After tossing and turning in her bed for what seemed like the entire night, Belinda’s alarm clock sounded at its usual 6:00 a.m. Rising from her bed to stumble sleeplessly into the bathroom, she was at first relieved to find that she was not blind, but couldn’t help but notice the shooting pain that ricocheted off of her temples. The only time she had ever experienced a headache quite this bad was the one and only time she had ever gotten really and truly drunk—and this pain was ten times worse than that.
Once her feet were firmly planted on the ground, it was readily apparent that her head was not the only thing in pain. There was a dull ache throughout her entire body. Her legs moved as though they were treading through quicksand and her arms felt like lead. However, the most fear-provoking of all was the focal point of where her pain seemed to settle. At her core, her body echoed the signs of a woman who had engaged in a vigorous night of sex. She could barely walk. Yet, she had been alone all night.
In the interest of stilling her already rising panic, Belinda reasoned that she had to have been masturbating in her sleep. After all, what other explanation could there be?
“Hell, why not,” she spoke aloud.
Hadn’t she read a story a few years back where this woman was on trial for murdering her husband, and it was discovered that she had killed him while she was sleepwalking? If a woman could kill someone while she was sleepwalking, why couldn’t she have gotten a little rambunctious with herself beneath the sheets, while under the influence of sleep? Sure, it was a stretch. But, when she considered the alternative, it was the very best she could come up with to keep from completely losing it.
As hard as she tried, Belinda could not ebb the fear that brewed inside of her, and it became even more difficult to do so when she entered her bathroom. She walked in and looked in the vanity mirror. The first sight that met her eyes was the telltale bruising, which covered her chest. Upon closer inspection in the full-length mirror behind her bathroom door, she realized that the bruises didn’t just stop there. They were all over her body; her arms, her legs, her torso, were all covered with black and blue marks. And, between her legs were patches of dried blood.
“Oh my God!”
JARRED OUT OF A RESTFUL SLEEP BY THE RINGING OF HER TELEPHONE at slightly past 6:00 in the morning, Summer Johnson couldn’t imag ine who might have the nerve to wake her that early; that is until she glanced at her caller ID and realized it was Belinda.
“You know you my girl and all, but you better have a damn good...”
Summer didn’t get a chance to finish her sentence. Just as she was about to tell Belinda she’d better have a good reason for calling her so early, she heard Belinda’s last words before the phone went dead.
“Summer...Summer, help me! Help me, please!”
And she was gone.
From the moment the phone went dead, Summer sprang into action. She dressed, called a neighbor to come over and watch her daughter, and then raced downtown in a taxi from her El Barrio apartment to where Belinda lived on the Upper East Side. She sat in the cab, impatient and on edge, drumming her fingers against her lap, the door, the window; fearful of what might be waiting for her when she arrived at her best friend’s home.
“Can’t you drive any faster than this?”
“Misses, this is as fast as I can go.”
“Fuck,” she uttered, to no one in particular.
Finally, she arrived at Belinda’s place, only to be met with resistance from the doorman.
“Ma’am, it is not building policy to open the door to a tenant’s residence without express permission from the resident.”
“I don’t give two shits what your fucking policy is! My best friend just called me and said she needed help. For all we know, she could be dead. Now, open the goddamned door!”
Summer was agitated, sweaty and sleep-deprived, and in no mood for the annoying doorman who in the past had ogled her each and every opportunity he got, yet now pretended not to see her or to even know who she was.
The doorman, indeed, knew Summer well and he’d had enough run- ins with her to know she was not going to give up easily. Yet, he couldn’t just open the door to a resident’s apartment without permission.
“Ma’am, the best I can do is call the police and then, with their per-mission, I can open the door.”
“For Christ’s sake, would you stop fuckin’ callin’ me ‘ma’am’? Do I look like a fuckin’ ma’am to you?”
A pair of skintight blue jeans clung to Summer’s ample ass. She wore a form-fitting, red Lycra shirt, and no bra on her size 40DD breasts, which left very little to the imagination. Her hair was bright red—today. On any given day, the doorman had seen her head go from black to brown, to platinum blonde to this reddish hue she had come up with. He hated to admit it, because she was so crass and vulgar most of the time, but, his pants legs rose just a little bit more each time he saw her.
