Desperate Hoodwives

by Meesha Mink

“Whaaat?” he asks, high as hell. “It ain’t like she ain’t neva seen no dick before. Hell, she selling that coochee to the highest bidder, though it probably ain’t worth no more than a five-spot.”

  “That’s five dollars more than your unemployed ass will ever have.”

  To prove me wrong Dumb-Ass digs a five-dollar bill out of his jeans and smacks it down on the coffee table.

  Suddenly, Momma is on his ass like white on rice. “Nigga, what have I told you about puttin’ the moves on my daughter?”

  “Ow. Wait, baby, please. Ow.”

  “You gettin’ the fuck up out of here—tonight!”

  “Ow, wait, baby. We were just fuckin’ ’round—right, Devani?”

  I just laugh and walk out the door. After all, Momma is in her element.

  Despite the seven o’clock hour it’s still bright outside and niggas are roasting beneath the summer sun. A few teenagers have put up a portable basketball net and are dribbling in the center of the parking lot. One boy bounces the ball off the rim and the ball flies in the air and hits the back of my silver Lexus.

  “Hey, watch it,” I shout, mad at myself for breaking my own rule and driving my good car to this cesspool. My shout draws every pair of eyes toward me and soon all the men are in a sudden competition of who can outhoot and whistle at me the loudest.

  “Hot damn.” A nigga I don’t even know struts up to me. “Where are you and your fine ass goin’ this evening?”

  “None of your damn business.” I lift my head and stroll with an extra swing in my hips toward Miz Cleo’s. I feel like a movie star as I move through the hood.

  “My, my, my,” Miz Cleo sings as I approach. “Don’t you sure look pretty this evening.”

  “Why, thank you. My boyfriend is takin’ me out for my birthday.”

  “Is that chiffon?” Miz Osceola leans forward and feels the material for herself.

  “It sure is,” I boast. “Tyrik buys me nothin’ but the best.”

  “Uh-huh.” Miz Cleo twists her lips with clear disapproval.

  Just like I said. Niggas never want to see you happy.

  “How come we don’t ever see this boyfriend around here?”

  I prop my hands on my hips. “Is that a real question?”

  “I’m just sayin’,” Miz Cleo continues, ignoring my sarcasm. “If a man truly cares for you, he would at least come by and meet your momma. That’s just showin’ respect.”

  “Humph,” Miz Osceola mutters.

  Miz Cleo turns toward her friend. “What? Ain’t I speakin’ the truth?”

  “C’mon, now. You know these youngun’ don’t know nuthin’ about respecting their elders. They ain’t nuthin’ but a bunch of selfish bastards.”

  “For your information,” I cut in, “Tyrik has invited my mother out to his home plenty of times.”

  Both women turn their beady eyes toward me. “And?”

  “And…she hasn’t been able to make it,” I lie awkwardly.

  “Uh-huh.” Neither looks as though they buy the story.

  “Well,” Miz Cleo says after a long silence. “I suppose you came for the recipe?” She reaches into the top of her bra and pulls out a small slip of paper and stretches it out to me.

  When I reach and grab hold of the paper, Miz Cleo doesn’t immediately let go. “You do know all that glitters ain’t gold, chile?”

  “Preach on it,” Miz Osceola says like we up in church or something.

  I pull on the paper, but it still doesn’t budge. “Whatever you do, don’t trade one hell for another.”

  I snatch the piece of paper out her hand, and then turn and walk away before I really show her the meaning of disrespect. I can’t wait to see the last of those two old bitches. If they were so smart, why the fuck are they still in this rat hole?

  When I return to the apartment, I literally walk in on Momma fuckin’ Koolay’s brains out on the sofa.

  “Gross,” I yell, throwing the recipe inside and slammin’ the door. Children should never ever see a parent having sex. It fucks with you. Trust me, I know. I’ve walked in on them too many times to count.

  I’m still disgusted as I burst back outside and storm toward my car.

  A man’s high whistle catches my ear and I turn to see Shakespeare strolling toward me. Before I know it, I’m blushing and performing a small pirouette for his inspection. “You like?”

  “I love,” he says warmly as his eyes gobble me up.

