Shameless Hoodwives: A Bentley Manor Tale

by Meesha Mink; De'nesha Diamond

  The diamonds in his watch probably cost enough for me to pay my rent for ten years.

  “Congratulations—”

  “I ain’t forgot what I told you and I can see it all on your face that you ain’t forgot either,” he teases.

  “So what this mean?” I cock my head to the side to look at him with a soft smile that is kinda flirty. Me, flirty?

  “You know whassup,” he tells me as he reaches out to tap the card. “You ain’t do all that running for nothing.”

  “You saw me, huh?” I feel excited and happy. I ain’t got time to worry ’bout being shamed ’bout runnin’ like a runaway slave.

  “Why you think I turned around?” Danger takes off his baseball cap and puts it back on like he is adjusting the feel of it. “The record execs liked your voice on Q’s single. They want to hear something from you. We got to get your style together, Shorty. No offense.”

  Hell, I feel offended—but whateva.

  “I need to get you in the studio for your own demo. You ready?”

  I force myself to breathe and not act silly. I force myself to breathe and not cry. Finally. Finally I’m getting a chance. Something good is happening for me. Finally. “Trust I’m more than ready,” I tell him with the most confidence I have ever felt in my life.

  “Look, I got to jet or Sade girl will be trippin’—”

  In that moment I don’t even care that he’s still with her.

  “You want a ride to work?”

  “Hell, yeah,” I say before I walk around the SUV to jump inside.

  Leather seats. Wood grain. BOSE stereo system. “This a nice-ass ride,” I tell him as he turns around in the parking lot and heads back out through the gate.

  “Soon you’ll be riding like this all the time. I promise you, Princess.”

  I smile as I look at him and hold on to the card like it’s my lifesaver.

  I believe him.

  Keisha

  We may not have much, but my kids still love Christmas. And this time, unlike last year, our plastic Wal-Mart pre-lit Christmas tree that me and the kids spent hours decorating is still standing in the corner of the living room when we all wake up. I wish I could say the same for the Christmas gifts.

  “Momma.” Jasmine tugs at the pants of my pajamas. “Did Daddy pawn our Christmas gifts?”

  Of course he did—or at least he thinks he did. I smile and shake my head.

  My children’s puzzled faces follow me to the front door, and I’m giddy as a schoolgirl as I race down the hall to Hawkina’s place. Like I’ve said before: Smokey is nothing if not predictable. A few minutes later, the children exploded with cheer when me, Hawkina, and her husband returned to the apartment with the kids’ real Christmas gifts.

  “Thanks, girl,” I tell Hawkina and promise her the next wash and set is on the house.

  The kids waste no time tearing into their gifts while I retrieve a disposable camera I picked up last night. No, none of the gifts are fancy, and most all of them come from the Dollar General, but the kids squeal and jump all the same.

  None of us miss Smokey.

  No one even mentions him.

  If the beatings and the affair isn’t enough to tell me my marriage is over, this picture-perfect Christmas morning without my husband finally makes my heart accept it.

  Hours roll by and I allow the children to gorge on everything from syrupy pancakes to cookies to a treeful of candy canes. Any guilt I feel is erased with the excuse “It’s Christmas.”

  Uncle Shakespeare showed up shortly before noon. After embracin’ the kids and handing them his gifts, we fall into an awkward embrace, wishing each other a Merry Christmas.

  It’s hard for me to pry myself from his strong arms and his woodsy fragrance. I’m not even gonna front. It’s even more difficult not to remember how good he feels when he’s inside of me. Shakespeare was the best lover I’ve ever had—not that there’s a long list.

  When I successfully move away from his embrace, I glimpse longing in his eyes. Stunned, I shake my head and almost laugh aloud, certain I’m imaginin’ things. Let’s keep it real—Shakespeare can have his pick of women. I’m only expandin’ my heartache, fantasizin’ that he has truly fallen in love with a frumpy ex-junkie with four kids…who is married to his brother.

  I keep forgetting that part.

  “I got something for you, too,” Shakespeare says, handin’ over a small red box with a tiny white bow. “It’s just a little something.” He shrugs.

