BOMAW 7-9

by Mercedes Keyes

  Bea Rose Franklin...

  Bea Rose Franklin's tragic life was that, long before meeting, then young, Oscar T. Wherrington. Quiet, shy—looks a bit unusual. Not a shining beauty—yet—stunning and gripping. Something about the sadness in her eyes, old eyes—yet honest and childlike. She'd been small. Petite and thin. Her features bold; large eyes, one—not exactly centered as the other; a nose not quite flat, but broad, rounded and a very full mouth, with its even fuller upper lip. These features stood out in an otherwise, unassuming and slight frame. Perhaps not the traits of a classical beauty, but nonetheless, features that instantly elicited attention from men. Something about her made them want her, and badly. Perhaps it was that she was the epitome of man's idea of feminine grace. Perhaps it was that she was not perfect—and so, seemed obtainable. Her carriage, soft, gentle, slight and quiet. A waif-like presence and grace, forced to be from having to tread carefully, or else wake her raging mother; or else alert her father that he might know that she hid in her bedroom, praying he not enter. That forced the genteel behavior that was looked upon as an attribute, becoming a magnet to any male whose true nature was one of dominance. She was the fulfillment of their needs. A turn on, without having to say a word. No matter how quiet she tried to enter a room, not to be noticed. Bea Rose, drifting in with her soft mist of silence, shrinking in prayer, captured the attention of many, as if announcing through a blow horn, that she was present.

  Daughter of an alcoholic, abusive mother—fondled and touched by her own father; she found herself escaping often to the sanctuary of the streets. There, although bullied from time to time—she found laughter and some joy. And—love. Love at 14 years old, looking for someone to soothe all the internal bruising that was her life thus far. This she found in the strong arms of a 27 year old Arab. His father owned a local store, he and his brothers worked there in shifts. His name had been Aswad, meaning black. Of all his brothers, he was the darkest, indeed almost black, and so very handsome; with an accent that sent Bea's heart into mad fibrillation. Since Bea spent her younger years, forever journeying to the local grocer for her mother, she was ripe for the picking. Every trip, he was there. Following her around the aisles. Singing her praises. Complimenting her, until he finally coaxed a name from her. Bea Rose.

  After that, the moment she would step into the store, he would see her, following her about the aisles singing out 'Bea Rose—Bea Rose—beautiful gentle—Bea Rose—from your eyes to your nose, I love those lips and skin that glows—oh, that sweet, sweet, Bea Rose...' Young, hungry, needing so to be loved—she ran away from home to be with him. However, after taking her virginity—and declaring a love for all time—it was a love forbidden by his father. In short, she was returned to her home, dropped off by one of his brothers and he—was sent back to their country to marry the woman of his family's choosing. Thus, there she found herself—pregnant at 14. Even after her mother spit in her face, labeled her every kind of whore back to the beginning of the first, Bea Rose's life rolled on. Forbidden or not, and having never seen him again, the one highlight of her young life had been Jeremiah's father. Because her mother refused to support her pregnancy or the child, Bea was forced to go to Aswad's father. He gave her money to get an abortion, and told her to never come there again—if she did—she would be sorry. She never went back again. Although the money had been more than was needed for an abortion—$1500.00—she didn't, of course, use it for that. Neither did she dare share with her parents that she had the money. At 14, she hadn't a clue of what to do with it. All she had known then, was that she was pregnant.

  Finally, because her mother's attacks on her were growing more often with the progress of her pregnancy, as if she were trying to get her to lose it, she left home and turned herself in to social services. Walking the streets with no place to lay her head, was frightening. Thankfully, she was easy to place as a foster child, because she was quiet—trouble free. Social services and her foster parents tried to encourage her to give her child up for adoption. She refused. He was all she had of her one and only love.

