Damsels in Distress

by Nikita Lynnette Nichols

  “Nope, I’m not pregnant. As a matter of fact, I’m bleeding right this moment.”

  Ginger frowned. “That’s TMIH, Celeste.”

  “And what does TMIH mean?”

  Ginger and Portia chanted in unison, “Too much information, honey.”

  “Well, if y’all don’t wanna know the details, don’t ask the question. And why are you two on my line tonight anyway?”

  Ginger spoke. “I’m calling to let my soul sisters know that I met this guy today and I think I’m gonna go out with him.”

  “What does he look like?” Celeste asked.

  “I don’t know. I haven’t seen him yet.”

  Portia didn’t get that. “What do you mean you don’t know? You said you met him today.”

  “I did meet him today,” Ginger confirmed.

  “That doesn’t make any sense, Ginger. I wanna know how you can meet a guy and not know what he looks like.”

  “Okay, Celeste, I’ll say where I met him but I don’t want y’all to trip. Especially you, Portia.”

  Since Ginger made that comment to her, Portia knew Ginger was getting into something that she shouldn’t. “Ginger, I will reach through this telephone line and choke you if you don’t tell us where you met this guy. And I can tell by the way you’re stalling that something ain’t right with him.”

  “That’s not true, Portia. You see how you’re already jumping to conclusions?”

  “If you don’t want me jumping to conclusions, come on out with it.”

  “I will in my own time, stop rushing me.”

  Portia was fed up. “Ginger, stop beating around the bush and tell us when he’s getting out of jail.”

  Celeste and Portia laughed but Ginger didn’t think it was funny at all. “Okay, just for that, I ain’t telling y’all nothing.”

  Portia could hear in Ginger’s voice that she was hurt. “I’m sorry, honey. I didn’t mean it. Go ahead and tell us where you met him.”

  Ginger took a deep breath and held it for three seconds, exhaled, and spoke extremely fast. “I met him online in the chat room this afternoon. His name is Ronald Bailey and he lives in New Orleans. He mentioned that he grew up in the Ninth Ward.”

  Celeste yelled into the telephone. “The Ninth Ward? Do you know what the Ninth Ward is, Ginger?”

  “I guess it’s a specific neighborhood.”

  “Okay. Why don’t you do the honors, Portia? Because if I tell her, she’ll think I’m blocking.”

  Portia cleared her throat. “Ginger, honey, baby, sugar bear, cutie pie, you are so precious. Gangbangers and thugs make up the Ninth Ward in New Orleans.”

  The man Ginger had met online gave her the impression that he was an upstanding citizen. “What are y’all talking about and how do you know?”

  “We just do,” Celeste answered.

  “Well, be that as it may, Ronald is flying here on Friday afternoon and we’re meeting at the Shark Bar at eight o’clock. Can you two be at your posts?”

  “Of course. We would never break our pact, Ginger,” Celeste said.

  “Celeste is right,” Portia added. “This is your first date with Mr. New Orleans. And whenever one of us has a first date with someone, we all go.”

  “Portia and I will try to get a table close by. Relax, everything will be cool.”

  That conversation among the three best friends was four years ago. And as Ginger stared into Ronald’s eyes in the photograph, she wished she had listened to Celeste and Portia when they warned her about men from the Ninth Ward because Ronald Bailey was a thug in every sense of the word. Ginger didn’t know anything about him being a gangbanger but she could surely testify about him being a Ginger banger because he banged her head against the wall every chance he got. Ginger should have known Ronald was a few ribs short of a full slab when, only after ten minutes of meeting her, he said, “Girl, you’re so fine I would put hot sauce on my ears and fight Mike Tyson for you.”

  Ginger set the photograph on the nightstand and dressed for work. She let out a loud sigh as she thought about what the forthcoming hours would bring. It was parent-teacher conference day and after the morning she had, Ginger wasn’t looking forward to “You must be mistaken, my child would never behave in that way,” or “I raised my son better than that, he isn’t capable of saying that,” or “My daughter’s grades didn’t start to slip until she got to your class.”

