“I’m not as strong as you are,” Smokey says, collapsing to the floor, his grip still tight on the gun. “I wish I was.”
“You are,” I assure him and slide down next to him. “You can go back to rehab.”
Smokey laughs.
“I mean it,” I say. “You can do it this time.”
He shakes his head.
A fist pounds on the door. “Open up. Police.”
Shakespeare looks over at us, wide-eyed. “Samuel, put down the gun.”
Smokey shakes his head. His dead eyes now seem like an endless pool of misery. “I can’t,” he whines. “It’s too hard.”
“I know, baby.” I try to gather him in my arms, but he pushes me away. “Get the fuck off of me.”
I leap back from his sudden burst of anger, and I watch as he waves the gun around. “You don’t understand,” he sobs. “I don’t…I can’t live without it.”
“Open up,” the police thunders again.
“I’ve tried and I’ve tried and…” He looks up at me. “I’m sorry I hit you…and I’m sorry you’ve been so lonely.”
His heartfelt words tear my heart in two. Suddenly I remember the teenage boy I fell in love with, the handsome captain of the basketball team that gave me four beautiful babies.
“Last time. Open up!”
“Hold on,” Shakespeare shouts to the door and then turns his pleading eyes toward his brother. “Smokey, please.”
Tears splash down my husband’s face as he meets his brother’s gaze. “You were never my keeper.”
“Samuel…”
Before I knew it, before I could react, Smokey shoves the gun into his mouth.
“No!”
He pulls the trigger and soaks me in his blood.
Epilogue
Miz Osceola
One Year Later
“Thank you, God, for allowing me to wake up and see another day.” I say that every morning as soon as I get up out of my bed and press my feet to the floor.
Ever since last Christmas, I make sure to get up every morning and give The Big One above his due. I’m getting older, and it’s time I secure my ties to heaven just a bit. Besides, I’m used to the foolishness that goes on around this place, but a year ago it hit too close to home.
Cleo. My friend. My gossip buddy. My partner in crime. My girlfriend—as the young ones says these days.
I sniff back my tears. It still hurts me so bad to think of that day. “Whoo,” I say as I grab my Bible and read the twenty-first Psalm.
I feel a lot closer to God these days, and that ain’t easy to say considering that false prophet, snake in the grass, wolf in sheep’s clothing Pastor Meyer.
Humph. I always knew that granddaughter of Cleo had nothing but heartache written all over her for my friend. The news long moved on to other scandalous stories than Takiah and that undercover crackhead Pastor Myers, but her death is still the talk ’round here. Sleeping and getting high with her grandmother’s pastor and then getting run over butt naked in the street by her husband/pusher/pimp ain’t easily forgotten. The Young and the Restless—move over, here’s the real drama. I ain’t gone say she got what she deserved or nothing harsh like that, but if you live by the sword, you die by the sword. Point blank.
I let out a breath as I pull back my curtain and look out at the parking lot below. There’s a few of them lost souls up and waiting for the first sign of a dealer to get ’em their fix. God knows how much tail they done sold or things they done stole and pawn to get the money. I shake my head at Delia out there in that cold, shivering in a thin coat, probably don’t know or care where her kids are.
I see their heads suddenly perk up before they move toward the front building. I never deny being nosy, so I move to the other end of the window to see them circled around somebody in an oversized winter coat. “Marcus,” I whisper against the frosted window glass when I catch sight of his face.
No matter how much we call the police and local politicians just to stir up enough heat to burn these dealers, you got ten more waiting to make that fast money. And they’re getting more violent and mean. More hateful. I ain’t surprised at all when Marcus swings on Delia. He ’bout one of the meanest I ever seen. Big whoo power trippin’ over sick people addicted to drugs. That make him feel like a man?
He reminds me of that Hassan…Leslie…whateva. God knows she had so much anger in her, just waiting to be tripped on over nothing. Maybe it had to do with why she dressed up and lived like a man. If she gay she gay, but why the pretending to be a man? That I don’t understand. She hung out with men. Talked like a man. And considering that big old black thing she flung at WooWoo, that day they fought look like she pretend to have sex like a man, too. Now that was a mess.
Maybe if she got help for that anger, she wouldn’t be sitting in prison with a life sentence for murder.
Couldn’t be easy for WooWoo, seeing as how she caused some of that with all her sneaking ’round here and cheating on her husband. Playing two people against each other is like playing with fire. Now she ain’t got neither one. Don’t know if she decided to be gay or straight. Don’t know how come she didn’t know what she wanted from the get-go. Sounds like she’s just plain selfish to me. She ain’t been back to Bentley Manor since. Can’t say I know that much about her at all. Heard she live with her sister, but that’s as far as the gossip went. Wherever she is, I hope she got her act together.
I groan as I make my way into the bathroom to freshen up for the day. I look at my face in the mirror. A year goes by, and there are a few more wrinkles and a few more pounds and a lot more wisdom. I touch my hair, thinking I can do with a black rinse and press a curl.
Now that Keisha’s gone, I’m gone have to find me a hairdresser to wash this gray right out of my hair. I would go to her new big-time, saddity shop, but it will take me two buses and too much time to get to her. She own her own shop, and now I hear she handle famous people hair. Umph, umph, umph. What a difference a year makes. I’m proud of her. Smokey finally freed her with his death. It ain’t nice to say but it’s the truth. Her and them kids of hers doing better than ever in their new place. Smokey freed his brother, too.
