She brushed Sally’s bangs out of her eyes as they entered the bar, which was run by black Americans. Maria smiled and greeted the bartender who owned the establishment. “Hola, Jackson.”
Jackson was a large black man with a roundish face and a big, warm smile. It lit up the dingy interior of the bar, even though there were roses in glass bottles strategically placed to brighten things up. Jackson’s smile was all Maria Dolores needed. “I’ve got a damsel in distress for you,” she announced.
Sally shrank back, not used to being described so bluntly. “I’m not in distress!” She pivoted to face Maria Dolores and give her a dirty look.
“Okay, okay. A young lady who’s been having some problems with her man.”
“Oh, we can help her,” laughed the bartender.
“I need a lawyer, I think,” said Sally, looking furtively about at the shabby furniture, the old sofas, and cheap tables and chairs in the bar. Cheap but tasteful, with red checkered tablecloths.
A woman approached her. “You here for some lunch?”
Maria and Sally exchanged looks. Neither of them had much money on them.
“Or perhaps an eye-opener?” The waitress grinned broadly. It was infectious and Sally smiled back.
“What’s an eye-opener?” Sally asked.
The waitress leaned on the bar and laughed. “Just a little something to get you going in the morning. Ya’ know. Like a whisky soda.”
Maria ignored her and spoke directly to Jackson. “She needs to see Sheila.”
“Oh, that kind of trouble.” Jackson gave Maria Dolores a knowing look. Then, he looked at Sally. “You been needing to do some soul searching, Miss Sally.”
Sally started to blubber. The stress was too much for her.
The waitress put her arm around her waist and guided her to a room in the back where a white woman – gaunt and intense-looking, with a deep furrow in her forehead – sat talking to another woman, a teenaged black girl whose hair had been straightened. She reminded Sally of one of the Shirelles, a popular singing group of black women who always looked like they were on top of the world. She wondered what a girl like her was doing in the back of a bar.
“This is Sheila,” said Maria Dolores. “She can help you with most anything. Now, I’ve got to get back to the house and start cleaning.”
Sally looked from Maria to Sheila. Sheila’s intense, narrow face almost frightened Sally, but Sheila smiled and said, “I go to Berkeley. I’m a French major and a straight-A student. I have a 149 I.Q. One day, let’s just say I had a really terrible day, and these kind people helped me out.”
“What were you doing here?” Sally couldn’t help but wonder what such a smart girl would be doing in a bar run by black people. She loved Albert, but she wasn’t used to being surrounded by so many black people.
“You mean in the Bosun’s Locker?” Sheila laughed a shrill laugh. “It’s the best place in town! Well, the Fairmont is fun, but that’s for those upper-class girls who’ve never had… problems.”
“What kind of problems?” Sally looked around the dark windowless room which had just a low-slung sofa and folding chairs and a small wooden desk for furnishings. She wondered what she meant about girls who’d never had problems. She brushed her bangs out of her face and peered into Sheila’s bright blue eyes with the deep furrow intersecting them. Something was different about her.
“Why don’t we all sit down? You leaving now, Maria?” Sheila asked.
Maria nodded and made for the beaded doorway. She swung her hips and laughed as she went. “Help this poor gringa. Her boyfriend… or is he your husband now? Hasn’t been treating her right.”
“He socked me in the jaw last night. Then he tried to strangle me,” whimpered Sally as she sat on the vinyl sofa next to the black teenaged girl. Sheila stood up and dragged a folding chair over so she could face them. Maria left the room, tossing a “You’ve come to the right place” off as she went.
Sally heard Jackson laugh and say something to Maria as she left. Then, she turned and faced Sheila, who was examining her face and body.
“What else did he do to you?” Sheila asked.
Sally shook her unruly hair. “Everything… Well, he was nice most of the time, but he made me sleep in the hallway and took me on scary airplane flights in India…”
“So you’ve been to India?” Sheila brightened at the thought of travel.
“Yes. He’s an engineer. He got a job over there helping build a dam. He took me with him, but he knew I was afraid of flying and made me fly with him in a small plane. I nearly died.”