“Okay, okay, calm down. I’m calling the police now.”
Within minutes, the NYPD was entering the building and while they engaged in questioning banter with the doorman, Summer interrupted the animated exchange.
“I know you got here fast as hell and all; or, at least a lot faster than you would have gotten to my neighborhood. But, do we plan on spending all day discussing what might be wrong with Belinda, or are we going to get our asses upstairs and find out for sure?”
For a moment the female officer considered lashing back at Summer, but thought better of it. She surveyed Summer from head to foot and Summer, very aware of what she was doing, gave it right back. As far as Officer Hernandez was concerned, she knew her kind well. Her overall percept was that she was probably some convict’s baby mama, that did hair somewhere on The Avenue and her girlfriend Belinda was probably her best friend since they were kids; one of a few who had made it out of the hood successfully, judging from the Upper East Side condo. And, each and every day Belinda’s friends from her new life probably questioned why the hell she still hung out with tacky-assed, whatever-her-name-was. Yes, she thought she had her pretty well pegged. According to Hernandez, she was one of those women who lived her life in Technicolor twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.
As if completing her thoughts, her partner, Officer Wilson, spoke.
“And, your name is Ms....”
“My name is Summer...Summer Johnson. But, I don’t think that’s going to help my friend Belinda if she’s upstairs dying,” she answered sarcastically.
“Okay, why don’t you stay here. We’re going upstairs now.”
“Hell to the no! You think I’m going to stay down here twiddling my thumbs while my girl is upstairs going through God only knows what? I’m coming with you!”
“No, Ms. Johnson. I must insist that you stay here. It’s a safety issue. As you said yourself, we have no idea what is going on upstairs. And, the longer I stand here explaining that to you, the greater danger your friend could be in. So, please, let Officer Hernandez and I do our jobs, and you wait here. We’ll be sure to call you if we need you. Okay?”
For the first time in a long time, Summer was quiet. She couldn’t help but think that this had something to do with last night. She had gotten an eerie feeling while she was out with Belinda and Amy. It was the same feeling she always got when something wasn’t right. Even though no one ever believed her, Summer believed she had been en-dowed with some form of clairvoyance; a certain sixth sense. And, despite the naysayers, her premonitions were seldom wrong.
CHAPTER ONE
“Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh! Party over here. Party right there.”
Belinda could hear Summer’s loud ass all the way inside her apartment. Summer and Amy were getting off the elevator and walking toward her door. Along with Summer’s loud voice, she could hear the clicking of her five-inch stilettos tapping against the Formica floors. Belinda made a mental note that one of these days, she really had to sit Summer down and explain to her that she needed to tone down the girl-from-the-hood act when she came to her apar
tment. Belinda wasn’t one to judge anyone, but the ultra-conservative members of her condo board were sure to have a problem with loudness at all hours of the day or night. Belinda knew she had to have the conversation sooner or later. She just wasn’t sure how to do it in a tactful way.
The doorbell rang. Belinda applied some red lipstick and took one last look in her full-length mirror. She was pleased—subtle, but sexy. She was wearing a black, form-fitting, off-the shoulder dress, black high-heeled sandals, and her toenails were painted a vibrant red, the identical color of her lipstick. It was the beginning of fall, and although it was still warm during the day, the nights were often cool, so Belinda threw a red fringed shawl over her shoulders to complete the look. She grabbed her black pearl-studded evening bag and keys, and headed for the door.
As soon as she opened the door, Amy and Summer rushed in.
“Hi, Amy,” Belinda said.
“Hey, B. How you doin’? Ooh, I love that shawl!”
“Thanks, I got it from Bloomies.”
“I gotta get me one of those.”
“It was the last one. I waited and waited until the price came down and by the time the price was where I wanted it, this was the only one they had left. You know I’m not into red. I really wanted a black one. But, they said they probably won’t be getting any more in.”
“Oh well, my loss. So, how are you?”
