Bad Blood

by Mary Monroe

  “How you managed to stay in a relationship with that woman for as long as you did is a mystery to me. Well, you can forget about her. She’s part of your past,” Darla assured me.

  Yes, Rachel was part of my past. I had a wonderful future ahead of me.

  Chapter 21

  Rachel

  Four years earlier ...

  I WOKE UP AROUND 8:00 A.M. THAT SUNDAY MORNING IN LATE AUGUST with one of the worst hangovers I’d ever had in my life. My head was throbbing, my stomach was doing flip-flops, and there were no words to describe what the inside of my mouth tasted like.

  I sat up, opened my eyes, and looked around my bedroom. I was glad to see that the man who had kept me up for hours the night before had put his clothes back on and had left.

  If I had stayed in bed on this day, things would have turned out a lot differently for me and everyone else involved. I was not even that eager to crawl out of bed and go church—or anyplace else—to meet Seth Garrett, a potential new boyfriend. But I had agreed to do so. I had no idea that it would be one of the biggest mistakes I had ever made in my life.... I sucked in some air and almost puked.

  Lucy answered her telephone on the second ring. “My time is your time,” she chirped.

  “It’s me,” I said. “You don’t have to pick me up for church this morning. I’ll catch a ride with Uncle Albert. He’s at the nail salon around the corner, getting a manicure. I just got off the phone with him.”

  “No, I’ll pick you up! The last time you told me you had a ride, you didn’t show up, and I didn’t see or hear from you for two days. Today is too important, so I can’t take a chance on that happening again.”

  I laughed. “I told you I’d be there. I just don’t think it makes any sense for you to drive across town, out of your way, to pick me up when my uncle is so close by.”

  A heavy sigh was Lucy’s response before she replied, “Look, I went out of my way to get you and Seth Garrett in the same place at the same time. I want to make up for that disaster you went through with Paulette’s brother.”

  Paulette Ramsey was a mutual friend of ours. She was in her late twenties and was married to a chef who looked as good as he cooked. They had eight-year-old twin sons. Paulette had a younger brother named Walter, but everybody called him Skirt. What Lucy and Paulette hadn’t told me when they threw a party last December to celebrate Skirt’s twenty-sixth birthday and lured me to it so Skirt could meet “a decent woman” was why people called the brother Skirt. It hadn’t taken long for me to find out. The man chased skirts the way dogs chased cats. Skirt was addicted to women and women were addicted to him and it was no wonder. He had the looks and the body of a male model, and he used both to his advantage. He worked as a valet at a hotel parking lot that his grandfather managed. He worked only a few days a month because he had to devote so much time to his love life and other shady activities.

  If all that was not enough for me to end my relationship with him when I found it out, which was only a couple of weeks after our first date, what I learned subsequently was more than enough: he had a police record that included carjackings, armed robbery, assaults, breaking and entering, and other crimes. I had endured a somewhat rigid upbringing and had been strongly advised by the old folks to stay away from men who didn’t walk the straight and narrow. Since I had more than a few faults of my own, a wild streak in a man intrigued me. But I drew the line when it came to a man with a serious criminal history.

  Lucy had apologized to me profusely for setting me up with a straight-up thug. “I am so sorry I didn’t tell you about Skirt before. He’s always been a bad boy, but I thought he had turned his life around. The next time I hook you up with somebody, I’ll make sure he’s got a cleaner record.”

  Well, here she was, playing matchmaker again.

  What neither Lucy nor anybody else knew was that Skirt and I were still “friends,” or whatever people called ex-lovers who still snuck around and slept together. He was fun to be with, and I had always enjoyed his company, especially in bed. When he’d called me up one night a few weeks after our breakup, I’d reluctantly let him come over. One thing had led to another, and we’d ended up in bed. No matter how hard he’d tried to get me to “resume” our relationship so we could go out in public again, I’d resisted.

  “We can still get together behind closed doors now and then, but that’s all. That private school I work for did a thorough background check on me before they hired me. I’d probably lose my job if they found out I was affiliated with a criminal,” I’d told Skirt the first night I allowed him back into my bed.

  “Aw, baby, you know me. I don’t want to socialize with none of them folks you work with, nohow, but I respect where you coming from. See, I ain’t got no problem being a backstreet lover, so if you want to see me only on the down low, that’s cool with me.” He’d grinned, blinking his big, brown, almond-shaped eyes at me. From that night on, he’d visited me two or three times a month.

  Lucy was the only one of my friends whom I told everything. Well, almost everything. After the big fuss I’d made about her hooking me up with Skirt, I hadn’t had the nerve to tell her that I was still fooling around with him. I’d decided to keep my renewed interest in him a dirty little secret.

  Lucy’s voice jolted me back to the present moment.

  “I think it’s time for you to meet a real man, and if you don’t grab Seth now, some other girl will,” Lucy said. “Now, are you going to show up at church this morning or not?”

  “I told you I’d be there. The way you’ve been bragging about this Seth brother, I’m just as anxious as you are for me to meet him. Now, like I said, Uncle Albert will give me a ride.”

