Insatiable (3 page)

T
he turkey was baked to perfection, but Terelle didn’t attempt to make the macaroni and cheese; it never turned out right, so Aunt Bennie (short for Benita) brought her delicious baked macaroni and cheese. Aunt Bennie lost points, however, when she tried to pass off a tub of canned Glory collards as homemade.

“Addin’ some smoked turkey to canned food don’t make it homemade,” Gran complained. “And I still don’t see why we had to have Thanksgiving dinner in this cramped-up little apartment. Had me walkin’ up all those stairs…It’s a wonder my heart didn’t just up and explode.” Gran scowled as she sized up the small kitchen, the even smaller dining area and living room.

“Mom, you know Terelle doesn’t want to miss Marquise’s call,” Aunt Bennie explained.

“Oh, God!” Terelle glared at her aunt, chastising her with her eyes for bringing up Marquise’s name. Aunt Bennie shrugged; her expression asked:
what did I do?

Gran looked over her glasses at the phone suspiciously. “Terelle, you still payin’ for that boy to call you collect? You had to work overtime to pay for all those calls while you was livin’ with me. And don’t think I don’t know about all those expensive boots and sneakers and things you was sending him. What the hell he need that stuff for anyhow? He’s in jail! Don’t they have to wear them orange jumpsuits?”

“Gran, why you worrying about what I do…as long as I take care of Keeta…”

“Hmph! Lord, you ’bout as dumb as they come,” Gran interrupted. “Look at you! Out here struggling with a child, all on your own, and you mean to tell me you’re still lettin’ that boy run up your phone bill?”

“Let’s eat.” Terelle began scooping collards on Gran’s plate. Best to stuff Gran’s mouth with food before she really became agitated and started aiming cuss words as sharp as an ax in Terelle’s direction. It didn’t matter that Markeeta was present. Once Gran got started, it wouldn’t matter if Christ himself were present at the table.

Looking guilty, Aunt Bennie busied herself with the task of slicing the turkey.

“Don’t give me no dark meat, ’cause I don’t like no dark meat,” Gran grumbled.

“I know, I know. Calm down, Mom,” Aunt Bennie said.

“How can I calm down? My oldest child is a damn drug addict…”

“Cassy’s in recovery, Mom…”

“My granddaughter is working like a mule to take care a man in jail, and my youngest daughter is a goddamn bulldagger,” Gran barked. Aunt Bennie’s mouth opened in wide protest.

“It’s Thanksgiving, Gran. Please stop!” Terelle pleaded. “Aunt Bennie’s not gay.”

“I ain’t said nothing about gay. I said she’s a bulldagger. She ain’t foolin’ me with her mannish self—walking around in her bedroom wearing men’s boxer shorts. It’s probably my own damn fault for giving her that nickname.” Gran sighed heavily, then went on, “At the time, I thought it was a cute way to shorten up Benita. But if I knew then what I know now…”

“How you gonna tell me what I am? Lots of women wear boxers nowadays.”

There was pain in Aunt Bennie’s eyes that Terelle took no pleasure in witnessing. If her aunt was actually gay, she needed to come out of the closet; hiding her sexual orientation was obviously a heavy burden.

“That’s bullshit,” Gran grumbled. “Do you wear men’s underwear, Terelle?”

“No, but…”

“But, nothing. Where’s her husband? Where’s her children? Where’s her damn boyfriend? She ain’t got none of that because she’s too busy bumpin’ coochies with other women.”

Aunt Bennie’s wounded expression tugged at Terelle’s heart. “Gran! Don’t be saying that nasty stuff around Keeta.”

“Don’t think I’m forgetting about you, neither. You’s a damn fool. Why you allowin’ that boy to take advantage of you like that? Keeta’s my only hope of something decent coming out of this family. But with the daddy she got…I doubt if that’s possible.”

“Stop talking about Marquise, right in front of Keeta. That ain’t right, Gran.”

“Sooner or later Keeta’s gonna learn the truth—might as well be sooner. And Terelle, you should be ’shamed of yourself for stickin’ by a man who done got your mother all messed up on drugs.”

