Red Light Wives (19 page)

“I done already ate. Lunch and dinner. If I was to sit around waitin' on you, I'm liable to starve to death. Come on. Clara's in the kitchen.” Mama groaned as she struggled to get out of her seat. I grabbed her arm, helped her up, and led her to the kitchen just a few feet down the hall.

Before we even got into the neat, sweet-smelling kitchen, Mama started bragging to Clara, her White friend from across the hall. Clara was hunched over the stove fishing string beans out of a pot with a fork.

“Clara, this is my girl, the model,” Mama said proudly. “Ain't she pretty?”

The woman, her eyes half closed, her blue wig on backward, snatched a pair of glasses out of her housecoat pocket, held them up to her eyes, and looked me up and down. A sour look formed on her plain face, making her look even plainer.

“She's not that pretty,” the woman said, chewing and shaking her head.

Mama motioned me to lean closer. “That Clara. She just jealous 'cause you look better than that flat-ass girl of hers. It'd kill her to admit a Black girl is pretty,” Mama whispered with a conspiratorial sneer. “Now, Rosie, when you goin' to move me out of this place?”

“Move you? I just moved you in here a few months ago. I can't afford to move you again. And what's wrong with this place?” I hollered, almost choking on the air I sucked in.

Mama ignored her friend and led me back to the living room. “I'm the only Black woman up in here, that's what's wrong with this place.” Mama snorted, rolling her eyes at me, as I eased her down on the couch. “Me and you can get us a real nice place together. I can help you get ready to go out on your model jobs. I can iron your clothes, carry your things to and from your jobs, and help you beat off them randy photographers. I read in the
People
magazine—or was it the
National Enquirer
—that when Brooke Shields was modelin', her mama went with her everywhere she went.”

I let out a painful breath, cursing myself for weaving such a web of lies and deceit. “Mama, my work is too hectic for a woman in your condition. You know you need round-the-clock care. The doctor said so. I can't take care of you and work, too. You have to stay in here until…until you get better.” I sat down next to Mama. “How would you like to go shoppin' tomorrow?”

Mama's face lit up like a flamethrower. “That'll work. I told that lady at the Neiman Marcus that I would come back down there soon. She the same one who used to wait on the Pointer Sisters. She used to workin' with celebrities like you. Strange thing though, she keep tellin' me she don't know you. I guess all models look alike to her, huh?”

“Uh-huh,” I groaned. I could not understand why a woman like my mother, who had spent her whole life shopping in stores like Wal-Mart, Goodwill, and the dollar stores, now only wanted to shop at the most expensive stores in town. But I guess I was to blame for that. It was my lie about how I'd once modeled swimsuits for Neiman Marcus. “I'll take you to the mall.”

Mama gasped so hard she had to cough. “The mall? What mall? Why would I wanna go to a mall? Girl, you got a image to keep up. Respectable models don't be shoppin' at no Payless or Kmart!”

“It's a lot cheaper.”

“Cheaper?” Mama roared. “I bet Cindy Crawford wouldn't never fix her lips to pronounce such a word—”

“Mama, we can't keep spendin' money the way we've been doin',” I insisted. “I don't make the kind of money Cindy Crawford makes yet.”

“All right then,” Mama snapped. “Don't worry about takin' me nowhere. Clara's girl said she'd take me to Neiman Marcus herself if she had to.” Mama turned her head toward the kitchen and yelled, “Clara, tell your girl I wanna go with y'all tomorrow. My girl done got too busy to be bothered.”

“I didn't say that, Mama. Look, I spend a lot of money on you. You got everything you need and then some,” I hissed, looking around the room. Clara was in the doorway, a smug look on her face. “Mama, I can't afford to do no more than I'm already doin'. Be patient. Be happy you are in a nice safe place. Enjoy what you already have and be happy. I promise you, you only have to stay here until you get better.”

Mama's teeth clicked and clacked like castanets. She started fanning her face with a rolled-up
Ebony
magazine. The loose skin under her arm flapped like a sleeve on an oversized shirt. “Girl, you know I ain't never gwine to get no better than I am now. That Pearl made sure of that.”

It had been a while since Miss Pearl's name had come up, but she was always on my mind. Like I said, I had convinced myself that Miss Pearl didn't really have anything to do with all the tragedies my family had suffered, but I knew that Mama still thought so.

“Mama, if Miss Pearl had really done somethin' to our family, we wouldn't be livin' as good as we are now. We'd probably both be dead by now.”

Mama gave me an exasperated look and shook her head.

