The Scourge

by R. Tilden Smith

  Crystal, please answer your phone, she thought as the phone began its dialing sequence, I really need to talk to someone who can help me think straight.

  Crystal and Moji had known each other since elementary school. She was the yin to Moji’s yang. When Moji’s father died, Crystal provided a shoulder to cry on. When Moji’s mother succumbed to the demon of alcohol, Crystal gave Moji the strength to walk away despite her mother’s crocodile tears. And when Crystal’s life fell on hard times and she needed a fresh start and a place to stay, Moji gladly offered to help, paying for a ticket to Houston and letting Crystal stay with her until she got back on her feet. She and Crystal were closer than friends, they were true “sisters from another mister.” Moji put the phone on speaker and placed it on the tub deck next to her head. The phone blared well past three rings, breaking the silence of the bathroom for much longer than Moji anticipated. A small panic began to well up in her psyche as she contemplated the thought that Crystal might not answer the phone.

  Please God, let her answer the phone, she prayed, I really need to talk to her right now! Finally, the audible click of a connection being completed echoed through the room.

  “What’s up girl? How was the pool party with your boo?” Crystal’s annoyingly high, Rosie Perez-like voice burst forth from the cell phone’s speaker, piercing the hollow acoustics of the tiny bathroom. A small whine of recognition escaped from Tyson’s throat and he lifted his head off the floor and pivoted his ears toward the source of the familiar voice.

  “Crystal, I hate all men!” Moji said, surprised by the level of angst infused in her outburst.

  “Mo, what happened?” Crystal asked, her tone matching the anxiety she heard in her best friend’s voice.

  “Can you come over?”

  “I’ll be there in thirty minutes,” Crystal said without inquiring further. Moji heard the metallic melody of keys being gathered up and her heart swelled with love for a friend who would drop everything to be by her side, no questions asked.

  “Crystal, can you do me a favor on your way over here?”

  “Yeah girl, what do you need?”

  “Can you pick me up an eight piece fried chicken basket with a side of mashed potatoes and biscuits?”

  “Ah, shit!” Crystal said, managing to coax two syllables from the swear word with her high pitched squeal, “Was it THAT bad!?”

  “Yeah, it was that bad. I need my comfort food.”

  “Well, let me call Sam and tell him he’s gonna have to watch the kids. Sounds like it’s going to be a long night.”

  “Thanks, girl.”

  “No problem. I’ll see you in a bit.”

  Moji pushed the phone’s end call button and lay her head down on the back of the tub, in silent contemplation. Moji, this Darryl fiasco is just a bump in the road, she thought. You have plenty of time to achieve all the goals you’ve set for yourself. Plenty of time to find Mr. Right, get married, have children...

  Her thoughts faded as she looked at her caramel skin through the circles of cloudy water dispersed among the soapsud islands circling lazily around her bent knees. For reasons she couldn’t quite fathom, she couldn’t seem to sustain a positive outlook. Your kind of love poisons everyone and everything around you! the child inside Moji taunted.

  “Lara, please go away!” Moji wailed.

  She didn’t want to cry but the tears fought their way to the surface and streamed down her cheeks. “For Christ’s sake, what’s wrong with me!” A sob broke through her lips. She slapped the water in disgust. Tyson, startled by her outburst, walked over to the tub’s edge and placed his enormous head next to Moji’s ear. “I’m sorry boy,” she said, “mommy’s in a bit of a funk right now.”

  As if to console her, Tyson began to whine softly and lick her ear. Moji rolled over on her side, and while using her damp hand to gently stroke the top of Tyson’s head, she wept.

  2

  Rrrrring! Rrrrring! Rrrrring!

  She could hear it, even with the bedroom door closed and her head firmly buried beneath a pile of pillows.

  Rrrrring! Rrrrring! Rrrrring!

  The telephone. The one hanging on the wall downstairs in the kitchen. The pearl gray one with the big black and white buttons that glowed in the dark. The one with the cord that hung suspended beneath the base like a cat-tortured ball of tangled plastic. The one with the distinctive ring that was much too loud for an apartment as small as the one the Douglas family called home.

