Somebody's Knocking at My Door

by Francis Ray

  “Guess I should,” he said and closed the door. “You know the way.”

  Angelique tugged Kristen to get her to move down the short entryway to a set of dark oak sliding doors. When Angelique opened them, Kristen heard the pulsating beat of a current pop song, the hum of conversation, the clink of glasses, but all she saw was another wall … until they turned. She came to an abrupt stop.

  She hadn’t known what to expect, raunchy or tacky, sleazy or tasteless. The Inferno was neither.

  The gentlemen’s club was spacious, made to look even more so by the abundance of floor-to-ceiling mirrors around the room that caught and reflected your every move. Not one man in the forty or so seated either at the thirty-foot rosewood bar or the tables in the dimly lit room seemed to notice their arrival. Their eyes were trained on the voluptuous brunette with her long, golden legs wrapped around one of four shiny poles on the raised stage.

  The dancer wore a gold sequined thong and a demi-bra. Sparkling gold fringes hung from her nipples. She arched gracefully backwards to land in a perfectly executed split. The provocative smile on her lush, red lips beckoned as she reached behind her back and unclasped her bra.

  Kristen gaped.

  Seeing a stripper in person was nothing like watching one on television. The volume of the men’s voices reached a feverish pitch as the garment fell away. Kristen turned away in embarrassment and bumped into a table.

  “Move,” ordered a man who was trying to see the dancer.

  “Sorry,” she mumbled.

  Angelique tugged her to a booth in the back of the room. The moment they sat, a waitress in a revealing, skintight, red-leather bustier appeared and placed a small bowl of beer nuts on the round table. “Hi, Angel. Your usual?”

  “Hello, Ambrosia. Make it two.”

  “Be right back.”

  The blond-haired woman pranced away on four-inch heels. As she passed the tables, more than one hand reached out to give her a friendly pat on her swaying hips. She tossed the men a grin and they almost always tossed her a bill.

  “Isn’t touching against the law?” Kristen asked.

  “Like I said, welcome to my world where there’s a thin line between the law and a ‘good old boy’ just blowing off some steam.” Angelique popped a handful of nuts into her mouth.

  Kristen understood immediately. It was another case of men being in power and being able to push the rules when it came to women.

  With each whistle, each bill pushed down a woman’s cleavage or inserted into a thong, Kristen recalled Maurice, his lies, how he’d ruined her life. There probably weren’t too many men at the club who’d want their families or business associates to be aware of where they were tonight.

  “Men actually try to delude themselves that they’re just having some harmless fun, bringing a little excitement into their sex lives. For some it might be the truth, but for others it’s all about power and control of a woman,” Angelique said, her voice tight.

  “Your dissertation deserves to be published,” Kristen said with absolute conviction as she glanced around the room.

  Angelique nodded toward a balding man two tables over. He was getting a lap dance from a giggling redhead. “Judge Henry Randolph. A criminal judge. What do you want to bet, if she came before him, he’d act as if he didn’t know her and show no mercy?”

  “You’d lose,” a woman said, sliding into the booth beside them. Statuesque, she wore a beaded blue gown that looked as if her breasts were about to spill out. “All he’s looking at are t and a. One of the dancers made the mistake of hinting in court that she knew him. He threw the book at her. It was a warning to the rest of us.” Her blue eyes flashed. “He’s a vindictive bastard. Not one of us will make that mistake again.”

  “Cinnamon, meet Starlight,” Angelique said.

  It took Kristen a few seconds to realize she was Cinnamon. She almost lifted her hand in greeting, but caught Angelique’s shake of her head. “Hello.”

  “Here you are.” The waitress placed napkins and drinks on the table.

  Kristen looked at the clear liquid with a cherry in a tall, slender glass, then picked it up and took a tentative sip. She smiled. Club soda and lime.

  “You’re a dancer, too?” Starlight asked.

  Kristen was flattered. “I’m not that agile or talented, I’m afraid.”