I leave the bathroom and walk into the bedroom to pick up the book on my night table. “My Brother’s Keeper by national bestselling author Shakespeare Williamson,” I read out loud. At least all that heartache and hassle his brother put him through was good for something.
I put the book back. I ain’t much of a reader, but it feels good to know a big-time writer. I keep it there like a reminder to what good can come up outta this hellhole. It ain’t where you’re from, its where you’re going.
I throw on a Bash Bush T-shirt and a pair of jeans before I head out my bedroom as fast as I can. My little apartment get mighty hot when I got the oven on, and today I plan to throw down with another big old Christmas feast. Ain’t got no family of my own, so it’s more habit than anything. I always wind up giving the food away. I just think a home should smell like some good old soul food on the holidays.
And if I didn’t get that bird into the oven, then it’ll be next Christmas before it’s done. I turn on the TV in the living room before I make my way into the kitchen. Just like my own rhythm, it don’t take long at all before I got them pots rolling and my bird baking. I’m wiping my hands on a dish towel when I look up at the TV and see Princess’s video.
“And don’t she look pretty,” I say as I stand there and watch her all did up with makeup and fancy clothes. It ain’t my first time seeing the video, but I watch it again and again like it’s the first time. I hate that she ain’t never been back to Bentley Manor, but ain’t nothing here for her. Her silly momma still got men moving in and out that apartment like roaches. Got the nerve to be ’round here bragging on her daughter. Humph, bet she don’t like that her daughter don’t fool up with her ass at all. No, that girl off living her dreams. Her single “It’s My Time” is the number one R&B record in the country. Now that’s how you make a fool
like Queen regret neglecting her child. I chuckle and boogie a little as I watch Princess dancing with a bunch of boys behind her. She look good too. Real good. She got the right title for her song, ’cause it sure look like it is her time.
My doorbell sounds off, and I keep my eye on the TV as I boogie these old bones on to the front door. “I’m doing things by my own design…You better act right, get straight…It’s my time,” I sing along with her as I open the door.
“Merry Christmas, you old fool.”
I smile big and wide as I eye Cleo standing there holding Tanana’s hand. I want to get all mushy and hug her up, because I know this time last year she could have died. But that old bird is like a Timex, because she took a lickin’ and kept on tickin’. She walks with a little limp, but she made it through. She’s here and that’s all that matters. Thank God. We old, but ain’t neither one of us ready to meet Him just yet.
Hell, we still got plenty to see and to tell.
Acknowledgments
From Meesha
Just a quick thank you to:
God—4 everything, 4 ever, 4 always.
Tony—for the last ten years.
Letha (My Moms), Caleb (My Big Brother), and the rest of my huge family—for your love.
Claudia Menza of the Menza Baron Agency—for your wisdom, your knowledge, and your calm.
Meghan Stevenson and the rest of the fabulous Simon & Schuster/Touchstone family—for your professionalism and expertise.
De’nesha Diamond—for your hard work and great words.
Morrison Creative Trends in South Carolina—for keeping me looking lovely.
Kim Louise—for your friendship.
To anyone I forgot—for knowing to blame my head and not my heart.
Peace & Blessings,
Meesha
From De’nesha
Lord Almighty—thanks for inspiring me to write Takiah’s story—to remind people that it’s never too late. To Granny, for being the best guardian angel—ever.
To my sister Channon “Chocolate Drop” Kennedy—you’re the best.
To my other sister, Charla “McNugget” Byrd—you do you, ma.
To my beautiful niece, Courtney, I can’t wait until we get out the Dora phase.
To Kathy Alba, thanks for being my best friend for twenty-odd years and always coming through in a pinch. To Charles Alba—thanks for taking care of my girl—and hell no, I STILL ain’t paying you two dollars.
To the ByrdWatchers fan club—you always been so loyal and thanks for encouraging me to do what I do. To Angie Clark—a very strong black woman, doin’ her thang.
To the Barretts—my second family. I love you all very much.
To my favorite cousin: Josphine Johnson—I appreciate you and your talks about the facts of life.
A big, big thank-you to Deidre Knight of the Knight Agency for sticking with me for the past ten years. The minute you heard about this idea you were all over it. I love you for that. To Meghan Stevenson at Touchstone, for keepin’ the party rollin’.
And to Meesha aka Niobia—much love for your talent. Let’s see if we can do it again.
Best of love,
De’nesha
About the Authors
MEESHA MINK is the pseudonym for Niobia Bryant, a national bestselling and award-winning author with over ten works of fiction. Currently she writes sexy urban fiction for Simon & Schuster/Touchstone, drama-filled women’s fiction for Kensington/Dafina Trade, and “sexy, funny, and oh so real” romance for Kensington/Dafina Romance. The author splits her time between her hometown of Newark, New Jersey, and her second home in South Carolina. For more on Meesha, visit: www.myspace.com/meeshamink and for more on the author’s works under her real name, visit: www.niobiabryant.com.
DE’NESHA DIAMOND is the pseudonym for Adrianne Byrd, a national bestselling author of thirty multicultural romances. Adrianne Byrd has always preferred to live within the realms of her imagination, where all the men are gorgeous and the women are worth whatever trouble they manage to get into. As an army brat, she traveled throughout Europe and learned to appreciate and value different cultures. Now she calls Georgia home. For more information on De’nesha Diamond and Adrianne Byrd’s work, visit: www. adriannebyrd.com
Both authors can be reached at the official HOODWIVES website: www.hoodwives.com
Shameless Hoodwives: A Bentley Manor Tale Page 19
