I can’t help but laugh, but Momma’s next words sober my ass.
“Tyrik called while you were out.” A sloppy smile curves her lips as she snatches the brown bag from my hands. “He says he has to cancel your date this evening. Something came up.”
“Probably some better coochee.” Koolay laughs.
I slice my don’t-fuck-with-me glare in his direction and make sure I meet his half-lidded gaze. “There’s no such thing as better than this.”
That shut him up. But as his gaze roams my curvy body, he makes the mistake of licking his lips. I doubt he ever saw Momma’s left hook.
9
Molly
Valentine’s Day is almost over and Junior is still not home. Dinner was done two hours ago, more than half the wicks in my army of ninety-nine-cent candles are burned out, and I feel ridiculous in this pink, fake lace teddy I bought from Super Wal-Mart. I keep crying and fucking up my mascara to the point I now look like Tammy Faye Bakker’s stepchild.
How could he do this? He knows how special this day is to me. I know our money is funny and all. Since we’ve been together, we’ve never really been able to go all out like we want to, but Junior hinted that this year was going to be different. I imagined roses being delivered or even a stuffed teddy bear with a big-ass balloon with the words “I love you.” That would have been nice and romantic. But who am I kidding? Bentley Manor is a red zone — meaning no one made deliveries here — except the cops serving warrants, subpoenas, and eviction notices.
My eyes zoom to our folded copies of this month’s eviction notice sitting on top of the television set. It’s a damn shame we can’t afford a hundred and ten dollars a month. Of course, if I had a baby we could get more government assistance and probably even qualify to get this rat hole for free.
If only.
Another hour slips by and I’ve chewed my nails down to the nubs. That’s a new habit for me, which is my first line of defense before grabbing a half gallon of Mayfield’s ice cream from the freezer.
I get up from the rickety kitchen table and make a beeline across the always-sticky tile floor. I mean it. I’ve tried every product imaginable on this floor and the damn thing still feels as if it’s coated with sugar.
Which also attributes to this apartment’s roach problem. Until I moved here, I’d never seen a cockroach. Now, I’m in a war against these nasty, six-legged creatures that seem as pointless as the one in the Middle East.
There are small ones, big ones, ones that can fly, and ones that can outdistance Olympic sprinters. The first year I moved here the damn things nearly turned me into a schizoid, thinking that they were always crawling on me. These motherfuckers drink Raid like it’s fuckin’ Cristal, get high off foggers, and treat bait traps like vacation houses. Nothing kills these bastards.
Nothing.
“He’s not coming home.” Fresh tears roll down my face. “Maybe he’s getting a lot done in the studio.” My heart drops so low I swear it’s pulsing in my toes. I’ve maxed my limit with keeping open food out and begin wrapping everything up. When I’m through, I blow out the rest of the candles and power off the CD player.
Stealing a peek out of the dust-covered blinds, a light drizzle of rain sprinkles across the windows. However, that doesn’t stop the night crawlers from prowling the street. Men are arguing down the way and, unbelievably, children are still playing in the street and somewhere in the building, a baby is crying.
I hate this place.
And I hate not knowing where my husband is.
A familiar face appears out of the darkness and I almost turn away from the window but then I realize Devani is crying and I’m stunned. The woman treats me like something stuck under her shoe no matter how nice I am.
I can’t imagine what’s pierced that steely bitchiness and has her crying where the whole world can see.
This is a Kodak moment.
Seconds later, Devani drifts back into the shadows and my loneliness returns. I start to chew on my nails again, but they’re already raw and I have one cuticle bleeding. Fuck it. I need that ice cream now.
I snatch a new carton out of the freezer and grab a large spoon. No bowls necessary at this pity party.
When I pull the top off the carton, a loud squeak startles me and I look down in time to see a fat, long-tail rat scurrying by my feet.
I scream and drop the lid but manage to hold on to the prized ice cream. As if sensing my fear, my unwelcome guest stops halfway across the tile and, I swear to God, glances back at me as if stunned to see me standing in his kitchen.