  Starlight gave Kristen a thorough once-over. “You’ve got what it takes. Strip you down to the bare essentials and men would be standing in line to put money in your G-string.”

  “Ah, I think I’ll pass,” Kristen said and watched Angelique cover her mouth to hold back a laugh.

  “Just as well. There’s enough competition here already,” Starlight said, her gaze going to the judge now contentedly sipping his drink. “Wish we could reverse our roles. Teach men like him a lesson. They are such users.”

  “Not all men,” Kristen said quickly.

  Angelique lifted an arched brow and popped more nuts into her mouth.

  Starlight leaned closer to Kristen and jabbed a finger at her cheek. Beneath the heavy make-up a faint bruise could be seen. “Enough of the creeps are. My old man didn’t like it when tips were down this week and he didn’t have money to score or make his car payment.”

  Angelique sat forward. “Starlight, back off.”

  Oddly, Kristen wasn’t intimidated. “Neither my brother nor my stepfather would hit their wives.”

  “Well, whoop-de-do,” Starlight sneered and stood up. “Time for my number.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to make her angry,” Kristen said, watching the woman walk away.

  “Not your fault. Starlight wants to believe all men are scum,” Angelique said. “It helps her accept she’s living with scum. If she ever lets herself believe differently, she’ll have to deal with why she lets him beat on her and she takes it.”

  Kristen lifted a brow. “You’re going to make a wonderful psychologist.”

  “I will, won’t I?”

  They both laughed. Neither Angel nor Angelique lacked self-confidence.

  “You lovely ladies look like you’re having fun. Mind if I join you?” a well-dressed man asked with a lurid smile. In his hand was a tumbler filled with dark liquid.

  “Yes,” Angelique and Kristen said in unison, then looked at each other and laughed again.

  The man, already bending to sit, slowly straightened. The smile slid from his narrow face. “You two aren’t the only women in here.” Tight-lipped, he strode off.

  “That felt good,” Kristen said, leaning back against the booth. “Wish I had told Maurice off.”

  “If you stay in New Orleans you might get the opportunity.” Angelique picked up her glass and took a healthy swallow.

  “At least I know what a cheat he is. Claudette still believes in him.” Kristen shook her head. “I feel sorry for her. She loves a man who is using her for his own gain.”

  “Sounds as if you’ve been there,” Angelique commented.

  Once Kristen might have lied, but in the past few days she was beginning to see things differently. “I have. He was charming, of average intelligence, and into sadomasochism. I wanted to surprise him and ended up being surprised myself.”

  “Mine was my history professor when I was a sophomore in undergrad school. It wasn’t until I was in a relationship with him that another student wised me up. Seems that each semester he chose a student from his class to warm his bed.”

  Kristen gazed at Angelique with new eyes. “I always thought you were too smart to fall for the wrong guy.”

  “With the right man, no woman is that smart.” She scrunched up her face. “Or should I say the wrong man.”

  Thoughtful, Kristen played with the moisture condensing on her glass. “I guess you’re right. I’ve always admired Claudette. Since her father’s death she runs a multimillion dollar company, yet she can’t see through Maurice.”

  “Scary, isn’t it? You can’t tell what’s inside until you unwrap the package and then it’s too
late,” Angelique said, sipping her drink. “That’s why I’m going to wait until I’ve established my practice before I even think about becoming involved with a man again. I can’t afford to have my focus blurred.”

  “At least you have a future,” Kristen responded, misery sweeping over her again.

  “So do you. You just have to decide how badly you want it and what you’ll do to get it.”

  “Before I lost my job I was so certain. Now I’m not so sure.”

  “You might not like hearing this, but if all it took was one setback for you to give up, maybe you didn’t want it as bad as you thought.”

  * * *

  Kristen thought about what Angelique had said the next day and the next. How badly did she want to increase awareness and appreciation of African-American art? Was it something she had lightly chosen or did she feel a real kinship with the artists and their struggles?