  I blink and wince almost at the same time. It’s not that I didn’t think to buy him a gift. I did, but my money is always funny and the General Dollar was all I could afford for the kids.

  “I don’t…I can’t…”

  “Don’t worry,” he says, readin’ my thoughts. “You’ve given me plenty.”

  “I can say the same thing about you, puttin’ me through school and all,” I say, refusin’ to take the box.

  “I’m not doin’ anything I don’t want to do.” He steps closer to me. “I’m not doin’ anything you don’t deserve.”

  My tears are instant, but I resist a trip back into his arms because of the children. Instead, I accept the gift from his large hands, but give him my back while I mop my face. Once that’s through, I open my gift with tremblin’ fingers. Inside is a small seven-inch glass bottle with sand, tiny seashells, a paper beach umbrella, and if I’m not mistaken, a piece of paper rolled inside.

  “What’s this?” I ask.

  Shakespeare closes the space between us, and I’m once again surrounded by his masculine scent. “It’s a message in a bottle. Go ahead. Read the message.”

  Touched by the unique gift, my tears return, which only makes it harder to uncork the bottle. Seein’ I need help, Shakespeare takes over, opens the bottle, and fishes out the small rolled-up piece of paper. The first thing I notice is the message isn’t addressed—and it’s not signed. It just reads:

  You entered my heart at the right time. Healed what needed to be healed and loved what needed to be loved. For that, in my heart, you will always stay.

  I smile and will my tears to remain hidden as I look up. “Thanks. You know I…” I swallow the words I was about to say and cover with, “I care a great deal for you.”

  Jasmine pops up between us and tugs her uncle over to their new pile of plastic toys.

  An hour before my sister arrives to take me and the kids over to her place for Christmas dinner, I finally start wondering about Smokey’s whereabouts.

  “Can we go outside and play until Aunt Cheryl comes?” Jackson asks.

  I’m torn because I know when my kids step outside, Dollar General will be poked fun of next to the top-of-the-line Wal-Mart and Target gifts. I know it’s not supposed to matter, but it does.

  “Momma?” Jackson tugs on my legs again.

  “Sure, baby. Go on outside.”

  My four babies jump up and cheer, and then file out of the house to show what Santa brought them.

  “What’s the matter?” Shakespeare asks, pickin’ up on my anxiety.

  “Nothing,” I lie. The thing is…something is wrong. I just can’t put my finger on it.

  “Where’s Smokey?” Shakespeare asks for the first time.

  “No clue. He jumped out of here with the fake gifts this morning and I haven’t seen him since.” That wasn’t quite right. Smokey wasn’t home when I returned last night, but the kids had been tucked into bed. “Who knows where he is,” I finally say, but my uneasiness refuses to go away.

  “Maybe we should call the precinct.” Shakespeare flips open his cell phone and punches one number because he has the po-po on speed dial. How sad is that?

  I give Shakespeare’s call a half ear while I peek through my dust-covered venetian blinds to see if I can spot my husband shakin’ and hustlin’ for a hit. Amazingly, the only thing I see is children playin’ out in the U with their new Christmas gifts.

  This is a real Kodak moment: druggies and thieves take a holiday.

  B
ehind me, Shakespeare snaps his phone closed. “He’s not there.”

  “Something’s wrong,” I say, feeling it for the first time in my bones.

  “We don’t know that,” Shakespeare says. I don’t realize that he’s walked up behind me until he places a kiss against the back of my head. Then it’s all I can do not to melt back into his arms and finish where we left off last night.

  Click.

  I jumped, the same way I’d jumped last night. This time when I turn toward the door, my husband is standing there with a half-crooked grin and wearing a Santa Claus suit.

  “There you are,” Shakespeare says, trying to sound relieved, but I catch, and I’m sure Smokey does, too, a nervous titter in his younger brother’s voice.

  I ease away from Shakespeare, carving a smile on my wooden face. “Where have you been?”

  Smokey’s black eyes are glossy, but dead.

