"But that's not really the same thing as escorting, is it?" I interrupted. I turned to Red and the other women before I continued, "It sounds like any other sugar-daddy relationship to me."
"Maybe there isn't much difference," Shelly conceded. "But I went into each arrangement understanding that these men were paying me for my body. It was my profession, how I supported myself. I was a college-educated woman who spoke properly, conducted myself with decorum, and knew when it was time to be quiet. But here's the key thing: most of the women who wanted the money started to hate sex. Me? I loved it. I reveled in it." She sat back in her chair, a sweet smile on her face.
"What is a professional athlete, Mursee?" Dee asked me.
I glanced at Callie. She gave me a smug, no-nonsense look that told me I would find no help from that direction. I turned to Dee and answered, "It's a man, or woman, who is at the top of their sport. They receive payment for their performance." I wasn't sure what the true definition was, but that seemed right in my mind.
Dee's eyes flashed. She tapped the table and said, "Exactly. They receive payment for their performance. Their body is part of their performance, n'est pas? They love their sport. They love the condition of their body. They love the adoration from their fans. This is all respectable, because our society has determined that a well-conditioned athlete deserves compensation for using his body for our entertainment."
She squinted, her lips thinning as she pondered aloud. "It is strange to me that we worship these athletes. We condemn women who receive payment for their body because their talent lies in sex rather than athletics. We are told that our choice, our desire to seek payment for our performance is wrong."
"If a man could franchise pussy, prostitution would be legal in every state. Can you imagine the marketing plans?" Callie interrupted. Shelly and Dee laughed at her comment. Red traced her finger around the rim of her glass. Her eyes locked with mine and then darted away.
"I don't understand what this is about," I said. "Are you trying to warn me away? Tell me that I'm not good enough?"
Callie snorted. "You're free to do whatever you damn well please. We just want you to know that if you're going into this for the wrong reason, you're going to give the rest of us a very bad name," she said, her eyes hardening. "There are so many women who say that they were forced into the profession. They make it hard to bring legitimacy to the industry. We get business licenses. We pay taxes. Some of us don't want to do it, but many of us like what we do. We create relationships, friendships, if you will, with our regular clients. We are free to embrace our sexuality and not be bound by some antiquated rules that a woman can't or shouldn't like sex."
She reached down to grab her purse again and said, "My words of advice? Don't bother with this shit if all you want is the money. You won't make it and you'll just be another one fucking it up for the rest of us."
"Were you also a mistress?" I asked her.
She shook her head, checking the messages on her voicemail. She lifted a finger, excusing herself from the table. She walked out of the lounge, leaving Red, Dee, Shelly, and me at the table.
"She's a very busy madam," Dee said. "That phone is never far from her reach. Her girls are in high demand. Me? I began as a nude model for magazines. Then I went into burlesque, performing private parties for powerful and rich clients. At first, I resisted the many offers from men asking to spend an evening with me. The lines blurred between private parties and private performances."
Shelly was a mistress. Dee, a stripper. Callie, a madam. "Are you the only true escort?" I asked Red.
"You still don't understand," Shelly interrupted.
"Help me understand," I responded.
"We are all professionals," Shelly explained. "A doctor doesn't practice medicine because he only loves the money; he does it because he loves what he does. He has acquired training, skill, and knowledge that make him effective in that profession. Sex is our profession. We believe that our work is just as legitimate as the work a doctor does."
"The money didn't matter to you?"
"Of course it mattered." Her lips curled.
"Red mentioned you used to be a teacher," Dee said. "Well, last year, I made five times a teacher's salary."
I sat back, considering her words. Some of their rationale didn't make sense to me, but I got the underlying message. This wasn't any ordinary profession. These women, in spite of society's views, found legitimacy in what they do.
This wasn't a gig greeting someone at the store. I would be allowing near strangers to wine and dine me then have sex with me for money. If I wanted to do this, and make serious money from this work, I was going to have to enjoy it. Otherwise, I'd burn out quickly, and label myself a victim who had no other choice but to turn to this.
