by Lexie Ray
I had more in common with these women than met the eye, I figured, which was how it was so easy to get along with them after a spell. In a way, I was just leaving a prison, too, free for the first time in my life. Things were going to get better from here. I knew they were.
I made good friends of the other women living in the halfway house and transfixed them with my stories of Mama’s nightclub. All of the women there had stories of their own—desperate ones that left a bad taste in my mouth. I heard about rapes, about grueling addictions, about abuse from the men they thought loved them.
It was a refreshing experience to live there, and it reminded me not to take anything for granted. You couldn’t compare tragedies, but I felt like my time at Mama’s nightclub sort of paled in comparison to some of these girls’ tragedies. After a while, my stories about what had gone on there were some of the lighter ones, and girls asked me to tell more and more.
I didn’t want to shy away from anything in my past, and sharing with them was one way to cope with everything that had happened. Plus, I hadn’t been lying when I’d told Jasmine that I didn’t want to forget about any of it. One of my newfound friends summed it up for me nicely.
“You’re a fucking grizzly bear mama, girl,” she said, nodding after one of my stories. “You gonna get your baby back. Ain’t no one gonna stand in your way.”
“I hope so,” I told her.
Work was a dream. I’d never been happier picking the brain of my employer, a good-hearted but hilariously snippy woman named Carlotta. Carlotta was a large-breasted fireball, though the rest of her was dainty. She got into the fashion industry because she claimed that no one was making the kind of clothes she liked. Carlotta favored tailored shirts that you could only buy in her store—button down blouses that actually fit across the chest area but tapered for a tailored waist.
Besides that, she had her hair dyed a positively shocking shade of red and switched up her glasses every day.
“Isn’t it hard to get so many prescription glasses filled?” I asked her on the third day and her third wild pair of glasses. The glasses that day were encrusted with a rainbow of rhinestones.
“Oh, honey,” she said. “I have better than perfect vision. These are just for panache!”
I had to laugh at that. Not all fashion had to be serious. Some things could just be for fun.
All in all, Carlotta was particular about what she liked, including how her sole employee looked.
The first day I went into work, she dressed me from the racks, making me walk out and model the different looks. I alternately grinned or gave smoldering, sultry looks.
“Work it, work it,” Carlotta crooned, snapping her fingers in time to my steps.
She gave me an entire wardrobe from her shop even as I tried to protest.
“This is more than I can afford,” I said as she piled pieces into my arms.
“You’re not buying it,” she said. “I’m giving it to you.”
“I’ll pay you back with my next few paychecks,” I promised, but she shook her head.
“Your money’s no good here,” she said. “Seeing you looking good in the fashion we sell here will help our customers buy more—and is payment enough.”
Carlotta had given me the most basic and fundamental pieces a girl could have in her fashion arsenal—a little black dress, black trousers, a matching suit jacket, three neutral button downs, and three neutral camisoles. I could rotate these pieces into anything I wanted, especially when I drew from the clothing that Jasmine had given me.
Carlotta was right—customers in the store were flummoxed when I told them how easy it was to establish a high-fashion basis in their very own wardrobes and started snapping up some of the basic pieces that I was modeling.
When I wasn’t ringing up customers, fetching them another size in something, or restocking the racks and shelves, I was learning about business and fashion from Carlotta. A lot of the things I was helping her do were covered in some of my business class textbooks. It was hard to get back into the swing of going to classes and learning, especially since I was one of the older students in the entry-level courses, but it helped that my job was so applicable to my studies.
Carlotta let me see how she filled out purchase orders and completed inventory all while keeping on track with a budget she established at the beginning of each year. On several occasions when she was busy with her design work, she trusted me to do the business side of her business.
“Don’t you want to check these numbers, Carlotta?” I called as I heard the sewing machine whirring.
“You’re a smart girl, Shimmy,” she called back. “I trust you.”
That made me check my work again and again, getting even better at each business task I had to complete.
I loved watching Carlotta design fashion. She started off sketching, then pieced together her creation using the sewing machine in the storeroom. She sometimes asked me to model the prototypes for her so she could see how the pieces worked on a real, moving human body.
I knew that I was really learning things about business and fashion when Carlotta entrusted me to pick which pieces we’d stock for the fall season.
“I like this jacket the best,” I said, pointing to a cute trench coat number. “And also this one.” That was a shorter cropped jacket with glittering buttons.
“You’re spot on with trends,” Carlotta murmured, writing down the order numbers for both coats. “And you’ll be catering to two very distinct tastes with these orders.”
“Maybe we should stock a third jacket,” I suggested. “A more normal blazer—but leather, let’s say, or animal print—for people who like it in between.”
“This is very smart, Shimmy, very smart,” Carlotta said, adding the number to her order. “Just when I think I can impart more wisdom to you, you show me you already know everything there is to know.”
“I can’t know all that,” I said, bashful. “Fashion changes all the time.”