  Ginger drove into the school parking lot and put the gear in park. At eight-fifty a.m. parents were lined up outside of the door waiting for the school to open. Ginger lowered her head and closed her eyes. “Father, in the name of Jesus, I don’t wanna have to cuss anyone out today. So, I’m asking you to write on my tongue as I deal with these ghetto parents.”

  The first mother to approach Ginger introduced herself as twenty-year-old Tequila Tangeray-Cristal Daniels. Ginger couldn’t help but to wonder if Tequila’s father’s first name was Jack. Somehow it went with the flow. Ginger taught third grade, which meant the young mother was only twelve when she conceived.

  Miss Daniels’s complaint threw Ginger for a loop. She wasn’t there to find out why her son was failing social studies, mathematics, and English, though she should have been. She had a more pressing issue with her son’s teacher. “My son says you make all of the kids pray, one by one, before class starts and I don’t think that’s fair.”

  It may or may not have been fair but Ginger knew she was breaking the law by bringing religion into her classroom but she didn’t care. It was prayer that had stopped Ginger from strangling the eight-year-olds when they got in her face and challenged her.

  Oh Lord, here we go. “And why is that, Courvoisier?”

  Ginger watched as this barely legal female placed her right hand on an underdeveloped, almost nonexistent hip, and rotate her neck. “First of all, it’s Tequila. T-e-q-u-i-l-a. Tequila. And my parents didn’t force me to pray and go to church.”

  I can tell, Ginger thought.

  “They let me make up my own mind. So, I don’t force my son to go to church either. It’s up to him whether he wants to pray or not.”

  Of course Ginger could’ve easily “gone there” with the unwed mother but she remembered the talk she had with God. Having an eight-year-old child at the age of twenty was the result of being brought up in a churchless and prayer-free home.

  Ginger felt pity for Tequila. She was only a baby when she had a baby. Ginger would be willing to bet her paycheck that Tequila’s mother was no more than fifteen years her senior. Probably a generational curse.

  “Look, Miss Daniels. This school sits in the heart of the west side of Chicago. There are dope dealers on every corner. Don’t you read the Sun-Times or watch the news? Every week a young girl in this neighborhood is raped or assaulted. A young black boy is murdered every month and that’s the norm. It’s rare that a teenager in this neighborhood graduates high school without some type of criminal record under his or her belt. Our young black men are becoming extinct. The only things we have to hold on to are our prayers. I don’t have control over what goes on in your household and I can’t dictate how to raise your son but from nine to three-thirty, Monday through Friday, these are my kids. And as for me and my classroom, we will pray. Now, if you have a problem with that, I suggest you talk with the principal. But you should know that she’s saved too.”

  * * *

  The way Ginger’s day at school started was pretty much how it ended. She had to defend the power of prayer nine times. One father had the nerve to flirt with Ginger in the presence of his wife. Ginger never liked parent-teacher conferences. She’d rather have a normal day of yelling at unruly, hardheaded kids than counseling their ignorant parents.

  That evening she pulled into the garage and parked next to Ronald’s car. He was lying on the sofa watching television. Ginger said her hellos and went straight to her bedroom. She changed into her quilted nightgown covering her from head to toe, then paid a visit to the bathroom and she made sure to raise the toilet seat.


  In the kitchen, Ginger searched the refrigerator for something to prepare for dinner. I bet that fool has been lying on the couch all day. The least he could do is have dinner ready when I get home but I guess that’s too much work, right?

  She saw a pound of ground beef and thought she better use it before it spoiled. It had been sitting in the refrigerator for two days. Spaghetti would be quick and easy. Ginger set a pot of water on top of the stove and heated a cast iron skillet. She put the ground beef in the skillet. From the spice cabinet, Ginger withdrew bottles of seasoned salt, oregano, lemon pepper seasoning, ground pepper, garlic powder, and olive oil, then set them all on the counter next to the skillet.

  She opened the utensil drawer and was astonished. Everything was missing. Gone were the spatulas, can opener, and measuring spoons. Only one fork, one spoon, one butter knife, and a wooden rolling pin remained in the drawer. Ginger opened the cabinet over the stove and saw one plate, one cereal bowl, and one glass.