“He was your husband?”
“No, we just got married.” Sally fidgeted on the sofa. She picked at one of the plastic buttons sewn into it. “I’d just had an abortion and he bought me flowers and promised he’d change. After a few days of living together again, he changed back to his former self.”
Sheila’s furrow deepened in her brow. Her stern looks were known to frighten the most composed and terrify lesser souls. After assessing Sally’s distress, she stood up and started pacing the floor.
“Did your father fuck you?” she asked bluntly.
That brought Sally out of her pool of self-misery. “No! Of course not!” She looked at Sheila as if she’d just dropped a bomb.
“Then you were lucky.”
Sally’s jaw dropped. She was speechless. She stood up and thought of making a beeline for the beaded doorway. She turned and took a step in that direction.
“My father raped me from an early age. I don’t even remember when it started.” Sheila’s furrow cleaved tightly on her forehead. Sally stopped in her tracks. She walked slowly over to her.
“Huh?” Her woebegone bangs splashed into her eyes.
“He was an alcoholic.” Sheila looked into Sally’s eyes without wavering. Sally winced.
“Oh.” She sat down on the sofa and looked at the teenaged girl sitting there. “I’ve never heard of… that’s awful!” The teenager looked up at Sheila and heaved a sigh. Sally went into shock. She couldn’t talk. The room spun round her as she slumped forward into a dead faint.
Sheila walked through the beaded doorway and asked Jackson to bring some cold water. She realized this girl was another white middle or upper-class spoiled brat who’d thought she could go through life without making much of an effort. She smiled to herself, realizing how much Sally had to learn.
Jackson came running with a shot of brandy. He saw Sally’s inert form, put his hand under her head, and tried to get her to drink some. She sputtered and made gurgling noises, shook her head from side to side in slow motion, and came to her senses. She stared up at Jackson without recognizing him.
“Wha… What’s going on?” She blurted out a few unrecognizable sounds and struggled to sit up.
Jackson and Sheila exchanged bemused looks.
“She’s going to be all right. She’d just never heard of a father like mine,” said Sheila, brow furrowed.
“Young lady’s got to get a grip on reality. You did. She can if she wants to,” Jackson replied.
“Not all of them want to.” Sheila took Jackson’s outstretched hand and hung onto it tightly. “I needed lots of help.”
Jackson sat down on the spongy sofa, next to Sheila, squeezing her hand. “When your biological father does something on that order to you, it’s the worst. She’s just been knocked around a little bit.”
“Yeah, but I was tough. At least I had confidence in myself. I don’t know if this one does.”
Sally looked at them through dazed eyes. “I never even saw my father without pajamas and a bathrobe. How could… How could anyone do that?”
“Alcohol. Sense of entitlement. Self-loathing…” started Sheila. Jackson squeezed her hand and smiled at her.
“That’s just for starters,” he said in a deeply resonant voice. “Not all families are perfect.”
Sheila cracked up. She couldn’t help herself; she laughed until she could hardly breathe.
�
��What’s so funny?” asked a befuddled Sally.
“Nothing! Everything! Get a grip!” yelled Sheila.
“What am I going to do?” Sally started to sniffle again.
The spongy sofa gave a bit under their weight. Jackson and Sheila looked at her. “Get a job,” said Sheila. “And a divorce. Any children?”
Sally shook her head vigorously. Sheila smiled. Her furrowed forehead smoothed itself out considerably. “Lucky!”
“Lucky? Look at the bruise on my chin! You call that lucky?”
“Nah. That’s just a wake-up signal. A ‘time-to-pack-your-bags-and-get-on-with-your-life’ signal.” Sheila smiled a smug little smile.
The sofa sagged under their weight. Jackson stood up. “Gotta tend the bar,” he said, walking out of the room.
“I haven’t even graduated from college!” wailed Sally.
“Oh, Jesus!” Sheila gave her a furious look. “What do you want? Your diapers changed? Where’s your grit, Girl?”
