Is the Bitch Dead, Or What?

by Wendy Williams

“Okay, Ritz, you're officially back,” said Tracee, slightly disgusted. “But if you want my advice, which you never do, I would say: Stop it. That's just wrong. I mean, come on, Ritz. You cannot be having fun at that poor girl's expense. It's not right.”

  “You're right, Reverend Remington. Forgive me, for I have sinned! But I came three times!”

  Tracee ignored her friend's sarcasm.

  “And, and… I have something else to tell you. The electrician? He's kind of off-limits, too.”

  “What?!” Ritz said. “Don't tell me you fucked him! You did? How was he?!”

  “No! God no! I mean, what I mean to say is that yes, I do like him. I like him a lot. But there's more.”

  “What?” Ritz folded her arms, ticked off. How in the world could Tracee dare to like a man that she had dibs on?

  Tracy stared at her friend. She was about to unload the biggest “bomb drop” of all time. Things would never be the same again.

  “Ritz,” she said, trying to keep her voice slow and steady. “Please listen. Aunt Maddie thought that this should come from me. Ritz, Randolph is your brother.”

  “What??? What the FUCK are you talking about??!!! I don't have a brother!!!!”

  “Yes. Yes, you do. You have a brother and a father. Randolph's father is Ritchie Jordan.”

  29

  “My brother?!”

  Ritz looked like she had been sucker-punched. The air went out of her healing lung and she had a hard time catching her breath. Thousands of thoughts went racing through her mind:

  Where has he been all of these years?

  Why did he leave us alone?

  Where is he now?

  How could he start another family?

  What kind of man is he?

  Do I even want to see him?

  “My brother? My father? What the fuck?!” Ritz stammered. “Well, I guess he had sex with your mother. And then he had sex with Randolph's mother, and the three of them produced you two.”

  Tracee was trying to bring some lightness to the atmosphere, which was getting heavy, real heavy. But Ritz was not amused. She gave Tracee a stare that looked like pure rage.

  But Tracee knew her friend well. Underneath the rage was hurt, bewilderment, and, above all— curiosity.

  “Okay, okay. Sorry for trying to be funny. I guess it wasn't the right time for that. Randolph is going through it, too. He had no idea. Apparently, his father cheated on his mother with your mother. No one knew. And I don't know what happened when he was over here fixing your Jacuzzi, but it weirded him out.”

  Ritz blushed. She remembered back to how seductive she was… with her brother.

  Yuck! I almost screwed my brother! Maybe I should go on the fucking Jerry Springer show!

  “I don't want to talk about that,” said Ritz. “I'm not sure if I can even see Randolph again. And how did you two get so close that he's sharing his feelings with you? What's really going on, Tracee?”

  “Nothing! Nothing yet. Like I said, I do like him. And I think he likes me, too. We got close all of those times you turned him away at the hospital. We went to church together and we have been talking. When he found out he was your brother, he had no one to talk to. He still hasn't said anything to his father— your father. He doesn't want to hurt his mother. “

  “His mother?! What about my poor mother!” Ritz screamed. “She was the one left holding the bag, struggling to raise me by herself. That motherfucker left us high and dry. At least Randolph got to grow up with a daddy. At least his mother had a husband. She didn't have to hang her head in shame, looking like some loose girl with no morals. Fuck him and his mother, and especially fuck his father. Fuck the whole fucking family!”

  “So you don't even want to see your father? You don't want to tell him how you feel?” Tracee asked. “I think it would be good for you to do that. Even if you cuss him out. You can't hold on to these feelings, Ritz. It will destroy you. And we know how you hold grudges. It's not good. You have to let it go. You have to find closure.”

  “I am finding closure,” Ritz said. “I'm shutting this shit down. I don't have a father— end of story. That's closure. And I don't want to see that electrical motherfucker around here, either!”

  “Why are you acting like this? Randolph is just as much a victim as you are. He didn't do anything.”

  “He was born. That was enough!”

