Red Light Wives

by Mary Monroe

  I don’t know how long I was in that condition, but when I woke up, I was on the ground in the alley behind Padre’s, on my back and naked.

  The pretty blue silk blouse with matching skirt that I had wore to Mr. Bob’s house was ripped to pieces and covered with dirt and blood. My shoes and panties was on the ground next to me. I tied my clothes around my top and bottom. Just to show you what kind of neighborhood I was in, the girls working the street in front of Padre’s didn’t even say or do nothing when I stumbled out of that alley carrying my shoes and covered in ripped, bloody clothes. If anything, they gave me mean looks for stepping on their turf.

  I was hurting all over. I don’t know how many of them motherfuckers fucked me, but my little pussy felt like a Mack truck had drove up it. My head was throbbing and so was every bone in my body.

  Of all the shitty things I thought would happen to me sooner or later, I never in my life expected nobody to rape me! Tough girls like me never got all emotional about things like rape. I’d seen it happen to other girls when I was running the streets during my teenage years. Them same girls would get up off the ground, dust off their clothes, and then go on about their way until it happened the next time. And it usually did. I didn’t like getting raped, but what bothered me more was getting fucked and not getting paid! My neck was hurting real bad because one of those motherfuckers had tried to strangle me. Nothing hurt me more than knowing that somebody hated me enough to leave me for dead in an alley. Twice!

  I made it back to my car without getting jumped again. I don’t know how long I sat there, but it was a long time. I prayed out loud to God that them assholes didn’t give me AIDS. I wanted to see Manny more than ever. He woke me up by banging on the window of my car.

  He was as glad to see me as I was to see him.

  Chapter 30

  ROCKELLE HARPER

  Nothing could have prepared me for what happened next. It was the Saturday after Sherrie Armstrong’s funeral. I didn’t have any plans for the day, so I was glad when Clyde and Lula dropped in.

  Clyde took Lula and me out to lunch at the same restaurant where I’d first met him. The man spent almost as much time in Alfredo’s as he did in his own apartment. But him extending an invitation that included me was rare, so I went. As soon as we got back to my house and stepped on my front porch, the telephone in my living room started ringing.

  It was Helen.

  “Miss Rocky, can…can you come get me?” she mumbled in a voice so low I could barely understand her.

  “Speak up, girl,” I ordered, my hand cupping the telephone receiver. I first assumed that Helen had taken the kids to her house. She often did that when I left them alone. I didn’t have a problem with that as long as her parents didn’t mind.

  “Hi, Miss Rocky, can you come get me?” Helen said, sounding like she had a mouth full of food, making me almost drop the telephone. My sons peeped around the corner, but they disappeared as soon as they realized I’d seen them.

  “What the hell—girl, where the hell are you? What the hell do you mean going off leaving my kids in this house alone?” I couldn’t contain myself. I was glad Clyde and Lula had come in for a drink. They rushed over and stood next to me with anxious looks on their faces. Lula leaned her head toward the telephone to try to hear. “It’s Helen!” I said, looking from Clyde to Lula.

  “I’m at the Hyatt Regency hotel honeymoon suite. I had some whiskey and I…I think I’m drunk,” she slurred. Then she let out a loud hiccup. “I been with a man. He’s in the bathroom, so I can’t talk long.”

  “You’re what? Drunk? You stupid bitch! What the hell have you done?” I looked from Clyde to Lula again. “This damn girl is off somewhere drinking with a man!” I roared.

  “Holy shit,” Clyde mouthed, his hands on his hips. Lula wrapped her arm around my shoulders to keep me from falling, I was wobbling so hard.

  “See, this is what happened, Miss Rocky. I had a date with this man, but he got crazy and started talking real mean to me and then he took all my money and called me names and a skanky whore. He’s…he’s a creep! I tried to get him to come to your house for our date, like the other ones that called up on your telephone in your bedroom did. I didn’t want to leave the kids alone because I knew you might get back before me and be mad. And that’s just what happened. Miss Rocky, I won’t do this no more,” Helen yelled.

  I thought my head was going to split in two. I could not believe my ears. My mouth was hanging open as wide as it could without dropping off my face.