I plop the ice cream carton in the sink and rush to grab the broom. “Get out of here. Get!” I jab at him with the hard straw end of the broom. Instead of running away this damn thing charges at me.
Screaming, I back up against the sink and then jump up on it when the ugly bastard keeps coming. Terrified, my heart is beating like it’s trying to escape my chest.
Then suddenly, the rat disappears beneath me.
“Hey!” A voice hollers from above and thumps down on my ceiling. “Keep quiet down there!” Another thump and pieces of plaster drift around the kitchen like snow.
I close my eyes and try to slow my racing heart. Before I know it, more tears sting my eyes. I hate living like this. I want to go home.
Visions of my childhood home, a brick, Georgian-style house, fill my mind. The heavenly scent of baked chocolate chip cookies always drifted through every room and, more important, our housekeeper kept everything spotless. No cockroaches. No rats.
Slowly I’m aware of my butt getting cold and it hits me that I’m sitting on top of the open carton of ice cream.
“Shit.”
Drawing a deep breath, I finally open my eyes to the disheartening nightmare that is my kitchen. After scanning the floor beneath me for my tormentor, I slide my butt out of the sink. I move away from the sink and glance underneath it. Sure enough, there’s a sizable hole where Mr. Rat must have ducked.
Snatching a few paper towels, I quickly wipe the ice cream off my ass and then rush to the back of the apartment to search for something to stuff the hole. I’m trembling and shaking, wanting to hurry before the fat bastard comes back out.
But I can’t find anything. In the bathroom, on top of the clothes hamper, I spot a pair of Junior’s socks and make a snap decision to use it. When I return to the kitchen, my heart begins hammering again. I try to be quiet but the sticky floor announces my every step. Needless to say the idea of getting on my hands and knees to stuff a sock in a rat hole fills me with terror. But I squat down anyway and crawl toward the hole.
What if I get bitten? Couldn’t I get rabies or something?
The front door rattles and I freeze. Is it my husband or some crackhead, looking for a quick score? Mr. Rat takes advantage of my temporary distraction and jets back out of the hole toward me.
Screaming, I’m back up on my feet and running into the living room.
Thump. Thump. “Bitch, I said keep it down!”
The front door swings open and Junior has less than two seconds to prepare for my launch into his arms.
“The fuck?” He drops the box he’s holding and catches me in time.
Squeak. Squeak.
Junior jumps back as Mr. Rat races between his legs and out into the hallway.
“Shut the door! Shut the door!”
My baby chuckles under his breath, causing the wide span of his chest to rumble. I love that.
“Damn, li’l ma. It’s just a rat.” He moves into the apartment and closes the door.
I lock my arms around his neck and inhale the masculine scent of musk, weed, and beer. “I was beginning to think you weren’t coming home,” I murmur against his ear and squeeze him tighter.
“Don’t be silly. ’Course I was coming home.”
Turning my head, I stare into his coal-black eyes and my entire body pimples with goose bumps. Cautious of the fact that I could give him a hernia, I slide out of his arms but keep my hands lock
ed behind his neck.
“Where have you been? I thought you forgot what night it is.”
“Aw, now. Don’t start sweatin’ me. You know I was at the studio.” His thick hands roam over my hips and make a straight dive for my crotch and I’m instantly hot and wet. “What’s this shit you got on, gurl?”
Finally, I step back and strike a pose. “You like?”
“Uhm. Uhm. Uhm.” He licks his lips like I’m a bucket of KFC and pulls me close again to plant a sloppy kiss against my lips. He tastes funny, but I quickly dismiss it when he roughly grabs my nipples and twists them painfully.
“You like that shit, baby?” I don’t, but I say I do since he clearly gets off on it. “You bought this lingerie for me?”
Again I nod.
“How many times have I told you I want you naked when I come home, huh?”
He twists my nipples so hard I suck in a sharp gasp between my teeth.
“I told you I always want you wet and ready when I come home, haven’t I?”
Another nod.
“Then take that off.”