Sally looked away, depressed and ashamed and miserable. “What should I do?”
“That’s your decision, m’dear,” said Sheila. “Ever heard of working?”
“I can’t even type!”
“Learn!” Sheila leaned into Sally’s tear-streaked face and made a face. They both laughed. Sheila stood up, pulling Sally with her. She led her to the typewriter at the shelter and pushed her into the chair in front of it. Sally gamely tapped at the keys, but she didn’t know how to type.
“There are other jobs!” Sheila said.
Sally looked up. A trace of hope crossed her face. “Like what?”
“Like working in a store or a movie theater, or cleaning houses…”
“I don’t want to be like Maria Dolores. A miserable cleaning woman.”
Sheila grabbed her by her shirtwaist collar. “A job is a job!”
Sally stood up slowly, pushing the chair back from the typewriter table. She looked down. Sheila walked over to the low-slung sofa and grabbed the newspaper off of it. She handed it to Sally. “You start here.”
Sally looked at the classified ads dully, as if she’d been condemned to prison. Sheila looked at the ceiling. “I’m running out of patience!” She started to pace back and forth in front of Sally.
Sally looked up. “There’s an ad for a receptionist at a law firm. If they’d hire me…”
“Put on a nice dress, comb your hair, and march on over there.”
Sally stood up and nodded. “Okay! I’m going to get a job! I put up with an abusive… monster too long!” A look of determination came over her face. She turned and walked towards the bathroom to freshen up. Sheila smiled.
Chapter 21
Albert had driven the 450 miles between Berkeley and Montecito in record time. He’d looked in the rearview mirror the entire way to make sure he didn’t get caught for speeding. As he drove into Inny’s parents’ driveway, he was surprised to see a late-model Mercedes Benz parked there.
He felt for the box with the engagement ring for Inny in his coat pocket. Reassured that it was there, he opened the door to get out of his car.
Then, he heard the gunshot. He bounded out of his car, ran to the front door, and started ringing the doorbell as if his life depended on it. What if someone had hurt Inny? He was terrified.
He shifted his weight from one patent leather shoe to the other, leaned on the doorbell again, and began to shout, “Inny, Inny, are you in there?” He was sure he’d heard a gunshot.
No one came to the door. Albert wedged himself between a hibiscus plant and Inny’s bedroom window, tapping on it as hard as he could. He could hear voices and muffled crying. Something was wrong.
He felt along the edge of the window for an opening. Just as he was able to push the window open, a red Ferrari pulled into the driveway. Albert jumped away from the window.
Andronicus sauntered towards him with a sneer on his face. He pulled his gun out of his jacket, thinking he could get even. Albert hands shot into the air. “I’m a visitor!” he shouted.
“Sure you are, Buddy,” said Andronicus. “We have lots of black guys sneaking around windows in Montecito.” Albert put his hands to his heart, trying to show his innocence. “I heard a gunshot and I’m terribly afraid something has happened…”
“Yeah?” Andronicus stopped for a minute. A gunshot? He saw his mother’s car in the driveway, next to Albert’s. “Maybe someone’s hurt my mother!”
“Now wait a minute! I’m Inny Johnson’s friend from Berkeley…”
“And I’m a monkey’s uncle,” laughed Andronicus with a sarcastic sneer. He pointed his gun at Albert, who hit the ground. “Sissy!”
Voices and sobs came from one of the bedrooms. Andronicus opened the door and walked towards it, gun pointed straight ahead. Albert hoisted himself from the ground and said, “Put that thing down!” He followed Andronicus into the house.
Andronicus gave him a backward glance as he entered the bedroom, where he saw Mr. Johnson lying face up with blood coming from his head. Mrs. Johnson, Inny, and her little sister were at his side, sobbing.
“My fiancée’s in there! She needs to see me!” pleaded Albert.
“Shut up!” said Andronicus. He pointed his gun at Albert.
Instinctively, Inny took the gun that lay next to her father and pointed it at Andronicus. “Drop it, Andronicus!”
