by Mary Monroe
I went home to pack for my trip to Miami.
CHAPTER 34
W
ith the exception of Lillimae’s mother’s funeral, I had enjoyed the few days I spent in Florida. But I was glad when I returned to Richland. Muh’Dear and Jerome were glad to have me back to themselves.
Jerome wanted to get married the week of Christmas.
“We can celebrate Christmas and our anniversary at the same time every year,” he told me. He had picked me up from the airport in Akron and decided to spend the night with me. We had just finished another dull romp in bed, with him flopping around on top of me like a seal, trying to arouse me with his fingers and tongue. As usual, he had ejaculated way too soon, but I was used to that by now. “Was it good, baby?” he muttered in my ear. “Tell me it was good.”
“It was good,” I said dryly. I had just faked my second orgasm that night. I had not experienced the real thing since my last rendezvous with Pee Wee.
Jerome didn’t have to tell me, but I already knew that our celebrating two important days of the year at the same time would save him even more money. I agreed to get married on Christmas Day of that year.
The closest friend that I had at work my age, a secretary named Jean Teresa Caruso, hosted a wedding shower for me that first week in December. Jean had recently moved into a house two doors down from me and we took turns driving each other to work. Jean was so nice and persistent, I couldn’t turn down her offers to go shopping and out to dinner. She was divorced and had a six-year-old daughter named Piatra, that we called P. She was going to be my flower girl. It was going to be a small wedding with just a few friends from work and church. With Scary Mary as my maid of honor, I couldn’t wait to get it over with. With great reluctance, Pee Wee had agreed to give me away. My upcoming marriage symbolized another new beginning for me as well as another ending. Because of it, my relationship with Pee Wee would never be the same again. Now we really would be like brother and sister and that was all. Even though our relationship had been pretty much that anyway since I’d met Jerome, I fiercely missed Pee Wee’s lovemaking.
“You think it’s fittin’ to have a white girl in your weddin’ with so many little colored girls around here?” Muh’Dear whispered. She still liked to whisper when she talked about white people with me. Especially over the telephone, like now. “What about one of Deacon Brewsters six granddaughters?”
“This is not about color and it is my wedding. Besides, I promised P. she could be my flower girl and she’s really looking forward to it,” I whispered back.
P. was a cute, plump little Italian girl with long, curly brown hair and big, beautiful brown eyes, but she was particularly quiet for a child her age.
She reminded me of myself when I was her age. Like I did when I was a child, P. seemed to enjoy the company of grown folks more than she did kids. I didn’t mind baby-sitting her when Jean wanted to go out and I did it for free because I liked P.’s company. When P. came to my house we usually made cookies, watched cartoons, and I read children’s stories to her. But what she enjoyed most was going to the mall or the movies.
A few days after my bridal shower, a Saturday afternoon, P. stumbled up on my front porch and started pounding on my door. Jerome had just called and wanted to come over. I agreed, only if he would take me to the movies that night to see The Color Purple. It was not playing at either of Richland’s only two movie theaters yet, but it was playing in Canton, a twenty-minute drive from Richland. Jerome had compromised and agreed to take me to the movies only if we could go to a matinee and get in for half-price. I had opened the door expecting to see him.
“Oh, P., you can’t come in today. I’m waiting for my boyfriend and we’re going out,” I explained, looking over P.’s bare head, hoping to see Jerome’s car. P.’s coat was unbuttoned, she didn’t have on her snow boots, and her cap was in her hand.
“Can’t I come, too?” she asked in a trembling voice.
I shook my head. I didn’t like the downside of having a close relationship with this child. I had allowed and encouraged P. to expect too much from me.
“Please, Annette,” she begged, tugging at the tail of my blouse.
I laughed dryly. “I’m going out on a date with my boyfriend. I don’t think he would like to have two girlfriends. Wouldn’t you rather spend the day with your mama?” There were not that many children in our neighborhood close to P.’s age. And most of the ones that were, were boys. Even though P. liked to play with boys, she still preferred to spend most of her time with adults.