  Actually, Ritz didn't give a damn that the man was her brother. That was the anger she allowed to show. She was severely pissed that Tracee would dare to look at a man Ritz coveted. She was Ritz Harper. Tracee Remington was just… some retired person.

  The real anger, the real, deep-down pain, though, was about her father. Ritz was going to bury that. She'd heap a bunch of junk on top of it and dare it to breathe. She was not going to feel that. She was going to hang out with her old buddy KIM and keep it moving. She didn't have a father, and that was that— case closed. Next!

  “Okay, Ritz. I will respect your wishes,” Tracee said calmly. “I won't talk about Randolph. But you must know what a special man he is. You might find out that it's nice to have a big brother.”

  “I don't need a big brother or a midget brother. I got me!”

  “We all need somebody, Ritz. Even you.”

  “You don't know what the fuck you're talking about. And you definitely don't know who you're talking to!”

  Ritz was going into her industrial-strength, completely-over-the-top Diva Mode, her ultimate defense mechanism. Hurricane Katrina? That was a summertime sprinkle. Hurricane Ritz was about to rage through anyone and anything that dared to confront her. She would level them. She would destroy them. She would get even.

  Why, Daddy?

  Deep down, in a place in her soul that she could never, ever acknowledge, Ritz could hear a little girl named Ritgina— a little girl who once knew all the state capitals— crying out that question.

  Why, Daddy?

  Ritz was about to explode. She would not, she could not, listen to that little girl. That little brat better go away, fast.

  Tracee was speaking to her. Tracee better watch out!

  “You're right, Ritz,” Tracee said. “When I look at you and all you've been through, I don't know you. I'm not sure if you even know yourself. I pray to God every day that you will wake up and see the changes you need to make. You're not happy. I know you're not happy. Yet you keep doing things to make sure you won't be happy. You're self-destructive. You push away everyone and anyone who might want to love you. You aren't the Ritz I met. Or maybe you are the Ritz I met so many years ago. Maybe you haven't changed. Maybe I have.”

  Hurricane Ritz was going to unload on Tracee and blow her into next week. Maybe that would make the little girl go away.

  “You sure have, with your judgmental self!” she raged. “And all that ‘God' and ‘church' shit! You know what? You and God can kiss my ass. And you know what else, Tracee? Get the fuck out of my house!”

  Tracee stood in front of Ritz, stunned. Ritz's face was contorted and changed into something ugly, something Tracee had never seen before. She couldn't find any words to say, so she said nothing.

  She went to the guest room. She packed the few things she had put away. Then she called a cab. She didn't want to call Chas, and definitely not Randolph. That would take too much time. She had to get out of Ritz's house— now.

  She would go back to her loft in Manhattan and pack that place up. Then she was going to swing by the hospital to say good-bye to Aunt Maddie and Uncle Cecil. After that, she would invite Randolph Jordan over for a little going-away dinner, then she would return to the peace she had created for herself in Winter Garden, Florida.

  She was going home.

  Ritz had stormed off to her room, slamming the door with the little energy she had. She did nothing when Tracee's cab arrived. She heard Tracee knock at her door, but she didn't respond. She heard Tracee tell her that she loved her and that when Ritz was ready, she would be there for her. She heard Tracee say good-bye. She
heard the cab drive off.

  Then she heard the little girl's voice again, the little girl's voice that would not go away:

  Why, Daddy?

  Why, Daddy?

  Why, Daddy?

  30

  Ritz set up her radio, propped up her pillows so she could sit comfortably for four hours, and got ready to tune in to her show. She grabbed her phone to call Chas. She hadn't really spoken to him since the shooting. They needed to have a heart-to-heart.

  Chas picked up on the second ring.

  “Chas here!”

  “It's Ritz,” she said in a matter-of-fact, you-should-be-expecting-my-call manner.

  “Oooooh! Diva! How does it feel to finally be home? You know I've been busy trying to keep your show together, girl. It's not the same around here without you. It's a lot more work. These amateurs they have filling in are giving me fever,” said Chas.

  “So they invited that Fox News bitch back,” Ritz said.

