Stealing Candy (14 page)

At Forty-sixth and Market, Saleema pulled into the parking lot of a supermarket and brought the car to a stop. With the engine idling, she tried to get her bearings and gather her thoughts.

She was trying to play detective but was clearly in over her head. Driving all over the city looking for Portia would be a huge waste of time. The most sensible thing to do would be to go home and wait. Maybe Portia would reach out.

But what kind of help could she offer? She could be the voice of reason and persuade Portia to turn herself in. Portia was safer in the detention center than wandering the streets.

Glancing at the clock on the dashboard, she realized Portia had been on the run for several hours—more than enough time to hitch a ride or even take a bus to Saleema’s house.

Now convinced that Portia would turn up at her doorstep, Saleema tore out of the lot and sped home.

Her cell hummed from her purse that was set on the floor of the passenger side. Leaning awkwardly, she kept one hand on the steering wheel, while she lifted her bag from the floor with the other. She plopped the durable black leather on the passenger seat. Eyes on the road, she dug inside and pulled out the cell. A quick glance at the screen revealed a number she didn’t recognize.
Portia?

“Hello!” she said anxiously.

“Hi, how are you? This is Khalil,” he said cheerfully.

Her heart did a little tumble.

“I hope I didn’t catch you at a bad time.”

“No. Well, actually—”

“Oh. Should I call you tomorrow?” Disappointment took his voice down an octave.

“No, I can talk. I
need
to talk. I’m a wreck.”

“What’s going on?”

She told him about Portia’s escape and ended with, “I’ve been driving around the city, hoping to spot her. I haven’t been successful. The police will be keeping an eye on her house, so I figured she might try to contact me. I’m on my way home.”

“Where’s home? I’ll meet you there. Keep you company, if you’d like.”

“I’d like that. Thanks.” Despite her anxiety over Portia, she couldn’t hold back a blushing smile as she gave him her address.

She parked at the curb. Her oversized, single home on the corner had no driveway in the front. She’d have to drive around the block to get to her garage, which didn’t have an entrance that led inside her house. Real estate in the city always lacked in something. In her case, she had a lot of house but not much else. No land; no convenient parking.

A planned marriage of convenience had almost led her to live in the Cayman Islands, but a deadly encounter in a North Carolina swamp had yielded an unexpected windfall. Financial freedom had allowed her to turn her life around. She had cancelled the wedding. Helping young women in distress had replaced a former lifestyle of using sex for profit.

She got out of her Camry, aimed the remote, and hurried toward her house.

“Saleema.”

Her name echoed, intruding the silence of the night, but she wasn’t startled. She turned around, a soft smile already in place.

Wearing Dockers and a serious expression, Khalil dashed toward
her. “I parked down the street; wasn’t sure if you gave me the right address. Is this you?” He inclined his head toward her three-story house with its large white exterior columns.

“Yes, this is where I reside,” she said uneasily. With the threat of foreclosure breathing down her neck, she felt no pride in admitting ownership of the impressive structure.

They went inside. Adjacent to the vestibule, gapping door pockets revealed an azure blue room. He took a visual sweep of the room. A grand piano dominated the room.

“Do you play?”

“No. The girls love to play around on it. A few of them used to take lessons.”

“Here?”

“Yes, my social club was once a hub of activity.”

“This place is nice. Very tranquil,” Khalil offered as he followed Saleema down a long corridor with walls painted a lighter shade of blue.

They reached the dining area that also served as a lounge for the girls. This room, a splash of peach.

“Would you like something to drink? Tea? Juice?”

“Juice.”

Saleema motioned for him to follow her. The hue of the kitchen was citrus yellow. The room was bright and airy. Large sunflowers set in clear vases added to the pleasant setting.

“I see you’re not afraid of color.”

“Not at all.”

“The walls in my place are all white. Really boring, now that I think about it. Maybe I’ll explore some color.”