  My gaze spots the journal in his hand. “Does this mean you’ll write another poem about me?”

  His brows arch. “How did you know about my poetry?”

  “I have my ways.” I can’t believe how bad I’m flirting.

  “Then the answer to your question is: yes.” He flirts right back. “How can I not write about an angel?”

  “Oh, you’re good.”

  “Soon as you dump Tyrik’s ass, I’ll show you just how good.”

  “Then I guess that means I’ll never know.”

  The familiar sound of police sirens fills the air and we both turn toward the gate as two cop cars whip into the complex.

  “Oh, shit,” Shakespeare mumbles. “I bet this has something to do with Smokey.”

  “He’s out of rehab?”

  “Yeah. Keisha and the kids came back, too.”

  Dumb-ass bitch.

  Sure enough, the po-po stops in front of Smokey’s building.

  “I’ll catch up with you later.” Shakespeare starts jogging toward the police and I head to my car.

  “By the way,” he calls out. “Happy birthday!”

  I don’t believe it. He remembers—just like he does every year. Too bad he’s always too broke to buy a present. “Thanks!” As I slide behind the wheel, I think what a shame I’m not a hopeless romantic. If I were, Shakespeare would’ve won my heart years ago.

  “C’mon, girl. Stop daydreamin’ and go get your ring.” I reach over to the CD player and blast Tupac’s “All Eyez on Me.”

  26

  Devani

  Dinner at the Palms’ exclusive 837 Club turns out to be more than I dreamed of: excellent food, great wine, and good service. Tyrik is nervous throughout the night.

  Tonight’s the night, I keep singing to myself.

  “You look beautiful,” he says, yet again, as he reaches for my hand.

  I take the compliment with a widening smile. “You keep saying that.”

  “That’s because it’s true.” He kisses my hand. “What do you say we get out of here?”

  I blink at the curveball he tosses me. Where the hell is my ring? “Sure.” I continue to smile as I dab the corners of my mouth. “Where should we go?”

  Twenty minutes later, we’re back at his place and chillin’ in the outside Jacuzzi. It isn’t exactly what I had in mind, but whatever. I’m just waiting for my damn ring. After a game of footsies and a bottle of champagne, Tyrik props me up on the edge and dives in for some pussy delight for dessert.

  I swear, Junior might have the best dick, but Tyrik’s tongue is second to none. Soon, Tyrik is fuckin’ me every which way but loose in the living room, the kitchens, the staircase, the bed, the shower, and back to the bed. It’s like his ass is on a mission or something.

  Being eight weeks pregnant, my ass is worn the fuck out by the time it nears midnight.

  “Happy birthday, baby,” Tyrik murmurs as he spoons my tired ass.

  What the fuck ever. Where’s my ring? I’ve earned my ring.

  “I got something for you,” he adds.

  It’s about damn time.

  Tyrik reaches over me and pulls open the nightstand drawer.

  My energy immediately renews itself and I can feel my stomach loop into knots. However, the box he pulls out is definitely not a ring box.

  “What’s this?” I ask, sitting up.

  “It’s your gift,” he says and plants another kiss on me.

  What the fuck? I rip into the box and stare stupidly at a simple diamond bracelet.

 
“You like it?” He plants another kiss against my collarbone. “It’s a little something to remember me by when I go to Pittsburgh.”

  Remember him by? My fuckin’ heart starts racing. “Where’s the ring?”

  Tyrik pulls back and stares at me. “What ring?”

  “My fuckin’ engagement ring.” I throw the damn jewelry box at his chest. “You’re supposed to be giving me an engagement ring.”

  “Whoa. Whoa.” Tyrik slides out of bed. “I never said I was going to marry you. Are you crazy?”

  What? “Your father—”

  “My father doesn’t make my decisions. I’m a grown-ass man. You got to be out your rabbit-ass mind if you think I’m marrying some hood rat out of Bentley Manor.”

  Ah, shit. This nigga has straight-played my ass.

  I’m swinging at his head before I can think straight. I even manage to land a few good blows before he pins me down. What’s more infuriating is that he’s actually laughing at me.

