“You fighting me and I offered to take care of your hood-rat ghetto ass!” he roars, his face changing before me as it twists with rage.
He lunges forward. I swing.
Swish.
The blade slices his chin. His eyes widen as blood pours from the gash, dripping down onto the legs of my jeans.
He rams his fist into my face and I taste blood in my mouth. I blindly swing again.
Swish.
“Agghh!” he hollers out, clutching his left eye with one hand as he grabs my wrist with the other, banging it on the floor. I try to hold on to it. I really try. But he keeps on until my grip loosens and the box cutter drops with a clang to the floor.
He picks it up in a flash and raises it high above me.
Just for a second, with the flesh of eye and cheek bleeding so much his entire face is glossy red with his blood, I think he’s the devil himself.
“Lord, help me,” I pray in a whisper just before he brings the blade down upon me.
Swish. Swish. Swish. Swish.
Each slice of the flesh on my face brings out a cry from me as I struggle against him with what little strength I have left.
My face feels raw. My tears sting as they run down my bloodied cheeks.
Somewhere I hear footsteps. A woman cries out.
The cuts stop and I feel the relief of his heavy body suddenly off mine. The door to the building opens and closes.
“Aisha!” I hear my mother cry and then I feel the sweetness of her arms around me.
The last thing I hear is “Call 911! Somebody please. Call 911!”
29
Lexi
WooWoo called me. For the second day in a row the newspeople were back at Bentley Manor. First Devani and now Aisha. Must be a full moon or something with all the mess going on. All that violence makes you feel like your own world isn’t safe. Like it can spin out of your control at the snap of a finger.
It makes me want to be home with my family, so I leave work a couple hours early. I want to sit them down and maybe talk to the kids and answer any questions they have. I didn’t want them to think that violence is supposed to be a normal part of their lives.
When I pull up in my car I see that Luther’s home. Good. He’s real good with talking to the kids.
I grab my purse and lock my car door. Miz Cleo and Miz Osceola wave me over to them but I’m not really in the mood for gossip, so I just wave back and walk on into the building.
The smell of ammonia is so strong. To cover the stench of her blood.
I can’t move from the door. I wince as I imagine the terror Aisha went through in this very stairwell. Still clutching my Wal-Mart jacket I take a deep breath and force myself to walk real fast to the door leading to the hall of first-floor apartments. I almost feel like the attacker is on my heels. But that’s silly. He’s long gone by now with only a witness reporting a red Porsche peeling away right after it happened.
I pause and look at her door. I wonder if Aisha ever heard of the book The Scarlet Letter. We read it in high school once. Like the woman in the book, someone branded Aisha. Hers was on her door and the WHORE is so vulgar. But then prostitution isn’t exactly a walk in the park.
I already complained to management about getting the door repainted. I didn’t want my kids to have to keep passing that every damn day.
I walk into my apartment and drop my keys and purse on the dinette table in the kitchen. The house is quiet. TV off. No kids running around playing. No food cooking.
I walk back to the bedroom because maybe they all watching TV in our room. I pause at the bathroom when I hear the shower going.
I tiptoe back to the kitchen and pick up the phone. “WooWoo? Hey? You got my kids?”
“Yeah. Luther asked me to watch them ’til you get off. You home early?”
I nod as if she can see me. “Yeah, I took off early. You can send them home.”
“They watchin’ one of them Madea DVDs.”
“Well soon as it’s over you can send them home.”
“Hey. Lexi? You okay?”
I shrug. “I didn’t really know Devani and Lord knows Aisha looked down her nose at me, but all that mess that went down is kinda getting to me.”
“I feel you. I’ll walk the kids to your door myself. Okay?”
“Okay.”
I kick off my shoes and walk into the bathroom. “Luther, I got off early. What you want for —”
My words freeze at the sight of my husband’s betrayal.
Like the loud slamming of doors they all come rushing back to me.
Junior cheating with my friends and my enemies.
Boom!
Junior kissing that girl the morning after Valentine’s Day.
Boom!
Evan smoking a glass dick.
Boom!
Klinton standing there with his wedding ring on.
Boom!
Raq being carted out the house in handcuffs.
Boom!
And now this.
I feel sick to my stomach as Luther and Junior are both frozen. My eyes take it all in. Two hard bodies. Two hard dicks. My husband fucking my ex. FUCKING…IN…MY…BATHROOM!
Boom!
I go barreling into the bathroom. I don’t know who I hit and I don’t care but my fists and feet just keep landing blows after blows after blows. Water from the shower soaks me as I fight both of their no-good asses. Luther slips and goes sliding down onto his back in the tub. I reach right down and box him in the mouth.
Junior jumps over me to get out the shower. His condom-covered dick swings like a pendulum and slaps me in the face. I swing backward to land another blow on him.
“Stop, Lexi,” Junior hollers.
“Lexi, stop it,” comes from Luther.
For one crazy moment I freeze. I’m down on my knees in between them. The smell of their anal sex is still thick in the air as I look between my husband and the father of two of my kids. I could literally hear something inside me snap.
