Chapter Two
Coming of Age
Brooklyn, New York
Dominique’s throat was raw from screaming. She opened her mouth again, but no sound came out. Rocking back and forth, she continued to cradle her mother’s head. She wanted to cry, but she had exhausted the energy necessary to produce tears.
Dominique’s mother’s eyes were open and glassy. Her hair, damp with sweat, was matted to Dominique’s thigh. Dominique felt as though huge needles were pricking her legs. Even if she could move, she refused to do so.
She wasn’t sure what time the ambulance finally arrived. She certainly didn’t remember the paramedics peeling her away from her mother’s body, like a drowning victim in the middle of the sea clinging to a floating piece of driftwood. Dominique could barely remember the ride to the hospital, except for the EMT’s words:“It appears the patient is in cardiac arrest.” She remembered shouts over shortwave radios and frantic calls for additional tubes, needles and bags of fluid.
The squeal of the ambulance did not bother Dominique as much as the bumpy ride. Watching her mother on the stretcher, limp and jerky, unable to brace herself against the turbulence made a pain shoot through Dominique’s chest. Her mother was usually able to stand up against anything.
Dominique was ushered out of the ambulance and placed in a crowded waiting area while her mother, now plugged with tubes, was rushed through two large silver doors that only allowed entry with a swipe card. Her mother disappeared among a throng of white coats and scrubs.
Dominique was alone. The last time she remembered being in a hospital was when she busted her chin in gymnastics class and needed stitches.
Dominique sat quietly as people hustled past her. Every now and then someone in the waiting room would jump up and yell profanities to the triage nurse who sat behind the thick, scratched-up plexiglass. The waiting room chairs were a dirty, hard orange, yellow and blue. In one corner, a man resembling a coal miner, with black soot covering his face and hands, sat talking to himself and clutching to his chest several plastic bags filled with recyclable bottles. A few seats away from him sat a girl no older than Dominique, holding to the mouth of a small baby a tube connected to a nebulizer. Dominique’s mother had always opted out of seeking treatment at this hospital, claiming “we can afford better than the county.” Now she realized why her mother had been so insistent about looking elsewhere.
It felt like a lifetime before a tall lady with salt-and-pepper bangs and a fake black ponytail approached Dominique. “Hi, my name is Cathy. I’m a social worker,” the woman said softly, extending her hand toward Dominique. She ignored the woman’s hand, and was barely able to stretch her sore, red-rimmed eyes to look up at the woman.
“Dominique, honey, I know this is difficult,” the woman consoled, sitting down in a hard, plastic chair.
What the hell did this woman know about it being hard? Was her mother dead? Was she left with no mother and no father? Dominique wanted to shout all these questions, but instead she remained silent. She was old enough to know that she was not going to be able to go back home alone. Her grandmother had died the year before and there was only one other person left to take her in. The social worker asked a series of questions, assuring her that she would “find the right person” to care for her. It had taken Dominique a few tries before she remembered her grandmother’s old phone number, since she hadn’t dialed it in over a year. Dominique knew that her mother’s sister still resided in her grandmother’s old apartment. Her aunt was probably her only hope for staying out of the foster care system.
Several hours passed and Dominique began to doze in the waiting room. Every now and then, the doctor or social worker would check on her and whisper in earnest. Dominique had counted a total of six “code blues” over the hospital loud speakers since she’d arrived. That’s what they’d called her mother on the ride over. She wondered if six other girls had lost the only person in the world they had left.
“Where is my damn niece?” a voice barked, followed by the click-clack of high heels. Dominique recognized the voice immediately. It was her aunt, Awilda. Dominique hadn’t seen her aunt since her grandmother’s funeral and the catfight that had ensued between Awilda and her mother following the service. She remembered Awilda calling her mother a “stuck–up, wannabe bitch” and her mother calling her aunt “a no–good, classless whore.”
“My sister is dead and y’all got this goddamn baby sittin’ in these hard-ass chairs? What happened to the comfortable kind y’all give the white people when they grievin’?” Awilda hollered to no one in particular, switching her hips down the quiet hospital corridor.