“Well, I ain't far from death. It's gettin' closer and closer. Every time I look up, they haulin' somebody out of here to the morgue.” Mama shifted her eyes, like she was trying to think up more things to say that would strengthen her position. “Just last night I had a real sharp pain cut through my belly like a sword. I hope it ain't cancer. That's what killed Mr. Lang next door.”

“Mama, this is an old folks' complex, not a youth camp. Most of the people in here were already half dead when they checked in. They know they won't be leavin' this place alive.” I immediately wished that I could take my words back.

Mama's face looked like it wanted to slide into her lap.

“Oh, you really know how to make a dyin' woman feel good. I bet you can't wait to bury me,” Mama said, rotating her neck.

“I didn't come over here to argue with you, Mama.” I draped my arm around her rounded shoulder.

Mama sniffed, leaned her head back, and shot me an anxious look that was almost childlike. Without warning, she changed the course of our tense conversation. “Rosie, honey, I need me a new color television!”

I moaned and snatched my arm away from Mama's shoulder like I'd been burned. “What's wrong with the one you got now? The warranty hasn't even worn off.”

Mama waved her hands high above her head and sucked in her breath, making a face that made it seem like she really was in pain. “Horse feathers. The color ain't no good. I can't be sittin' up in here lookin' at no little green men. And even with my glasses on, I can't tell the Black folks from the White folks on that thing sittin' there,” Mama hollered, shaking her finger at the huge television facing us in the living room.

“Yes, ma'am.” I sighed. “I'll bring you one the next time I come to visit.”

I spent two more hours listening to Mama's list of complaints: her neighbors were racists, her hip hurt, her neck hurt, her back hurt, the quack nurse who came to look in on her had touched her inappropriately and had to be a lesbian, and nightmares kept her from sleeping at night. By the time I left, all I wanted to do was go home and crawl into my own bed.

And that's where I was, hugging a bottle of wine and sucking on a joint, when Clyde called me up around nine.

“Rosalee, if you there, pick up the telephone,” he ordered. He was silent a few moments, but I could hear him breathing hard and cussing under his breath. “I ain't playin' with you, girl! Pick up that phone if you there!” I ignored Clyde and turned down the volume on my answering machine, but not low enough. His voice was ringing in my ears. “Mr. Bob's got a hard-on for you, girl. Tonight. Eleven
P.M.
sharp. Be there. And, I got you, Rocky, and Lula lined up for a foursome with Fat Freddie over in Sausalito tomorrow night. Rocky'll pick you up at nine so y'all can have time to go have a drink first. You better have your juicy, priceless butt on the ball, and you better not be late, girl. Do you hear me? Shit.”

I turned off the machine and the telephone and slid down under my covers.

A
s much as Lula and Rosalee got on my nerves, I didn't mind having to go on dates with them. I didn't like it at first, but the more I got to know them, the easier it got. Especially when the date was that fat-ass Freddie McFarland. Poor Freddie. It took three women at the same time for us to get him off anyway. Compared to Mr. Bob, the trick I always thought of as a dead man walking because he would often fall asleep while he was on top of me, Fat Freddie was one step away from the morgue. But the way he told it, in his gravelly British accent, he was a “ball of fire” who knew how to make women scream. He sure did. When Clyde told me I had to join Rosalee and Lula for a foursome with Fat Freddie, I screamed all right.

Freddie lived in a huge condo, across the Golden Gate Bridge, in Sausalito. He had a live-in cook/housekeeper and a driver, but he sent them off somewhere whenever he entertained women. Like so many men, including that goat I'd married, Freddie thought that all it took to make a woman feel good in bed was a big dick. Well, I had news for him. While the men with the most meat between their legs were running around thinking that they were God's gift to women, the men with the ladyfingers peeping from between their thighs were the ones really keeping us happy. Believing that they were at a disadvantage because of their size, they tried much harder to please.

Freddie was an easy trick once we got him drunk. However, he was a major pain in the ass. He had a face like a mole and weighed more than five hundred pounds, but he still tried to move like a man half his size. And as disgusting as he was, I liked that fat-ass Freddie. He was more than just a trick to me. He was a really nice, fun guy, despite his miserable appearance. He was one of the few tricks I knew who made me feel petite. He was the one who nicknamed me Baby Love, the name I used with my ad in
The Spectator
.

Tonight was no different than any other night with Freddie. The four of us on his king-size bed was a sight. Our four naked bodies—Lula and Rosalee perfect and dark brown; me, light brown and crisscrossed with purple stretch marks; and Freddie, ghostly white and covered in knotty red splotches, like an obscene patchwork quilt. We looked like something that belonged in a Stephen King movie.