“I can’t complain, Amy. Although, I’ve been having the strangest...”
Before Belinda could finish her sentence, Summer loudly interrupted. “Girl, go on and have a seat. I gotta pee.”
“Why don’t you say it a little louder? My neighbors on the tenth floor didn’t hear you.”
“Oh be quiet, bourgeois. Don’t these white folks pee?”
“Yes, Summer. They use the restroom. But they’re not quite so vocal or specific about what they’re doing in the bathroom,” Belinda answered.
Amy stood there quietly, watching. As she listened to Summer and Belinda’s banter, she marveled at the way the two of them interacted. Belinda and Summer couldn’t be more different. In the five years since Amy had met Summer, she had held down no fewer than eight jobs. Belinda, on the other hand, was a very talented freelance journalist, with great aspirations. Summer’s present job was a sort of “floating” bartender at various clubs. Basically, she worked with a club promoter and tended bar whenever and wherever he held his parties. Most of the parties were held in clubs in the midtown area. Much like most of the work Summer did, she had basically fallen into it; this time through her association with some friends of her ex-husband, Kaleel. Her ex’s current residence was Riker’s Island. He had killed a man and was presently serving fifteen to twenty-five years in prison, thanks, in no small order, to his former profession as a drug dealer.
Amy couldn’t relate to Summer very well. Summer was a smart girl. She knew all there was to know about politics, was highly skilled at math, and could write her ass off. Amy and Belinda had gone to several clubs to see Amy perform her written works. But, Summer was rough as hell around the edges. She talked loud, dressed louder, and associated with people who quite frankly, frightened Amy. Amy was surprised to find that Belinda and Summer were such good friends. They were like night and day.
As Belinda explained it, she and Summer had grown up in El Barrio. They had both attended Catholic school in their neighborhood and had attended the same vocational high school downtown. After high school was when their lives took different turns. Belinda attended New York University right after graduating from high school. Summer got pregnant by Kaleel, got on welfare, lived with her mom until she and Kaleel were married, then moved out of her mom’s place and lived (rather well) off of her husband’s earnings as a drug dealer.
The best thing that ever happened to Summer was when Kaleel got arrested for murder. She finally realized she had to do something different with her life. She went out and got a job as a secretary at an insurance company, got a divorce from her husband, who was not only a murderer, but was also cheating on her while they were married. She found this out when a woman showed up at her door one day with a three-year-old in tow, aptly, if not offensively, named Kaleel Jr. Summer’s own daughter, Keyanna, was only four years old at the time.
Belinda had even hired Summer for a brief period to work as her assistant when she was working at Redbook magazine, after Summer lost one of her many jobs. Unfortunately, Summer thought working for Belinda meant she didn’t have to actually work. She either came in late or didn’t come in at all. When she did come in, she was loud, disrespectful and couldn’t take an accurate telephone message to save her life. Not only that, Summer definitely did not fit the Redbook aesthetic. Eventually, Belinda realized to salvage their friendship she had to let Summer go. She was even able to get Summer a rather hefty severance package. Summer was pleased. It meant she could take off for a while. Summer hated any form of work.
While Summer was in the bathroom, Amy asked Belinda, “Weren’t you about to mention something strange that’s been happening?”
“Never mind, it was nothing important,” Belinda answered.
“Yes it was. It was important before Summer steamrolled the conversation. What is it?”
“I’ll tell you about it later. Okay?”
“Okay, but don’t forget. Otherwise I’ll have to bug you all night until you fess up about what’s on your mind.”
“Thanks, Amy.”
“Thanks for what? I didn’t do anything.”
“Thanks for always being a friend.”
“If anyone is going in the bathroom, make sure you bring along some Lysol,” Summer said as she left the bathroom. “Them murder burgers I had tonight didn’t sit well.”
“God, Summer. You are so gross,” Amy replied.
“That’s why you love me so much,” Summer responded, as she put her arm around Amy’s shoulder. “I bring a little excitement to your otherwise hum-drum life.”
“I hope you washed those hands,” Amy said, as she wriggled from under Summer’s hold.
“I’ll never tell.”
Color Me Grey Page 29