Crass, Dominique thought. That was the word her mother had used when referring to her aunt.
“Oh, there you are, baby,” Awilda moaned, softening her voice and extending her arms well before she reached Dominique. Bending down for a hug, Awilda grabbed Dominique’s head and forced it into her chest in a rough display of familial affection. Dominique felt suffocated by her aunt’s bulging cleavage and cheap Jean Naté perfume. She smelled like a cross between a tree-shaped car air freshener and a can of Lysol.
“Ahem.” Dominique let out a small cough as she tried to disengage herself from the all-consuming embrace.
“I ain’t gonna let nothin’ happen to you. It’s okay, it’s okay,” Awilda continued, stroking Dominique’s head like she was a small dog.
Dominique scrunched up her face and pulled away. She wasn’t crying and didn’t need to be comforted. Folding her arms in front of her chest, she gave Awilda a once-over. Too much makeup, too much perfume, clothes are too small, fake hair, fake nails, and smells like cigarettes.
Her aunt had never been nice to Dominique as a child. In fact, she vividly remembered Awilda cornering her at her grandmother’s house, pointing a long, black-painted fingernail in her face and saying, “Your mother raising you to be a bogee bitch, just like her. Well, I tell you what. You ain’t no better than ya aunty. You never know, one day you might have to sell your fuckin’ soul to the devil too.”
Cathy, the social worker, had asked Awilda to step away from Dominique so that she and Awilda could talk. Dominique knew they were talking about her and her mother. After they were done conferring on Dominique’s fate, the social worker bent down to reach eye level with Dominique. “Dominique, honey. Your aunty here is going to care of you tonight. I will be sending someone to her home to make sure it is fit for you,” Cathy started.
At that, Awilda threw up her hands and interrupted. “Look. I’ve known this here baby all of her life. I’m her next of kin and you don’t need to survey shit at my house,” Awilda spoke indignantly.
Cathy stared Awilda down before she replied, “It’s our protocol, ma’am.” With a sigh, Cathy gazed at Dominique with a look of sympathy, as if to apologize for releasing her into Awilda’s custody.
“It was all a dream/ I used to read Word Up Magazine/ Salt n’ Pepa and Heavy D up in the limousine . . .”Outside of the hospital emergency entrance, a black Lexus Coupe sat blaring Biggie Smalls, the bass loud enough to shake the concrete. “C’mon, that’s our ride,” Awilda said, rushing toward the vehicle.
Dominique walked slowly to the car, thinking that it looked like the typical drug dealer car her mother always pointed out when they went to visit her grandmother’s neighborhood. Her mother repeatedly warned her to also “stay away from boys who drive those kinds of cars.”
“What the hell is your problem, little girl? Why are you standing here like you seen a ghost?” Awilda, asked grabbing Dominique’s arm to pull her along.
“I’m coming!” Dominique shouted, yanking her arm away. She wanted to scream and cry right there. Images of her mother’s face still clouded her mind.
“Well, come the hell on then! I know ya mama just died but I need to get back home!” Awilda grumbled, focusing her attention back on the vehicle.
Once inside, Dominique folded her arms across her chest and told herself she wouldn’t say a wo
rd to her aunt or the man driving. Awilda leaned over and gave the driver a kiss on the cheek. He wore dark shades and never even said hello to them. Awilda reached down and turned up the music, thinking Dominique couldn’t hear her conversation.
“Wassup, baby? Sorry to call you out so late but my sister just died. They said it was that bitch’s heart. Same shit that killed my mother. Maybe if she wasn’t such a stuck-up bitch that fucking heart would’ve kept on working,” Awilda spat as she lit up a cigarette. Dominique hated cigarettes, but she despised her aunt. “One good thing about it, that bitch of a sister of mine always worked which means a social security check for her little spoiled ass brat back there. Ching, ching! I could use some extra cash!” Awilda continued blowing smoke rings and laughing wickedly.