Fat Freddie liked to kiss. Since he paid extra for that, I always volunteered to perform that ghoulish task. He didn't mind me keeping my lips closed and my teeth clamped together. I refused to kiss a trick who wanted to stick his tongue in my mouth.

Rosalee and Lula did most of the other work on his vile body. They massaged him all over, commenting on his soft white flesh, and how magnificent his long, fat dick was. Fat Freddie shuddered, squeezed his eyes shut, and squealed like a pig. It took every ounce of my strength to keep from laughing.

After the deed was done, the three of us helped haul Freddie away from his king-size bed. Puffing like we'd been pulling a mule, we escorted him to his living room. We had drinks, slid a dirty movie into the DVD player, and listened to him yip yap about everything from his health problems to all the money he had inherited from his deceased parents.

“You birds sure know how to earn your way. I'll have Clyde set up another little party later in the month for me and the lot of you,” Freddie told us, tickling the thick flesh under my arm as I hugged his huge neck. To my everlasting horror, he hauled off and kissed me again. I had to close my eyes and hold my breath. His breath was as foul as horse shit, and his lips felt like rubber. I found it so hard to believe that this man had been married three times, to his first wife for twenty years. It was one thing to get paid to make love with a man as wretched as Freddie McFarland. But I could not imagine getting busy with him for free. I wondered how his wives had managed to do it.

But then again, what did I know? It hurt to know that my own husband had often said some of the same things about me that I thought about Freddie. “Girl, I have to get drunk to get into your stuff anymore…All that lard-smellin' blubber on your ass makes my nature weak,” Joe had told me right after the last time we made love. His words had burned like acid. If I'd known his true feelings about my appearance, I would not have seduced him that night. He left me the very next day.

Lula and Rosalee did most of the talking to Freddie, hardly letting me get a word in edgewise. And those two bitches thought they knew everything, telling lame jokes that kept Freddie guffawing. They were too stupid to realize that Freddie was laughing at them, not with them. With their southern accents, half of the time I couldn't understand them. The word
man
came out sounding like
main
. And only countrified women like them would call a man's dick a pecker. Or was it poker they said? I didn't know, and I didn't care, as long as I got paid.

I glanced at my watch. “Let's watch the movie,” I suggested, hoping they would all take the hint and just shut up.

“You girls want another drink?” Freddie asked in his hoarse voice. His stiff reddish-blond hair made his head look like a porcupine. My cherry-red lipstick was all over his lips, neck, chest, and face.

I answered for us all. “I'll go make them,” I chirped, rushing to the kitchen off to the side of the huge living room.

I took my time mixing a pitcher of strong margaritas. Being alone gave me time to do some thinking. I had had a lot on my mind lately and most of it involved my daughter, Juliet. The girl was driving me crazy. She was not doing well in school, she couldn't get along with her brothers, and she went out of her way to torture me. “Mama, you are getting so fat. You got gray hairs. Mama, you smell like lard.” Every one of her complaints stabbed at me like a knife. I actually felt the pain. It was all in my mind, but pain was pain.

The only adult Juliet seemed to respect was Helen, my retarded babysitter. They got along like best friends. The only times that Juliet was tolerable, was when Helen was present.

But Helen had been acting strange lately. A few times I'd caught her eavesdropping on my telephone conversations. And just yesterday, I'd come home to find my house smelling like cigars.

“Helen, was somebody in this house?” I'd asked, sniffing and rubbing my nose. It was past midnight. Helen was curled up on my living room sofa under one of my best goose-down comforters. This was where she usually slept when she spent the night. I loomed over the couch, still in my trick clothes and the long trench coat that I often wore on my dates.

“Huh? Huh?” Helen blinked stupidly, her lips moving like one of those talking dummies. She shrugged and gave me a blank stare.

I had only known a few retarded people in my life, so I didn't know that much about their habits and behavior. But Helen was docile and pleasant, and my kids were crazy about her. Especially my daughter, Juliet, who was the most difficult child I had ever known since…since myself.

“Who was smoking in here?” I asked, trying to hold back my anger. The last thing I wanted to do was scare this girl off. I needed her more than she needed me.

Helen sat up, rubbing her eyes, yawning, and stretching. “I was, Miss Rocky.”

“Cigars?” I asked, watching her carefully. I was too concerned about the cigar odor to ask her about the empty beer cans lined up on the floor in front of the couch. I already knew that Helen often helped herself to my alcohol. “You smoke cigars?”

Helen stretched and yawned some more and gave me another blank stare. “Uh-huh.” She looked around the room with a sheepish grin on her face.

“Girl, you know I don't allow smoking in my house!” I boomed.