  What the heck?

  The ground beef was beginning to brown and, not having anything to stir it with, Ginger removed the skillet from the heat and placed it on another burner. She went and stood at the archway to the living room. She dared not enter it. “Where are all of the dishes?”

  Ronald kept his eyes on the television as he answered her. “I threw them away.”

  Ginger knew there was no way she could’ve heard him right. “What?”

  “Since you insist on leaving dirty dishes in the sink overnight, this is what it comes down to.”

  Is he crazy? “My grandmother left me those dishes, Ronald. They were antiques and can’t be replaced.”

  He met Ginger’s eyes. “Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

  Ginger couldn’t believe him. She saw two empty forty-ounce bottles of beer on the cocktail table. “Why bother saving one plate, one glass, a knife, fork and spoon?”

  “Those are for me,” Ronald said. “I want them cleaned at all times and you better not use them.”

  Ginger’s blood began to boil. “So, the heck with me, huh?”

  Ronald looked at Ginger. “I guess so.”

  “What am I supposed to eat with?” she asked.

  “There are paper plates, cups, and forks in the pantry.”

  “Ron, you can’t be serious.”

  He looked at her again. “Ginger, I’m through with it.”

  When Ronald said that he was done with a conversation, he meant it. If Ginger said anything else to him on the matter, it would be an invitation for a technical knockout.

  With tears in her eyes, Ginger went into the bathroom and locked the door. She ran the water in the sink so Ronald wouldn’t hear what she was doing. She sat on the ledge of the tub and cried. It was time to get Ronald out of her house and out of her life.

  But how? Portia and Celeste would know what to do but where were they? “I need my girls. Where y’all at?”

  Chapter 6

  Is Your Husband Married?

  On Friday morning, as Portia drove south on Pulaski Avenue toward the car dealership where she worked, her cellular phone rang. She recognized Richard’s work number. Portia wasn’t especially happy to speak with him. Because of Richard’s lack of funds, Portia hadn’t been able to keep up with her hair and nail appointments. She answered the phone with an attitude. “Richard, if you don’t have any money for me, I don’t wanna talk to you.”

  “And a good morning to you too. I see you’re in a great mood.”

  Portia wasn’t in the mood for small talk. “Whatever. I need my hair and nails done, Richard. You and I had an agreement that you would keep an allowance coming my way. And considering how much time you spend in my bed, you should add the cost of a full-body massage to the amount of money you give me.”

  Richard sighed. “Look, Portia, I think Tamara is starting to suspect something. We have joint checking and savings accounts and she’s asking questions about large sums of money being withdrawn. Twice I’ve been able to convince her that I lent it to my brother but I don’t know how many more times she’ll buy that.”

  Portia couldn’t care less what Richard was talking about. His wife asking questions was not her concern. “So, what are you saying, Richard?”

  He exhaled into the telephone. “I’m saying as of last week what was usually my job of balancing the books is now my wife’s. There’s no way I can keep giving you money without her finding out about it. And the five hundred bucks I was gonna give you, I gave to her.”

  Portia almost slammed into the car ahead of her. What? No money? Without knowing it Richard had slapped Portia in the face. She glanced at her cuticles. The acrylic on Portia’s nails was no longer near them. She was in desperate need of a fill-in. “What the heck you mean you gave it to her? What did you give her my money for?”

  “This is Tamara’s birthday weekend. She and her sisters are leaving tonight to spend the weekend at a spa in Lake Geneva. So I—”

  Portia cut him off. “So, you decided to take my diva money and give it to your wife so she can lay up all weekend.”

  “Well, she is my wife, Portia. What was I supposed to do? I told you she was getting suspicious about money missing from our accounts.”

  “Then come up with another freakin’ way to get me my money!” she yelled. “Why can’t you cash your check and give me my cut before you deposit the rest?”

  Richard shook his head from side to side. “That won’t work.”

  Portia shrugged her shoulders. “Why not?”

  “My paychecks are automatically deposited into our joint checking account.”

