by Nikki Turner
Simone stood in silence.
Filling the gap, Marjorie asked, in mock politeness, “Now what do I owe the pleasure?” Then the pretense of cordiality vanished as quick as it had appeared. Marjorie, as if just noticing Simone, balled her face up in disgust. “By, the way, you look a fucking mess. In fact you should be ashamed of yourself walking around here looking like who did it and why. You look despicable.”
She had no makeup on her face and had on a velour Juicy Couture sweatsuit on. That morning She honestly just wanted to just stay in her Me-Ma’s house under the covers, but she knew she had to go back to the bank to attempt to get her stuff.
Simone wanted to say, “And you always look like the fake two-faced woman you’ve been since I met you,” but instead she bit her tongue to avoid any more of a scene. She just said, “I had a rough twenty-four hours.”
Reluctantly, Marjorie invited her in. “Make it quick, honey. I have things to do, people to see, and places to be.”
Once inside, under the light, she was able to give Marjorie a once over look and it was a official. It was rumored, by Ms. Godfrey, her neighbor next door, that Marjorie had been under the knife, getting all types of plastic surgery procedures. Once inside the house, under bright light, the rumors were confirmed. Marjorie’s face was tight as fish pussy. She’d gotten a new nose, a facelift, and enough botox to fill the holes in the foundation of the Titantic. And if that wasn’t enough, Simone couldn’t help but notice, Marjorie had got permanent make-up tattoos in place of eyebrows and lip liner. If her goal was to imitate a frozen clowns face, she’d succeeded with flying colors, Simone thought.
Marjorie led Simone into the living room, which is off to the right of the grand foyer. “I see you’ve redecorated,” she said checking out the room.
Marjorie’s face wasn’t the only thing that had been drastically transformed into something almost unrec-ognizeable. The paint, the flooring, the furniture, the drapes, everything had been changed. Nothing was really wrong with the way it was before.
“The place needed it,” Marjorie said with an edge, “It was a long time overdue.”
“The Step Monster,” the name Simone used for Marjorie, behind her back, had went too far. The woman had done a master makeover on her outer person and the interior of the house, eradicating any and everything that could conjure memories of Simone’s dad. Simone had always secretly disliked Marjorie, to be honest she hated the woman, but even she had no idea how much of a cold hearted bitch Marjorie truly was.
Her dad had been married to the woman for twelve years: filled with trips around the world, lavish gifts, romantic dinners and all the quality time, Simon’s company would allow him to be away. In return, Marjorie repaid her deceased husband by not even bothering to display a picture in which to honor his memory. Simone had heard of a new beginning, and Marjorie wasted no time starting one.
The house felt cold, devoid of love. “So,” Marjorie said, “let’s not play games, what is it that you want? I’m sure you’re not here to give me any decoration tips.” Marjorie tightened the belt on her white satin, fur-trimmed robe. Her breast hanging like flimsy material like two sacks of sand, which were surprising to Simone that she had not gotten them done. I guess even the best surgeon couldn’t help those saggy things, she wondered.
Simone gave Marjorie the tea about the bank getting robbed, leaving out most of the details.
“I saw it on the news. But exactly what does that have to do with me?” Marjorie asked without any kind of sympathy at all. “You are not dead, so clearly that has nothing at all to do with me.”
Simone took a deep breath, and let the comment roll off her back, like water, “One of the bank robbers took my Chanel Boy bag, with my money and ID—everything in it. I need my birth certificate that dad kept in his security box so that I’ll be able to get a new ID.”
Simone detested having to ask or to need Marjorie’s help for anything. This was the same bitch that contested her father’s will, and everything that Simon had left for her. Meanwhile, Marjorie was running through a life insurance policy she’d taken out on him. Simone would bet her life that her father was surely rolling over in his grave. His only child of twenty-nine years was broke, not a dollar in the bank. While his wife of twelve years was living the life of luxury in the fast lane with not one regard for her or care in the world.
“So, let me get this right,” Marjorie said with a chuckle. “The bank robbers took the bank’s money, your money, and your Chanel bag.”