Helen stood up from the couch so fast, the comforter slid to the floor. The cigar smoke was one thing, and that was bad enough. But I was surprised as hell to see that the girl was naked, too. Looking at her for about half a minute, I realized I was jealous. It was hard to believe that I'd once been as lean and firm as Helen. Without giving it much thought, I sucked in my gut, but the flab around my middle had a life of its own. I shook my head to compose myself.

Like me, Helen was a rough sleeper. Her eyes were puffy. Her arms had scratches from her clawing herself in her sleep. Joe used to tell me that when I got up in the morning I looked like I'd been in a fight. Helen looked like she'd been in a fight. This was the first time I'd seen her look like this and she had slept at my house dozens of times.

Helen shot me a sharp, stunned look. “But what about the times your friends smoke weed in here?” she asked, blinking hard. It was then that I noticed that her eyes were also slightly bloodshot. The same way mine looked after a rough date, something that my daughter had mentioned on more than one occasion.

“Now, look. What I do in my own house is my business. You don't live here. What would your mama say if she found out you were over here smoking?”

“My mama smokes,” Helen answered. “My daddy smokes, too. My big brother David smokes.”

“Well, just don't do it again. At least not in my house. If you bring cigarettes over here, or cigars, you go out on that porch to smoke. Do you hear me, girl?”

“Uh-huh,” she said, nodding hard.

“And another thing—when did you start sleeping naked?”

Helen had a difficult time responding. Her eyes rolled back in her head, she bit her bottom lip, then she looked me in the eye. “Tonight,” she said in a meek voice. She then stared at the floor.

I dismissed Helen with a wave of my hand. She returned to the couch and pulled the comforter up over her head. I let her sleep until almost noon the next day, wondering what all my kids could have done for her to be so tired.

After Helen left my house later that Saturday afternoon, I noticed a man's comb in my bathroom on the sink. It had blond hair in it.

But Helen explained that later in the evening when she galloped back across my lawn, running in the front door without knocking. There was a major grin on her eager face. As soon as she got inside, I asked her about the comb.

“It's one of my daddy's old combs. I was using it to practice combing Juliet's new Barbie doll's hair,” Helen said in a steely voice.

“And what about all those beer cans I found on the floor last night?”

“What about 'em?”

“Didn't I tell you not to drink when you come over here?”

Helen shook her head. “That ain't what you said. You told me to stay out of your liquor cabinet. Well, I couldn't find the key nohow, so I got the beers from the refrigerator. The liquor cabinet and the refrigerator are two different things.” She sniffed so hard her eyes watered.

My exasperation level was as high as it could get. “Your mama and daddy don't want you drinking
any
alcohol over here.”

Helen shrugged. “Who is going to tell them I been drinking? You? I sure ain't.”

I sighed and threw up my hands. “Look, from now on, when you babysit, I expect you to leave my house looking just the way you found it. Do I make myself clear? Don't be leaving combs full of doll hair on my sink and do not drink any of my alcohol. Do not drink any alcohol, period. That means, don't bring any over here from home or anywhere else. Is that clear?”

“Yes, ma'am, Miss Rocky.” Helen had a look on her face that could have meant anything. Her eyes were blank, and her mouth was hanging open. It was the same way my daughter, Juliet, looked when she was lying or just trying to be a smart-ass. I could never tell when Helen (or Juliet) was lying or just messing with me.

I had to keep reminding myself that Helen was more on Juliet's level than she was on mine. But Helen's childlike mind was trapped in the body of a woman.

And that was a dangerous combination.

 

“Girl, what's takin' you so long with them drinks?” Rosalee hollered from Freddie's living room.

I cleared Helen out of my thoughts. “I'll be right out,” I yelled. I had to take a big swallow of tequila before prancing out of Freddie's kitchen with a tray of drinks to rejoin the activities on his couch.

Once Freddie was asleep, we dragged him to his bed, which was a difficult thing for us to do, considering his weight. We were all panting like dogs. It was such a chore, Rosalee and Lula had to rush back to the living room to have another drink. I stayed in the bedroom a little longer to go through Freddie's wallet. I had decided that I deserved an extra hundred dollars. And I didn't feel bad about “robbing” a trick. Especially one as rich as Freddie. It added a little fun to an otherwise unbearable game. And without some amusement and additional benefits, my job would have been just that much harder.

After I dropped Rosalee and Lula off, I rushed home, driving at breakneck speed because I'd been out longer than I had anticipated. Like I'd hoped, Helen and the kids were all watching music videos on BET.

They hardly paid any attention to me when I sprinted across my living room floor to my bathroom. I rinsed out my mouth and took a long bath with water so hot it felt like my skin was melting.

Other than the money, a bath was the best part of a date.