  Clyde and Lula stood there like mutes with stunned expressions. By the time I got the whole story from Helen, I was horrified.

  “Clyde, that damn girl’s been turning tricks!” I wailed, slamming the telephone down. “She’s tricking with some asshole who just went off on her damn ass. Can you go get her?”

  Clyde had a look on his face that I’d never seen before. His lips moved for several moments before any words came out. “Son of a bitch!” he yelled, with a look of absolute rage on his face. He turned a shade darker, right before my eyes. “That retarded girl that babysits for you?” he asked in a hoarse whisper.

  I nodded. “That little slut!”

  “Helen?” Lula hollered. “Helen’s been turnin’ tricks?”

  “What the fuck—how she get caught up in this shit?” Clyde wanted to know.

  I started wringing my hands and pacing the floor. “Clyde, I don’t know. I guess…she’s not as retarded as we thought she was.”

  “I guess not! What you been tellin’ that girl?” Clyde waved his arms, giving me looks that would have made my flesh crawl under any other circumstances.

  “I haven’t told her anything about…my business, and I didn’t have a damn thing to do with this shit she got herself into!” I shrieked.

  Lula’s eyes were stretched open so wide, I thought her eyeballs would pop out.

  “Where she at?” Clyde shouted, already heading for the door with his keys in his hands.

  “She’s at the Hyatt in the honeymoon suite. That dumb ass got drunk and robbed,” I told him.

  Clyde practically ran out the door with Lula behind him. They were not gone five minutes before Helen’s mother was at the door, wild-eyed and frantic. I kept as far away from her as I could because she looked like she wanted to rip my head off.

  “Rockelle, what is going on? Helen just called and said she’s in a hotel room,” Mrs. Daniels screamed. She had on a plaid housecoat and some gray house shoes. Her hair was in rollers. “She said a man got her drunk and took a couple of thousand dollars from her. Where did Helen get that kind of money? What you got my baby doing?” Mrs. Daniels continued, moving toward me with both her hands balled into fists. “Talk to me!”

  With my hands held up, I stumbled until my back hit the wall. I stood there like a statue, with nothing moving but my mouth. “Mrs. Daniels, calm down. I don’t know what that girl’s been up to,” I lied, still trying to sort out the mess Helen had just told me.

  The truth hit me like a ton of bricks. That sly little wench had been answering my trick calls, fucking in my house, and leaving my kids alone to go hook up with her tricks. “I thought she was responsible. She’s never done anything like this before,” I managed. I got so light-headed I thought I was going to faint.

  “Well, she won’t be coming over here anymore. What you do is your business, but you won’t be involving my child. You lucky I don’t call the cops on your yella ass—”

  “You can’t blame me for this shit. I tried to help Helen feel more like a normal girl. If you cared so much about her, maybe you should have been paying more attention to her,” I shot back.

  “Don’t tell me how to raise my child, you sleazy bitch. You can trash your life, but you won’t trash my child’s. As long as you live, you better not ever ask Helen to babysit your brats again.”

  I would have said more to Helen’s mother, but she ran out the door. Before I could go check on my kids, Juliet stumbled into the room.

&
nbsp; “Mama, what’s wrong out here? I heard loud voices,” she said, rubbing her eyes.

  “Baby, are you all right?” I asked, putting my arms around her. It hurt when she pulled away from me.

  “Yeah, I’m all right. Why?” she asked, shrugging.

  “Uh, Helen won’t be babysitting for us anymore.”

  “Why?”

  “Uh, she left you guys in the house alone. That’s way too dangerous,” I explained.

  Juliet shrugged. “That mean you won’t be goin’ to work no more?”

  “Well, no. I’ll still have to go out to work, but I’ll get Mrs. Johnson from across the street to watch you and your brothers.” Helen had always been my primary babysitter. But Rolene Johnson, a lonely old widow with no children of her own, had always made it clear that when Helen couldn’t babysit for me, she would. “But I probably won’t be able to work as much.”

  “Oh.” Juliet seemed wide awake now. Nothing got that girl’s attention faster than the subject of money. “That mean we won’t go shopping and buy a lot of cool stuff no more?”