  Her foster parents had been religious. Believed in the bible and read it every night. She remembered having to sit through the reading of it. To do so was fine with Bea, in fact, she enjoyed it. It was when peace and calm seemed to flow about her. It was while they read the bible and made her read a portion, that she ran across the name that would be her child's. It was the book of Jeremiah, and she read that God had said to him in the first chapter, verse five, 'Before I was forming you in the belly, I knew you, and before you proceeded to come forth from the womb, I sanctified you. Prophet to the nations I made you'. Choked up by the words spoken from God, Bea Rose knew that she carried a son, and his name would be, Jeremiah. Yes, a calm had come over her, making all for the moment seem okay. No one knew of the money hidden away within her things, and there it would stay. She was afraid if they knew of it, they might take it from her.

  Bea Rose gave birth to a son.

  For years it had been just the two of them.

  Finally, due to welfare programs and assistance, by 18, she was in her own home. A unit, 2 bedrooms, kitchenette/living room and bath in L.A. county—Willowbrook area. For years, she'd endured the onslaught of various men trying to force themselves into her life. The police showing up was a regular occurrence. Desiring a better place, away from the poverty that often left young women like her open season to any wolves seeking to devour them. Amidst the Native American and Spanish women, she battled for placement in jobs that promised a better way of life. Because she believed so whole-heartedly that her son was a gift from God, he was her first priority. For him, she needed to get one of those jobs. While her whole life she'd been shy and shrinking with most, when they were alone together, she was a mother out to make sure—her son rose above what was expected of a young black male. From the time of his birth, she talked to him, read to him, taught him things to place him well in advance of other children. She read the newspaper to him, deciding that fairytales were for dreamers, a black man had no time for dreaming. He needed education, knowledge and understanding of the real world. He could dream after he became the success she was determined he'd be. As if he were an adult and not a babe, a toddler, a child, she read to him as if he understood. As he grew and began to communicate with her, she realized that her efforts had been well received; she had expected him to comment, and comment he did. She reasoned with him, asked him questions, stimulated his thinking faculties, called him, "My young prophet!" Told him often, "You will never be anything less than a success, in all that you do! Get the paper and read it to me, I'm tired." By the age of six, he stunned many, as he sat, wherever they might be, whether the free clinic, or welfare office waiting, there they would be, and him, reading the paper to his mother. Time to time, she'd help him with a word, that wasn't often. She would not budge on him reading books of fiction, thus keeping him in a supply of the daily newspapers to read, getting rid of the sports section and the funnies, then passing it to him to read. Soon, it was second nature to breathing, always aware of what was going on in the news.

  Finally, after several "no contacts" for jobs she'd applied for, many going to Native Americans and Mexicans, she was sent on an interview for a job working for Wherrington house; they were looking to replace a maid that had passed away. If she were hired, the job would pay substantially more than what she was getting from welfare, and she wanted off of public assistance. She was determined not to raise her son under the stigma of the welfare program and shopping with food stamps. She still had her secret stash, using it for Jeremiah only. Getting him that coat, she would not have otherwise been able to afford, those shoes - that a woman on welfare, shouldn't be able to afford, in that, she took her chances and got them. Always thrifty with the money because it came from his father's father—and she would not waste it - if spent, it would be spent on Jeremiah. Being on welfare meant that she must be careful in what she purchased, fearful of being caught out by the program that dared her to have a
means for purchasing better things. If she got that job, for once she would be able to shop, buy what she wanted and bring it home and set it out, and no one, would come in and ask her where it came from and how was it that she could afford it.

  She was hired. Worked there weeks before his first approach.

  Bea had done well for herself up to this point, keeping men off of her for a length of time. Unfortunately, it hadn't been the case with Oscar T. Wherrington. The first of many incidents took place, of course, because Mrs. Wherrington was out. Whether that be out of the house or out of town. That day, the first time, he was supposed to be going out as well. She'd gone into his study to dust, polish the furniture, vacuum, the usual things that her duties entailed. Pushing the vacuum across the floor with the noise from it filling the room, she never heard him enter. Never heard the locking of the study door. Didn't realize that the young, Oscar T. was present until from behind her, his hand appeared around her waist, his palm suddenly snug against her flat stomach—pulling her back against him, while the other covered hers on the vacuum, and then down to the switch, flicking it off.

