by Mary Monroe
“Well, I am not old Mr. Boatwright,” Jerome growled, snatching open the heavy metal door leading into the tiny bar with its postage-stamp-size tables. “And that’s probably why he’s residing at the cemetery now.” Jerome’s teeth were clicking just as hard as mine.
We were the only two patrons in the dimly lit Red Rose for the first hour after the band started playing. And it was a wretched band at that. The sax player was trying to play and smoke at the same time, the guy on the keyboard played off-key, and Mr. Rose’s poor young nephew couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket. I felt sorry and amused at the same time.
Jerome was in heaven. So far he had only had to buy one drink. One of the band members covered our next two rounds. And the waitress couldn’t bring more buffalo wings to our table fast enough for Jerome.
The Red Rose was popular for a lot of reasons. The owner was so generous he allowed his regular customers to run up long tabs before he collected, if he collected at all. I knew this because Mr. Boatwright had died owing the club a fortune that Muh’Dear had settled herself, calling it her last act of “Christian duty” in Mr. Boatwright’s honor. The club offered food to go and I often stopped by myself to pick up fried chicken dinners for Jerome and me. It was a cozy little place and after I got more relaxed, I was almost glad that I had come. That feeling didn’t last long.
I was facing the door but I didn’t see her come in. It was like she had come out of nowhere.
Rhoda!
This time I knew it was her. Standing alone on the dance floor in front of the bandstand, she had on a long, dark skirt, boots, and the same leather coat that she had had with her at the mall. Her long hair was in a ponytail. While I sat there in slack-jawed amazement, the band started playing a tune I’d never heard before, called “Crack The Whip.” Rhoda started gyrating like a stripper and my mouth dropped open so wide, my chin ached. Every member in the band egged her on as she removed a leather belt from her waist and started waving it in the air, cracking it like a whip. In all the years that I had hung around with her, I had never seen Rhoda get so loose in public—or anywhere else, for that matter.
“Now there’s a sister that’s feeling the holiday spirit. You need to loosen up more,” Jerome told me, beckoning for the waitress, snapping his fingers and bobbing his head to the music. He was enjoying every minute of Rhoda’s outrageous performance. I could feel sweat oozing out all over my body. I snatched a napkin off of the table and started to wipe and fan my face.
I had managed to shut my mouth but I was still horrified.
“I’m as loose as I’m going to get,” I declared, my heart beating against my chest so hard I thought the buttons on my cotton blouse were going to pop off. I moved to a chair on the opposite side of the table so I could face the wall—not to keep from looking at Rhoda, but to keep her from looking at me.
The band finally stopped playing but they hooted, hollered, clapped, and whistled like they had no shame whatsoever. I turned to see Rhoda walking away from the dance floor, clutching a huge bag filled with fried chicken so potent it teased my nostrils all the way across the room. I watched her until she glided toward the door and disappeared.
A couple of minutes after Rhoda’s departure, a few more patrons entered and the band stopped sending us drinks. Now, Jerome was just as ready to leave as I was.
By the time we left the club there was so much snow coming down we could barely see two feet in front of us. Jerome led me to his car with his arm around my shoulder, cussing all the way. I didn’t even bother to remind him that it had been his idea for us to come out into this raging blizzard in the first place.
Jerome drove me back to my house and left without coming in for his usual “nightcap,” which included a few minutes in my bed. But that was only after I feigned cramps and a headache.
Once I got inside, I couldn’t sit still long enough to enjoy anything on television. Seeing Rhoda a second time in the same week was a heavy load to carry and I needed to talk to somebody about it. But my options were limited. I couldn’t call Pee Wee for obvious reasons. I couldn’t talk to Muh’Dear about Rhoda and every time I called up Scary Mary, all she really wanted to talk about was herself. I called up Jean. Not to talk about Rhoda, because Jean didn’t know the history of this subject, but I figured that a neutral conversation with an uninvolved party would be the next best thing.
“Annette, is it my imagination or is there something bothering you?” Jean asked. I could hear P. singing along with the television in the background.
“What do you mean?” I managed.
“You’ve asked me if I was going to apply for that supervisor’s position four times in the last ten minutes. And each time I told you I wasn’t. You nervous about the wedding?”
“Yeah. That’s it. I am nervous about my wedding,” I said quickly.
“Well, don’t be.” Jean sighed. “I just wish I was in your shoes.”
I spent the next hour talking to Jean about our jobs at the telephone company, her desire to marry her boyfriend, and other mundane things that I would forget as soon as I got off the telephone.
I went about my business the next few days. I had enough going on in my life that I was soon able to put Rhoda on a back burner.
One of the reasons I tolerated Richland was because it was a small town. It was a lot more intimate than Miami and even Erie, Pennsylvania, the town I’d tried to hide out in a few years ago. But even if Richland had been twice its size, it would still not be big enough for Rhoda and me to occupy at the same time. Not after the way our friendship had ended.
No matter how I tried to ignore it, I knew that if Rhoda was back in town to stay, I would have to deal with her, face-to-face, sooner or later.
I just didn’t know when or how.