I jump to my feet and shove Junior’s ass onto the toilet as I dash from the bathroom. I head straight for the metal lockbox at the top of the closet.
The front door slams and then Luther walks into the bedroom wrapped in a towel. “Lexi, let me explain.”
I close my fingers around the cold metal and whirl pointing the gun at his chest. Raq bought it for me and it’s been locked in that case ever since. Until now. “Sit down,” I order him, using my free hand to knock my wet hair out of my eyes as my soaked clothes drip and make a puddle at my feet.
“Lexi —”
“Sit down!” I holler, my face wincing as my pain fought through the numbness.
I keep him in front of me, shifting my body around the room as he sits down on the edge of the bed. I keep my eyes and the gun aimed at him as I lean down to snatch up the extension cord on the floor behind the TV stand. The television crashes to the floor.
Love has become hate.
Trust is replaced by betrayal.
Another damn man in my life bites the fucking dust and I am so sick of it all.
I move closer and look anywhere but in his lying eyes. “Lay on your stomach.”
“Lexi —”
I cock the gun as one tear races down my cheek. I wipe it away angrily.
He lies down and I tie his ass up with the extension cord, keeping the gun right by me in case he makes a wrong move. “I really tried my best to be a good wife to you. I wanted this to work. I thought it was going work.”
“I’m sorry, Lexi.”
I roll his naked body onto his back with my foot before I pick up the gun. “I try to make the best life for my kids and I keep fucking up.”
“Lexi, it’s not what you think.”
I laugh hysterically and cock my head to the side to look at him with an almost peaceful expression. “Oh, ’cause I think I just caught my husband getting fucked in the ass by my baby daddy. Is that not what I saw?”
He turns his face away from me.
Slap! I slap him and my mouth curls downward. His head snaps to the left. “I keep picking the cheaters.”
Slap!
“The crackheads.”
Slap!
“The thugs.”
Slap!
“Now a dirty down-low brother.”
Slap! Slap! Slap!
“My dumb ass done had ’em all.”
His cheeks are red as I continue to slap his head back and forth like I’m possessed. His eyes are angry as he looks at me.
“You wanna hurt me?” I ask. “What? You ain’t hurt me enough? All you motherfuckers ain’t hurt me enough? Huh? Huh?”
I climb on the bed and straddle him as I snatch his chin up with my hands. “You like sucking dick? Huh? You little bitch you.”
“Stop this shit, Lexi.”
I put the gun to his mouth. “Huh, here you go. Pretend this is Junior’s dick and suck it,” I say, breathing heavy as I lean in close and push the gun between his lips.
He presses them together tightly to stop the gun from going any farther.
“Suck it before I blow your fucking brains out. You ain’t using them anyway fucking your stepkids’ daddy in our house. In the shower they wash in. You dumb bitch.” I hate the desperation in my voice but that’s how I feel.
The barrel of the gun hits his teeth.
“Show me how you suck Junior’s dick.”
He closes his eyes and a tear races down his cheeks as he begins to suck the barrel of the gun.
I sit back and look down at my husband. My anger turns to such pain. Who is he? Who did I have around my kids? How did I miss the signs?
I lick the tears and snot that crosses my lips as his jaws caved while his mouth slides up and down the barrel.
“Luther, I trusted you. I trusted us. I swear I could just kill you right now.”
I jerk the gun from his mouth as I get up off the bed and sit on the floor with my back pressed to the wall.
My marriage is over. My picture-perfect family is a joke. My baby daddy and my husband are fucking gay. I have to explain to my kids why yet another man is gone from their lives. Why do I keep failing my kids? Why I keep failing myself?
I feel so stupid for believing in Luther and our marriage.
I feel betrayed by Junior.
How long was it going on?
How long has Junior been on the down low?
Did they always use condoms?
Did Luther ever come at my sons with this gay shit?
The thought of that breaks me. I pull my knees to my chest as my shoulders shake with my tears. I hate my life.
I stand back up. Tears stream from my swollen eyes as I move to stand over him. I point the gun at his head.
He doesn’t deserve to live.
“What the hell going on here?”
I hear WooWoo’s voice but I never take my eyes off Luther lying there hog-tied and scared as I prepare myself to blow his fucking brains out.
“I didn’t deserve this, Luther,” I say to him softly as my finger shakes on the trigger. “My kids didn’t deserve this.”
“Momma.”
I hear my babies cry out.
I feel WooWoo come up beside me. She puts her hand on top of mine. “Lexi, the kids. Don’t do this in front of your kids.”
I look to my right and my face crumbles as more tears fall. They’re all gathered in the doorway. Trey is holding Imani in his arms as she cries and reaches out to me.
I can’t do this in front of my kids. “Untie him, WooWoo.”
I lower the gun to my side but I keep it ready. I know now this man is a stranger. “Get out, Luther. Stay away from me and my kids. I mean it.”
He walks to the closet and throws on clothes. When he reaches for a suitcase I shake my head.
“I will pack your shit tomorrow. Just leave. Now.”
I hear the kids asking him what happened as WooWoo walks him out. I take the gun and lock it back in the metal case before I crawl into bed in the fetal position. I feel so cold. One by one I feel the warmth of my kids’ bodies as they all climb on the bed with me.