After sitting through their lecture, Red finally spoke up, adding her own story. "Thirty years ago, when I first entered this industry, I began building a list of regulars. Over time, that list grew and I couldn't handle the number of requests that came along. I met some girls interested in making a few extra dollars, so I began sharing their names with the men on my list. Callie was one of those girls."
Red shook her head sadly and continued, "Because of my work, I had a very strained relationship with my daughter." She looked at me. "You didn't know I had one, did you? Well, she didn't like the fact that her mother made her living as a whore, selling her body to men. My ex walked out on us months before she was born, but she tracked him down and pleaded to move in with him. I didn't hear from her for many years. I wrote letters, called on her birthday, but she didn't want anything to do with me. She was ashamed of me."
She stopped to rub her hands together. Her lips quivered, but she pressed on. "I decided that the best thing for me to do was to stop trying. I faded from her life and focused on building my list. I was good at what I did, and I acquired quite a good reputation around town. My girls were discreet, professional, and enjoyed their work. The ones who couldn't hack it, I dropped. I didn't want anyone who felt pressured to have sex because they needed to pay their rent. I wanted people to know that if they asked for one of my girls, they were receiving high quality."
I felt a slight breeze as Callie walked past me and resumed her seat at the table. The waiter approached us with a fresh pitcher of water, but Red waved him away.
"About a decade ago," Red said, "my daughter called me out of the blue, asking me to help her out. She was knocked up and her father had kicked her out of the house. I wanted to be a part of her life. I wanted to be there for my granddaughter. I handed my list over to Callie and set about living a legitimate life as a grandmother. I bought us a house. I paid for all of her baby needs. Funded her hospital visits. It went well at first. She didn't know much about being a mother, and I can't say that I was the best example, but we struggled along. I felt satisfied with my choice. I finally had my daughter by my side. But you know what?"
She motioned in Callie's direction. "I would call Callie, asking for the odd job. I would tell my daughter that I was flying back to the District to meet with friends, but I met with some of my old regulars. I don't think she ever realized what I was doing. What changed between us? Well, she met a nice respectable lawyer and she didn't want her mother, the former call girl, around this respectable individual. So I left, signing the house over to my granddaughter. I packed up all that I had, which wasn't much, and moved back here. That's how I met you," she said to me.
"This life isn't easy," Dee added. "We have all made sacrifices, but we did so because we love what we do, Mercy. I can't imagine doing anything else with my life. Can you?"
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Nearly a week had passed since my Sunday afternoon chat with Red's friends. Over the last few days, the girls and I had spent time charting out house responsibilities and learning more about each other. It was another Friday morning, and I sat at the kitchen table, drinking hazelnut coffee.
For three years, I had sat in this kitchen, alone and lonely. My memories had
served to keep me company during the roughest parts, but they were no longer enough. I wanted new memories. Hell, I wanted new experiences. I wanted to live again, anticipating new encounters and new people. I wanted to live without fear of losing my house. I wanted to live without receiving another phone call from a creditor. I wanted to be free to make my own choices and not feel as if I was burdened to act a certain way.
Ding dong.
I wasn't sure who it could be and, quite frankly, I didn't give a damn. I was quite comfortable. I was making life plans, and I was interested in being interrupted for nobody. I still had half a cup of coffee to drink, and it was far more important than any stranger at the door.
Ding dong.
Luckily, my kitchen table couldn't be viewed from the front door, so whoever it was couldn't see me there, ignoring their presence. Then again, I could have been standing in a wide-open door and I still would have ignored them.
I heard the sound of the door opening. The unexpected noise stole my attention, causing my heart to flutter. I knew it wasn't any of the other girls. None of them would have a reason to ring the doorbell, not even if they left their key. We had a habit of not locking the door, and the others would know to simply walk into the house. Maybe we needed to reconsider that bad habit.