“Trends change all the time,” Carlotta corrected. “It’s a skilled fashionista who can ride the trends but still remain classic. You, Shimmy, are one of them.”
The months went by and life just kept turning around. I couldn’t believe my luck, especially when I was used to it being so bad.
Jasmine helped me find a new apartment once I’d saved up enough money. I felt like it was time, like I could move on from the halfway house and its boarding house feel. There were women who needed my spot more than I did, and a new apartment was the next step to my goal: getting Trevor back. There were some tearful goodbyes from some of the girls, which surprised me. Even in the short time I’d been there, we had developed a cohesive sisterhood, watching out for one another and supporting one another when one of us felt down.
The rent at my new apartment was high, but all of the furniture had been donated, which helped offset the cost of being in a new place with not very many possessions to my name. Jasmine was also able to get a sponsorship for me to pay for part of the rent for a time. It was one of the most special programs at Sisters Together, she said.
“When people donate to a charity like mine,” Jasmine explained, “they often wonder what exactly their money is paying for. You are the face of why this is worth it and why it all works in the first place.”
“I wish there were some way for me to thank whoever’s doing this sponsorship,” I said, looking around my cozy new home.
“If you’d like, there is a way,” Jasmine said. “But it’s only if you’re comfortable with it.”
And that’s how I became the face of Sisters Together. Jasmine launched a new advertising and giving campaign, and they used parts of my story—and my picture—to give a face to the struggle. I was more than happy to help, and refused any sort of compensation for my time.
“I wanted to give back, and this is going to be pure giving,” I told Jasmine during a photo shoot at the new apartment.
“If you insist,” she said, smiling.
It wa
s also around this time when something downright miraculous happened.
The media was falling all over itself during Mama’s trial, which, they called, the scandal of the century. It was on every television news network and emblazoned across the front of nearly every tabloid. No one called her by her real name—Wanda Dupree. She was Mama, a volatile character in this real-life soap opera.
I was trying not to pay attention to the circus, though there were a couple of Mama’s girls who were testifying. I saw a photo of Daisy on a news magazine one week and thought about buying it, but I’d lived that. I didn’t need a retrospective reminder on everything I’d been through. It still hurt too much that the money I had been socking away for Trevor was gone forever. It was no surprise when she was found guilty. There were dozens of girls who could’ve told anyone who wanted to know just how guilty Mama was.
Then, one day Jasmine called me on my cell phone. I was at home, getting ready to go into Carlotta’s, when the phone buzzed on the couch.
“Turn the TV on,” were Jasmine’s only words, and I didn’t even have to ask what channel. It was playing on every channel—Mama’s sentencing hearing. She looked tired but defiant in her prison oranges. I wondered how the prison life was treating her and if she was on the top of the food chain … or the bottom.
When the judge started reading from a piece of printed paper, I couldn’t understand the words. They couldn’t be true. Nothing could ever be that good.
“What’s he talking about?” I demanded.
“Shush,” Jasmine said. “Listen.”
But it wasn’t until the news commentators broke in over the drone of the judge that I truly understood. Mama and her nightclub were going to have to give all the money back to all of her girls based on how long they lived there, what Mama’s ledger books read, and other factors.
I was going to get my money back—the money I was saving for Trevor.
“You hear that?” Jasmine asked. “Things are getting better starting right now.”
“You’re wrong,” I said. “Things have been getting better since I walked into your office. Things are amazing right now. And doesn’t this mean that you’re going to get money, too?”
“Yes, I suppose it does,” Jasmine said, sounding thoughtful. “I’ll invest it somehow in Sisters Together, maybe use it to fund these new housing units we were looking to purchase for some of the women we’re helping.”
“Whoa,” I said, startled. “You think you’re going to get that much cash from all this?”
“We’re all going to get a lot of money from this,” she told me. “What are you going to do with your money?”
“Oh, I have a plan or two for it,” I said, grinning. “I sure do.”
It took several months to get a hold of the money that Mama owed us, especially with all the red tape of the justice system, but I was one of many girls getting a payout.
The amount was several zeroes more than anything I had ever seen, and it made the future possible.
After I obtained my associate degree in business on an accelerated program, I worked with Carlotta to get all of the permits and applications in place to open up my own fashion boutique.
“I hate to lose you to the competition, but I know you’ll be great,” Carlotta said grimly as we went to get some forms notarized.
“There’s not a competition,” I said, confused.
“Silly girl, you’re the competition now,” she said. “Your fashion sense is always top notch. Always listen to your gut. Your instincts are better than anyone else I know.”
Carlotta made me tear up. I’d worked hard in her shop and learned a lot of things, and I was suddenly terrified to make the break from her.
“Maybe I should wait on this,” I said, clutching the applications to my chest. “I don’t think I’m ready.”
“Shimmy, the time is now,” Carlotta said. “You have to be ready. Life is giving you this opportunity. Seize it.”
“I just don’t understand how this is happening so fast,” I said, holding the palms of my hands to my hot cheeks. “Why are you being so nice to me, Carlotta?”