  I loved my daughter, but she was one of the coldest individuals I’d ever come across. If she was this trying already, I couldn’t imagine what she was going to be like when she got older. I had a hard time believing how much control she had over me. As much as I did for her, it never seemed to be enough. What hurt the most was admitting that she was just like me. Or at least, the way I used to be. It never ceased to amaze me how much my life had turned out like my mother’s. Even the fact that we both had a daughter first, then two sons. And like Mama, my daughter was to me what I had been to Mama. What goes around, comes around.

  “Uh, no it doesn’t. I don’t care what I have to do, I’ll see to it. We’ll have just as much money to spend as we always did.”

  “We better,” Juliet said with a cold, hard look on her face.

  Chapter 31

  ROSALEE PITTMAN

  I knew that things couldn’t get any worse when I still had to get drunk before I could talk to Mama. It didn’t matter if it was over the telephone or face-to-face.

  I’d gulped down a few sips of rum before I left my apartment, but I had to whip out the bottle I carried in my purse and do a few more shots during the difficult ride in the cab to Mama’s.

  My head was swimming, and I was dizzy, but I noticed the cabdriver glancing at me through his rearview mirror. He had seen my bottle, staring at it like he wanted a dose, too. He must have thought I was really smashed because he drove several blocks out of the way, humming as he shifted his glance from me to the meter. Normally, I would have said something and held back the tip, but this time it didn’t matter. I was glad that the ride was taking almost twice as long as it should have. Even after the cab stopped in front of Mama’s building, I had to take a couple more sips from my bottle, spilling more on my lap than I did in my mouth.

  “Ma’am, do you need help?” the Middle Eastern cabdriver asked in perfect English, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel.

  “Huh? No, I’m all right.” I paid the huge fare and the huge tip and staggered out onto the sidewalk, almost falling on my face.

  I stood in the same spot for several minutes, swaying like a lone tree in a strong wind as I looked around the neat, quiet neighborhood. My heart felt like it was beating a mile a minute. I glared at the beige stucco high-rise building Mama lived in, with its sliding glass doors and a lawn that looked like a bright green tablecloth. It was a long way from the red-shingled house we’d lived in back in Georgia. And much nicer and more modern than the dump we’d lived in back in Detroit. I reminded myself, with a groan that I felt all the way down to my feet, it was more expensive than Georgia and Detroit put together.

  The stout, middle-aged Hispanic man operating the elevator looked at me like I’d stolen something as I staggered in. He frowned at the wet spot on the lap of my jeans where I’d spilled rum on myself in the cab. The way he was rubbing his nose, my guess was that he probably thought I was so drunk I’d pissed on myself.

  The elevator stopped on the second floor. Mama’s nosy, chatty friend Clara wobbled in, holding a covered Tupperware bowl. “Rosalee, is that you?”

  “Yes, Miss Clara,” I managed, leaning against the wall to keep from falling.

  “You look like you’ve been run over by a bus,” Clara noticed. “Star is always printing stories about all the drugs models use.”

  “I don’t use drugs, Miss Clara,” I snapped.

  “I hope not. You’ve already started to lose your looks.”

  “We can’t all be as fortunate as you,” I responded dryly, praying that this rude busybody had a different destination than mine. Clara seemed to spend more time in Mama’s apartment than she did her own, which was one of the reasons I didn’t like to visit. “Uh, where you off to this mornin’?”

  “Oh, Mr. Baker in the penthouse had a slight stroke the other week,” she told me, blinking hard. “The hospital released him this morning. I’m surprised that those greedy quacks at the hospital didn’t keep him longer so they could squeeze more money out of him.”

  “I know what you mean, Miss Clara,” I mumbled. “And that’s a cryin’ shame.”

  Clara nodded so hard her stiff blue wig slid to the side. “Uh-huh. And it’s an even bigger shame that his children are too busy to come and see about him.” Clara paused and adjusted her wig. Then she tied the frayed belt to the pink-and-blue plaid bathrobe she practically lived in. “I hope I live long enough to see just how busy they’ll all be when they find out I convinced Mr. Baker to change his will. All five of those useless brats will get a dollar apiece,” Clara said, cackling. She sniffed and gave me a narrow gaze with eyes that looked like they belonged on a snake. “They are not half as thoughtful as you. You’re a good daughter.”