CHAPTER 37
M
y upcoming marriage to Jerome, and Muh’Dear and Scary Mary’s constant meddling, were not enough to keep my mind off of Rhoda. I was always looking for other things to occupy myself with. I volunteered to work overtime when nobody else would and I took long drives down the highway, ignoring the bad weather. I also spent as much time as I could with Jean. There was usually a lot going on with her and it was always a temporary relief.
However, there was one thing going on in Jean’s world that disturbed me, to say the least. It had to do with P. and Jean’s boyfriend.
During my frequent visits to Jean’s house, I started noticing things about P. that alarmed me. Whenever Jean’s live-in lover, Vincent “Vinnie” Gambiano, got too close to P., she became even quieter. It was no wonder. Vinnie’s appearance was unsettling, even to me. He was not some evil-eyed gargoyle with fangs. Basically, he was not bad-looking at all. He had a pleasant, square-shaped face with full, bow-shaped lips that he loved to part so that he could show off his sparkling white teeth. But Vinnie wore a long, greasy ponytail, and had a scarred nose that had been broken more than once. He had cold, black eyes with eyebrows so thick it looked like two black caterpillars had crawled up his face. He didn’t have much fashion sense because every time I saw him he had on something dark and outdated. He even wore dark, ratty turtleneck sweaters when he accompanied Jean and P. to the church that they belonged to.
Vinnie and I went way back. He had been in most of my classes all through high school. He had been one of the smartest, neatest boys in the whole school. A lot of kids had teased him about coming to school in a suit with his black hair slicked back with something oily every day, but none of that seemed to bother Vinnie. His grandmother had raised him and it was her that he had always aspired to please.
When the old woman died during our junior year, Vinnie went to live with his Uncle Luigi, a shoe-store manager who drove an old hearse that he’d plucked from a used-car lot for half the asking price. Almost immediately, Vinnie took a strange turn. He stopped wearing suits, grew his hair long, and dropped out of school in our senior year. He started hanging out with some rough people, doing everything he could to look just as tough. Like beating u
p other kids, smoking, and drinking alcohol in public. He even started speaking like them, using foul words and bad grammar. I’d see him barreling through town, driving his uncle’s hearse like it was a Batmobile.
According to the rumors, Vinnie had fathered three babies by three different girls. Among Vinnie’s shady new friends was a bull of a man named Big Pete, who owned a newsstand that sold only the sleaziest of the men’s magazines. Big Pete, a beefy-faced Greek immigrant, was also a small-time loan shark. He would send Vinnie out to visit people who had fallen behind on their loans. Vinnie’s job was to chastise these unfortunate deadbeat individuals. It must have been true because I’d heard it from Scary Mary and she knew everybody’s business. And I did see a lot of people associated with Big Pete hopping around on crutches and wearing casts on their arms.
Even though he was always cordial to me, Vinnie even made me nervous when I visited Jean. But there was something more than that where P. was concerned. She would barely face him when he talked to her. A few times when he thought nobody was looking, I saw him wink at that little girl. A chill shot through my body like a bullet when Jean told me that Vinnie had given up the job he used as a front, driving a cab, to stay home and take care of P. while she worked during the day.
I was scared to death for P. because I knew all too well what was going on behind Jean’s back. At least I thought I did. I had lived through that experience myself with Mr. Boatwright for ten agonizing years.
With all of the things going on in my own life, and Rhoda streaking through my mind like the tail of a comet, I still spent a great deal of my time worrying about P. It was especially difficult for me because I knew that whatever was going on between that child and Vinnie, I was in no position to do anything about it.
Even though Jean was madly in love with Vinnie, other men constantly asked her out. It was no wonder. She had violet eyes like Liz Taylor and a cute nose that turned up at the tip. She had thick, jet-black hair that she wore in a short style with bangs. But she was self-conscious about being overweight and hairy. She rarely wore skirts and it was just as well, because she had hairy legs that she refused to shave. But since that didn’t seem to bother Vinnie, she thought he was the best thing that had ever happened to her. She bent over backward to keep him happy. As hard as it was for me to believe, Vinnie did the same for her. He sent roses to her at work and he took her out to dinner at least twice a week. Working for the telephone company didn’t pay Jean, or me, the kind of money we needed to live in the nice houses we lived in on Reed Street. I would have had to move to a much cheaper place if Muh’Dear hadn’t owned the house I occupied. Vinnie paid Jean’s rent and helped with her other bills. And when Jean’s mother passed away, Vinnie cut a trip to Brooklyn short so he could come home and be with Jean. I had to admit to myself that the man did have some redeeming qualities. But so had Mr. Boatwright.
I was happy when Jean told me that she had decided to put P. in a nursery school. A Black friend of hers had recently opened a licensed child-care center in her home.
“Vinnie was against it but I went for it anyway. My friend has a little girl herself around P.’s age. Maybe being around other kids more will help P. get over her shyness,” Jean told me, fumbling with a huge tuna sandwich in the telephone company lunchroom. “Besides, it’s inconvenient for Vinnie to pick P. up from school every day, and then baby-sit her until I get home from work.”
I gave Jean a thoughtful look. “A little girl should not be alone around men too much anyway. Something bad might happen to her.” I don’t know why I said what I did, but it had been on my mind so much lately, I wasn’t surprised when the words slid out.
