by Erica Hilton
“I don’t fuckin’ need no fuckin’ doctor telling me what to do wit’ my fuckin’ life,” Butch cursed inside the car. “I’m a damn man, y’all hear me?”
“You need to listen to him, Butch. Do you wanna die?” Bacardi said.
“I’m not goin’ any-fuckin’-where!”
Bacardi and Charlie sighed. Butch was being stubborn.
“I need me a fuckin’ drink. You fuckin’ hear me?” he shouted.
“No!” Bacardi shouted back.
“Bitch, you don’t fuckin’ control me,” he retorted.
“Call me a bitch again, and I swear it won’t be the alcohol that’ll fuckin’ kill you,” she shouted.
Normally, Butch would have laid hands on his wife, but a beatdown wasn’t on the menu today. Butch wanted a drink. He frowned heavily and muttered incoherently. He was a like a drug addict with the monkey on his back, craving the taste of liquor to appease his pain—to quench his thirst.
The whole family knew they needed to keep him sober or else he was going to die, but it wasn’t going to be an easy task. Things were tense inside the apartment. Every day with a sober Butch was more unbearable than the last.
While Butch became everyone’s concern, no one picked up on Claire’s sudden depression. Her abrupt dismissal from Harvard had more of an effect on her than everyone thought. Chanel would walk into the bedroom to find her sister lying in her bed in silence in the dark. Claire refused to interact with the family. She sulked alone. She even refused to abuse and bully Chanel.
When Chanel asked, “You okay?” Claire wouldn’t respond.
The first week back had been bumpy with Claire and Chanel, and although they weren’t close, Chanel couldn’t help but to worry about her sister. She knew something was wrong, but her family didn’t pay any attention to the signs. While the rest of the family was trying to keep Butch from killing himself by drinking, Claire had sunken into a deep depression. She had fallen into Chanel’s world of being an outcast, and somewhat being ignored. She would spend hours and hours inside the bedroom.
It was a depressing sight for Chanel. She had her own problems and the last thing she wanted to see was her depressed sister. Why should I care? Claire brought the trouble upon herself by cheating and lying her way through high school. She got caught, and now she wanted people to feel sorry for her. No, it wasn’t happening.
Chanel was still heartbroken. She couldn’t stop thinking about Mateo and his sweet kisses every day. She felt like a drug fiend that needed her fix. It was hard for her to grasp the thought that maybe Mateo would never come back—that maybe she was just a fling and he’d lied to her about love and wanting to get married.
***
With the scenery transitioning from warm and green to chilly days and falling leaves, for the Brown family, the worst was yet to come. They had their own changes coming.
Chanel got off the city bus and started her walk home. It was a breezy afternoon and she was on the phone with Mecca. Almost everything out of her mouth was questions about Mateo.
“You haven’t seen him around lately, Mecca? He still hasn’t called me,” Chanel said.
“Girl, he got you that sprung? I’m saying, maybe it’s time for you to move on from him, Chanel. You haven’t talked to him in almost two months, and he doesn’t call you. That’s a hint. He forgot about you, so you need to forget about him,” said Mecca. “And I told you, he’s a player and he has more than one bitch in his life.”
Chanel didn’t want to believe it. Why couldn’t she move on from Mateo? What was so special about him? Mecca was right. He had forgotten about her and he wasn’t calling for a reason.
Chanel had to admit, life at home hadn’t been so bad lately. Butch was making things miserable for Bacardi and Charlie, and Claire was in her own world of depression. That kept Chanel out of everyone’s crosshairs for the moment.
Chanel walked into the building lobby and got inside the elevator.
“Chanel, you’re a pretty girl and I know you can find some other nigga to treat you special. Shit, girl, you better be glad that you didn’t fuck that nigga and give him your virginity. You know how mad you would be?” Mecca said.
Chanel sighed. “Yeah . . . I know.”
“So, you cool at home? What’s been going on?”