“That money runs out at eighteen. You better put that ass to work before that,” the man said, seeming to finally find his voice.
Dominique bit the inside of her cheek to keep herself from crying out.
Arriving at her new home, Dominique looked up at the sign: LOUIS H. PINK HOUSES, it read. Her mother had told her that Awilda still lived in the projects, but Dominique had never been to Awilda’s house. She had always encountered her aunt at her grandmother’s new place. The building they pulled up to was lively. There were children running and playing; music blasting; and some older women sitting out on the benches. They had an entire spread of food on a little table, like they were having a party.
“C’mon, get out and stop acting like you ain’t never see your own kind before,” Awilda said to Dominique, referring to the fact that Dominique and her mother lived in Park Slope with mostly white people. Dominique climbed out of the car and followed Awilda into the building. Dominique immediately cupped her hand over her nose. The smell of urine hit her nostrils with potency. This new life would take some getting used to for sure.
Hildale, Utah
Casey jumped at the sound of loud knocks on the door. “I . . . I’m using the toilet,” she stuttered, looking down at her soiled underwear.
“Casey, we don’t lock doors around here, now open up!” Jocintha, her sister yelled from the other side.
“Hold on, I’m coming,” Casey stammered nervously, folding her undergarments and dress into a tight wad. Looking around the nearly empty bathroom, Casey frantically searched for a place to hide her soiled garments. She knew if anyone found out about her new “problem” she’d immediately be sent to the “prophet” for marriage. Casey had seen it happen to her four older sisters. As soon as they became “women,” they were added to the prophets’ dream book and scheduled for marriage, most of the time to much older men–men who also happened to be uncles or cousins. Casey had overheard that as soon as she became a woman, she was going to be given to Samson Jeffers, a fat, ugly first cousin of Casey’s biological mother. Samson already had four wives; the last one was just fourteen years old.
Casey didn’t want to get married. At thirteen-and-a-half, she dreamt of leaving Backwater Creek to live a different life. Casey wanted to be a ballerina, just like she’d seen in the magazines that she stole from the supermarket on the few occasions her mother went to the “non-believers” store to pick up some necessities. Casey would head straight for the magazine racks when her mother wasn’t looking. She had pictures stashed under her mattress of the Juilliard School in New York City. Casey told herself that as soon as she was old enough, she would leave the compound and go to Juilliard to become a world renowned ballerina. She believed that as soon as the administrators at the school saw her beauty and grace, they would accept her right away.
“What’s going on here?” Casey heard the voice of Marianne, one of her father’s five wives.
“Casey has gone and locked the door. I don’t know what she’s doing in there,” Jocintha answered, being her usual snitch self.
“Casey?” Marianne called out, twisting the doorknob back and forth several times.
“I’m coming,” Casey announced, her voice quivering. Casey quickly stuffed the balled-up clothing into the toilet bowl tank, making a mental note to dispose of it as soon as she got the chance. Rushing over to the door, Casey flung it open and pushed passed Jocintha and Marianne, making a dash for her bedroom. Maybe they’ll be able to tell if they look at my face, Casey thought as she kept her head down.
“That is the strangest little girl I know,” Marianne mumbled, rushing into the bathroom to inspect it. Jocintha ran behind Casey. They were the same age. Casey’s mother gave birth to her in August of 1983, and Jocintha’s mother delivered in September of the same year. The two sister wives often joked about how they must’ve gotten pregnant a week apart, on their assigned nights to spend with Casey’s father–Warren Jessop Pete, assistant to the prophet of the Fundamentalist Church of Latter Day Saints (FLDS).
That night Casey tossed and turned with cramps. She feared that if she asked her mother for relief her father would find out about her condition. But living in a house filled with women–five mothers and twelve sisters–it was simply a matter of time. When her mother found out, she gave Casey homemade Maxi pads fashioned out of gauze and terry cloth, and told her she was a woman now. Casey would be expected to quit school to work on the compound.