The old hag wasn’t going to make this easy. Trying not to lose her cool, Simone politely said, “Yes, and my wallet. So I need my birth certificate so I can go to the DMV to get a new ID.”
Marjorie’s eyes turned dark and the horns went up on her head. “And since they took your wallet will you be asking me for some money, too? Is that what your real intentions are? You came to beg money from me?” She spat the words out like they left a bad taste in her mouth.
Simone hadn’t considered asking her for money, but she thought, Hell yes! Well, that would be the least you could do for me. You should have given me the money my dad left me. Instead, you manipulated my dad’s will, put me out of his own house and changed the locks on the doors.
If it wasn’t for her mother’s mother, Me-Ma, Simone would’ve been homeless.
Make no mistake about it, Simone loved and appreciate, herself some Me-Ma. Growing up, Me-Ma, was always generous, caring, and gracious. It was so sad, but true that Me-Ma was the closest thing to a mother figure Simone ever had. And besides a little more gray hair and a few more wrinkles, Me-Ma hadn’t changed a bit. But Simone had. She was a mature, educated, grown woman whose father had worked hard so that she would always be taken care of, even after he was gone. And now her stepmother manipulated everything and left her with nothing.
It took every fiber of restraint and humility for Simone to answer Marjorie’s question. She took a deep breath; slowly, inside inhaled counted to ten before exhaling.
At that point, she decided why not? What did she have to loose? It was simple, it was either yes or no.
Calmly, she said, “I wasn’t here to ask for money but I could use some. I do need money right now. For the basics . . . gas and food. And I’m going to need to buy a new phone.” Doing a few calculations in her head, she figured she needed about seven or eight hundred to get by, but settled for the bare minimum. “Do you think you can give me five hundred?”
The room, smelling like fresh paint and money, was a pin drop quiet for a few beats. Out of nowhere, Marjorie cackled like a witch with a black cat up her sleeve. The irritating bewitching laughter went on for a while. Finally, she stopped.
“So, you need me, huh,” she said. “Where’s your mother in your time of need?”
This was a low blow even for Marjorie, thought Simone, bringing up Deidra.
“Wait don’t answer,” she said, “let me guess. M-I-A as always.” Marjorie added, “Besides pushing you out of her pussy that woman had never given you anything. It’s just mighty funny how she’s never around when you need her.”
She was right. Deidra, Simone’s mother, had never done a thing for Simone, except pass her beautiful looks on to her, which she was grateful for.
Simone bit her tongue, literally, ignoring Marjorie’s childish attempt to make her loose her cool. Simone knew what Marjorie was trying to do. If Simone, snapped on her, Marjorie would use it as an excuse not to give her the money. Nice trick, but that won’t work on me bitch, Simone thought.
Marjorie, after not getting the results she’d hoped, scurried off toward the family room, the bottom of her robe including the fur trim flapping in the wind. Simone assured Marjorie was going to get the money she’d asked for. A few seconds later, Simone heard voices coming from the room Marjorie had just went into. She couldn’t make out the words but recognized that the tone of it was Marjorie and Maria, the housekeeper, who had worked for her father for years.
Nevertheless, Simone couldn’t make o
ut what they were saying. Simone walked into the foyer taking a seat in a newly purchased high back chair, so that she was closer to the door.
Her thoughts drifted, off to a conversation she’d had with her father, in this very spot, when she was sixteen, about what time she was expected to be back home from her first real date. She’d made it home, thirty minutes before curfew.
The trip down memory lane ended as suddenly as it had had begun. “Here!” It was Marjorie, pushing a crumple up a piece of paper into her palm.
Twenty dollars.
No, that bitch didn’t? The disrespect burned at the lining of Simone’s stomach like a shot of cheap liquor. “What I’m supposed to do with this?” She held the twenty-dollar bill by two fingers as if it was a solid dagger. Now Marjorie was just toying with her. She had never felt so belittled in her life.