  Staring at a reproduction of Tanner’s Two Disciples at the Tomb on the wall in her living room, she tried to decide. He hadn’t given up. How hard must his struggle have been?

  An example closer to home was her brother, Adam. There had been a dark, tragic period in his life when he had been blind and unsure he’d ever see again. But even before his vision returned, he had refused to let the loss of his sight define his manhood. He’d been down, but he hadn’t stayed down.

  Her mother certainly wouldn’t have let anyone destroy her future. She was a brilliant, gifted woman who was in medical school at nineteen. Before Kristen’s father’s death when she was fifteen, he’d been one of the leading cardiologists in the country.

  Success ran in her family, but at twenty-seven she had yet to achieve her own. Her family’s love and praise couldn’t erase the recurring fear of failure she felt at times.

  Her family fought for what they wanted. They jumped in with both feet. Even Jonathan had put everything on the line for her mother’s love. They didn’t look at the odds; they kept their eyes on the goal. They were so self-assured and she had never been.

  Perhaps because as she grew up people never let her forget how brilliant, how athletic, how popular Adam was. The more her instructors, family friends, and associates praised him, the more insecure she became. The fact that her family loved her unconditionally somehow made it worse. She’d grown up wanting to prove to her family that their unshakable faith in her was justified.

  She was still trying.

  She wandered back into her bedroom and stared at the open suitcase on her bed and the clothes beside it. Deep in thought, she picked up a pair of cranberry slacks and simply held them.

  If she left, Maurice would go on to his next victim, carefree and happy, while she was still jobless and miserable. And what would happen the next time there was another roadblock in her career path? Would she run?

  The unexpected death of the father she adored, Adam’s blindness, her own failure at love, and now this had taught her that there were no guarantees in life. All you could do was live it, and do your best to be able to look at yourself in the mirror without shame or regrets.

  If she left Orleans she could do neither. Her hand clenched on the linen, wrinkling the cloth. “No. I won’t run!”

  The words burst from her mouth, and hearing them, she knew she was staying. Walking to the closet, she hung up her pants, then the rest of her clothes. Finished, she put the empty suitcase back in her closet.

  If Maurice crossed her path again, he’d better watch out. She’d run once from a man. Never again.

  First thing, she needed a job. Refusing to think her lack of a reference from the museum might hinder her, she went to the utility room and gathered the newspapers she hadn’t bothered to open for the past five days. In the kitchen, she grabbed a red pen and started going through the classifieds.

  Museums were out, but she had her master’s in art history in a city full of private institutions, collectors, and art galleries. She’d start with them first and if nothing materialized, she’d broaden her scope. She wasn’t giving up.

  By nine the next morning Kristen, wearing a Carolina Herrera black pantsuit, her hair swept up in a sophisticated chignon, was filling out an application at The Art Institute, a private foundation for endowment of the arts. The human resource manager, Mr. Dockett, appeared very impressed by her alma mater, her honors thesis, and her extensive traveling to museums across the country. He regretted that he only had a position open for a research assistant.

  Feeling good, Kristen took the application and sat at a small desk in his secretary’s outer office to fill it out. She was zipping along until she reached the space where she had to disclose the reason for leaving her last employer. The Montblanc gold fountain pen her mother had given her wavered. She kept remembering the dire warning printed on the application that all information had to be true.

  The institute would call the museum. They weren’t about to allow anyone to be around priceless paintings without checking their references. Since Dr. Smithe was her immediate supervisor, he’d be the one they’d ask.

  “Is there a problem, Ms. Wakefield?”

  Kristen glanced up at Mrs. Carruthers, Dockett’s secretary, watching her closely. “No,” she said, then quickly wrote in the blank that she left her last position to broaden her artistic horizon, then handed in the application.

  Mrs. Carruthers, a practiced smile on her narrow face, laid the tri-fold sheets aside without looking at them. “Thank you. You’ll be hearing from us.”

  Kristen left and went directly to the next prospect on her list. Each time she wrote the reason for leaving her employee, her anger at Maurice grew hotter. Because of him she had to lie. Then fear would take over that, because of him, she might not get a job.