  “Thank you, Miss Clara.”

  I trotted out of the elevator as soon as it opened, surprised to find the door to Mama’s apartment unlocked.

  “Mama, you should keep this place locked at all times,” I scolded, marching across the living room floor.

  Mama was stretched out on the couch, her eyes glued to a show she had recorded a few days before. Without looking up, she roared, “Rosalee, don’t slam the door so hard. I can’t hear my program as it is.” Mama was as all decked out in a neatly pressed blue cotton dress with a fake rose pinned to the lapel. Her hair was neat, but her face was covered with too much powder and rouge. Shiny red lipstick was smeared across her lips and on her false teeth. She clutched a huge glass of lemonade in one hand and a wad of napkins in the other. She looked like one of the serene old sisters they featured on the covers of hymnbooks and church fans.

  I marched over and clicked off the television. “Mama, we need to talk,” I said, standing in the middle of the floor with my arms folded, my shoulder bag dangling. I hadn’t tightened the cap on my bottle so more rum spilled out, soiling Mama’s thick beige carpet.

  She gasped in horror and sat bolt upright on the couch. “Girl, what’s wrong with you? Look at how you messin’ up that floor!”

  “Mama, we gotta get out of this place,” I said quickly, bracing myself for her outburst.

  “What in the world are you babblin’ about this time? Get out of what place? Go where?” she asked, setting her glass on the coffee table.

  I took a deep breath and continued. “We can’t stay out here in California any longer. I’m goin’ crazy. We’re goin’ back home.”

  From the look of pain on Mama’s face, I thought she was having a stroke, too, like poor old Mr. Baker in the penthouse. “What you mean, we leavin’ California?” she asked in a weak voice, swinging her legs off the couch, smoothing the tail of her dress. “This is home now, and I ain’t gwine no place,” she protested, her eyes on my face. “You—you brung your long tail up in here, interruptin’ my Bernie Mac Show tape to talk some crazy mess like that? Girl, have you lost what’s left of your mind? Turn that television back on and get out my way, gal!” she said, motioning with her hand fo
r me to move.

  “Mama, I don’t want to stay out here anymore. We’ve been out here long enough. Too long, if you ask me. I want to go back to Detroit. Now if you want to stay out here, you can stay, but I’m goin’ back to Detroit,” I told her, refusing to leave my spot.

  “And do what? You want to give up modelin’ to go back to workin’ in that dollar store?”

  “I don’t care what I have to do when I get back there. I am leavin’ this place.” I didn’t realize my hands were trembling until my purse started to slap against my side.

  “I don’t understand you no more, girl.” Mama paused and stretched her eyes open as wide as she could. “You done got fired, ain’t you? I knowed it! Clara said you was puttin’ on too much weight to keep modelin’—”

  “No, I didn’t get fired. Uh, but I can’t keep modelin’ too much longer anyway. I’m not gettin’ any younger, and the modeling agencies are always lookin’ to hire younger girls. You tell me that yourself all the time.” I had weaved so many elaborate lies about my bogus career, that I almost believed the shit myself. “And, Clara’s right. I have put on weight,” I said, letting out my breath so my stomach would stick out more. “I can’t get jobs as easy as I used to…”

  “And because you losin’ your shape, you wanna uproot me and drag me back to all that mess we left behind?” Now Mama was dabbing at her eyes and nose with the napkins. Her tears made her lips shine even more.

  “It’s not just that, Mama. I’m sick of this place, and the sooner we get out of here, the better.”

  “I see. Well,” Mama paused and coughed, rubbing her chest to make it look good. “Well, I guess it don’t matter ’cause I ain’t gwine to be around much longer nohow. I’d just as soon die in Detroit as anywhere else.” Mama coughed some more and started rubbing her chest even harder.

  “Would you rather go back to Georgia? I can get in touch with Cousin Anna in Fayette. You can stay with her if you want to,” I offered meekly.