“Marquise…” Terelle struggled to get the words out. “He didn’t do that to my mother. Me and Marquise were kids when my mother started messin’ with that stuff.” She looked at Aunt Bennie for confirmation, but her aunt, still nursing the injuries sustained from Gran’s attack, gazed at Terelle with unfocused eyes.

“Yeah, and when he grew up, he made sure your mother stayed on that junk, now didn’t he?”

Her grandmother was working her nerves. Terelle became silent as she prepared Markeeta’s plate. She knew that if she didn’t keep her mouth shut, her grandmother’s temper was liable to rise up and whirl around the kitchen like a hurricane. The dinner had turned into a disaster. If she was lucky, Gran would gobble down her food, try to belch, complain of heartburn and insist upon leaving immediately.

It was partly true—she had invited them over because she didn’t want to miss Marquise’s call; she also wanted to show off her new apartment. But, it didn’t matter. Gran hadn’t said one word of praise. Her comments about the apartment were all negative. Her ornery grandmother loved making everybody miserable. She’d been mean as a snake for as long as Terelle could remember.

She picked at her food, her mind replaying what Gran had said about her being a fool and she was getting more pissed by the minute. Gran had her nerve—raising her own two children in a speakeasy. Terelle’s mother had told her that she’d learned how to pour the right brand of liquor based on the color of the bottle before she could read. And pouring from the wrong bottle meant an encounter with Gran’s wrath. Gran had one hellish temper. Terelle’s mother and Aunt Bennie still bore the scars of that temper. Beatings with razor straps, ironing cords, broom handles—whatever Gran could get her hands on. Terelle figured if Aunt Bennie was actually a lesbian, then it was probably due to her being molested by one of Gran’s drunken customers. But that was kept quiet because the man was supposed to be somebody important—somebody politically connected. Her mother’s drug addiction and poor parenting skills could probably be blamed on Gran, too. Gran was no model parent—that was for sure.

It had taken Marquise a long time to grow up and face his responsibilities but now that he was ready, she was going to do everything in her power to help pull him along. She didn’t mind working a little overtime to pay for the calls. That was a small thing. She worked for her money and didn’t ask anybody for anything. Marquise was her future, and if holding her man up until he could do better classified her as a fool, then she was glad to be one.

“
T
his is Kai Montgomery. Has Dr. Harding returned from vacation?” Kai asked, confident that her professional tone would persuade the receptionist at Dr. Harding’s posh Bala Cynwyd office to impart the information.

“Yes, Ms. Montgomery, he’s back. But he won’t be in the office until late this afternoon. He’s at the nursing home this morning. Would you care to leave a message?”

“No thanks. I’ll call him there.” Kai hung up. Bewildered, she wound a lock of hair around her finger. The bastard was right here in the facility and hadn’t bothered to call her. She angrily punched the numbers to his pager and after inputting her extension, slammed the phone into its cradle.

The wait was excruciating. Patting her foot impatiently, and twirling her hair until it became tangled around her finger, Kai grimaced when she began to feel a dull throbbing in her left temple, the prelude to an oncoming migraine.

Eight minutes later the phone rang; Kai yanked the receiver from the cradle on the first ring.

“I can’t believe…”

“Miss Montgomery?” The voice did not belong to Kenneth. Kai regularly received calls from relatives of nursing home residents on her caseload and, unfortunately for her, the call was from a client’s family member.

“Yes, this is Kai Montgomery. How can I help you?” She didn’t try to disguise her annoyance.

“This is Emma…uh, Emma Randolph. Irving Randolph’s wife…,” the woman stammered.

“Yes, what can I do for you, Mrs. Randolph?”

“Well, you see, I have the receipt here for some socks I bought my husband. I bought—let me see now…Yeah, I bought twelve pairs of those heavy thermal socks. And they wasn’t cheap. I got the receipt right here. Socks don’t cost what they used to. Was a time when…”

Kai’s long sigh of exasperation caused the woman to pause.

“Now I was there last night—and when I visit Irving I always check his closet and drawers to make sure all his things…”

“How many pairs of socks are missing, Mrs. Randolph?”

“Well…all of them. He ain’t got none of them new socks. The onliest ones left in his drawer is…”

Onliest!
Kai sucked her teeth and groaned, certain she had now heard it all.