  * * *

  Three days later she was at the computer in her home office continuing her job search when the phone rang. She pounced on it in the middle of the second ring. She’d filled out ten applications in person and sent out fifteen resumes via e-mail.

  “Hello.”

  “This is Dr. Smithe. Stop listing the museum as your last employer and save me the time and bother of telling prospective employees how badly you performed your duties,” he sniped. “Dr. Robertson isn’t talking about the reason for your abrupt departure, but I know there’s more to your resignation than what’s being said. I’m just delighted you’re gone. You’ve already been replaced.”

  Kristen hung up on him, too angry to do anything else. Propping her elbows on the desk, she placed her forehead in her open palms. Maurice wanted to ruin her, and so did Smithe. Both were mean-spirited, selfish men, but she’d be double-damned if she’d let them run her out of town. She’d prefer a job in the arts, but they’d made that impossible. This time their pettiness only made her more determined.

  Picking up the newspaper on the desk, she flipped to the classified business section. She had excellent computer skills. Somewhere in here was a job.

  At the sound of the doorbell, she hunched over further, concentrating on the ads. But by the sixth ring she gave in and went to answer the door. Only Angelique would be that persistent.

  Kristen was already prepared to ask for Angelique’s help when she opened the door. Her eyes rounded in surprise as she stared at her unexpected visitor. “Rafe.”

  “Hi, Kristen,” Rafe managed, shifting from one foot to the other. It had taken him most of the day to work up his nerve to come, then another fifteen minutes of standing in the hall before ringing the doorbell. He didn’t blame her because she’d stopped smiling when she saw him. He’d ruined her career.

  “I … er … bought you some food.” It was the only way he could think of to help. His grandmother had always tried to feed him after he and his father had gone a couple of rounds.

  “Thank you.”

  He shoved the two white paper sacks atop a large pizza box toward her awkwardly. “I didn’t know what you like so I bought more than one thing.”

  Looking a bit stunned by the offering, Kristen peeked into the sacks that held
a po’ boy sandwich in one and cartons of Chinese take-out in the other. “I like all three.”

  He nodded. At least he’d gotten something right. Reaching into the pocket of his denim shirt, he pulled out several folded sheets of white paper. “This is for you. I called Lilly—”

  “No!” Dark brown eyes widened in alarm. “You told her!”

  “No. No,” he rushed to reassure Kristen. “I just asked what your degree was in. I wanted to go on the Internet and look for another job for you.” He shifted again. “I think several sound promising. A couple of the colleges are looking for instructors—so is the school system.”

  “You did that for me?” she asked, amazed.

  “After causing you to lose your job, it’s the least I can do.” He stuffed his hands into the front pockets of his worn jeans. “I went to Mrs. Laurent’s office, but she wouldn’t see me. I’m sorry for the way things turned out.”

  “The one who should be sorry is Maurice. I finally figured that out,” she told him, her voice hardening.

  “Good.” He liked the determined look in her eyes. She was on her way to being all right. “I won’t keep you then.”

  “Wait,” she called when he turned to go. “You can’t leave me with all this food. Have you eaten?”

  “No, but I don’t want to be in the way.”

  “Come on in.” She stepped back.

  He frowned. His hands came out of his pockets. “You’re sure?”

  “Positive. Close the door, then join me in the kitchen.” Not giving him a chance to decline, she walked away.

  Rafe entered cautiously and shut the door behind him. His booted feet sank into the plush white carpet. The room was as sleek and elegant as the woman living there. White on white with splashes of red and yellow dominated the color scheme. The fine wood furniture was of antique quality. White sheers leading to a balcony were drawn to display a breathtaking view of the city by night.

  “Rafe?”

  “Coming,” he said, then followed the direction she had gone through the living room, down a short hall. He found her setting the round, wooden table for two.

  She looked up at him and wiped her hands on her black slacks. This time she was the one who appeared nervous. “Won’t you have a seat?”