“Color soothes me. The girls like the colorful environment, too.”

“I can see why. It’s very welcoming.”

“Thanks.” The mention of her girls put her on alert. She took her cell out of her purse, set it on a counter. “I need to keep this within reach, in case Portia calls.”

Khalil took a seat on a stool.

Saleema took a container of Tropicana from the fridge. She poured the juice—a combination of orange, banana, and pineapple, into a tumbler and handed it to him.

He took a swallow. “Ah, refreshing.”

Saleema smiled.

Khalil downed the drink.

“More?”

“I’m good.” Then his expression turned serious. “So what’s your plan? You know, if Portia shows up?”

“I’m not sure. I guess I’ll try to talk her into turning herself in. You know…I’ll um, ask her to let me escort her back to the detention center.”

“How much time do you think it would take to convince her?”

Saleema sighed. “I don’t know.”

“You really don’t have a choice. If she comes here, you’re going to have to inform the police of her whereabouts.”

She groaned and nervously ran her fingers through her hair, separating tangled sister locs. “It seems so underhanded to lure her here, only to throw her to the wolves.”

“You’d risk criminal charges if you allowed her to stay here for any length of time. What I’m saying is, coddling, cajoling… spending time with her, could be viewed as harboring an escaped criminal.”

“Portia is not a criminal. You make it sound like she’s a thief or a murderer. She’s a misguided child…with anger management issues.”

“Breaking out of the detention center doesn’t look good for her.
Her rap sheet is getting longer. You don’t want to get too deeply involved.”

“I
am
deeply involved. I care about her.” Saleema stared at Khalil. “What happened to the man who was all about looking for the redeeming qualities in troubled teens?”

“I’m still that man.”

“Could have fooled me. You’re starting to sound like the establishment…viewing Portia as a blemish on society, not seeing that she is a troubled young girl. You have no clue what it’s like to grow up like Portia has.”

“You’re right. I don’t know, firsthand. But I know what’s going on in the streets. My students all come from—”

“Your students!” Angrily, she shook her locs from her face. “I know what Portia is experiencing, firsthand.”

He made a low grunt of compassion.

Saleema patted her chest heavily with four fingers. “I used to be like Portia. Fighting everybody. Angry at the world because I didn’t have parents who had my best interests at heart. From the age of seven, I was on my own. I grew up in a household filled with cousins and an absentee aunt. And a long list of ‘uncles’ who were no relation to me.”

For the first time in her life, she was letting it out. The sympathy in Khalil’s eyes made her pause, but didn’t deter her from telling her story.

“I’ve been hurt and abused. And violently molested.”

Khalil winced. Saleema continued. “Seems like each one of the steady stream of uncles all had a thing for kids. I don’t know what they did to my cousins, but I know what happened to me. ‘You better not tell,’ some threatened. Others paid me hush money. Some change. A dollar or two for services rendered.”

A look of horror covered his face. “That’s awful.”

“Yeah, tell me about it,” she muttered sarcastically. “When I was about nine, my aunt found some money I’d been saving, stashed in the back of a drawer. She asked me where I got the money. I told her that I didn’t know.” Saleema gave a pained chuckle. “She whipped my ass with a broom handle, accusing me of stealing the money from her pocketbook.”

“Did you tell her where you got it?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Saleema shrugged. “I don’t know. I was scared. And ashamed of myself for freakin’ with all those grown men.”

“But it wasn’t your fault.”

“No, it wasn’t. But that didn’t stop me from despising myself. From being disgusted with myself, every time I had to get yet another treatment. Yeast infections, bacterial infections, STDs, venereal diseases…you name it, and I had it. All before the age of twelve.”

“Who did your aunt point the finger at after you contracted those sexually transmitted diseases?”

“Me!”

“Why? You were a mere child.”

“She called me a fast ass; accused me of messing around with teenage boys. In our house, I was called fast-ass, slut, ho, hooker, heifer…everything derogatory; hardly ever called by my given name.