  “And like I said, I’m going to pick you up! I’ll be there at ten thirty, so be ready.” Lucy hung up before I could say another word.

  Chapter 22

  Rachel

  I DIDN’T WANT TO WAIT TOO LONG BEFORE I CALLED UP UNCLE ALBERT at the nail salon. He was the only relative I had in California and my closest male friend. He had always been my favorite relative, but he could be as bitchy as Lucy. If I didn’t call him and he showed up at my apartment after I left, I knew I would never hear the end of it.

  I couldn’t stop thinking about the night before. I’d spent a few hours at the Fox Club with some friends from work. When I’d got home around eight, Skirt was sitting in his mama’s Chevy station wagon in front of my apartment building, with a bottle of my favorite wine.

  After we had drained the wine bottle, Skirt and I had spent a few of the most passionate hours together ever. But things had not changed between us, and they never would. I was ready to meet a real man, after all. I needed a man who could escort me to my work-related functions and other social events—and not embarrass me by getting arrested. I was glad Lucy was looking out for me. And so was my mother.

  Before I could put my telephone back in its cradle, it rang. The caller was the last person in the world I wanted to talk to on a Sunday morning.

  “Hello, Mama,” I said, rolling my eyes and rolling over in bed at the same time. Since she had retired from her job in a school cafeteria, she had more time on her hands. She spent a lot of it calling me to monitor everything I did, from what I ate for dinner to me finding a husband.

  “You sound like you just waking up, Rachel.”

  “I am just waking up, and I’m still in bed,” I said with a sigh, looking around my room again. My apartment on College Avenue had two large bedrooms. My spare bedroom was neat and organized. That was where I kept my computer, two shelves of books, and a few other odds and ends. The room I slept in was usually neat and organized, but today it was cluttered with clothes, magazines, empty wine bottles, and a few sex toys. Had Mama been able to see my room, she would have fussed up a storm.

  “I been meaning to tell you, you don’t even speak like that simple country gal you used to be. When you answered the phone just now, I thought I had dialed the wrong number. You sound like one of them black newswomen
on the TV.”

  “Thank you, Mama.”

  “Don’t thank me for something like that! The way you talk now ain’t natural! You done changed, and I don’t know if it’s for the better.” Mama paused and sucked on her teeth. “I’m worried about you, Rachel. You way out there among them West Coast fools, with half of them running around in robes and cutoff britches—or half naked—protesting this and that, eating raw meat, and smoking Lord knows what.”

  “Mama, I’m not doing any of that.”

  “And another thing, you ain’t so young no more. You twenty-three years old. How do you expect to find a husband, spending half the day in the bed? It’s practically noon. How come you ain’t in church, girl?”

  “It’s not noon in California, Mama. I keep telling you there is a time difference between Alabama and the West Coast. I’m just about to get up and get ready for church.”

  “Good. Running around with that funny uncle of yours, you need all the spiritual support you can get.”

  “We don’t call people like Uncle Albert ‘funny’ out here, Mama. We call them gay.”

  “Pfffft! I wouldn’t call no man who fornicates with other men gay! Gay is what you call a Easter basket or a—”

  “How is everybody doing?” I broke in. The heavy sigh on Mama’s end told me she had called to deliver unpleasant news. My twenty-year-old brother, Ernest, was autistic. My sister, Janet, who was eighteen, was paranoid schizophrenic. Growing up with them had been a real challenge and still was in some ways. Every time Mama had a problem with one of them, she called me up to vent.

  My mother’s younger brother Albert had moved in with us after their parents died in a bus accident when he was thirteen. He had moved to California several years ago. A few years after he’d relocated, I’d followed him.

  “Well, I’m glad you asked. Uh, your brother ain’t doing too good.”

  “Oh? What’s the matter? Did he stop taking his meds again?”

  “He don’t take his meds the way he’s supposed to. Last night he went to the corner store to pick up a few items for me to cook for dinner. He came home with a bloody nose and a knot upside his head. Somebody had jumped on him again, and he couldn’t even tell us who it was.”

  “Mama, I keep telling you not to let Ernest go out at night alone! Why didn’t you get somebody in the neighborhood to drive him to the store, like you usually do?”

  “The doctor said I need to let him be more independent,” Mama told me with another heavy sigh. “Ernest keeps asking when you’re coming back home. . . .”

  “California is my home now, Mama. I’m never moving back to Coffeeville, Alabama.”

  The long moment of silence made my chest tighten. This usually meant Mama had more unpleasant news to report. I was right.

  “Your sister’s been hearing voices again.”

  “What do you mean ‘again’? She’s always heard voices. Even when she was a baby.”

  “Them voices she’s hearing now ain’t so nice. One told her to haul off and slap me last night.”

  “Oh no. She . . . she’s never been violent before, Mama.”

  “Well, she got violent last night. I just hope them voices don’t tell her to pick up a hammer and bash me in the head.”

  My heart was beating so rapidly, I had trouble breathing. I worried about my mother all the time. She refused to even consider putting my siblings away, so I felt totally helpless.