“Because everyone deserves a chance,” she said. “I got my start because somebody gave me a chance. I want you to have a good life, Shimmy. You deserve it.”
With that, some time, and a few legal hoops to jump through, I opened up my boutique that spring. A newspaper did a little write-up, though I declined to answer any questions about my time at Mama’s nightclub, and lots of people attended the ribbon-cutting ceremony. Carlotta was there, as were Jasmine and Nate, Cocoa and her husband, Liam, Blue’s family, including her husband, Dan, and their little baby, Sandra, and a few of my friends from the halfway house. I made several big sales that first day, though I suspect it was my friends purchasing things just to get the boutique off to a lucky start.
But with a new career and a new apartment, plus with all the extra classes I was attending at the community college in subjects that interested me, I felt like anything was possible. I knew that all my hard work was finally paying off.
It was time to see my son.
I dressed in a nice suit—one of the pieces that Carlotta had gifted me—and did my makeup tastefully. A little mousse in my hair ensured that my curls stayed pretty and tight. I looked like a woman who had her life in order, and I really liked that. I had waited so long to be this version of Shimmy that it was hard to believe when I saw her smiling back at me in the mirror.
I hailed a cab and directed the driver to the Paxton’s house. My heart was troubled in spite of my excitement to see Trevor. It had now been more than two years since I’d heard anything from them. Did they even still live in the same house? If I’d been sending my letters to strangers, I would’ve thought that I would’ve gotten at least a few return to senders.
But no. My letters remained unreturned and unanswered. Someone was getting them. And it was past time to get my son.
“Here we are,” the cab driver announced, pulling up to a house that until now I’d never thought was intimidating. The way it loomed up over us made me doubt everything.
“Do you want me to stick around, or what?” the driver asked, witnessing my hesitation.
I laughed him off, trying to bolster my own spirits. “I won’t keep you,” I said. “Thanks for the ride.”
Despite the blossoms on the trees, a chilly wind blew, letting me know that spring was still having trouble asserting its claim this year. The house looked just like I remembered it, even if it had been four long years since I last laid eyes on it.
One new addition looked to be a security camera encased in a black dome right at the front door. That was odd.
I walked up to the porch and knocked on the door, trying not to stare into the camera. My heart was fluttering at several possibilities, but the one I was hanging on to was the possibility of seeing my son. Trevor was the reason I did everything, the reason I drove myself to earn money at the worst place to do so, the reason why I had the strength to turn everything around and make something of myself. I would never stop improving my situation if it meant that my baby was going to have a good life.
The door opened, and I smiled.
“Hi, Miles,” I greeted the bewildered butler. “It’s me, Shimmy.”
“I remember you, Miss Shimmy,” he said, clearly aghast. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m here to see my son, Miles,” I said, my voice firm and confident. “May I come in?”
That seemed like the last thing that Miles wanted to have happen, but he stood aside anyways.
“Wait right here, please,” he said, trying to recover his composure as he walked quickly away.
As I waited, I looked around a little bit. The gold couches and cherubic crown molding was the same, but something was different. First of all, I couldn’t believe that I’d ever dreamed of living in a place like this. This wasn’t a place for living. This was a place for looking and not touching, a place to show people what they’d never get, even
if they tried.
Even if it was just four years ago, I’d grown way past the level of emotional maturity I was when I was eighteen. Twenty-two wasn’t ancient, but I was bristling with experience and a little bit of wisdom from what I’d been through in the last four years.
And my instincts were screaming at me that something wasn’t quite right.
A pile of boxes was stacked in the sitting room, which was odd in of itself. I’d never seen the house look anything but immaculate. Was it possible that the Paxton’s were getting ready to move? The contents of the room seemed intact, but the boxes were full. I ran my hand over one of them and tried to move it a little. It was heavy, solid.
I glanced around the room, but I was alone. Could I peek inside one of the boxes? Was I brazen enough? The top one had been opened. I reached inside and felt around gingerly. There were several packages inside, all tightly packed inside the box. There was a graininess to them, though, that I couldn’t quite place. I took out one of the packages to take a closer look, but I froze and dropped it back down inside the box immediately.
There was someone in the room with me. Light footsteps on the rug.
I turned around slowly and saw him. My treasure. My baby boy.
We stared at each other for a long time, regarding each other with the same brown eyes. He was a spitting image of me except that he was a little boy, just four years old, dressed in a light sweater and khaki pants.
He was adorable. He was my heart. He was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. He was my entire life.
“Hi, Trevor,” I said, putting my hands on my knees so I could be at his level. “Can you say hi, baby?”
“Hello,” he said shyly, and my entire existence melted.
“Do you know who I am, Trevor, my treasure?” I asked him. If the Paxton’s couldn’t keep their promise about the letters, I was sure they wouldn’t keep their promise to tell my son about my existence. I realized it was Ben who made me that promise, and it chilled me to the bone. What had I ever seen in him? What had made me trust him in the very beginning.