He steps away from me and I have a hard time figuring out whether he’s angry or just annoyed. It’s always hard gauging my man’s mood. He can be playful one minute and irritable the next.
I peel the thin spaghetti straps off my shoulders and shimmy out of the one-piece teddy.
“Now that’s what I’m talking about.” He steps to me and slides his hand back down into my crotch. “Open up for me, li’l ma.”
I spread my legs and he dips his fingers inside me.
“You’ve been waiting for me, baby?”
“You know I have.”
“Tell me what you want, li’l ma. You want to get fucked, is that what it is? You want some of your man’s black dick?”
“Oh, God, yes.”
“On your knees.” He commands unzipping his pants.
He doesn’t have to tell me twice so I drop to the floor and feel my mouth salivate at the sheer size of him.
“You love me, baby?”
“You know I do.”
“Show me.”
With the challenge before me, I open my mouth wide, knowing damn well there’s no way I can fit all of him in my mouth, but I’m going to do my damn best. But I don’t get more than the tip in my mouth before backing away from the strange bitter taste.
“C’mon, li’l ma. Don’t tease. I’m just a little sweaty. You don’t want my sweaty dick, is that it?”
“No. Yes. I mean it’s okay.” I take his beautiful, long cock and shove it back into my mouth. I don’t like the taste, but that’s okay. I can handle it.
“Ooh. Now, that’s my baby girl.” He spreads his legs a bit and begins pumping his hips.
I force my throat muscles to relax and he goes deeper, pressing the thick head to the back of my throat.
“Aw, shit. Aw, shit.” He holds my head still and ignores the fact I’m literally gagging. “That’s right, baby. You know how to suck this shit the way I like it.”
I love the praise and allow him to fuck my mouth any way he wants to. Soon, he holds my head still and rams my throat so hard, I swear at any moment I’m going to pass out. But then his hot cum explodes into the back of my mouth and rushes down my tight throat.
“Don’t spit it out. Swallow that shit, baby.”
I do so gladly.
At long last, he pulls out and I suck in desperately needed air.
“That’s my girl.” He strokes my hair a little and then leans down to kiss the tip of my nose. “I love you, baby.”
His words warm me like sunshine and I’m willing and able to let him go another round. Instead he helps me up and then picks up the box he’d dropped on the floor earlier. “Happy V-Day, baby.”
Suddenly, I’m giddy again as I reach for it. “I have something for you, too,” I say, setting the box down on our chipped coffee table and then turning toward the kitchen. When I return, I hand him a small square box and hope like hell he likes it.
A thrill tickles through me as he rips open the package and his eyes widen at the sight of the beautiful gold chain I bought at the Shane Diamond store. I had to pawn some of the jewelry my father bought me on my sixteenth and seventeenth birthdays — but it’s well worth the look on his face.
“Damn, baby. This is the shit here.” He pulls the chain out of the box and I help him fasten it behind his neck. “I’m gonna take a look.” He goes to the bathroom and checks himself out.
While we’re in there, I quickly brush my teeth and then rinse with the Listerine.
“Shit. This is straight fire, li’l ma. You did good.” He turns and plants another kiss on me that gets my pussy sloppy wet.
“Can I go open mine now?”
“Sure.”
When I turn, he gives my ass a firm slap and I giggle my way back into the living room. I pick up the heavy box, wondering what it can be.
Junior plops down on our sofa and reaches for the TV remote.
Slightly annoyed, I tear into the box and frown when I read: Payless shoes. “You bought me shoes?”
“No. Don’t be silly. Open it up.”
I do as he instructs and then I’m so stunned that I have sit down as well. Inside the box are two forty-ounce beers. Beer?
Junior reaches over and grabs one. “Happy V-Day, baby.”
10
Aisha
It’s funny how when you’re separated from the man you love something as common as holding hands becomes the most important thing in your marriage. During every moment of my visit I hold this nigga’s hand like it will save my life. Like it will make up for missing him. Or needing him. Fucking him. Kissing him. Smelling him. Stroking him. Sucking him. Blowing him. Tracing his tattoos with my tongue and my hands. Just holding him.