Jean gasped and dropped her sandwich on our lunchroom table. A raw onion ring slid out.
“Vinnie’s the only father P.’s ever known. He’d jump in front of a bullet to save her, so I know he wouldn’t let anything happen to her,” Jean said breathlessly, toying with the onion ring she had dropped.
“I meant…well…things happen to little girls all the time.”
Jean blinked and gave me a look that made me wonder if she even knew what I was talking about. “Well, I know Vinnie would never do anything to hurt P. Even…even though…” Jean stopped and started fumbling with her sandwich again.
“Even though what, Jean? Has P. ever told you anything about Vinnie that you should be concerned about?” An ominous feeling came over me.
“Oh, you know how impossible kids her age can be!” Jean waved her thick hand dramatically. She was obviously flustered as she continued in a low voice to keep co-workers at the end of the same table from hearing. “P. got a little pissed-off at Vinnie one time because he tickled her under her arms while I was at the nail shop. She was crying when I got home.”
I looked at Jean with my eyes narrowed. “Is that all she ever told you?” I had not touched the steak sandwich in front of me.
Jean bit a great big plug out of her sandwich and started talking and chewing at the same time. “Oh, she told me that he kissed her one time. But it was her fourth birthday.”
“Did you see him do it?” By now I had lost my appetite completely. I wrapped my sandwich and slid it off to the side.
Jean stared at the wall and her voice got even lower. “I was at work that day.”
“So, Vinnie kissed P. when he was alone with her?” I asked through clenched teeth. “In your house?” My stomach turned. Nobody knew better than I how agonizing it was to kiss a man you didn’t want to kiss. Especially to a frightened child. Mr. Boatwright’s sloppy kisses used to make me puke.
Jean nodded. “On the lips,” she whispered, blinking nervously.
“And what did you do? Did you talk to Vinnie about it and tell him not to be doing something like that?”
“I didn’t do anything,” Jean admitted, refusing to face me. “I can’t afford to lose him.”
That did it! That was all I needed to hear. It was way too late for somebody to help me, but not too late for me to help another victim. I knew it was none of my business, but I felt it was my responsibility to do something to help P.
And I was going to.
CHAPTER 38
T
he same day I had the conversation with Jean about Vinnie kissing P., Jean went home right after lunch, claiming she was sick. The next day I heard that she had decided to take a few days off to take care of a “personal problem” that had suddenly come up. Concerned, I called her house twice that morning and left messages with Vinnie. He must not have given them to her because by the late afternoon, she had not called me back.
On my way home from work that day, I stopped at a pay phone near city hall and dialed the number I had looked up for the county social services. An operator with a nasal voice answered.
“What department, please?”
“Excuse me, ma’am. I’d like to talk to someone about a, uh, possible child-abuse situation,” I whispered, glancing over my shoulder.
“Would you speak up, please?” the woman said in a crisp and impersonal voice.
Being a telephone operator myself, I knew how annoying it was to have an individual on the other end of the line who was not speaking clearly. It was such a thorn in my side, I often hung up on people when they called and mumbled something I could not understand. The last thing I wanted was for this woman to hang up on me. I didn’t know if I’d have enough nerve to call back. I cleared my throat and hollered as loud and clear as I could without attracting attention, “I have reason to believe that a child in my neighborhood is being sexually abused.”
The woman asked my name and address, but I refused to reveal that information. She transferred me to another number. This time a man answered.
“Sir, I need to talk to someone about a child-abuse situation.”
He cleared his throat and said quickly, “I’ll transfer you to Child Protective Services.” The telephone went dead. I called right back and the woman with the nasal voice answered again. I ordered her to transfer me to Child Protective
Services. The woman who answered sounded Black and that put me more at ease.
“Ma’am, I don’t want to give my name or address, but there is this little girl who lives in my neighborhood. Uh…her mother has a live-in boyfriend, with a shady reputation, and I believe he is molesting the little girl.”
“Have you witnessed any inappropriate behavior between this man and this child?” She had a crisp voice that had enough authority in it to make me feel like I’d reached the right person.
“Uh…yes and no.”
The woman let out a deep, tired sigh. “Well, have you or have you not?” This woman’s impatience and indifference startled me. I thought that if anybody would be eagerly interested in hearing about a child being abused, it would be the people in her position. If they were not, then who? And society wondered why children were reluctant to expose their abusers. My head felt so heavy I was afraid it was going to roll right off my shoulders.
“I’ve noticed him looking at the child in a lewd way, see. Every time the child is around him, she gets really nervous and quiet. I don’t think that’s normal. And, the little girl’s own mother told me that this man kissed the little girl on the lips.”
The woman let out another tired sigh. “What you’ve just described does not constitute child abuse.”
Now I was impatient. “Look, lady, I—I went through the same shit when I was a child! I know all the signs! Now somebody has got to do something to help this little girl before it’s too late! Isn’t that what you people do? This same man makes his living breaking people’s legs and arms and God knows what else. He’s a beast!” I couldn’t remember the last time I had felt so emotional. I started itching all over.