Uncomfortable, Khalil looked down at the floor. “Wow. That’s messed up. So did you inform her…about the…uh, uncles?”

“No.”

“I can’t understand why the physicians who treated you didn’t file a report with Children and Youth Services?”

“It ain’t go down like that.” Dredging up those memories reignited
feelings of unworthiness. Ugliness. Pain. Unconsciously, Saleema had resorted to her old way of speaking. “You don’t need a doctor’s ’script in my ’hood. My aunt could buy antibiotics and anything else right off the streets.”

“My God!”

“My sentiments exactly. Those were the words I cried every time I endured the trauma of a grown man forcing his manhood inside of me. Every time I itched between my legs. Every time there was a foul smell in my cotton panties.”

Khalil removed his glasses; wiped unseen perspiration from around his eyes.

She’d heard that purging provided relief…a cleansing of sorts. But Saleema did not feel cleansed. Telling her story, reliving her harrowing childhood, made her feel dirty. Defiant. And furious.

And Khalil was starting to seem more like an enemy than a friend.

“Your secondhand, textbook knowledge ain’t shit compared to real life experiences,” she snapped.

Acknowledging the slur, he frowned. “You’re right. I’m sorry you went through all that, Saleema.”

“Yeah, me too. Sorry that I didn’t get a chance to be a child,” she spat resentfully. “I’m sorry that I got teased so badly for wearing outdated, grungy clothes, and for having uncombed, kinky hair that I rarely went to school. And when I did, I ended up getting suspended for fighting…for trying to defend myself…my honor, the only way I knew how. I’m sorry that all that early sexual activity has ruined me…messed up my insides so bad, I can never bear a child.”

The words she’d spoken had never been uttered to a soul. Not even her best friend, Terelle, knew the truth about Saleema—that she was unable to conceive a child.

Her sudden admission hit her with the force of a gunshot, crumpling the features of her face, stooping her shoulders, as if the pain was too much to bear.

She trembled. Her body rocked gracelessly as she suffered her tragic childhood anew. She brought a hand up to her forehead, clasping it as if this action would prevent her from falling down.

A low moan that began deep in her throat grew louder and more insistent. It was a guttural sound, erupting from the pit of her soul, announcing itself as an anguished howl.

Khalil sprang up from the stool. Reaching for her, he caught Saleema before she fell.

 
 CHAPTER 15

“Look at those two hoochies over there.”

Gianna looked in the direction Bullet was pointing to. Two girls were loitering in the McDonald’s parking lot, approaching people, apparently asking for money. Most of the customers rushed past the girls and hurried into the fast-food place. But a few stopped, dug inside their pockets, and handed the girls cash.

Instead of pulling out into traffic, Bullet made a quick left, reentering the parking lot.

Hey, papí, you got ten dollars?” a girl with a Spanish accent asked as she approached the car. Though she was grinning from ear to ear, Gianna could see the desperation in her eyes.

“What for?” Bullet inquired.

“Food,” the girl replied.

“A bus ticket,” the girl with the large breasts chimed in at the same time as her friend.

“Oh, y’all can’t even get your stories straight. Why y’all out here tryna scam nuccas?”

“No, papí, we ain’t like that. You got it all wrong. We had nothing to eat all day long.” Her wide smile was replaced with a downturned mouth. She rubbed her tummy, indicating severe hunger.

“Yo, hold up. I ain’t with all this begging shit,” the other girl said, rolling her eyes.

She stepped closer to the car. “We don’t need no food. We tryna get outta town. Can you let us hold something?”

“And what do I get in return?”

The girl scowled in disgust. “Whatchu mean?”

“Don’t nothing in life come without a price tag. What do I get for my money?”

“Man, ain’t nobody tryna hear all that. I only axed you for a coupla dollars. We ain’t tryna trick with you or nothing.”