  Rrrrring! Rrrrring! Rrrrring!

  She willed herself out of bed and tiptoed to the door, afraid that the old floor would conspire against her like it often did, creaking its alarm, and her mother would awake, angry and full of drunken rage. Hurry, answer it! She opened the bedroom door and peeked into the small, unevenly lit hallway that lay beyond the threshold. Hurry Lara, before mother wakes up! She slipped past the closed door of her mother's bedroom, grateful to hear the soft wheeze of her liquor-induced snore. She crept down the darkened stairwell, anxious and scared, the moan of the stair treads blaring like trumpets in her ear. You're moving too slow! Go faster! You have to save daddy! She was halfway down the stairs, where the wall gave way to an old, ornate bannister. The once varnished and stained handrail was worn to bare wood, a testament to a lifetime spent bearing the weight of poor and weary lives. She poked her head through a gap left by several broken balusters and peered down the wall. The phone was right below her, clinging to a layer of plaster and peeling wallpaper like a frightened cat.

  Rrrrring! Rrrrring! Rrrrring!

  If she stretched she could almost reach it, but at twelve years old her arms weren't quite long enough. Lara, please don't let daddy die! Her heart was banging like a drum. Sweat pooled at the base of her scalp, gathered momentum at the back of her neck, and raced down the trough of her spine. Her damp Ren & Stimpy nightgown clung to her body like plastic wrap, making her itch, and irritating the nipples of her new, awkwardly sized breasts. Her mother said that she was a big girl now, that she had outgrown her Ren & Stimpy pajamas. But Lara refused to part with them. Not because she was particularly fond of Ren & Stimpy, but because they were a gift from her father. Lara, please hurry up! It's almost time! She reached the bottom of the stairs then stepped to the right, made an about-face, and there it was. The telephone. Right where it always is. Right where it’s supposed to be. Poised to deliver its horrible news, to destroy her entire family with three simple tones. Maybe this time, if she could just reach it, pick it up before her mother answers it, maybe this time the message will be something benign, like a wrong number or a fast talking telemarketer. Maybe this time everything will be ok. Two steps and she could pick it up before it rang again and end the nightmare. Pick up the phone Lara! Pick it up now! She took two quick steps and reached for the telephone…

  Rrrrring! Rrrrring! Rrrrring!

  And mother was there, holding the phone's handset over her head like a caveman’s club, looming over her, the loathing and hate set deep in her bloodshot eyes.

  Your father’s dead because of you! she screamed, peppering Lara’s face with vomit-scented spittle. You had to go to your fancy private school and now he’s dead! He’s a pile of guts and blood lying in the street because his precious Lara had to go to a fancy, shmancy school! Now what are we going to do Lara? Who's going to take care of us now, huh?

  No! she screamed as she backed away. Her mother's face morphed and spun into a twisted mess, part phone, part tortured soul. She ran back upstairs and into her bedroom. Don’t run from me Lara, she heard her mother say, come back here right now! She slammed the door behind her and threw herself onto her bed. No, no, no! Daddy’s not dead! He’s gonna come home! He always comes home! She grabbed two pillows and covered her head, pressing them tight against her ears. My daddy’s not dead, he’s not. I’m going to close my eyes and go to sleep and when I wake up my daddy will be home, like always. She closed her eyes tight and prayed, prayed for her daddy to come home safe. Pastor says that God always answers pra
yer.

  Rrrrring! Rrrrring! Rrrrring!

  “No!” Moji said and awoke with a start. Daddy’s dead because of you, the child in her head whispered as the dream faded from memory. “Oh god oh god oh god,” she said through short breaths, her heart still pounding in her chest. Disoriented, she sat up and rubbed her eyes, momentarily startled by the condition of her wrinkled and waterlogged hand. After a few seconds her mind cleared and she realized where she was. The episode in the taxi and now this. I gotta get this shit under control. Tyson, stationed faithfully by her side as she slept, sat up when he heard her stir. He stared at her for a moment and then lay back down on the large bath mat.