  “What's up with that? I thought there was going to be some sort of rotation until I return next week. How does this bitch get to sit again? I don't like it, Chas. I don't like it one bit!”

  “I don't like it either. It was Ruff's call. He said he wanted to see if she could handle the whole week.”

  “What?!” Ritz was fuming. “The whole fucking week?!”

  One of Ritz's major stipulations was that she didn't want anyone sitting in her seat. And if someone had to fill in, they better not fill in for long.

  “Okay,” she said. “You have to sabotage that bitch today. I don't care what you do. But she better fall on her face, Chas. I am so serious! Look, I'm ready to go back on the air tomorrow. You tell Ruff to call me. Because I'm ready now! Where's Jamie? Send her over here as soon as the show is over. Let her know her room is ready now. She can come over after the show. Make it happen, Chas. I know you can.”

  “Sure thing, diva. Sure thing,” Chas said, hanging up the phone. The last thing he wanted to do was set things up for Ritz to be back on the air. But he had to keep up appearances, at least for a little while.

  Ritz turned on her radio. It was six minutes after three and she could hear her theme music playing. Then there was this voice. Very sultry, very authoritarian. Very strong.

  “Is that Michelle Davis?!” Ritz said to herself. “How is that bitch filling in for me? She's not even a radio person. Who the fuck does she think she is? Who the fuck did she fuck?”

  As Ritz listened to the first hour, she learned who Michelle Davis was. Not only was she a budding radio personality, she was handling Ritz's show with aplomb, taking it in a direction Ritz could never take it. Ritz was heated.

  “I always told Ruff that I never wanted a bitch sitting in my seat,” Ritz said to herself again. “How the fuck did this happen?! This has to be her last day in my seat!”

  Her hands were shaking with fury. She turned the radio off after the last caller was telling Michelle how well she was doing. Ritz couldn't take it. Not one person said how much they missed Ritz. That wasn't good. Once your audience gets hijacked, you're done. She dialed Ruff's number. The phone rang three times and went to voice mail.

  “Ruff, this is Ritz. I'm home. I need to talk to you ASAP. Call me back!”

  She hung up. Ritz's brain was clicking. She had to come up with a plan. Monday was too late. The damage would be thoroughly done. But if she couldn't do anything until Monday, then when Monday did come, Ritz had to come back with a bang. They had to forget this Michelle bitch and remember what they loved so much about Ritz.

  She had to call Chas again and plan out one of the best shows of her life.

  31

  Tracee opened the door to her loft and breathed a sigh of relief. Even though she hadn't called the loft her home for more than a year, she had quickly gotten reacquainted with it. She knew this is what a home was supposed to feel like. Her simple wood floors and soft light never seemed more warm and inviting. She realized just how sick she was of animal prints and the color black, all of which seemed to match Ritz's dark soul.

  She walked over to the window in her living room that went from the floor to the ceiling and watched the parade of yellow cabs scramble through the streets below, and felt at peace with herself and her home. She realized for the first time that she loved her loft. The unrest she associated with it and New York City had really existed only within her, not around her.

  Despite the nasty departure from Ritz's and the heated words exchanged, Tracee's nerves were not shaken. She decided she was going back to Florida, but not to escape. She was going back because she missed the weather. She was going back to Florida, but she knew now that New York was also home. First thing in the morning, Tracee would call her realtor, Spencer Means, and take her loft off the market.

  Hesitantly, Tracee picked up her phone. It was late, but she had to make the call. She tapped the contacts bar on the bottom of the screen. She thought how ironic it was that Randolph's name was perched right above Ritz's on her contacts list.

  Randolph picked up on the second ring.

  “Hello? Tracee?” He recognized her number from the caller ID.

  “Hey,” she said.

  “I didn't expect to hear from you tonight, at least not while you were in the same house as Ritz,” he said, propping himself up in his bed on one elbow. Hearing Tracee made all his senses come alive; he was wide awake.

  “I hope I didn't wake you, but I just wanted to say goodbye, because I am heading back to Florida.”

  “Wha-what?!”