  Shocked, she'd tried to jerk her body around to see who it was there behind her, his hold on her was firm, pulling her snugly against him, "Calm down—don't be afraid. Like a frightened little mouse—aren't you?"

  Turning out of his arms, she faced him, gulping with a pounding heart. Her ears ringing, lights flashed before her eyes; fear shot through her with ricocheting abandon. Her breathing was long and deep, she stared in disbelief, her mind screaming, Nooo, nooo, nooo, please—what'll I do? What'll I do? I need this job—please—I need this job!Bea could not afford to lose her job, she was no longer on the welfare program once she reported getting it. Based on the income, the assistance she received was adjusted. She'd made promises to Jeremiah. She had plans for them. Things she needed to buy him. He was her only child, she would do anything for her son. Her dream was to build around him, an environment that would only make him better. For that to be obtained, working here was a must. She needed this job!

  "Look at you…calm down. Why are you afraid? Man never touched you before?"

  "I have a son." She returned, her answer to that.

  "I know. But you're not married...no man at home, right?"

  "Please, let me get on about my duties." She was almost pleading.

  "You have, the most incredible mouth—I've ever seen. Anyone ever tell you that?" He asked, staring at it.

  Nervous, Bea pulled her lips within, licking them. While not meaning to—her actions further aroused him.

  "You ever been kissed...by a white man? Hm? Bea..."

  The shake of her head was the answer, looking down at the floor, then back up at him, "Please, let me get back to my job." She asked again.

  "Bea Rose—what an incredible name. It fits you. You're like that, like a delicate, dainty little rose, and those lips..." He trailed off, setting the vacuum upright and away from him, starting to walk towards her. "What if—I was to—offer you—another kind of job—one you might like better?"

  Bea stared at hazel green eyes oozing with lust, they stared at her lips long and hard.

  "I'm fine—with the job I have. Please, I need to finish vacuuming."

  "That can wait." Oscar murmured softly, moving closer.

  Bea wanted to bolt from the room. Knew that she should run for her life, but was scared to death of what doing so would mean.

  "I've been watching you. Did you know that?" He asked, inhaling the scent that surrounded her. Bea loved Charisma, by Avon, it was all that she wore, the one and only perfume that she afforded herself. "I love the way you smell. Nice scent... it's you." He had circled behind her now, leaning in to her neck, below her ear, taking in a whiff. Because Bea stood just barely 5 foot, Oscar stood tall over her.

  "Mister—Mr. Wherrington—I have a son to see to. I can't afford to lose my job. Please—I just wanna get on with my work."

  "Don't you worry about that. I guarantee you—you'll always have a job here. How about a little kiss?" He asked, while delivering one to her soft skin, below her ear. Bea jumped, shrinking inward, "Mr. Wherrington—please..." She tried to move away from him, scared, nervous and totally unprepared for this. The last thing she imagined, was attracting the attention of her employer. She'd never seen herself as the kind that would attract a white man, had spent little time with such thoughts. Only man on her mind now, was the man she wanted her son to become. His arms came around her, moving with her, not willing to let her open a space between them.

  "Do you know the things I could give you? You ride a bus here everyday—don't you?" He asked, kissing up the column of her neck, to her ear, his tongue caressing her earlobe. His hand stroked and caressed up the front of her, his palm groping, reaching her small breasts.

  "Please! Stop it—please..."

  "I want you...I want you...it's been a long time since a woman's fired my blood this way. What'aya want? Hm? Tell me."

  "I don't want this. I don't want this." She trembled.

  "You need a car, don't you? Take that boy of yours to school? Bring you to work?" He started pulling her back towards his desk. He was strong, much stronger than any strength she could muster. No matter how she dug in her heels, he moved her slight frame as if she were a child. Around to the back of his desk, he sat down in his chair and pulled her onto his lap. She tried to get up, he held tight.

  "Why are you frightened? I won't hurt you. Nothing I'll do to you, will hurt—I promise...want some money? Hm?"

  "I'm not a whore! Don't want your money, just wanna earn my way! Please...that's all I want." Frightened, wanting to be free of him, yet too scared to lash out, with no future prospects for anything better—all she could do was plead.