  “Richard, you need to figure something out then. Like I said, you and I had an agreement. As long as I’m squatting, twirling around, and dropping it like it’s hot, you are to keep me looking good. I mean unless something has changed. Has your wife all of a sudden got a li’l freak in her? Ain’t that the reason you came to me in the first place?”

  “Look, Portia. Now that Tamara has taken over the books, there’s no way I can give you money like I use to but I got a hundred for you. I’ll bring it by tonight after Tamara and her sisters leave.”

  Portia couldn’t believe her ears. “Zz . . . wha . . . di . . .” she stuttered. She couldn’t get the correct words out of her mouth fast enough. She calmed herself down. “A hundred dollars? One hundred dollars, Richard? What the heck am I supposed to do with a hundred dollars? That will barely cover my fingernails and toenails. What about my hair?”

  “I’m sorry, baby, but that’s the best I can do. I don’t wanna do anything to upset Tamara; she comes first.”

  “Yeah, until she claims another headache and doesn’t wanna be submissive. Then as usual you’ll be rubbing in between my thighs at two in the morning.”

  Richard was getting frustrated. “Why are you trippin’, Portia? You knew I was married when we met. From the very beginning you knew what you were getting into. My wife’s needs come first and they always will. And I don’t appreciate you questioning me on what I do for her because it ain’t none of your business. One hundred dollars is the best I can do right now. Do you want the money or not?”

  Oh. Okay. I see how this is gonna go down. It was obvious that Richard didn’t know who he was messing with. Portia could be a professional home wrecker when she wanted to. And right then she felt the urge to drive a bulldozer straight through Richard’s front door. “Yeah, I want it. But instead of you bringing it to me, I’ll come by your house and get it.”

  “Uh-uh. You know you can’t do that.”

  “Why not? Didn’t you say Tamara was leaving town tonight? Just call me when she leaves.”

  “Why can’t I bring the money to you like I’ve been doing?” he asked.

  “Because my grandmother is visiting,” she lied effortlessly.

  “Okay, baby. Listen, I’m sorry things had to turn out this way. I really wish I could do more for you but I just can’t risk Tamara finding out about us. I need to chill on giving you money.”
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br />   “It’s okay, honey. I understand. Like you said, wifey comes first.” Portia disconnected the line and spoke to herself. “You can’t pay my rent, huh, Richard? Oh, you’re gonna pay all right. You’re gonna pay dearly.” Portia was on an emotional high. Taking her money away was like taking away the air she breathed. Portia would see to it that Richard realized that he had messed with the wrong woman.

  * * *

  They didn’t leave Richard’s house all weekend. Like she had done many times before, Portia sacrificed another Sunday morning worship service to lie in a married man’s bed.

  After the twelfth sexual encounter in three days, she announced to Richard she was leaving.

  “Can you take a shower with me before you go?” Richard asked while snuggling her neck.

  Portia couldn’t deny him that. “Of course, honey. Why don’t you go ahead and get the water nice and warm for me. I’ll join you in a minute.”

  As soon as she heard the water running in the shower, Portia set her plan in motion. She removed the diamond stud from her left ear and placed it in between the mattress and box spring at the edge of the bed. She went into the kitchen and withdrew a used condom, one of many, from the bottom of the garbage can. He didn’t even flush the evidence down the toilet. “Men are so stupid.” She brought the condom back to the bedroom and placed it beneath the bed close to the edge. Portia withdrew her date planner and an ink pen from her purse. She tore out the page of the present date and wrote Richard’s wife a message. Portia placed the note next to the condom.

  Richard stood six foot two so Portia figured he’d never see the condom and note beneath the bed, but it wouldn’t take his wife long to spot it. With her plan in motion Portia showered with Richard for what she knew would be the last time ever.

  * * *

  On Monday afternoon Tamara arrived home from Lake Geneva. She took her luggage into the bedroom and set it by the dresser. As usual Richard didn’t bother to make the bed, which was one of Tamara’s pet peeves. Instead of making the bed, she decided to strip it and put clean sheets on the bed.