  “Mommy’s fine,” she assured him, “I just fell asleep in the damn tub like a crazy woman.” Am I going crazy?, she thought, or am I just scared? But you're a grown woman now. Then why, after twenty-two years, can’t I leave the past in the past and move on with my life? Why does the nightmare keep returning again and again? The death of her father was seared into her brain, a cauterized wound that refused to completely heal. Made worse by her mother’s drunken attempt to lay the circumstances of his death at her feet, twelve year old Moji fell into a deep depression and the doctors weren't sure she would ever climb out of it. It wasn’t my fault. It was just a tragic accident. At least, that’s what she’s been telling herself for over two decades, but the pain never seems to lessen, even after so many years. The circumstances surrounding his death were sensational enough to make the local news. Her father was working too much, trying his best to make ends meet with jobs that paid next to nothing. The police said he had a heart attack and lost control of the taxi he was driving. The taxi hit the curb, flipped over, and slid into the outside patio of an all-night cafe. Her father and two innocent bystanders were killed that night. For a long time I wished that I had died that night too.

  Her right leg and arm were numb from falling asleep in such an awkward position and the entire lower half of her body itched terribly from being immersed in the tepid water. She stood up, climbed out of the tub and grabbed a towel to dry herself. She was reaching for the lotion when she heard the intercom in the next room buzz. But before she could react, her cell phone’s display flashed a picture of a young Moji and Crystal and began to play the “Best Friend” ringtone she assigned to Crystal’s number: It’s your best friend hittin’ you up. Pick up your cell phone and put down your cup. It’s your best friend and it’s time to get crunk. Pick up your celly and don’t be a punk! She glanced at the time emblazoned at the top right corner of her cell phone’s display. Oh my god, it’s almost six o’clock! Crystal’s going to be pissed. She picked up the phone and pressed the answer button. “Hey, girl,” Moji said, a little sheepishly.

  “Mo, are you alright?” Crystal asked, concerned. “I’ve been down here in this lobby for fifteen minutes trying to get ahold of you. I’ve had the nice security guard—what’s your name sweetheart?—Jamarco. I’ve had Jamarco trying to contact you on the intercom and I’ve been calling you on your cell over and over again. I was just about to call the fire department to come break down your door.”

  “I know, I know. I’m sorry. I fell asleep.”

  “I forgive you this time,” Crystal said, half-heartedly scolding her friend, “but don’t let it happen again. I have half a mind to give this delicious eight piece chicken dinner to someone more deserving—she winked at Jamarco—maybe Jamarco would like a taste of some of these sweet breasts and dark, meaty thighs.”

  Moji knew from the tone in Crystal’s voice that she was making googly eyes at Jamarco, the night shift security guard, a young man at least ten years Crystal’s junior. Though happily married with two children, Crystal was the consummate flirt.

  “Ok cougar momma,” Moji said, “leave the little pup alone and bring me my food. I’m feening for some fried chicken.”

  “Who you calling a cougar momma?” Crystal said, blushing then lowering her voice and turning her back to Jamarco so that he couldn’t eavesdrop on their conversation. “I’m only thirty-five years old. I’ve heard that you don’t get your cougar card until you’re at least forty-five,” her smile betraying the mock indignation in her voice. “Besides, pot meet kettle. If I remember right, aren’t you six years older than that cute little football player of yours?”

  “That’s not the same thing. Darryl is almost thirty.”

  “Umm hmm. Oh, and that makes him a man? Is that why you’re crying yourself to sleep and I had to drive three miles out of my way to bring you this big bucket of calories?”

  “Well, I don’t think Jamarco is more than twenty-three years old,” Moji said, a tinge of exasperation in her voice. “He’s not mature enough to distinguish your harmless flirting from real interest. So unless you fancy having a young Jamaican boy all up in your skirt, I suggest you leave him alone.”

  “Ok, miss party pooper,” Crystal said, “I’m just having a little innocent fun.”

  “Yeah, I know. I’m sorry for being a prude. I’m just a little relationship sensitive right now. Could you tell Jamarco to call me back on the intercom so I can tell him it’s ok to let you come up?”