  “I’m gonna kill you,” I shout, squirming with all my might. “I want my goddamn ring!”

  “Don’t ruin this, Dee. We had some fun, but that’s all.”

  “You’re not fuckin’ leaving me here. I’m having your baby.”

  “Are you?” he challenges. “Maybe we should talk to Junior?”

  Oh fuck! “Tyrik, baby. I don’t know what Junior told you but—”

  “What? You thought you were going to just straight-play my ass? Is that it? Haven’t you heard that blood is thicker than water or did you think your pussy is so good that Junior would keep that shit quiet?”

  “No, baby. You gotta to believe me. Junior is a fuckin’ liar.”

  Tyrik grabs a fistful of my hair and snatches me up off the bed. “You got to get the fuck up out of here. Thanks for the pussy, but it’s time to go. And you can forget about takin’ the motherfuckin’ Lexus.”

  “Tyrik, baby—”

  “And I’ve already canceled the credit card.” He tosses my clothes at me.

  Oh, shit. Think, Devani, think. “Tyrik, you’re making a big mistake.”

  “No. I’m correcting a mistake.”

  He drags me down the stairs without giving me the chance to get dressed. “I don’t care what Junior says,” I bark back. “And you better bet your ass that you’re going to take care this baby.” One shove and I’m tumbling down the stairs with one thought: This nigga’s tryna to kill me.

  Halfway down the staircase, I manage to stop my fall. But when Tyrik starts down the stairs after me, I scramble for my dress a few steps away and then bolt the rest of the way down. “You’re fuckin’ crazy,” I scream.

  A sharp pain erupts in my lower abdomen. “My baby.” I clutch at my belly and double over. I can’t lose my ace in the hole.

  I head for the door, barely remembering my purse on the foyer table. “This isn’t over,” I threaten. “You’re taking care of this baby. Trust.” I jerk open the door as Tyrik nearly catches up with me.

  Naked as a jaybird, I bolt outside still cussin’ him the hell out. For an added “fuck you” move, I race to my Lexus and hop inside before he can do anything about it. I lock the door just as Tyrik catches up. He bangs on the door and window while I finally slip the dress over my head.

  “Get the hell out of the car.” He grabs hold the top of the roof and begins rocking the damn thing. “Get the fuck out.”

  “Fuck you, motherfucker! I’ll see you in court!” I turn the engine over and slam my bare foot onto the accelerator and peel off into the night.

  Minutes later, another sharp pain bolts across my lower stomach and I’m suddenly in a state of hysterics. I fucked up. I fucked up bad. The only thing that can save me—save my life and still get me the hell up out of Bentley Manor is the child growing inside of me.

  Lord, please don’t let this be Junior’s baby.

  The fact that I’m praying isn’t lost on me. But damn if I can’t help it. My tears are flowing so hard it’s difficult to see the road, so I ease off the gas pedal. I try’n plan my next move but now all I can think about are the what-ifs. What if I’m wrong and this baby really is Junior’s?

  Twenty minutes later, I reach Hollowell Parkway and I can see the iron gates of Bentley Manor in the distance. My hell. My prison. Maybe Momma will know what I should do next.

  At the sound of screeching tires my gaze shoots up to the rearview mirror and I’m instantly blinded by an SUV’s high beams.

  “What the fuck?”

  The vehicle speeds up and my heart leaps into my throat. I slam my foot back down onto the accelerator and fly past the Circle K.

  The black SUV jumps into the wrong lane and catches up to me. I turn my head to glance out my window, prepared to flip this motherfucker off, when I catch sight of Rufus in the passenger seat—a split second later, I see the gun.

  Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop!

  My hand falls from the wheel and my foot slips off the gas pedal as my brain tries to process what just happened. I still see Rufus as the SUV continues to peel off into the distance. There’s an eerie sound of steel hitting iron and a white bag explodes in my face.

  What…what’s happening?

  Pain answers me. It’s suddenly pulsing from every part of my body. I glance down but don’t understand why my white dress is now red.

  “Devani! Devani!”

  Shakespeare? What the hell is he doing here?

  I lift my eyes and see his hand reaching through the broken glass window. When did that happen?

  “Devani! Oh my God! Somebody call for help!”

