Madam, May I

by Niobia Bryant

  No, Plum.

  A vision from the past that left an indelible mark on her life flashed, and she shook her head to free it. To forget it. As she had done for years. As she had had to for years.

  “Plum,” she mouthed, feeling overwhelmingly sad at the battle the young woman would have to fight to overcome heroin.

  “I’m on the way,” she said softly, barely above a whisper, her eyes filling with tears as she ended the call and lowered her head to the steering wheel.

  The long and steady blare of a car horn—or a few—behind her caused her to raise her head and accelerate forward. It took her twenty minutes to make it to Riverdale. She gathered herself during that time and calmly pulled her car into one of the spots inside the garage, closing and locking it behind her before she climbed out and entered the house through the side entrance.

  Her steps echoed in the quiet of the house as she made her way down the hall and to the right to the elevator. What came next would not be easy, but she had prepared herself for it and was sticking to her guns.

  “Hey, boss,” Denzin said solemnly, leaning against the railing with his arms crossed over his bare chest, wearing nothing but sleep pants.

  She gave him a smile that didn’t reach her eyes as she walked up to him and squeezed his hand. “I’m responsible for y’all, you know,” she said softly.

  “We appreciate you, boss. Trust me,” he stressed.

  Desdemona looked to the open door. “Leave us alone, okay?” she asked.

  “No problem.”

  She let her hand trail across his arm until it fell to her side as she walked away from him and into the room, closing the door behind her. Plum was sitting on the side of the unmade bed, still in a barely-there black teddy, with her hands covering her face, leaving nothing in view but her shoulder-length hair dyed her trademark plum color.

  Her eyes fell to the heroin packet on the floor. There was still a bit of the drug in the corner of it.

  The devil.

  “Hi, Plum,” Desdemona said, deciding to leave it there.

  The beautiful Latina, who resembled Cyn Santana in looks and body, looked up at her. Even her ruined makeup couldn’t detract from her beauty. Nor could it hide the glassiness in her eyes.

  How did I miss it?

  Desdemona walked over and hugged her tightly to her side. “I’m thankful you’re okay, Plum,” she said earnestly.

  “Me too,” she said.

  “I honestly love you, Plum. Out of all my girls. I love you,” she said, biting her lips as she felt her composure begin to slip. “You are the sweetest person I know.”

  The woman’s shoulders began to shake.

  Desdemona reached for her chin and raised her head. “That shit will change you,” she said, twisting her head to make her look down at the heroin packet. “I would hate for it to change one single thing about you.”

  Tears rolled down her plump cheeks as she closed her eyes.

  “I’ve never met anybody that everybody loves, Plum, except for you,” she stressed with conviction. “You walk into a room and everybody smiles, but you gotta see your own light. There is nothing but darkness and death in that shit. You hear me?”

  Plum nodded, looking at her and then looking away in what she assumed to be shame. “I messed up,” she said, her Dominican accent present.

  Desdemona wiped her tears away with the sides of her thumb. “Throw that shit away, Plum,” she requested, stepping back from her.

  Plum eyed it and then her and then stared at it again.

  With longing. With love. With hate. With reservation about breaking its hold on her.

  Fight it, Plum, she silently urged from the sidelines of the battle between addiction and a desire for sobriety.

  Patiently, Desdemona stood there. She lost count of the minutes that passed. She didn’t rush her. She’d seen this fight before . . .

  Desdemona danced around the apartment to Destiny’s Child’s “Independent Woman” as she opened all the windows and set about cleaning up the empty liquor bottles, containers from take-out food, ashtrays packed with cigarettes, and even a few used condoms. Majig’s Friday night parties were infamous, making her Saturday morning cleanups a task she didn’t look forward to.

  But it was a part of her duties—her many duties.

  Whore. Maid. Punching bag—verbally and physically. Drug mule. Flunky. Footstool. Fool. Etcetera, etcetera.