I crept towards the pantry, where I had a fire extinguisher hanging against the wall. Just as my hand wrapped around the top, my guest made her presence known.
"Hi, Mercy!" exclaimed Caitlyn from the foyer. My hand tightened around the extinguisher as I battled the impulse to use it on her. Damn it, Mercy Belle, you're being a bitter bitch again.
My hand fell away, and I moved to the kitchen island. "Hi, Caitlyn."
She walked into the kitchen, dropping her bag onto the table. She pulled off her jacket, and I shuddered inside. She was planning to stay. Adjusting her sweater, she turned to me and grinned. "You must not have heard me while you were in the pantry. I was ringing the doorbell."
This was a pivotal moment in the day. I could start my day off with a blatant lie, or I could be truthful and watch Caitlyn's face fall. I really shouldn't live for these moments.
"I was ignoring the doorbell."
Disappointment rose in my chest when her face blossomed into a knowing grin. "I know." There was a serene look in her eyes when she said, "I know you by now, Mercy. You don't like visitors."
Feeling cheated of my spiteful moment, I threw my hands into the air, wishing her neck was within my grasp. "You typically barge into the house. Why ring the bell this time?"
Caitlyn walked over to stand next to me. She wrapped her arm through mine and leaned her head against my shoulder. "You have roommates now. They might be put off by some random chick walking through their home." She lifted her head from my shoulder. Her eyes lit up with joy and another smile blossomed across her face. "Are they here?"
"They're upstairs, I think. Someone might have snuck out earlier, but I'm not positive. Look, Caitlyn, I know I can be difficult sometimes." Difficult was an understatement.
She made a small noise. Her eyebrow arched as she gave me a cross look. "I'm neither dumb nor blind, Mercy. I know you can barely tolerate me." She smiled, a patronizing expression on her face. Inhaling sharply, she lifted her eyes towards the ceiling and blew the air out through her cheeks. She had probably prayed to God, or Moses, and then received a not-so encouraging response.
"Why do you keep coming around, Caitlyn?" I was surprised that I hadn't yet pulled away from her side.
"Because I also know that it's mostly an act on your part," she said, staring ahead.
Craning my neck, I stared at her face. She lifted her head and returned my stare. There was patience and understanding in her expression. "You don't like to get close to people because you're afraid that they'll leave you some day. Like your brother, your parents, Moses...your daughter. I know that you need someone in your life, maybe not me, but someone to show you that they care about you and they don't want you to decay away in this place." She waved her hand, indicating Moses's house.
"I think you getting roomies was a good thing. Not just because of the money, but you need to care about someone and you need people to care about you." She moved away so that she could point her finger in my face. "But you listen to me, Mercy, I know how stubborn you can be. Don't push nobody away. Let them in; they ain't gonna hurt you," she said, tweaking my nose like a child.
Her words weren't a great surprise. Over the last few days, I could feel myself waking up from a self-imposed slumber. Hearing voices, real voices, throughout the house had warmed my spirit. My life had been governed by a deep depression, causing me to grow bitter towards the few people who remained in my life. Caitlyn was right, and I was beginning to realize it myself. I didn't want anyone else in my life who could leave me. It was much easier to keep people at a distance to begin with rather than let someone grow close just to abandon me.
I rested my head against Caitlyn's shoulder. She kissed my forehead like a mother comforting her child. We stood together, enjoying the silence. But, me being me, I got tired of the touchy-feely stuff, so I pulled away.
"You want a sandwich or something?" I asked, leaving her side. I knew I was putting distance between us again, but I also knew I wasn't willing to push her out the door just yet.
"Do you have any peanut butter?" she asked. "I've been going through this peanut butter phase."
I went back into my pantry and pulled out a container of honey-roasted peanut butter. Caitlyn didn't know, but she was getting the good stuff today. This was my own private indulgence, a sweet and smooth treat.