“My father is still trying to fight sobriety, but that’s Bacardi and Charlie’s problem. He curses and yells at them more than they ever do me. So, I stay out the way. And Claire, she’s like not there most times. She just lays there looking fuckin’ pathetic and sad.”
“You know what that is, right?” said Mecca.
“What?”
“Girl, that’s karma coming after their trifling asses.”
“You think?”
“How they be treating you? Yes.”
“I guess.”
“All you need to do is just focus on you, get yours, and find you another man,” Mecca said.
“I’m trying, girl. I’m trying. I spend most of my time either at the library or just in the bedroom reading.”
Chanel stepped off the elevator and moved down the hallway. Conversing with Mecca was always uplifting. She smiled as she entered the apartment. It was quiet. She didn’t see Butch or Bacardi. God was locked up, and she was thankful for that. She figured Charlie was somewhere out in the streets trying to help her man make bail. Chanel hoped he would rot in jail. She knew God was bad news. She felt it in her entire body. Jail was the perfect place for him, she believed.
“What are you doing this weekend, Mecca? I wanna come by.”
“I’m free. Maybe we can go and see a movie.”
“I’m definitely down for that. Shit, I need to get away.”
“Bet then. It’s a date,” Mecca joked.
Chanel giggled. “It’s a date then.”
Chanel walked into her bedroom to find the usual—Claire sprawled across her bed. But she was lying face-down. She took one look at her sister’s position and immediately suspected something was wrong. The room felt too still. Chanel soon noticed the empty pill bottle on the floor.
Quickly, she said to her friend, “Mecca, let me call you back.”
Chanel hurried toward Claire with worry. This isn’t happening again, she screamed to herself, thinking about when she found her father unconscious on the kitchen floor a few weeks earlier.
“You stupid bitch!” Chanel shouted. “Why?”
She shook Claire, desperately trying to wake her up, but to no avail. Chanel screamed with heavy frustration. She had no choice but to call 911—again.
It felt like a nightmare to Chanel. It was happening in a blur. The paramedics arrived and hurriedly went to work on trying to save Claire’s life. The only thing Chanel could do was watch. She wasn’t a big fan of her sister—some days she hated that bitch—but she didn’t want her to die.
She rode in the ambulance with Claire to the hospital and called Bacardi and Charlie to tell them the grim news. The paramedics frantically tried to pump Claire’s stomach. She was unconscious with low vital signs. Claire was still alive, but barely.
Once again, Chanel found herself at Brookdale hospital with another family member.
Why me?
When Bacardi got to the hospital, she was devastated. She wanted answers. Why was Claire in the hospital?
Chanel was in the waiting area alone, and the moment Bacardi set eyes on her youngest, she went off on Chanel. “What the fuck did you do to her? What the fuck happened?!”
“She tried to kill herself, that’s what happened!” Chanel shouted.
Bacardi didn’t want to believe it. She argued with Chanel, but Chanel stood her ground. They weren’t about to blame her for this. No way!
First Butch, now Claire. Bacardi felt like her family was cursed. “This fuckin’ family!” she hollered.
When Bacardi was finally able to
see Claire, her condition was stabilized. The medical staff at the hospital had to insert plastic tubing into Clair’s mouth, down her throat, and into her stomach to quickly empty the contents.
Claire was asleep on the gurney. Bacardi went toward her daughter with a disheartened expression. She blamed Harvard. She blamed the media. She blamed the people in her neighborhood for mocking her daughter—for calling Claire a cheat and a liar. They all drove her precious daughter insane.
She released a deep sigh and had to fight the tears from falling. Her family and her livelihood were under attack.
“She needs help, ma,” Chanel uttered from behind her.
Bacardi turned and glared at her youngest. She didn’t say a word. She was defeated by grief, along with the trials and tribulations of life.
Bacardi committed her daughter to a 72-hour hold for psychiatric observation. She couldn’t help but to wish that it was Chanel.