That Friday I ignore anything and everything in the visitation room but him. Maleek is hella fine like Tyrese. Smooth and dark-complexioned, strong, handsome face, toned-up body that is getting even more ripped with every passing month he spends in jail. His sexy dreads are gone but the baldhead he wears just brings out his fine-ass face even more.
I hate to think about my warrior not beating this shit. I mean damn, what if?
Fuck that. I need my man home like yesterday.
I swallow back the tears ’cause I wasn’t gone be one of them whiny, wimpy wives. I can’t hold him but I will at least hold him down.
I squeeze his hand a little tighter and make myself smile. “What the attorneys talkin’ ’bout?”
Maleek uses his free hand to wipe his mouth before he looks up and locks his eyes with mine. “More money.”
My nails nearly bite into the palm of his hand as I lean forward and whisper, “I already gave ’em thirty grand like you told me. What the fuck more they want?”
Maleek’s eyes turn cold and he lets my hand go. “He wants to get me the fuck off. He wants to get me out this motherfucker. He wants me to be free so I can piss and shit and eat when the fuck I want. So I can walk outside when the fuck I please. So I can come the fuck up out that fucking cell. So I can wear some fly-ass gear like your ass and come out this bullshit.”
“And you think I don’t want that.” I lean back in my chair and cross my arms over my chest.
My feelings are hurt and I’m afraid of the coldness in his face. Was being locked up changing him? I have seen Maleek be hard but he never went there on me.
He stretched his arms across the table to unlock my arms and take both my hands in his. “Aisha. Baby, I’m sorry. A’ight? I’m sorry. It’s just this jail got me fucked up. I’m not used to this shit.”
I hold his hands tighter than ever. “So what you want me to do, Maleek?”
“I need you to take the attorney another twenty grand.”
I’m not one of them book-smart bitches but there were two things I’m good at. Counting money and spending money. “How’s Aunt Darla?”
Translation: Do you have money stashed anywhere else?
“She ain’t do
in’ good at all.”
Translation: No.
Damn.
I give him a serious look. “Yeah, I heard she ain’t doin’ good, either.”
Translation: That thirty grand that went to the lawyers already hurt the stash you left me like a motherfucker.
“Damn.”
I’m feeling a lot of fucked-up things in that moment. I’m suddenly realizing that with his whole operation shut down there is no money to come in to cover the money that is steadily going out. “I’ll go see the attorney Monday,” I tell him.
“That’s my queen,” he says, his thumb tracing circles on my wrist.
“And you my king,” I say, more out of habit than anything even as my grip on his hand loosens up a little bit.
As soon as I walk through the door that night I go straight to my bedroom closet and pull out this old wool coat we bought from a secondhand store. My heart is beating like crazy as I drop to my knees and lay the coat on the floor. I tear the stitched lining from the coat and fling it back. Small plastic covered stacks of hundred- and fifty-dollar bills were taped over the entire inside of the coat.
Our stash. I now know this is all the cash we have in the world. This is it. I counted it quickly. $27,500. Maleek needs twenty grand.
I sit back on the floor and pull my knees to my chest. Reality is setting in like crazy.
I still have a life to live.
I still have to put money in Maleek’s commissary.
I still have to help my momma and my brothers.
I still have bills up the ass.
“Damn.” I drop my head on my knees.
I woke up that next morning a bitch on a mission. Ordinarily I didn’t really get down with Maleek’s family. They’re always relying on him to take care of them. Pay this bill. Pay that bill. Whup this nigga’s ass. Take care of that motherfucka. And I feel like they disrespect me when they get money from his ass and not even ask about me. Or think they can drop by the apartment whenever the mood hit they ass and not even speak to me. Family or no family, I’m his wife and I’ve had to check them on more than a few times ’bout respecting mine — especially his older sister, Hassana. That big, sloppy bitch thinks she is Maleek’s momma. Me and her done had plenty of run-ins about her tryna run shit up in my house.
Desperate hoodwives: an urban tale Page 7