Andronicus turned and squeezed the trigger.
“Andronicus!” yelled his mother.
Inny felt something graze her shoulder and fired back. Andronicus went down. His mother ran to him, screaming. She threw herself on his body.
Inny grabbed her shoulder, which had been hit and was bleeding. Albert ran to her and tore off a piece of a towel he saw in the bathroom, making a tourniquet. As he twisted it around her shoulder, above the gunshot wound, everything went blank.
Police sirens sounded outside. Two Santa Barbara police officers jumped out of their squad car and ran full-tilt towards the commotion.
Once inside, the officers pulled their guns and pointed them straight ahead with both hands holding on, as they’d been trained to do. Screams and muffled sobs issued from one of the bedrooms, so they headed for it. They found Mr. Johnson lying inert, face up, his wife leaning over him, sobbing. Blood came out of a head wound. A revolver lay nearby.
Their youngest daughter clung to him, crying. “It’s not possible,” she said. “He was just eating waffles!”
Fay Dorland cradled Andronicus’ head in her arms. She managed to stand up and address the officers. She pointed a finger at Inny, sitting on the edge of the bed with Albert tending her wound. “That girl just killed my son!”
“It was in self-defense,” said Albert. “Call an ambulance. She’s been hit in the shoulder!”
“My son is innocent,” continued Fay.
The officers rushed past her to see if he were still alive. One took his pulse as the other radioed in to the precinct station.
“He’s a goner,” said the fellow taking his pulse.
The other officer wrested the gun in his other hand free, wrapping it in a handkerchief.
Mrs. Johnson sat on one of the twin beds, sobbing. “Oh, Craig, oh, Craig,” she repeated over and over. “My husband, my husband…”
Inny’s sister sobbed convulsively and held her mother close. Kendra broke loose and tried to touch her father, but one of the policemen grabbed her by the arm. “Don’t touch the body!” he said. She broke down and fell on the floor, rolling and tearing her hair. The policeman tried to calm her, but to no effect.
“Call another squad car and an ambulance!” he said.
Chapter 22
Back at Berkeley, the police questioned Maria Dolores about Crutches. One of them towered over her as she stood in front of the Victorian house where he’d been killed.
“Did you hear any strange noises last night?”
“No.” Maria scratched her dark, unruly hair. She thought for a moment. “Maybe I heard a shot.”
“When?
”
“I don’t remember. I was sleeping.”
“Where are the other people who live here?”
“Most of them have left for the vacation. You know. The Christmas vacation.”
“Was anyone else here?”
Kathy sauntered by in tight jeans and a loose blouse, her blonde hair trailing her like a flag. When she saw Maria Dolores talking to the police, she stopped. She was carrying her violin in a case, which she held onto.
They turned and looked her up and down. “Who are you?”
“I’m Kathy Stevens. I live here… in back, in one of the studios.”
“Did you hear anything unusual three nights ago?”
“No, I was playing with the Berkeley Symphony.” She shifted her weight and tried to get past them. She’d promised a friend she’d meet her at the UCEN for lunch, and she was late.
“Someone was killed in front of this house on December 22.”
“Oh!” Kathy’s hand flew to her mouth. “How horrible!”
“Who was killed here?” asked Maria Dolores. “We’ve had enough trouble already!”
“Yeah, we’re wondering if the incidents aren’t connected.”
Maria Dolores leaned on the broom she’d been sweeping with and ran her hand through her hair.
“How would I know? I’m just the cleaning woman.”
“Someone killed a man on metallic crutches, a cripple.”
“Who would do such a thing?” Maria Dolores’s forehead wrinkled in angry dismay. “So many bad things going on in this world!”
“Did either of you know this man?”
“I think I saw a man on crutches waiting by those bushes once,” said Maria Dolores. “He was up to no good.”
“Was he with anyone?” The officer titled his head to try to appear less intimidating.
Maria Dolores scratched her head again. She shook it. “I don’t think so, but I didn’t pay attention to him. There are so many strangers around this area lately.”
Rich White Americans Page 24