  There’s horror and sorrow in his voice and I wonder what’s wrong. I blink but when I open my eyes, I’m cradled in his arms.

  “Hold on, Devani,” he sobs. “Help is on the way.”

  I realize that he’s crying for me and I reach my hand out to tell him it’s okay—that I’m all right; but my arm is so heavy and I’m so so tired…

  27

  Molly

  Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop!

  My eyes snap open at the familiar sound. Not again.

  Once upon a time the sound of gunfire would send me scrambling to the nearest corner, quaking and sobbing about what I’ve gotten myself into by living in this hellhole. Now, I’m more annoyed than anything else. I have to get up early to meet my mother for breakfast at IHOP in Woodstock and then I have a doctor’s appointment.

  “Somebody call for help!” a man’s voice drifts outside my window.

  Lazily I roll over and stretch out my hand. It’s soft, cold…and empty. I shoot up in bed and search the darkness for my husband. Where in the hell did he go?

  Before I know it, I’m dashing out of bed and searching the apartment like a crazed woman. Given the size of the place, it doesn’t take long.

  This doesn’t make sense, but then I remember the phone call Junior received not too long ago. I was pissed that someone was calling and waking us up, but Junior assured me it was nothing and to go back to sleep. Now I wonder what was so important he had to creep out.

  “Oh, God. He’s been shot.” My brain leaps to the illogical conclusion and I race out the front door with my stomach twisting in knots and my heart in my throat.

  I burst into the night in my pink jersey nightgown and join the Bentley Manor’s regular night crawlers. The people with common sense remain in their apartments—I should be in mine. I don’t know where the shooting took place, but I just fall in step behind the drunk, the high, and the curious.

  There’s an empty space next to our Chevy Caprice and it confirms that Junior is gone. As I near the complex’s entrance I finally see a silver Lexus squished against the security gate like an accordion. I know it’s wrong, but I actually stop and breathe a sigh relief. It isn’t him. Junior had borrowed Tyrik’s black SUV so I can use the Caprice tomorrow.

  Before I can turn around, a familiar voice cries out, “Devani, no!”

  Devani? Come to think of it, I did see Devani leaving the complex in a silver car this evening. I resume w
alking toward the gate, pushing my way through the crowd of sour-smelling men.

  And then I see them.

  Shakespeare is sitting on the glass-covered street, crying and rocking Devani’s blood-soaked body.

  “No, no,” he moans repeatedly.

  There’s so much raw pain in his voice and his face that it feels wrong to witness such anguish, but it’s also hard to turn away. My gaze lowers to Devani’s still face and tears burn my eyes as I remember the child she was carrying.

  An innocent life…gone.

  “Let me through, goddamn it! Let me through!”

  Heads swivel toward the hysterical voice to see Devani’s mother shove her way through the crowd. Poor woman.

  She collapses next to Shakespeare and pulls her daughter away from him.

  I can’t watch anymore. I turn and navigate my way back out of the crowd and return to the apartment.

  If Junior wasn’t involved with the shooting then where in the hell is he?

  “I told him if he can’t get what he needs from that fat-ass wife of his that he was welcome around my way any damn day of the week.”

  Goddamn it. It’s been more than two months and I still can’t get Geneva’s words out of my head. I pick up the cordless phone and dial Junior’s cell phone. With each ring I grow more worried, anxious, and pissed. When Junior’s voice mail comes on, I slam the phone down and backhand the sudden tears streaming down my face.

  Where is he?

  “Honey chile. Open your eyes and see what’s in front of you.”

  I return to bed and empty my tears into the pillowcase. Hours later as my face dries and my head aches, I hear the front door open. I don’t move or even call out. When he creeps into the bedroom, my back is to the door and my eyes are wide open. He doesn’t bother to turn on the light; but I hear the swish of clothing and the rustling of sheets before he slides in behind me.

  I want to lash out, interrogate where he’s been—but I also know what will happen. He will leave me…and I’m not sure I can handle that.

  Junior inches close until his body spoons me. “Molly, are you up?”

  Silence.

  He leans forward and plants a kiss against the back of my head and slides his arm around my hip.