***
Bacardi sat by her bedroom window and smoked cigarette after cigarette. If it wasn’t one thing, then it was another. Everything was falling apart. Since her arrest and the cop killing on New Year’s Day, it had been a troublesome and hectic year.
With God in jail and her unemployed, there wasn’t any income coming into the household. She had to swallow her pride and march her ass down to the welfare office and apply for government assistance and food stamps. She had a sick husband, a disgraced daughter, another daughter that she felt was trouble, and Charlie, who was of no use without God.
Bacardi sighed heavily and frowned. She gazed out the window. It was a rainy day—a downpour outside had been going on for the past hour. The heavy rain cascaded against the window. The day was lousy like her life. It was October and the holidays were looming. Bacardi needed Charlie to do something. She needed her to find a way to get God out of jail so they could live again, so they could get back on top.
Bacardi felt she was too old to look for new employment. And she wasn’t slim and curvy enough to go back out there to find herself a baller to spoil her, young or old. She felt washed up.
She took a drag from the Newport and continued to gaze at the gloomy and wet weather outside. She was dressed in an old nightgown that covered all of her flab. Butch was asleep on the bed. He was no use to her—no good dick, no damn income, and no quality conversation came from him. He was a wet, dumb log trying not to die from his drinking—a limp dick inside her bedroom. What a waste of a man.
Bacardi was broke, tired, and she was sexually frustrated. She always wanted a better life than this. She always wanted nice things, to take nice trips, and to have a rich man spoil her. Now in her early forties, she lived that life vicariously through Charlie, and now the dream had come to an end with God locked up.
What now? she asked herself.
Chapter Sixteen
Charlie stepped off the bus that took her to Rikers Island and followed behind the other ladies that were also there to see a loved one. It was a breezy October day with a gray, overcast sky. The gloomy weather matched her mood. This would be her second trip to the sprawling jail, and once again it was met with both anticipation to see God and a feeling of hopelessness that he was locked up. The good news was, he and Fingers were arrested on a gun charge—no murders, no robberies. The bad news was that his bail was set at fifty thousand dollars by the judge. Going through a bondsman for 10%, Charlie would have to cough up five thousand dollars she didn’t have.
Immediately, the corrections officers started shouting instructions at the visitors. Charlie followed behind the other long line of folks into the reception building, where she had to give her information and go through a metal detector.
It was a tedious and tiresome process and almost degrading—the questions, going through various metal detectors, the bus ride, and the waiting. But she arrived at the visiting room, sat at the small table, and tried to look her best for God in such a deplorable looking environment.
Rikers Island had a strict dress code—nothing too skimpy or short, no jewelry, no gang emblems or colors. Charlie sat looking cute in a pair of jeans, white sneakers, and a green tee. Her reddish-brown skin with freckles and hazel eyes caught the attention of the male guards and a few inmates. She was a pretty girl.
She sat and waited, and ten minutes later, a guard escorted God into the visiting area with a few other inmates. They all wore gray jumpsuits.
Seeing God, Charlie smiled. Even incarcerated, his presence was commanding, and he still looked like he was the man in charge of things. He coolly walked Charlie’s way and wrapped his arms around her and planted a loving kiss against her lips. He didn’t want to let her go, but the guards and signs made it clear that lingering displays of affection were not allowed during visits.
They took a seat opposite each other and held hands across the table. It was good to see him again, although he only had been locked up for a short period.
“How are you holding up?” he asked.
“I’m fine. I miss you.”
“I miss you too.”
Not one to beat around the bush, God then asked, “So, what’s goin’ on wit’ my bail?”
“I told you, God, I don’t have the money.”
“You can get the money, Charlie. I told you to sell those mink coats and your Rolex and get me up outta here.”
Charlie felt slighted by his words. “Why I gotta sell my shit?”
She kept on refusing God’s request. She liked her material things. They were all she had. And it was his mistake for being careless, not hers.