  She placed her hands on her hips in the frayed denim skirt she wore with a fitted white tee with “NO BUSH... in the White House or between your thighs!” Everything was back, polished and in its rightful place. She couldn’t deny that Majig had good taste. The black décor with colorful accents and chrome tables was dope.

  A beautiful prison.

  She hated it.

  Not the amenities, clean surroundings, and never walking the streets again trying lure tricks, but the confinement. She only left the apartment once a week to run errands; other than that she was here. With him.

  She looked over her shoulder and eyed the door to his master suite.

  It was hell never knowing when she would get a slap, kick, or be cursed with venom. And she still turned tricks in her own room, with him charging her for half the bills. She didn’t think she would ever be free of the debt or of him. When she thought of how he had lured her with lies of love, she used to ache with the pain and betrayal.

  Now? After three years, the pain had faded and was replaced with her fear of him. Her slow simmering hate of him.

  For the hitting.

  For the tricks.

  For the other young girls she watched him woo into prostitution the same way he did her.

  There were moments when she felt numb—either from the neck up or the waist down. Whatever it took to survive the particular moment.

  From one devil to another, she thought, thinking of her stepmother and her early days living on the street after she ran away.

  I will never forgive her.

  Knock-knock.

  Desdemona looked across the space to the front door before closing in to check the peephole before opening it. “Hey, KeKe,” she said to the petite woman with the fuchsia weave she wore down her back long and straight. It matched the Baby Phat jumpsuit she wore with gold heels.

  “Where Jig?” she asked, before setting off a string of pops of her bubble gum.

  “In his room,” Desdemona said as she dropped onto the black leather sofa and used the remote to turn on the fifty-two-inch plasma television mounted on the wall.

  KeKe sat on the other end of the couch, opening her Guess purse to pull out a prerolled blunt and a lighter. “You in?” she asked as she lit it.

  Desdemona had enough battles she was fighting without taking on addiction of any kind.

  She just shook her head and continued flipping through the channels.

  “I need to talk to Jig,” KeKe said before releasing a stream of smoke.

  “He’s in there . . . if you want to wake him up.”

  KeKe looked at her like she had three heads. “Last time I did I wound up with a bruised rib and bust lip. So that’s a no.”

  Humph. Been there. Learned that painful lesson.

  “What you need?” Desdemona asked.

  “I want to get at some bigger fish,” KeKe said, rubbing her fingers together and causing her long acrylic nails to hit against each other. “More money.”

  Desdemona eyed her. Over the years Majig had grown his ring from streetwalkers to call girls and escorts. He didn’t take lightly shifting a girl up to the next level. “You think you’re ready?” she asked.

  “Hell, yeah,” KeKe said with enthusiasm. “I know my pockets are.”

  They shared a laugh.

  KeKe had been tricking for Majig for two years and usually worked Desdemona’s old stomping ground between the liquor store and the Chinese restaurant. Her money was consistent. Never late. Weed was her strongest vice, and she was funny.

  “I’ll tell you what,” she said, f
ollowing her gut. “There’s a party tonight at that strip club on Vine.”

  “I know the place.”

  “Good. Go there. Look for a dude named Gary. Tell him Majig sent you, put in that work for free, and let’s see what he thinks of you.”

  KeKe took a deep inhale before she released the smoke and looked at her through squinted eyes. “Damn. You running shit up and through here now?” she asked.

  “Definitely not. I just help him out here and there when he’s busy, but this is Majig’s ship. I just crew. You know?”

  Busy meant high. What started out as something he did to help party and relax had become more of a problem lately.

  KeKe looked skeptical. “Right,” she said, sounding unsure.

  She was right to feel that way.

  The last five months Majig had taught her the ins and out of running his prostitution ring. She took to it like a fish to water, even making changes that further protected Majig, increased his income, and weeded out bad call girls and clients. With each day he was releasing more and more of the control as the drugs gained the power over him.