P. dropped her head and started shifting her weight from one foot to the other.
“I don’t like it at home no more,” she told me, looking up at me with tears in her eyes. “It’s…bad.”
I was already cold standing in the doorway without my coat, but P.’s words and demeanor suddenly made me feel even colder. I chose to ignore some thoughts that had popped up in my head.
“Uh…we can go to the mall tomorrow,” I suggested.
“I don’t want to go tomorrow. I want to go today!” P. said sharply, stomping her foot, poking out her bottom lip.
Any other adult would have scolded the girl and sent her home, but I stood there for five minutes arguing with a child. I probably would have stood there longer than that if the telephone on my living room end table had not rung.
It was Jerome and he was canceling our date.
“Sister Hawthorne slipped on some ice and sprained her ankle so she can’t take Mama to play bingo today,” Jerome explained, talking in a low voice. I could hear his bothersome mother mumbling in the background. “Mama said if she wins, she’ll owe it all to you.”
“I didn’t even know your mama played bingo,” I said stiffly, curling the telephone cord around my finger. I heard my front door close. I turned around and P. was strolling across the floor with that same pout on her face. She stopped right in front of me, staring at my face with eyes that looked like they belonged on a puppy.
“Yeah. Mama’s been playing bingo for years.” In a whisper Jerome added, “You know how old folks can be. They can be just like kids when they want something. They don’t stop ’til they get their way.”
“Jerome, I know just what you mean.” I sighed and rubbed the top of P.’s head. “Call me later on…if you can,” I said in defeat.
Now that Jerome was not going to come over, I had a lot of free time on my hands. I took P. with me to the mall to exchange a see-through negligee that Jean had given me for a flannel bathrobe.
After P. and I spent an hour window-shopping and admiring the Christmas displays, she started whining to go to the toy store on the other side of the mall. It took me ten minutes to talk her out of that notion and that was only after I promised her that Santa Claus was going to bring her enough toys for Christmas. It was true in a way. I had already purchased and wrapped for her every one of the same toys that she wanted to go look at. She had a slight cold and looked so peaked I felt sorry for her so I compromised by taking her for pizza instead.
“That’s your third slice now. Finish that and let’s go,” I told P. as we shared a booth in Francisco’s Pizza Parlor across from Ernie’s Record Store. There was loud disco music coming out of the record store and flashing colored lights from a strobe on a card table right outside the entrance. My trip to the mall usually included a visit to Ernie’s, which is where I planned to go after the pizza. I needed to replace several Bob Marley tapes that Pee Wee had borrowed and not returned and I wanted to buy a few new ones as Christmas gifts for Pee Wee, Jerome, and his family. As snooty as Jerome’s mother was, she had a passion for reggae music and had even told me which tapes she wanted.
“I don’t want your mama mad at me for spoiling your appetite for dinner,” I added, wiping sauce and root beer from P.’s chin with a napkin.
“Oh, she don’t care how much I eat. She let me have some Gummy Bears this morning,” P. told me, talking and chewing at the same time. “And some cherry pop.”
; “Well, I’m not your mama and I don’t think you should be overdoing it,” I said firmly, wishing my mother had curtailed my eating habits when I was a child. I couldn’t count the thick biscuits and pork chops my mother had charmed me with to keep me happy. According to Muh’Dear, she had breast-fed me and had weaned me off of her milk with pork sausages before I was a year old. Thirty-five years later and I was still sucking on pork sausages, two and three at a time, every chance I got.
Even though it was the middle of winter and we had just had one of the severe snowstorms that Ohio was famous for, the mall was so warm inside I had removed my heavy wool coat and rolled up the sleeves of my thick angora sweater. When I got up to go get more napkins to wipe sweat off of my face, I casually glanced out of the window and noticed something that made me almost lose the five slices of pizza I had consumed. Prancing like a reindeer out of the record store was a petite Black woman wearing a navy blue jumpsuit and high-heeled, black leather boots. She was holding a black leather coat in one hand and a shopping bag in the other. There was a proud look about her. She held her head high and her shoulders back. Her silver hoop earrings sparkled like diamonds.