“Bitch, don’t ask me no stupid shit like that,” he replied. “Didn’t I bail you, ya fat-ass moms, and ya fuckin’ insane sister out?! How you gonna do me like this?”
“You have your own shit to sell, God. But you won’t tell me where it is. So, I’m supposed to sacrifice my shit? And now is not the time to be takin’ Claire’s coat. She’s fragile, but she’s not insane!”
“You love me, right?”
“You know I do.”
“So, do what’s right and get your man out of here.”
Charlie sighed and replied, “I’ll see what I can do. Your bail is high, though.”
“You’re my ride-or-die, Charlie. You always will be. You got this.”
Another deep sigh escaped Charlie’s mouth. She worried why her man couldn’t tell her where his stuff was. What was he hiding?
When God got arrested with Fingers and Kym, Kym left the police precinct with their belongings. She was keeping them in a safe place until God told her what to do with them. Kym also placed money on God’s books, and therefore, he was able to call Charlie. When Charlie asked him who the girl in the car was, God lied and told her she was Fingers’ bitch. She believed him.
Kym still didn’t know about Charlie, and Charlie still didn’t know about Kym. God was using them both. He liked the street, gangster side in Charlie—his ride-or-die—and he liked the educated and responsible legal assistant Kym. For God, it was the best of both worlds.
Charlie hugged and kissed him goodbye. Their visit was over. Charlie left with a profound void inside her. God was like the air she breathed. She needed him home.
***
Butch had the kitchen smelling like a backdoor restaurant with his fish frying in the pan, his baked beans simmering in the pot, and French fries sizzling in the skillet. The porgies he fried were his specialty, and he seemed to know his way around the kitchen.
He was barefoot in a wife-beater and shorts, and his limber frame danced around the kitchen seasoning his meal. Though he was mean and cranky, some people started to see a slight change in Butch. He still cursed like a sailor and could be meaner than a junkyard dog, but seeing Butch cooking in the kitchen was an anomaly.
Claire’s suicide attempt was somewhat of a wakeup call for him. He had almost lost his daughter, and he wanted to comfort her and be there for her the best he knew ho
w. He decided to help cheer her up by cooking.
Chanel walked into the kitchen after arriving home from school, and she was completely astounded by what she saw. Her father? In the kitchen? Cooking?
Butch looked at her and smiled, “You hungry?”
Chanel was speechless. Did hell freeze over? Did pigs start to fly? And did her father ask if she was hungry?
Befuddled, Chanel stammered, “Um . . . um, I guess.”
“Sit down and I’ll make you a plate,” he said.
Whoa! Where is this coming from? she said to herself.
She sat down at the table and suspected that it was all a dream. Shit, she even pinched herself to see if it was, and it hurt like hell. This was real.
“How was school today?” he asked.
“School was fine, Daddy.”
“And how are these fuckin’ boys treatin’ you?”
“Boys will be boys, right?”
“Well, them boys better be treatin’ my little girl with respect,” said Butch. “You got a fuckin’ boyfriend?”
“No,” she answered.
“Good. You stay in school n’ learn somethin’—get ya education. Don’t be like me, a stupid drunk. Ya hear me, girl? Ya smarter than this.”
Chanel nodded.
“Fuckin’ doctor gon’ tell me I can’t drink no more. Shit, a nigga been drinkin’ all his life. It’s what I do best—drink and have a good time. I never knew how to be right when I’m not drunk. But drunk, I’m in a different place . . . I’m happy. I’m fun,” he proclaimed.
He took a deep breath and went on, “But you don’t need to be like me, ya hear? You smart, Chanel, and you let the world know it. You get ya respect from everyone, even these niggas, and you behave and dress like a lady, cuz no nigga gonna want to marry a whore. Ya hear me?”
Chanel sat there and listened to him ramble. She wondered where all of it was coming from. The speech about respect from men was ironic coming from him, because for so many years he never gave his youngest daughter any respect. He always treated her like a whore and a problem child, constantly laying hands on her like he was fighting an enemy on the streets.