  “I see you scored a hit.” I shake my head in disappointment. Same shit. Christmas Day.

  “I scored a couple of hits,” Smokey brags, his voice thick and slow like molasses.

  “Samuel,” Shakespeare says, using my husband’s real name. “You need to get yourself cleaned up. You promised.”

  “Shit. I don’t see why I got to be the only one keeping promises around here.” His emotionless black orbs shift from me to Shakespeare, and it clicks inside my head.

  He knows.

  That’s when I see the gun, clutched at his side.

  “What are you doing with that?” Shakespeare asks with a calm I don’t share.

  Smokey doesn’t answer. His hard gaze whips about the room like a second weapon. In my mind, all I can think about is the news report on Takiah. Run down in the street by her husband. Now, less than forty-eight hours later, it’s my turn.

  “You two have been awfully chummy lately,” Smokey finally says. “Someone could get the wrong impression on just who is married to who.”

  We don’t answer, and Smokey’s sinister smile dims. “I’m a fuckup. Everyone knows that.” He uses the barrel of the gun to scratch his right temple. When he speaks again, it’s not clear whether he’s talking to us or to himself. “I’ve tried to kick this shit. God knows I have,” he says, shaking his head. “But this shit got me fucked up. I think about it. I dream about crack. It’s my mistress, my lover…my wife.”

  My eyes drop to the floor. At the same time, I feel his deadly gaze roam over me.

  “But there’s not enough room in my life for two wives. Is there, Keisha?”

  The tiny apartment suddenly feels like a sauna in the middle of winter. I’m afraid to answer, frightened that my answer would get me a bullet through the head. It wouldn’t be the first time. Not here in Bentley Manor.

  “Samuel, why don’t you put the gun down and we’ll talk about this like civil adults?”

  In a flash, Smokey aims the gun and squeezes the trigger. I scream at the sudden blast and the instant shatter of glass from the front window. I glance over my shoulder to see a stunned Shakespeare, sweating and staring at his older brother.

  The building is suddenly alive with activity.

  “How could you fuckin’ do this to me?” Smokey asks through his clenched teeth. “What was the game plan—push me aside and you just step in and take my family?”

  “No, Smokey, you got it all wrong.”

  “Do I?” Smokey laughs. “Then that wasn’t you I saw fuckin’ my wife last night at your house?”

  Click.

  The sound outside Shakespeare’s bedroom replays in my head, confirming my fate.

  “What the fuck is going on over there?” A man’s voice booms in the hallway.

  Smokey responds by shooting blindly toward the door. “Mind your own fuckin’ business!”

  I jump back and slam into Shakespeare’s broad chest. His arms wrap around me and, to my surprise, I still find comfort within them.

  Smokey watches the intimate gesture with a new snarl of disgust. “I bet you two creepin’ motherfuckers thought I’d never find out. I might be high all the time, but I ain’t blind.” Smokey’s eyes center on me. “I’ve seen how you look at my brother lately. You used to look at me that way. Remember? Back in school? Hmm?”

  I swallow the large lump in the center of my throat. “High school was a long time ago,” I finally say.

  “What? You don’t love a nigga no more?”

  Hot tears race down my cheeks as I struggle to answer the question. In the end I simply can’t. This shit is my fault. I’d given up on him.

  “You did this shit to me, Keisha,” he whines. “You got me hooked on this shit and now I’m the asshole?”

  “Samuel, you can’t blame—”

  Bang!

  He shoots down at the floor.

  “Shut up!” Smokey roars. “What happened to all that ‘my brother’s keeper’ crap you fed me?”

  Shakespeare falls silent, and his arm loosens around my waist.

  “Is this how you look after me? You fuck my wife?”

  When he doesn’t receive an answer, he fires another shot into the floor.

  Bang!

  My thoughts fly to Miz Cleo and her precious great-grandbaby downstairs.

  Chaos continues outside the door.

  In the distance, I hear sirens.

  The police. Thank God.

  Smokey smiles as he looks at me. “What? You think they gonna save your cheatin’ ass?” He laughs. “Not this time.”