  “You in?” Desdemona asked.

  “I’m in,” KeKe said, releasing another thick stream of silver smoke before she pulled out a bankroll to toss into Desdemona’s lap before she stood, retreated to the front door, and left.

  Desdemona twisted the money in her hand as she rose and walked down the long hall to toss the money inside a glass bowl on a small table outside his door. By the end of the day, it would triple.

  Desdemona was walking back up the hall when she heard a crash. She stopped and turned in alarm. Her eyes were on the door. Knocking on it when he was in the wrong mood could lead to hits and kicks that would leave her in pain and bruised—if not worse. There were times she wondered if he would kill her during one of his tirades. She literally scratched her scalp as she debated checking on him before she turned and took a few steps.

  What if he needs my help and blames me because I didn’t?

  She paused.

  Lately, if he wasn’t raging, he was stumbling or nodding off from his heroin high. What had started as recreational use had turned into an addiction. Every day his grasp on the drug weakened, and it overpowered him. It was why he entrusted her with so much of the business: most days he was too high to care.

  She ran her fingers through her hair as she walked back to the door. With a lick of her lips, she lightly knocked. “Majig? You up?” she asked, hating the fear that sped her heartbeat. Hating that she was already flinching from the thought of him opening the door and backhanding her; she took a step back.

  But there was no answer.

  Maybe he’s in the bathroom.

  Or maybe he fell.

  She turned the knob and eased the door open slowly. She saw his feet first. He was on the floor. Pushing the door open wider, she stood in the doorway and gasped at the sight of his naked body on his side with his arm extended and a syringe still in his vein. He grunted. It was so soft she barely heard it. His eyes were dazed and staring off. His lips were tinged blue. He was sweaty. His breathing was raspy. Drool stretched between his mouth and the floor.

  He was overdosing.

  She took a step forward.

  Wait.

  Desdemona paused. She felt like she could hear the pounding of her heart dominate the quiet as death neared. She blinked as moments of his abuse, control, and manipulation came back in a rush. To save him was to continue to enslave herself.

  His breathing slowed.

  Help him.

  “No,” she answered herself.

  She thought of other young women falling prey to his lies and getting entrapped in a world of sex for money when they thought they were getting love.

  I thought I was getting love.

  Three years had passed since that night at the laundromat. How much more time in her life did he believe belonged to him? How many more bust lips, black eyes, bruised ribs, broken arms were in store for her? How many more rapes? How much more disrespect?

  This is my escape.

  A tear raced down her cheek. In truth, it wasn’t for him, but for herself. The very fact that her life now was at a crossroads, choosing his death or her freedom, was pathetic.

  With a rush she stepped out of the room and closed the door, turning to press her back to it as she covered her mouth with her hand and looked up at the ceiling. Frantic. Unsure. Guilty. Panicked. Afraid.

  She slid down the door and sat, drawing her knees to her chest. Instinctively she reached to her throat for her heart-shaped locket. It wasn’t there. He had snatched it from her neck years ago and hid it away, knowing it meant the world to her.

  She thought of her parents.

  Neither would want this life for her, but would they agree with letting a man die?

  Help him, Desi.

  She scrambled to her feet and opened the door.

  Too late.

  He lay still. There was no breathing. His eyes lacked life.

  I’m free.

  She covered her mouth with her hand again, flooded with guilt at that thought. She stepped into the room, and her eyes scanned the room for the cordless phone. In the middle of his bed was a small safe that was open and unlocked. She gave his body an anxious look before stepping over his feet and moving over to the king-size bed, peering down into the metal box.

  There were some money and a notepad. As she opened it, her eyes widened at the list of names and phone numbers she found. His client list for the escorts and call girls.

  She turned and picked up the cordless phone, calling 911. The entire time she reported the apparent overdose of her “boyfriend” in their apartment, her eyes were locked on that safe.

  He owes me.

