man?” Rhoda asked me.

  “I don’t know,” I mumbled, slowing down as we got closer to the mortuary. “Do we have to go through there?” I said quickly.

  “There’s nothin’ to be scared of. The room’s real pretty, with lavender walls and carpets. It has to look nice for the wakes my daddy handles.”

  “Dead people make me nervous, Rhoda,” I said firmly. “I’ll be one soon enough…”

  “OK.” She shrugged, motioning me to follow her back the way we had come around the side the house. “You ever seen a dead person?”

  “Oh yeah. Real, real dead. This old lady in Florida that used to baby-sit me died in the bed next to me when I was a little girl,” I answered. “And a white girl I used to play with and another old lady my mama used to work for.”

  “There’s a man in there they just embalmed and dressed. He’s got a bullet hole in his face, so they won’t open the coffin at the wake this evenin’ or at the funeral. But if you want to see him, I’ll open the—”

  “Somebody shot him in the head? Who did it?” I shuddered as we walked up on her front porch.

  “Some woman. He was a pimp who was always beatin’ up on his girls. Well, he beat up the wrong one, one time too many. She pulled out a pistol and went BANG! His brains went all over the place!”

  “Shut up!” I stopped in my tracks. Mr. Boatwright had put his gun up to my head and yelled bang more times than I cared to think about.

  Rhoda sucked in her breath and narrowed her eyes to look at me before she spoke again. “What’s wrong with you, girl?”

  “I don’t like hearing about guns.” I could hardly breathe. “I should go home and…” I started to shift my weight from one foot to the other like I had to pee. Rhoda stomped her foot and pulled me on by my arm.

  We tiptoed to the main part of the house. The inside of the Nelsons’ house was just like them: awesome. The halls were wide and decorated with fancy paintings of Jesus and dead presidents. Our house always seemed to smell like cabbage greens; Rhoda’s smelled like the fresh flowers. Our furniture was used, shabby, garish, and none of it matched. Almost all of the furniture in the Nelsons’ house was either black, red, white, or gold. They had leather couches, thick shaggy carpets, and drapes that belonged in the White House.

  In a room Rhoda called their parlor, sat Mr. Nelson on a white couch. He had on a blue suit and a black tie. Sitting on a white love seat across from Mr. Nelson, wearing a black suit and a black tie, was a white man about the same age and size as Mr. Nelson. The men were smoking cigars and drinking glasses of red wine.

  “Hi, Daddy. Hi, Uncle Carmine.” Rhoda waved. She dashed across the floor, hugged and kissed her daddy and then hugged and kissed the white man. One thing about attractive people, they hung out together. Mr. Nelson’s friend was as handsome as he was. He had a square face and lips as thick as any Black person’s. His long, thick salt-and-pepper hair was combed back like a duck. His deep-set, piercing black eyes looked me up and down. I noticed rings on four of his fingers.

  “Young ladies.” The white man smiled, saluting with his wineglass. Rhoda sat on his knee and started stroking his hair, and he kissed her on her cheek.

  “Annette, this is my ‘uncle’ Carmine Antonosanti,” Rhoda said, with her back to me. She had her arms around Mr. Antonosanti’s neck.

  I smiled; the man smiled and nodded in my direction.

  “How’s Mr. Boatwright these days, Annette,” Mr. Nelson asked, waving his wineglass.

  “He’s about the same,” I said quickly. For a moment it looked like Mr. Nelson was going to laugh. Mr. Boatwright’s insurance money had come through, and he had paid off Mr. Nelson and Scary Mary after boomeranging the money back and forth for thirty days like he said he would.

  “Annette is my friend now,” Rhoda announced proudly. “She reads a lot, too, and she’s smart.”

  The men complimented Rhoda excessively for the next minute or so. I was glad when she jumped up from Mr. Antonosanti’s lap and led me out of the room. As soon as we got back out into the hallway, another white man appeared from a side doorway. He was older than Rhoda’s daddy and not as handsome. He was tall and too thin for his height. Limp, thin gray hair hung around his long, chalky face. He stopped narrowed his beady green eyes, and looked from me to Rhoda. Instead of a nice suit, he had on a plaid cotton shirt and brown-corduroy pants too short for his legs. He was clutching a wineglass, too.

  “Uncle Johnny, this is Annette,” Rhoda introduced.

  “Boatwright’s girl?” Johnny slurred, extending his hand.

  “Not exactly. He just lives with us,” I explained, shaking his cold, dry hand.

  “You done your homework yet, girl?” Johnny asked Rhoda, glaring at her, wobbling so hard he had to lean against the wall.

  “I just got home, Uncle Johnny,” Rhoda whined, pulling me away by the arm.