My tongue felt like a big rock threatening to slide down my throat. For a moment, I knew what it was like to be paralyzed. I couldn’t move and I couldn’t speak. All I could do was stare and blink my eyes.
I was looking at Rhoda, the woman who had killed the man who had raped me throughout my childhood.
CHAPTER 35
W
hen I was able to move again, I grabbed a wad of napkins and almost knocked three other patrons down trying to get back to my booth so fast. I sat down so hard, a sharp pain rolled through my stomach.
“I’m almost finished,” P. told me, coughing and gobbling up another slice of the pizza, spilling soda on the table.
“Take…take your time,” I said nervously, using the napkins I had just picked up to wipe off the table instead of the sweat sliding down the sides of my face. I beckoned for the waiter and ordered another pizza and a half-carafe of white wine.
“What’s wrong, Annette?” P. asked, giving me a puzzled look. “Did you want that last slice of pizza?”
“Uh…no. You go on and eat it. I’ll eat some of the next one. I…I just thought about something that made me nervous,” I replied, looking toward the door.
“You look so funny now,” P. stated, looking at me with her eyes blinking rapidly. “You sick?”
“I’m fine. Just be still!” I snapped.
The waiter delivered another pizza and the wine. I ignored the pizza, but I poured myself a glass of wine so fast, I spilled most of it on the table. I couldn’t get some in me fast enough. I didn’t stop drinking until it was all gone. P. gobbled up as much of the second pizza as she could by herself, eating so fast she almost gagged.
“You can slow down. I don’t want any more pizza,” I told her, belching so hard my chest felt like it was going to explode.
Chewing frantically, a frown appeared on P.’s face and she pushed the pizza away.
“I don’t feel so good now,” she complained, rubbing her stomach.
I didn’t feel so good myself and I felt even worse knowing that I had allowed P. to overindulge herself.
“We’ll sit here for a little while,” I offered. “Then we’ll both feel better.”
Now that I was tipsy from drinking the whole container of wine by myself, I was afraid to drive. I was also afraid to go back out into the mall. The last thing I wanted to do was face Rhoda Nelson again. Especially this close to Christmas and my wedding.
There was a back door out of the pizza parlor. It was for the use of employees only and there was a big sign above the door that said just that. But I wasn’t going to let it stop us from leaving that way. I slid into my coat, snatched up my package from the lingerie store, and turned to P. “Quick—follow me and run like hell!” A stunned teenage employee walking toward us just looked and shook his head as P. and I rushed toward the back door, flung it open, and fled. P. seemed to be enjoying our unplanned escapade and ran along with me, giggling until we reached my car.
“How come you didn’t want to pay?” P. asked, trying to catch her breath as she fastened her seat belt.
“What?” I hollered, tossing my package into the backseat.
P. sniffed, rubbed her nose, and looked over at me as I secured my seat belt around my heaving chest. My heart was beating so hard, I thought I was going to have a heart attack.
“You didn’t pay for the pizza and stuff,” P. said with a devilish look on her face.
“Oh, shoot!” I smacked the steering wheel and gritted my teeth. “Well, we’ll just have to pay double the next time we go there for pizza,” I offered, speaking more to myself than to the confused child on the seat next to me. I didn’t know when I’d go back to that mall again. But knowing that I might run into Rhoda there, I knew it wouldn’t be anytime soon.
I knew I couldn’t drive until the buzz had worked its way through my head. So P. and I tumbled out of my car and walked across the parking lot and spent the next two hours in a hardware store across the street from the mall.
“Now, we can’t leave until I find something to give to my boyfriend for Christmas,” I told P., praying more for Rhoda not to come into this store than I was for the employees at the pizza parlor not to track me down.