It was only a week after she had got her period that Casey’s mother entered her room with a small picnic basket and a warm smile.
“Casey, honey, it’s time for us to have the talk,” her mother said. Casey stashed her ballerina pictures and followed her mother outside. They walked along the compound toward the area where all of their special occasions were held. Casey had been there many times in her life, for weddings, baptisms, funerals, and family fun events. It was also where the prophet laid down the law. All of the compound residents had just gathered there the week before to watch Casey’s friend Nicole get whipped for kissing a boy before she was married. The prophet had whipped Nicole until she bled through her dress. Casey’s mother had whispered to her, “Now no one will marry that girl.”
Backwater Creek had about one hundred small, woodframe homes, most with no running water or toilets. The red dirt that covered most of the compound gave the entire place a reddish glow, and if she stood on the roof of her house she could see the Moccassin Mountains Range. It was completely cut off from the outside world and the male residents took turns standing security guard at the front gates. People of the outside world were referred to as “foreigners.”
Casey felt ashamed by the stares she received as she walked along the dirt roads of Backwater Creek with her mother. Each time she passed one of the run-down plywood houses, residents would stop and stare. Everyone knew that she was a woman now. It didn’t take long for news to spread. Casey tugged at her long sleeves, making sure no one could see her skin. Women on the compound wore long sleeve dresses with long skirts that came past their feet. Most of them wore the same hair styles as well–a large flipped bang and a single long braid down the back. Most little girls would be so proud once their hair grew long enough to style it like the other FLDS women.
Casey and her mother finally arrived at the occasion area. Nicole’s blood still stained the dirt. Casey swallowed hard and used her boot to cover the old blood in the dirt. Casey’s sister AmberRae had received “the talk” shortly before she was married off to Clayton Grant–their father’s half brother.
Casey’s mother smiled and asked her to sit down on the knitted blanket they’d made together the year before. Everything they wore and used was either handmade or homegrown. “Casey, the prophet has added your name to the dream book. Your betrothal has been arranged,” her mother announced in her soft, cottony voice. Casey lowered her head. “Your father’s place in heaven is dependent on you now, honey,” her mother continued, touching her golden hair gently.
“I don’t want to get married. Can’t father make it into heaven any other way?” Casey asked, her voice cracking.
Her mother opened her arms for a hug. “No, honey. The prophet has spoken and given your father his orders. You will be ma
rried. It is time,” her mother said with finality.
Casey sobbed in to her mother’s chest. “Please, mother, please!” Casey cried. Her mother just remained silent, stroking her hair. Although Casey had been born right in Backwater Creek, her mother had not. Casey’s older brother, Ethan, had told her that their mother had been born into what he’d termed a “normal family.” It was not until she met and fell in love with their father that she’d joined FLDS and decided to live the polygamist life style. Her mother, however, was not their father’s first wife or last. Ethan told Casey many stories of how Rebecca, the senior wife, had abused their mother and the children. According to Ethan, after her mother complained to the prophet about Rebecca, the prophet spent thirty-nights with their mother and then reassigned Rebecca to another husband. When Casey discovered that her mother had given up a normal life of choices and freedom to live on the compound as a polygamist and follow the prophet’s every order, she believed her mother to be an essentially weak person. This had always made Casey feel sorry for her mother. But over the years, the sorrow turned into frustration, anger and resentment.
Harlem, New York
“Ahh!” Jordan jerked awake. Inhaling deeply, he quickly tried to catch some air. He felt like he was drowning. He was out of the bed in one leap, chest heaving. “What the fuck?” he screamed, wiping the dampness from his face. At first he thought he was having a nightmare, but his wet wifebeater and underwear told him otherwise.
“Yeah, muthafucka, I threw water in your face. You see the goddamn time? Ain’t nobody sleeping all day up in my fuckin’ house. A shiftless niggah, that’s what you turned out to be. Now get ya black ass up and find a fuckin’ job,” his mother screamed, threatening to upend the bucket of icecold water she held tightly in her hands.
Price of Fame Page 2