Marjorie, judging by the twisted smile and the spark of delight simmering in her eyes, made no effort to conceal the joy she felt at Simone’s expense. “Darling . . .” she said, bubbling with self assertion, “you need to take that, twenty and run along. “I have a date”—making an exaggerated gesture of checking her watch—“and I’ve waste enough time with the likes of you.”
Simone and Marjorie had never really liked each other, they tolerated one another for the sake of Simon. Growing up, Simone had always gave the respect she gave to all adults, like she was taught. But Simone quickly learned that respect wasn’t something to be given, it had to be earned. And this trick hadn’t earned a damn ounce of anything.
Simone decided to take Marjorie’s advice, and get the fuck away from her. As she get up from the high back chair, Marjorie, adding insult to injury, said, “No more freebies here.” And she didn’t stop there. “You’ve freeloaded your whole life—Ohhh . . . daddy’s little, precious girl. Well, that shit is over.” She raised her voice, “Done! Finito! Your daddy’s gone and that twenty dollars is the last thing you’re ever going to get from me.” The smile off glee was replaced by one of unadulterated hate. “You will never see another penny of your father’s money. I’m gonna see to that little girl. And what are you gonna do about it? Nothing! That’s what.” Marjorie went on, “Because I have the best lawyer in the state and you don’t have shit . . . not a gotdamn thing! Good luck with that in probate court. Now if you don’t mind, get the fuck outta my house and try to figure out how you’re going to feed your grown-ass self.”
Simone seriously considered cracking Marjorie upside her poorly done surgically-enhanced joker face, but she wasn’t a violent person. The last fight she’d been in was the third grade with a girl named Charlotte. Charlotte, a white girl, had told another girl that Simone dad looked like the monkey Curious George from the book the class had to read. After Simone was done wearing Charlotte’s butt out on the playground by the sandbox, Charlotte would never even say the word monkey again.
“How dare you,” Simone said with disdain of her own. “You have the unmitigated gall to tell me, that I need to work while your selfish-ass is running around spreading me and my father’s hard earned money like its going out of style.
“You mean my hard earned money,” said Marjorie, hands on her wide hips. “You haven’t the slightest clue to the shit I had to put up with.”
Simone gave Marjorie a sideways look as if she was crazy.
Unapologetic, Marjorie said, “I not only had to play mother to your spoil-ass, acting like I actually give a fuck if you win this pageant or that you have the nicest dress for the many proms and homecomings. Chile please. If that wasn’t enough, I also had to deal with your dear daddy’s tiny-ass dick. That alone should be worth all the tea in China, having to fake, having to fake orgasms and please myself for twelve, long years. That man’s dick was smaller than a two year old baby’s.”
Before Simone had realized it, she’d smacked Marjorie so hard sparks came from her face. The skin—so tight from surgery—nearly ripped to pieces. Yet, the expression on her face never changed.
Simone had no idea what had come over her, but she wasted no time taking advantage of Marjorie’s temporary shock. Simone cocked back as far as she could and blasted the witch one more time just because. It felt so good. One of Marjorie’s fur slippers heel’s wobbled, lost her balance, and busted her ass on the marble floor.
“You bitch.” Marjorie threw the broken shoe at her. The shoe hit Simone on the arm, a nail, where the heel should’ve been, breaking the skin and drawing blood.
The site of the blood trickling from her forearm, coupled with everything else built up inside of her, was more than she could take. Besides, she thought, it was time to teach this hag a gotdamn lesson.
She had had enough.
Marjorie was trying to stand up on shaky legs when Simone caught her with a well-timed uppercut. The punch tagged Marjorie’s chin like an unwanted tattoo. Marjorie fell back to the floor, kicking, and started squeezing. She wanted to choke some manners into Marjorie, and if Marjorie croaked in the process, so be it. Then maybe all her father’s things would revert back to her anyway.
Marjorie eyes looked for an escape. She made a funny noise—“Ooukkk-o-wokkk,” that sounds like she was sucking a dick. In a morbid sort a way, it was noise to Simone’s ears.