  Miz Cleo

  The world feels like it’s been turned upside down. I killed my grandbaby. I may not have been behind the wheel or the one that filled her veins with all that poison, but I led her to Pastor Meyer. I handed her over like a sacrificial lamb and my hands are red from her blood. Osceola keeps telling me I need to pull myself together, but how can I?

  She doesn’t understand. She has never had children, let alone grandchildren. So how can she truly understand what I’m going through? My faith is shaken and I’m tryna see God in all of this, but I can’t.

  Takiah came to me for help, and I let her down.

  Just as I let my own children down. The ones in jail and the ones only God knows where they are. The only one who’s been able to put a smile on my face the last two days is my great-grandbaby, Tanana.

  As sweet as she is, I wonder whether I’m the best thing for her. Let’s face it: I don’t exactly have a successful record when it comes to raisin’ kids. And I’m old. Because of a host of medical issues, my chances of seeing this child to her own high school graduation is slim. If she stays in school.

  I got to be honest with you. My spirits are low, and right now it doesn’t feel like they will ever rise again.

  Bang!

  Good Lord, they out there shootin’ again. I jump up and race to the phone. It’s a shame, but I call the police about as often as I call Osceola. I’m surprised they don’t recognize my voice when I call.

  “Send somebody over here. They shootin’,” I say when the 911 operator comes on the line.

  “Where are they shooting, ma’am?”

  “Where they always shootin’. At Bentley Manor.”

  A picture frame next to me explodes. “Oh, hell. They shooting in my place.” I drop the phone. And I race to the back bedroom for Tanana. I think I just need to grab the baby and run outside, but then I hear another shot, and that one seemed like it was outside. Suddenly, I’m frozen and don’t know what to do, and no place seem safe.

  Remarkably, when I glance down into the baby’s bed, Tanana is sleeping like she doesn’t have a care in the world. The shootin’ stops, and I think it might all be over with.

  A few minutes later, I hear the police sirens.

  “Thank God in heaven,” I whisper. Soon it will all be over. Somehow, I manage to relax and grab the empty baby bottle lying next to my great-grand.

  I see the blue and white lights flash through the windows and know enough to stay away from them until the trouble has died down.

  “I guess I’ll go wash th
is bottle out,” I tell myself, but in truth I was already on my way to press my ear to the door and see if I can catch what’s going on in the hallway like I usually do.

  But no sooner do I step into my living room does my front door bang open.

  “What the hell—?”

  “Drop your weapon,” a man booms.

  I’m confused because all I have is a baby bottle.

  I stretch the bottle toward him. “I don’t have—”

  It’s all I’m able to say before the bastard shoots me.

  Keisha

  Shakespeare, Smokey, and I jump when we hear the sudden and rapid gunfire below us. None of us say anything, but our eyes all race to the door, wondering what’s happening.

  “Samuel, put the gun down,” Shakespeare urges. “This has gone on far enough.”

  “Oh, Lawd,” someone cries. “You got the wrong apartment! You done shot Miz Cleo!”

  My eyes skitter back to my husband. The meaning of it all sinks in, and my eyes well up with tears. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, baby.”

  “Neither one of us did,” Shakespeare amends.

  “Then why…?” Smokey backhands his tears. “I was trying,” he sobs. “I swear to God, I was trying.”

  “I know you were.” I try to push Shakespeare’s arm from my waist, but his grip tightens. “Let me go,” I tell him and then walk slowly toward my husband-slash-child. “I’m sorry, baby. I was lonely and tired. Do you even remember the last time you’ve taken me in your arms and even said that you love me?”

  His glassy eyes fall to the floor.

  “I’m a woman, Smokey,” I say, thrusting a finger against my chest. “I’m a woman with needs. All you want and need is your damn crack.”

  “It’s not my fault. I can’t get off. You got me hooked on this shit.”

  “And I tried to get you off,” I shout. I’m no longer willing to shoulder the blame for his addiction. “I got off.”

  The chaos in the hallway grows to a crescendo, and I hear a small army rush up the stairs.

  “It’s that apartment down there,” someone shouts.