Jean wasn’t home when I attempted to drop P. off, so I took her home with me and I was glad that I did. She kept me so busy wrapping Christmas presents that I didn’t have time to think much about Rhoda.
About an hour later, Jean called and told me to send P. home.
“I don’t want to go home. I want to spend the night with you,” P. insisted, almost in tears.
“No, you have to go home now,” I said sternly. “It’s Christmastime and you should be spending more time with your own family.”
With a profound scowl, P. put on her coat with so much reluctance that she put it on inside out.
As I was walking P. to her house, I advised her not to tell her mother that I’d allowed her to eat so much at the mall pizza parlor and that we had left without paying for our orders.
“You can keep all of that a secret, can’t you?” I asked, leading the girl down the street by her hand.
P. was taking too long to respond.
“P., did you hear me?”
“I heard you,” she replied weakly. “I can keep a secret.”
I stood outside on the sidewalk in front of Jean’s house until P. made it inside, dragging her feet and looking back at me with a hopeless look on her face. It had started to snow again so my vision was obscured. For a moment, I just stood there blinking at the big, green-shingled house that Jean occupied. Jean and P. had painted pictures of elves and fairies on the wall of their front porch. The place reminded me of a big, sad dollhouse. A light came on upstairs and P.’s face appeared in a window. She stayed there until I left.
Alone in my house again, I was still so occupied with other things—cleaning up the mess in the kitchen, watching television, and hand washing a few pairs of my panties—that I didn’t think much about Rhoda. But when I went to bed, Rhoda was all I could think about. It had been close to around this same time of the year when I’d last seen or talked to her.
I had thought about her often over the years. Naturally, I did it more around this time of the year. I knew that her family had moved away, and as far as I knew, she never came to Richland to visit anybody so I couldn’t come up with a reason for her to be back in Richland now. Hours later, I was still tossing and turning, almost falling out of my bed thinking about Rhoda. I kept telling myself that I had mistaken some other woman for her. There were a couple of other petite, young Black women in town who resembled Rhoda from a distance…
When I got up the next morning, I had convinced myself that I had not seen Rhoda.
But I was wrong.
CHAPTER 36
T
wo days after my visit to the mall, Jerom
e and I went to the Red Rose nightclub to hear a jazz band from Cleveland that somebody had told him about. Jeffrey Rose, the nightclub owner’s nephew, sang with the band and the club was anxious to give the boy some exposure. I should have known that there were other reasons for Jerome to want to go out and spend money when he didn’t have to. I found that out before we even left my house.
“I won a raffle down at the office. Buy one drink, get one free. And all the free buffalo wings you can eat,” Jerome confessed with a grin so extreme it almost divided his face. “If we eat enough, you won’t even have to cook dinner tonight.”
Another snowstorm had hit Richland earlier that day. Snow was still coming down like curtains. Most people had the good sense to stay home that night. Even though Jerome had snow tires on his car, the car skidded so much on the icy streets that I was a nervous wreck by the time we got to the Red Rose. And I didn’t try to hide it.
“I’d feel better if we had walked over here,” I complained, gripping Jerome’s arm as we stumbled, slipped, and slid across the parking lot.
“Not in all this shit,” he snapped, snow covering his bare head like a white cap.
I had a scarf on my head and a muffler around my neck. But snowflakes the size of quarters all but covered my face. My cheeks and eyes burned from the cold wind that was howling at us like a wolf. Being so fair-skinned, Jerome’s normally yellow-toned face now looked bright orange. His nose was almost blue.
“Old Mr. Boatwright used to walk over here from our house in the snow, at night, two and three times a week. And he didn’t have but one leg,” I said with my teeth clicking and my hands feeling numb even though I had on thick gloves. I was more disgusted with myself than I was with Jerome. I couldn’t believe that I had let him woo me out into this miserable weather just because he had won a raffle to get some free drinks.