In third grade, when Simone was tearing a mud hole in Charlotte’s little racist-ass, it had taken two teachers to get Simone off of her that was one of the reasons, Simone had avoided fighting from that point on, she’d nearly killed Charlotte.
It wasn’t until Marjorie’s face had turned a funny—not ha-ha funny, but oh my God funny—shade of purple before realizing what she was doing. Marjorie’s eyes, where the irises had been, were now white.
Simone stopped squeezing, releasing the grip from Marjorie’s neck.
Desperate for air, Marjorie inhaled—as hard as she could—before blowing out the lung-full of oxygen that kept her alive. With her hand around attack, she took a few more precious breaths.
The second Marjorie had a breath to spare, she said, “Get out, bitch! Get the fuck out of my house, before I call the police.”
Simone knew Marjorie wasn’t bluffing about the police, “I wouldn’t expect your no class wannabe-ass to do anything else, but call the police.” Simone lured her back, opened the front door, and walked out of her father’s house feeling better than she’d felt in a few months. Whoever coined the phrase, “Violence never solved anything,” was wrong. So, so wrong. . . .”
Simone was about to get into her car when she realized it was gone. In the driveway, in the exact spot she’d parked, was a Dodge Neon.
Oh, this hag has really lost her mind!
Simone stormed back into the house like Hurricane Katrina, nearly knocking the door off of its hinges doing so.
Marjorie had somehow managed to pull herself off the floor and was sitting in the high back chair leaning most of her upper body up down on her legs. Her head jerked up as the door open. Her eyes, looking as if she wished she’d locked the door.
“Where in the hell is my car, bitch?”
Unable to look Simone in the face, Marjorie said, “Your car is outside.”
She put her hand on her hip and said, “I drive a fucking Mercedes and the only thing in the driveway is a gotdamn Neon.”
Marjorie clutched a lamp. Simone figured Marjorie intended to use the lamp for a weapon, if she needed it. “You don’t own shit. The title to that car, registration, license tags, they were all in Simon’s name, which means I own it now,” she spoke in a tone a little above a whisper, “all mine.”
Simone wished she’d choked the bitch out when she had the chance. She probably could’ve beat the case if she had: self defense, crime of passion or temporary insanity. She’d learned about the different criminology defenses.
Marjorie, holding the lamp with one hand and fixing her hair with the other, got bolder by the second. “I’m the spirit of fairness, the title and the keys to the Neon are in the glove box. You have about ten more days to get it registered. Be grateful.”
“Grateful?” Simone questioned.
Simone had no clue where the phone in Marjorie’s hand came from. She must have pulled it from her ass, thought Simone. Marjorie dialed 9-1-1. She told Simone, “Now get the hell out of my house.” Then into the phone, “Hello, police. I have an intruder inside my home.”
Simone walked closer, leaned down, got right up in her face, close enough to smell the scotch on Marjorie’s breathe. “Listen to me,” she said. “No more Mrs. Nice Girl. You hear me? You better, make sure every I is dotted and every motherfucking T is crossed. That you’re papered up with every document you can forge because I promise you on my daddy’s grave.” Then she coughed up a mouth full of saliva and spit right in Marjorie’s face, just because and said, “I’m coming for you.”
-7-
As soon as Bunny pulled off from dropping Simone at the bank, her phone rang. The sound of the phone made her heart smile. The ring tone alerted her it was Spoe, the love of her life, she answered right away.
“Hey baby,” she said.
“Everything okay?” he asked, wanting to genuinely make sure that Simone was good.
“I honestly, don’t know,” she sighed, “I’m really worried about her. I just dropped her to her car and she was to pieces.”
“Naw, man,” he said concerned in disbelief.
“Yup, I’m leaving from over here by the bank and this place looks like Hurricane Katrina went through here. They got blocks blocked off from the chase. It just doesn’t make any sense, the damage that was done.”
“That bad, huh?”
“Yup. And I’m not even talking about the damage done to Mone.”
“I thought she was good.”
“I mean she good on the outside, but fucked up on the inside.”
“What could we do to help, babe. Anything?”
“I offered her some bread.”