  Oscar held on tightly to her, keeping her in his lap. He reached by her, pulled open the small desk drawer, moved a wedge of wood from the inside of it, and took out a key. "Hold still now, let me show you something." He pleaded with her, staring up into a face that took his breath away. In his eyes, he saw nothing so lovely. Skin that he couldn't wait to touch. Using the key, he turned in the chair with her on his lap, opened a door on the cocktail bar/cabinet and leaned, using the key he held. With a twist of it, a hidden shelf came down, and sitting on it, was more money than Bea had ever seen. He grabbed a bundle, neat, wrapped with a band of all one hundred dollar bills adding up to a thousand. Looking up into her wide eyes, he placed it in her lap.

  "Give me what I want—you—and you'll get one of these—every time. Hm? Come on—no whore I know, ever earned that much from one go."

  Bea's heart slammed in her chest. Going through her mind was all the things she could buy for her son. All the changes that could be made for him, if she would just let this man, do what he would with her. She wasn't a virgin. Truth be told, at night—when she slept, a need stole over her. Times got so, that she touched herself to relieve the clamoring from what the touch of a man can soothe. His hips rotated beneath her. She could feel his erection. She looked up from the money laying in her lap, to the man who waited with baited breath for her to decide. At least he wasn't an old man. In fact, he wasn't bad looking, for a white man. Bea had never been attracted to white men. Never saw anything in them that did anything for her, one way or another. But—she had her boy to think about. Her son. Her Jeremiah—he above all else, meant more to her, than even her sense of pride.

  Oscar smiled. He could see from the look on her face, that he was winning her over.

  "First time, Bea? A man like me, show you this kind of attention? Hm? Here, let me help you with this first time." He reached behind and pulled another bundle out and laid it on the first in her lap. "How's that Bea... you tell me, how's that?" His breathing had changed, growing deep.

  "I'm not no whore. I'm not."

  "Of course you're not. If you were, I wouldn't want you. I got one whore! That one I'm married to! And know this, if you make this decision and take this—I will not be sharing you with another man. You'll be mi
ne, mine alone. Understand? You treat me right, I'll treat you right. No more buses. No more living where you are. Wouldn't you like to live somewhere nicer? Have nice things? That what you want, Bea? Give me what I want—and you'll get everything that you want. Everything..." He swore, then reached up palming the back of her head, bringing her head down as he opened his mouth over hers, kissing her deeply. He pulled her towards him, his hand going under the skirt of her uniform, up her thin thighs, rubbing along her legs.

  Bea closed her eyes, fighting back tears and let him have his way with her. Despite the wrong of the act, her body was responding. Didn't matter what her mind knew, her body - it needed this. He unzipped the front of her outfit, to reveal small breasts. No need was there for a bra. Spreading the dress, he pressed his face within, his hands touching her, his mouth kissing and sucking. Standing with her, he sat her on his desk, reaching underneath her dress for her panties and pulling them down off of her feet with her shoes that dropped to the floor. He spoke to her, saying things that had long been on his mind. Telling her what he would do to her, then did it. The entire time, Bea stayed silent, the only sounds, a gasp when he finally plunged into her body, taking her breath away. It had been a long time since she'd been with a man and he was a healthy, above-average length that left her with no doubt, she'd been penetrated. He went at her hard, then slowed to kiss her mouth, slowed as if afraid he'd miss something if he didn't take it easy. He told her that she was what he wanted, in his passion crowed triumphantly at the pleasure he found pumping between her thighs. He grabbed her hips with both hands, holding her to the edge of his desk, going deep within her, holding himself there, and withdrawing to pump some more, watching her eyes. She refused to look at him, and then something happened, something she had no control over, something she couldn't stop if she tried, she erupted from within. She bit her bottom lip to keep her climax a secret, tried in vain to hide the tremors shocking her body. But he knew, his wicked laugh was as good as saying it, that he knew. He finished himself off—gripping her so tightly it hurt—grunting and growling from the strength of his relief.