“Bring in the receipt and you’ll be reimbursed.”

“I can get all my money back?”

“Yes.” Kai hissed.

“Okay, I’m gonna take your word. ’Cause the last time I…”

“Mrs. Randolph, I have another call,” she said, wishing she did. Where the hell was Kenneth?

“When should I bring it in? Will you be in your office tomorrow mornin’? See, I ain’t got nobody to bring me there today…”

“Take the receipt to the Finance Department on the first floor. Listen, I have to go.” Kai slammed down the phone.

Swiveling in her chair and twirling her hair mercilessly, Kai pondered making a trip to the second-floor office of Dr. Harding, but decided against it. That would be a wasted trip. Kenneth was rarely in his office. More than likely he was making rounds, which included bullshitting with the nurses and the unit clerks. A mental picture of tall, blond, solidly built Kenneth working his charm shot across Kai’s mind and through her heart. Wasn’t it bad enough that he had snuck off on a vacation with his wife; why did he have to disrespect her even more by not answering her page? Maybe she should call the receptionist and have her overhead page the good doctor.
No! The hell with paging!

Awash in rage, Kai stood. She’d comb the facility floor by floor until she found the smiling pompous bastard! And if he didn’t stop whatever he was doing the moment he spotted her, God help him because she would not be held accountable for the violence and mayhem that would ensue.

Distracted by the delicious reverie of doing bodily harm to Dr. Kenneth Harding, Kai was startled by the muted sound of her cell phone. The phone was in her purse, which was locked in the bottom desk drawer. Kai scrambled for her office keys. W
hy the hell is he calling on my cell phone?
She’d put her office extension on his pager. Always cautious, always careful to cover his tracks—or so he thought—because he fucked up royally when he left his lab coat and stethoscope unattended while he slept at her apartment.

The phone had stopped ringing by the time Kai had unlocked the drawer and retrieved it from her purse.
Oh, how I despise him!
She gazed at the phone, waiting for the word
message
to pop up. When it did, she quickly punched the numbers to hear what Kenneth had to say.

“Hello, Kai. Look, I’m here at the nursing home, but I’ve been pretty busy all morning. I’ll be leaving shortly—uh, I have a lunch engagement. A business lunch. But, I’ll call you tonight. You have a pleasant and productive day.”

The call ended and a computerized voice asked Kai if she wished to save or delete the message. Angrily, she pressed the button that would erase Kenneth’s smug indifference. She rooted through some files, and pulled out the manila envelope that contained the photo of her wearing Kenneth’s lab coat. She took a moment to examine the image gazing back at her and smiled approvingly at her handiwork. She grabbed her purse and her new lavender suede coat and bolted from the office.

Moving swiftly, Kai didn’t so much as glance or utter a greeting to her coworkers or the elderly nursing home residents who cluttered the corridor. She impatiently navigated around an old man who ambled along with the assistance of a rolling walker. Passing him, she picked up speed, but began muttering curse words when she had to slow down to squeeze between an abandoned laundry cart and a white-haired woman who self-propelled her wheelchair at an agonizingly slow pace.

“Social worker, social worker,” the woman called in a raspy voice. “Can I make a phone call? I have to call my mother.”

Kai did not slow her stride or look back. She completely ignored the eighty-five-year-old woman who had long-and short-term memory problems. The woman’s mother was long dead and Kai had no time for validation therapy or reality orientation; she had pressing business to attend to.

Her path finally clear, Kai hurried toward the double set of elevators. Mindful that germs were everywhere and on everything inside the nursing home, she carefully covered her hands with lavender leather gloves before pressing the arrow pointing down. The scowl that distorted her facial features gradually changed into an expression of amusement. Gloved fingers gaily tapped the manila envelope that was tucked under her arm, and she wondered if driving to the FedEx office at Eighth and Spring Garden during her lunch break was productive enough for Dr. Harding. She’d pay anything to witness the expression of the good doctor’s wife when she received the package.

Yes, the thought of Mrs. Harding unveiling the damning photograph was providing Kai with an exceptionally pleasant and productive day!