  “Mama, maybe you should really think about getting Ernest and Janet some serious help.”

  “What do you think I been doing since I birthed them two kids, girl? I got God’s help, and that’s better than any doctor or hospital or anybody else!”

  “God didn’t stop Janet from slapping you last night. What if those voices tell her to burn down the house one night, when you and Ernest are asleep?”

  “I’m way ahead of you on that one! I put up smoke detectors in every room in this house.” Mama laughed.

  “Mama, this is not funny. I don’t know how you can live the way you do. Don’t you want to know what it’s like to live like a normal woman?”

  “What’s wrong with you, girl? I am living like a ‘normal woman.’”

  “I don’t think so. Janet seems to be getting worse instead of better. She slapped you for no reason.”

  “She slapped me because them voices told her to slap me.”

  Talking to my mother was so exasperating, especially if she was the one who called. That meant I didn’t have time to prepare myself. When I called her, I usually drank a shot of tequila or something equally potent first. I sat up and glanced at the clock on my nightstand and swung my legs to the side of the bed. “Did Janet stop taking her meds, too?”

  “No, she is taking her meds. She keeps asking me when you coming back home.”

  “Mama, I’ll come for a visit when I get my vacation. Now, let me get up and get ready for church. My friend is going to introduce me to someone, a man from a real nice family that she can’t stop talking about. His name is Seth, and I’m real anxious to meet him.”

  “Well, don’t get your hopes up too high. Most men are descended from dogs. You be careful with this Seth boy. I don’t want you to get in trouble on account of him. Like you did with that Morgan boy back here.”

  “I’ll call you later in the week and tell you all about Seth, Mama. If he turns out to be a jackass like Jeffrey Morgan was, I’ll just kick him to the curb.”

  “Good. I’d hate for the police to arrest you again. . . .”

  Chapter 23

  Seth

  “ALL YOU NEED IS A GOOD WOMAN BEHIND YOU, SON. IF THAT won’t straighten you out, nothing will. No man succeeds unless there’s a woman guiding him. Look at your father and your brothers!”

  “I don’t need a woman to ‘straighten me out,’ Mother,” I said, holding my breath to keep from snickering, like I usually did when she brought up this subject. “I’m doing all right on my own so far.”

  “And that’s only because of me. What would you do if I didn’t look after you the way I do? You’d probably be locked up or dead by now. You are not like your brothers.”

  One thing my family never let me forget was that I was not like my brothers. I was the baby in the family, and even though they had spoiled me rotten, every time I got into trouble, it was my fault. I was wild and unfocused in elementary school, and the class clown and a prankster in middle school. My grades were always shitty, so it was a wonder I even made it to high school. And I was always attracted to the kids who couldn’t stay out of trouble. After I was suspended from school for everything from fighting to mouthing off to my teachers, my folks finally cracked down on me.

  My mother and father had been born and raised in California, so they were not into giving “whuppings,” the way the parents of some of my friends with Southern ties were. Punishment in our house meant a stern talking-to, back-to-back church events, and no allowance. That straightened me out for a little while, until I got interested in girls. Sex was on my mind day and night, and I couldn’t wait to find out what all the fuss was about. I went from girl to girl and was never in a serious relationship in high school, even though I fathered a child with one of my conquests.

  Mother was still convinced that all I needed was a good woman—other than her—in my life. And apparently, so were her friends.

  “Last Saturday that meddlesome-ass Florence Patterson’s last single son married that Brinkley girl. Florence came up to me after the ceremony and had the nerve to ask me if you were gay!” Mama yelled during our latest conversation about my marital status.

  Florence Patterson, a retired high school math teacher and a malicious old hag, was one of Mother’s closest friends. She stayed all up in everybody’s business. She had four sons, and all of them were now married.

  “You can tell that old busybody crow that I am not gay and I can’t understand why she’d even think something like that,” I shot back. “I’ve dated plenty of girls.” I loved women, and I loved being in a r
elationship, but I was a lot more picky than I had been in high school. Now I wanted a woman who was going to be a partner in more ways than one. For instance, she had to have more to offer me than her body and her time, and she had to be willing to help me achieve my goals.

  It was a typical late summer Sunday morning. We were having a steak-and-egg breakfast in the spacious dining room of my parents’ house, a gorgeous five-bedroom Spanish-style structure in the heart of the exclusive Berkeley Hills. I still lived at home for more than one reason. One, I didn’t have to pay rent or help with any household expenses, even though Sister Patterson kept hinting that I should “volunteer to contribute,” the way her sons and my brothers had when they still lived at home. My parents didn’t push it, and so I didn’t. I had it made, and I was going to milk this cow dry. Another reason I still lived at home was that I loved the way my mother pampered me. The thought of living on my own scared me. For one thing, I was not making the kind of money I needed to live in the kind of place I wanted. Some of my single friends lived in dumps in crime-infested neighborhoods. One even shared a backstreet hovel with four roommates. Well, none of that appealed to me.

  As usual, Mother dominated the conversation, while Father looked on, gnawing on the T-bone steak that Clarice, our part-time cook, had put on his plate just a few minutes ago.