She took two plates from the cabinet and set them down on the island. She pulled out a few slices of bread and placed them on the plates. I grabbed one slice and smeared some peanut butter on it. Placing the top on the sandwich, I shoved the plate in Caitlyn's direction. She took a bite of the sandwich, smiled, and gave me two thumbs up before she opened the fridge and grabbed the gallon of milk.
I made my own peanut butter sandwich as she poured us two glasses. I carried my plate and glass over to the table, sitting down in my usual spot. Caitlyn joined me at the table and we continued our companionable silence.
She was showing respect for my desire for quiet, but she was also letting me know that she was there for me. It hurt to acknowledge that she was my only friend during the last several years. I didn't have anybody else until the other ladies moved in.
Albertine came breezing through the kitchen doorway. She saw Caitlyn and me sitting at the table, eating our sandwiches. She smiled beautifully at us, and Caitlyn returned her smile.
"Caitlyn, isn't it?" Albertine asked. She pulled out a chair and joined us at the table.
"That's right, and you're Albertine, the nun?"
Albertine laughed as she swept bread crumbs from the table. "I used to be a Sister. Not any longer."
That reminded me of a question that had plagued me for a long time. "I've been meaning to ask. Is there a difference between a nun and a Sister?"
She gave me the sweetest, most angelic smile yet. "Not really. Not anymore, but there used to be a difference between the vows. Nowadays everyone thinks that a nun is a Sister and a Sister is a nun, so there isn't a distinction."
"You were a Sister for a long time, right? That doesn't seem like something you'd stop being," Caitlyn said between sips of milk.
Albertine's brow furrowed as she considered Caitlyn's comment. Her lips puckered as her thoughts turned inward. She said, "I think faith is something that continually evolves. I was part of a community for a long time, yes. And I was a Sister for a very long time, but I no longer feel like the same person who lived in the convent. I used to be a Sister. I am no longer a Sister. It is just something in my heart, if you will."
"So, are you saying that you rebuke your former lifestyle, Albertine?" I asked.
Albertine placed her hands palm side up onto the table. Her pose reminded me of someone seeking benediction, but I think for her, it was a cont
emplative gesture. As if opening her hands would allow her to open up to us.
"Yes, I think you could say that I am," she said. "For many years, I thought I was lucky for finding such stability and order. I convinced myself that I couldn't find it anywhere else. I was used to having someone else determine what was best for me, and it became so normal that it frightened me when I had to determine my own path. It's a strange thing when you realize that so much of your life has been spent shut away because you fear what you can't control."
I knew exactly how she felt. Judging from Caitlyn's glance in my direction, I think she recognized that Albertine and I shared this realization.
"I am relearning what it means to be Albertine Morales. I like vivid colors. I like...." She went silent and then she leaned toward us to whisper, "I like decadence. Is that naughty or what?" She giggled in an almost childlike manner. Leaving the Sisterhood must have been like a rebirth. She must now be transitioning into her rebellious teen years.
"Do you have plans for today?" I asked her. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Caitlyn lick her finger and then pick up the bread crumbs off of her plate.
"Melia and I are meeting her pastor for dinner tonight," Albertine said, blushing. Her large eyes fluttered before her gaze fell to the table. She pulled her hands back and placed them in her lap.
She was hiding something. "Have you met this pastor before?" I said.
Caitlyn crossed her arms and leaned onto the table. She was waiting, eager to hear Albertine's answer.
The little wren's blush deepened. "Yes, I've met him several times, actually."
Caitlyn grinned. Under the table, she tapped my knee. I wasn't sure if she was telling me to back off or if she was encouraging me. "Albertine, do you have a little crush on this pastor?" I asked.
Albertine's eyes snapped upward. Her words rushed out of her mouth. "Yes! He is quite handsome," she admitted. "When I see him smile, oh my, I feel my heart go wild."
"Go on. Tell us," Caitlyn prompted. "What does he look like? How does he smell?"
Have Mercy Page 13