  After ending the call, she picked up the safe and left the room, giving his dead body one last look before closing the door. The weight of the safe in her arms was nothing to the weight she now felt on her shoulders.

  Desdemona reached for her locket on her bracelet. Most times she repressed that memory of her death-filled last moments with Majig. Looking on as Plum struggled with her own heroin addiction brought it all back home. She didn’t want her to lose the battle, but she had to want it for herself.

  Like I did. It was my freedom or his power over me.

  Choose yourself, Plum. Please.

  Plum released a long, heavy breath as she rose to her feet. She smirked. “When it’s good I love it. When it’s bad I hate it, but I need it to stop feeling bad,” she admitted, casting Desdemona a brief look before fixating on the drug again. “Chicken or the egg, you know?”

  She remained quiet.

  Plum stepped over and stooped down to pick it up. “You almost killed me,” she said, stroking the clear bag with her thumb as she walked over to the bathroom.

  Desdemona looked on as Plum raised the bag to her mouth and kissed it before dropping it into the commode and flushing it away. She felt flooded with relief. There’s hope.

  Plum continued looking down into the commode. “Something in me wishes I could dive down there,” she said.

  “That’s your brain,” Desdemona said, walking over to her. “You have to reprogram it not to crave it.”

  The woman’s eyes shifted up to the mirror over the commode.

  “You’re fired, Plum,” Desdemona said, forcing firmness into her voice. “But I will pay for you to go to rehab—ninety days or more—to get rewired so you don’t think you love it.”

  Plum’s face crumbled with her emotions, and she covered it with her trembling hands.

  “And when you get out, I will give you the same amount of money you normally make in three months to help you get on your feet,” she finished, eyeing her reflection. “But you’ll never work for me again, and I don’t think this line of work is for you anymore.”

  “I wanna go,” she whispered through her fingers.

  “Tonight,” Desdemona stressed.

  She nodded.

  “Okay, I’ll be right back. St
ay here.” Desdemona walked across the room but hesitated and turned. “How’d you beat the drug test?”

  Plum gave a slight smile. “I used to wait to get high until after the monthly test,” she said.

  A flaw in her plan.

  “Just that simple,” Desdemona admitted.

  Plum shrugged one shoulder.

  She turned and left, leaving the door ajar.

  Denzin had waited and turned as she entered the hall.

  “Stay with her. I’m going to try to get her in a ninety-day program tonight,” she said to him softly.

  He nodded, his eyes troubled. “I will.”

  As soon as he was back inside the room with Plum, Desdemona allowed her knees to buckle a bit as she gripped the railing and looked down at the foyer below. She closed her eyes, hating that she so clearly recalled Majig’s dead pose.

  It was a secret she shared with no one how she had stepped in to claim Majig’s throne. Instead, she focused on changing the game, in how she treated the women who chose to remain working for her. But it took a long time for her to accept and reconcile that she had done what she had to do.

  Remembering that, she stiffened her back, squared her shoulders, and locked her knees. There was no shame in choosing herself.

  * * *

  As soon as Lo opened the door, Desdemona stepped into his embrace. She didn’t care how it looked or how he interpreted it. She wanted—needed—to be wrapped in his goodness. His sweetness. His kindness. Everything.

  “Awww,” he said, pressing a kiss to her temple as he walked them back into his apartment to close the door. “Bad day?”

  “Horrible day,” she said, snuggling her face against his neck. “That’s why I’m so late.”

  Plum was finally checked in to a ninety-day program in Connecticut. Desdemona had driven her there herself, never once leaving her side. Now all she could do was hope—and pray—for the best.

  “Heal me?” she asked, tilting her head back as she rose up on her toes and kissed his mouth.

  He rocked their bodies back and forth. “‘When I get that feeling, I want sexual healing,’” he sang near her ear. It was deep, low, and on key.

  Desdemona leaned back. “Is there anything you don’t do well?” she asked teasingly.