I love my kids. I adore my kids. If I have to struggle by my damn self to take care of them then I will. I have to.
None of us can stand to go through another damn breakup.
30
Molly
“Positive…for HIV?” I ask in a voice that doesn’t sound like my own. “There must be some mistake.” Please say it’s a mistake.
Dr. Ferguson’s pensive gaze drops back down to my chart. After a moment, he removes his glasses and lifts his sorrowful gray eyes.
“But how? I-I’m no drug addict. I don’t sleep around. I’ve only slept with one man my whole life — my husband.”
My husband.
“I told him if he can’t get what he needs from that fat-ass wife of his that he was welcome around my way any damn day of the week.”
I am sick to my stomach.
“I hear what you’re saying, girl. I had a piece of that chocolate ass a couple of weeks back. Brother is a straight freak, but I just love how he calls me ‘li’l ma.’”
“Mrs. Jefferson, have you ever had a blood transfusion or —”
I stop listening to remember every night that Junior stayed at “the studio,” didn’t answer his cell phone, and even how he snuck back out the house once we’d gone to bed.
“Mrs. Jefferson?”
The doctor’s voice penetrates my thoughts and I blink up at him.
“I know this information is coming as a shock. But it’s very important that you understand what I’m telling you. Untreated HIV disease is characterized by a gradual deterioration of immune function. Most notably, crucial immune cells called CD4-positive T cells. A healthy uninfected person usually has eight hundred to twelve hundred CD4-positives per cubic millimeter.”
“How many do I have?” I ask suddenly, wanting him to get to the point.
He pauses for a moment and then continues, “During an untreated HIV infection, the number of these cells declines. When the number falls below two hundred, a person is vulnerable to opportunistic infections and cancers that typify AIDS, the end stage of HIV disease.”
AIDS? “How many do I have?” my voice quivers out of control as more hot tears trickle down my face.
“Three-ten.” He slides a copy of the report over to me.
“Oh my God.” I take the report and try to read it, but the tears are coming on stronger now and I can’t make anything out.
Dr. Ferguson continues with his spiel, but I don’t hear a word of it. Afterward, he fills out a referral form to a specialist and asks whether I have any questions — and I can’t think of a single one.
When he escorts me to the door, all the nurses at the nurses’ station glance up and I feel like the star of a freak show. With my lab results and referral clutched in my hands, I bolt out of the office bowling over anyone who gets in my way.
Once at the car, I fall completely apart.
Morning turns into afternoon and then into early evening and I still can’t manage to get the damn keys into the ignition, let alone the start the car. All I can do — all I’m able to do — is mourn my life.
Three-ten. My T-cell count echoes in my head. My death sentence.
More and more cars leave the parking lot as the doctor’s office closes. Some time around seven, Dr. Ferguson pushes through the glass doors and heads toward a red Saab — the only other car in the lot.
He stops when he notices the Caprice. Our eyes meet, despite the distance, and at last, I’m able to start the car.
Somewhere between Cleveland Avenue and Hollowell Parkway, my tears finally dry and waves of anger crash into my veins.
I’ve been living a lie.
I am that dumb ass bitch those project bitches whisper about after they’ve fucked my husband
.
My fucking husband!
Geneva’s laughing face floats in my mind. “Yes, girl, I rode that big, black cock until I got saddle sores.”
Laughter, and then, “I told him if he can’t get what he needs from that fat-ass wife of his that he was welcome around my way any damn day of the week.”
My hands tremble on the steering wheel. How many women has it been in the last three years — five, ten, twenty — even more than that? Suddenly my mind is a computer and it has no trouble pulling up dates of when Junior was too tired to make love, and some times when he did, I detected the taste of something — or perhaps someone else — on his dick.
How fuckin’ sick is that?
Another wave of nausea hits me and I pull over to the side of the road and open my door just in time to vomit. When my stomach is empty it’s all I can do to endure the pain of my dry heaves.
I’m dead. He killed me.
The muscles in my abdomen cramp and twist and still I heave. Cars zoom by and threaten to decapitate me, but after ten full minutes I’m able to pull myself back into the car and slam the door.
My anger festers and soon my thoughts turn to revenge. Just thinking about all I’ve given up to be with this man, to love this man — and for what?
When I think about how I begged him not to leave me…
No. It’s not going down like that. I’m not going to be played like that.
I glance over to the passenger seat and my lab report and a lightbulb clicks on in my head. Shifting the car back into drive, I hang an illegal U-turn and flip off the cars honking at me.
Ten minutes later, I park at Kinko’s copying center and march up to a pimply-face teenager behind the counter.
“Do you have a Sharpie?”
Todd, according to his nametag, reaches over to a pen-holder and hands me a black Sharpie. I quickly circle my name at the top of the report and then write in big block letters: MY HUSBAND JUNIOR GAVE ME AIDS!
“I like to make a thousand copies of this.”
Todd looks down and reads the message and looks as though he’s afraid to touch the paper.
Desperate hoodwives: an urban tale Page 19