  We reached the living room, where a scowling, muscle-bound teenage boy, who looked almost exactly like Rhoda, glanced up from where he was on the floor, angrily leafing through a textbook. I had seen enough on TV to know that some boys didn’t think that a sissified thing like homework was a cool thing to do. It made them evil. That’s why they had to have so much sex and beer. This boy’s frustration was written all over his handsome face.

  “Daddy said for you to have your homework done before you park your butt in front of the TV!” the boy snapped at Rhoda. He was fifteen. I had heard about him, and I’d seen him around the neighborhood with his gang drinking beer straight out the can and making obscene gestures to girls. Not me, of course, but the pretty girls that dared go around the bad boys. This brooding pit bull had beaten up a lot of kids, Black and white. As one would expect, he had a skull-and-crossbones tattoo on his right arm. There was a tattoo of a hula girl on his other arm. He was so brazen he even smoked in the church parking lot and sassed some of the old church sisters when they tried to chastise him.

  “Nyah, nyah, nyah,” Rhoda replied, showing her brother her tongue and flipping him the finger. “I already finished my homework in my last period class.” For a minute I thought the boy was going to leap up and attack Rhoda. Instead, he just rolled his green eyes and returned his attention to his book. “Jock-o, this is Annette from across the street. My best friend. She goes to my school now,” Rhoda told him.

  “Hi, Jock,” I said firmly, moving toward him, expecting him to shake my hand the way Rhoda did when I met her.

  “GET OUTTA MY LIGHT!” he roared at me, not even looking up from his schoolwork. I almost jumped out of my skin, but, surprisingly, I didn’t back down. I did get out of his light though.

  “Um,” I continued nervously. “I’ve heard a lot about you,” I told the boy, forcing a smile.

  “LIES! ALL LIES!” Jock wasted no time dismissing me with a wave of his callused hand.

  “I told you he was mean,” Rhoda whispered proudly. She grabbed me by the arm and led me back to the hallway. “He’s just mad cause Daddy makes him help turn over the dead people on the slabs and stuff, when all he really wants to do is fight and drink beer and feel girls’ butts up and down. The boy’s nasty.”

  “The boy’s a boy.” I sighed with disgust. “He can’t help it.”

  “I know,” Rhoda agreed with a nod. “I just hope he didn’t upset you too much. You’ll like him once you get to know him. He’s really not that bad. Not since Daddy made him get baptized. Boy did that get his goat.”

  “I don’t want to get to know him. I don’t like boys,” I said real fast. “I just like girls—and animals.”

  “Oh I love animals, too. Especially cats. But I’m allergic to them, and that’s why I don’t have any,” Rhoda informed me.

  “Rhoda…uh…what about girls?”

  “What about them?”

  “Do you like the
m?” I asked shyly.

  “I guess.” She shrugged. “I’m a girl. You’re a girl. My mom. My aunt Lola, they used to be girls.”

  “I meant…” My crush on her had intensified.

  “You meant what?”

  “Nothing,” I muttered. I cleared my throat before continuing. “How did your daddy get to be friends with Mr. Antonosanti?” I wanted to know. We stopped in the same wide hallway where I had met Uncle Johnny.

  “Oh, they go way back. Daddy saved Uncle Carmine’s life when they were in the war in Germany a long time ago and Daddy told us Uncle Carmine promised he would make it up to him one day before he died.” Rhoda paused and let out a long sigh, smoothing her hair back out of her face. “After they got out of the army, Daddy returned to Alabama and Uncle Carmine returned to Ohio and he and Daddy kept in close touch. Uncle Carmine’s family has old money. Tons and tons of it,” Rhoda said.

  “From bootlegging and hiding money from the IRS?”

  “Who in the world told you that?” Rhoda laughed.

  “Mr. Boatwright and Caleb. They talk about Mr. Antonosanti and your daddy all the time,” I told her.

  Rhoda gasped and looked at me thoughtfully. She was no longer laughing. The information I had just shared with her made her angry. “You tell Mr. Boatwright and Caleb to stop sittin’ around talkin’ trash about everybody! My daddy and Mr. Antonosanti don’t sit around gossipin’ like women in a beauty parlor like they do! My daddy and Uncle Carmine discuss politics and business, like men are expected to!” Rhoda paused and sucked in her breath. “Anyway, to make a long story short, my play Italian uncle put up the money for Daddy’s mortician trainin’ and everythin’. Everythin’ Daddy needed to get him started came from Uncle Carmine. We moved here from Alabama, and they are still the best of friends. It pays to have powerful friends,” Rhoda told me, and winked.

  “I know,” I agreed, giving her a pensive look. “Uh…you ever seen or touched any of your daddy’s dead bodies, Rhoda?”

  She nodded first, then told me, “My other brother, David, was the first dead body I ever touched. He…died in my arms.” Her voice cracked.