  “Sure thing, girl. And Mo?”

  “Yes?”

  “I was just kidding about giving Jamarco your food. You know I would never do my sista-girl like that!”

  Moji laughed. “Yeah, you’d better not! You know how I get when I can’t have my fried chicken!”

  Crystal laughed with her friend. “I’ll be up there in one second,” she said and then hung up the phone.

  Crystal sauntered back towards the security desk, locking eyes with Jamarco and flashing him her most inviting smile.

  “Is everything alright with Miss Douglas?” Jamarco asked.

  “Yes Jamarco, she’s fine,” Crystal said in her most seductive voice, pushing her body as tightly as possible against the waist high desk and throwing her shoulders back to emphasize her Wonderbra-supported but still shapely breasts.

  “She just fell asleep. She asked if you would call her again on your intercom thingy so she can talk to you.”

  “Yes Miss,” Jamarco said, happy to have a reason to look away from the older woman’s man-hungry gaze. He dialed Moji’s number on the intercom phone.

  After hanging up the phone with Crystal, Moji finished applying lotion, threw on a bra and panties, and wrapped herself in the terry cloth bathrobe hanging on the back of the bathroom door. She walked into her living room, turned on the TV, and then went to the door and waited for Jamarco to call her again on the intercom. It buzzed. She picked it up on the first ring.

  “Hello Jamarco,” Moji said.

  “Hello Miss Douglas. I’m glad that you’re ok.”

  “Thank you Jamarco. I’m fine. I’m sorry that my friend caused such a fuss.”

  “No worries Miss Douglas. You are lucky to have such a friend. My gramma used to say, good frien' betta dan packet money.”

  Moji laughed. She loved it when Jamarco said things that let his patois accent come through. He told her that his grandmother used to beat him whenever he slipped up and spoke with an accent. His grandmother thought they would never be accepted as real Americans as long as they carried any traces of their Jamaican heritage around with them. She thought it was a shame that he suppressed the accent because it sounded sexy. “Your grandma was absolutely right,” she said, “good friends are worth more than all the money in the world. Please let mine come up and see me now. I’m sure she’s down there prancing around like a bird of paradise.”

  “Yes ma’am,” Jamarco said, his voice inflection letting Moji know that his answer was an affirmation of both of her statements.

  “Thank you!” Moji said, laughing again.

  “You’re very welcome,” Jamarco said and hung up the phone. He looked up at Crystal, who had sustained her lustful stare during the entire conversation. “Miss Douglas says it’s ok for you to go up now.”

  “Thank you sweetie,” Crystal said and headed toward the elevators. Confid
ent that Jamarco was still watching, she slowed her practiced runway model gait, her three inch heels barely audible on the granite tile floor. Her knee length pleated skirt swayed rhythmically over well-toned calves and hugged a butt kept in check by a rigorous regimen of squats and Pilates. Crystal felt a wave of giddy anticipation as she quickly snapped her head back toward the security desk, planning to cap off her performance by throwing the surely slack-jawed Jamarco a sultry wink and a smile. But she was surprised when she turned and discovered that Jamarco had missed the whole show. He was staring out the floor-to-ceiling windows that comprised the entire facade of the condo tower, presumably interested in the view of the late afternoon sun skimming the oak treetops in the park across the street.

  “Hmph!” Crystal snorted as she boarded the elevator, “His loss.” She rode the elevator to the tenth floor, confused by the wave of shame, disappointment, and anger that suddenly came over her. Girl, you need to get ahold of yourself. Don’t let Moji’s relationship psychosis affect your fun. The elevator dinged its arrival and Crystal shook off the awkward feeling and confidently disembarked. She arrived at Moji’s apartment and took a moment to examine her splintered reflection in the polished brass number “1014” affixed to the vintage wood door. She took a deep breath and rang the doorbell.

  Moji flung open the door and gave Crystal a big hug. “I’m so happy you’re here!” she said.

  “Alright, alright,” Crystal said, trying to keep her balance with the bag of fast food in one hand, her purse in the other, and Moji hanging around her neck.