  “But… the good news is I'm not leaving for good. I'm keeping my loft. So I'll have good reason to come back as often as I want.”

  “Wait! Hold up! What do you mean you're leaving?” Randolph sat up immediately. He swung his legs out from under his covers and sat on the edge of his bed. He wasn't prepared for this, and he couldn't hide the disappointment in his voice.

  “What are you doing right now?” Tracee asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “Good. Please come over to my place. I want you to see it. And I want to say good-bye to you in person. I am trying to get a flight out tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Of course, Tracee! Give me your address and I'll be right over,” he said.

  Randolph hung up the phone, put on a pair of navy-blue sweatpants, a T-shirt, and a pair of Timberlands. He grabbed his cell phone, car keys, and wallet and headed for the door. Maybe he could convince her to stay just a couple more days. He didn't want her to leave.

  Tracee's loft was sparsely furnished, so it took no time to make it immaculate and inviting for Randolph. She opened the fridge to see only two bottled waters and some baking soda. But if he was hungry she could order something, or they could walk to one of the numerous stores around the corner.

  She didn't know whether she should change the sheets. She smiled to herself. What was she thinking? She allowed herself to explore that for a moment.

  The phone rang. Even though she was expecting his call, the phone startled Tracee out of her thoughts.

  “Hey, Tracee. I'm downstairs. What apartment?”

  “A-17.” Tracee quickly glanced around the apartment, making sure everything looked just right. A person's home revealed so much. She unlocked the door and left it ajar and stood by the window, wanting to take in all of Randolph's body language as he entered her space.

  He opened the door fast, as if he had been there before. He didn't look around, as she assumed he would. His eyes went directly to her. He walked over to her at the window and held up both hands as if to say, What's up?!

  He reached out and grabbed her hands.

  “Tracee, why are you leaving? Why so fast? What happened? Was it something I said?” It was Randolph's feeble attempt at humor, which wasn't his forte.

  “Ritz and I had this big fight, and she told me to get the hell out of her house,” Tracee said. “Actually, she didn't use the word ‘hell.'”

  “Wait. Ritz threw you out?”

  “Yeah. She told me to get out.
She was angry about a lot of stuff that's not right in her life. I guess it was just easy to dump all of her crap on me. She's great at doing that to people who happen to care about her.

  “What I do know is that I will be there for her if she ever needs me. But I will not be one of her flunkies who tolerate her abuse. But I didn't call you here to talk about that, Rand. I called you to say how wonderful you are and to say that I hope this is not a permanent good-bye.”

  Randolph led Tracee to her simple chocolate, leather sectional that she had found at Huisraad, a store in the Mall at Shorts Hill. Where most leather sectionals are masculine, Tracee managed to find one that was feminine, with curved armrests and extra-soft leather. Randolph interlocked his fingers behind his head and looked around in amazement. As an electrician, he had been in many homes— some of the most magnificent, and some of the crappiest. Tracee's was one of the most exquisite he had seen. It wasn't just the architecture, which was unique in a loft space. Most lofts have a steely, industrial feel, but this one actually felt like a warm, cozy home. Tracee didn't have much furniture, but the furniture she chose and the colors she used and her selection of art pulled it all together.

  She took him by the hand and gave him the grand tour. She enjoyed showing him the artwork on the walls— all of which was original. Her pride and joy was a piece by this hot artist Bernard, who had a shop in South Orange, New Jersey. It was an incredible oil painting of a little girl in a yellow dress with Afro puffs. She'd bought it one day while she and Ritz were hanging out on South Orange Avenue.

  Tracee led Randolph upstairs and they continued the tour. The upstairs was just as beautiful as the downstairs.

  They sat on the top step of the staircase.

  “You really have great taste,” Randolph said. “That bathroom sink upstairs is unique. And where did you find those lights? It's like you have stars in the ceiling. I wish I had done that for you.”

  “I get a lot of ideas from watching HGTV. But since I was a kid, I have kind of been into home improvement and decorating. I love it. Maybe I'll take it up when I decide to come out of retirement. I am planning on redoing this place when I come back.”