STRONGER (5 page)

Cry, that part of my brain coaxed. Your mother is dead. Cry.

But there was nothing. All I could do was stare at Jack, who took another drag on his cigarette in the corner.

“So I’ve lost her, but you’re still mine.”

Tell him to fuck off, that part of my brain demanded. He’s an asshole. He as good as killed your mother.

But I couldn’t even manage words. What was wrong with me?

“And with that little stunt in front of all those people, suggesting that Fiona’s death was somehow my fault, well.” Jack’s chuckle should have sent chills through my body, but I couldn’t manage to experience a single emotion.

“It’s well past time you learned to obey.”

I found my voice in a scream as he burned my arm with his cigarette.

My cry seemed to excite him in some horrible way. He tore my shirt off, bruised me while wrestling my bra off. The cigarette came down again and again, burning my tender breasts. The screams seemed to rip my throat open.

Jack cursed irritably when he accidentally pushed down too hard and ground the cigarette out against my skin.

He fell to beating me, punching my face again and again. Blood filled my mouth and I mercifully lost consciousness.

He kept me tied to the bed for a week, like an animal, beating me when it pleased him. Jack explained that he had the whole week off of work for bereavement.

He seemed anything but sad.

The pills he kept feeding me muffled my despair and screwed with my sense of time and self, but it was still the longest week of my life.

After the seven days were up, Jack returned to work. He dosed me with enough medicine to make me pass out.

When I woke up, he had already returned. I’d lost the entire day and was lucid just in time for his torture. He wasn’t creative—his methods didn’t change much. He liked to hit. He liked to burn. He liked to hurt. I absorbed it as a new reality—had to.

It became apparent to me that I was going to die one day when his blow to my nose didn’t wake me up but almost choking on my own blood did.

Biding my time wasn’t going to work anymore. Time for action.

One morning, when Jack was in a particular hurry because his torture session had lasted too long, he didn’t stick around to make sure I passed out after drinking the cocktail of medication.

It was easy enough to lean over to the side of the bed and vomit. The hard part was dislocating my wrist getting one of the restraints off.

Pain was something I had tried to accept, but it just wasn’t something I could get used to. Within a few fumbling minutes, I was free from the bed. But more than a week of inactivity had made me weak. My knees buckled when I tried to stand, sending me straight to the floor.

I couldn’t tell whether my head swimming was all the blood rushing from it or some last vestiges of the tranquilizers. It made me panic. I couldn’t stop now. I couldn’t handle another minute of being in this house of death.

Crawling on my hands and knees to the shower popped my wrist back into its socket with a wretched relief. The cold spray helped wake me up as fully as was possible.

I had to get out of here. Today was the day.

The water and soap hurt my wounds—particularly the cigarette burns—but I scrubbed all the same.

The girl in the mirror’s reflection was a ghoul, a swollen, bruised version of Jasmine. I barely gave her a second glance. She was a stranger.

I paused in the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. My appetite was nonexistent, but I knew food would give me strength. I opened containers and shoveled their contents into my mouth without looking at them.

When I couldn’t stomach another bite, I pulled myself up the stairs, leaning heavily on the banisters.

I was fully prepared to load up my suitcase and backpack like old times, but I knew I was too weak to handle them both. I was only going to be able to take the backpack.

I stuffed it with a few changes of clothing and the money I’d been saving from selling my duct tape creations at school. There was a few hundred dollars. Mom hadn’t asked for the money for a long time—since we’d moved in with Jack. She’d probably forgotten about it just like she forgot how to be my mother. The money was all mine.

Getting dressed was a challenge, but I managed it, tying my sneakers with some difficulty.

I wished I could’ve left some message, some cosmic “fuck you” to taunt and haunt Jack for the rest of his life. I wanted to trash his perfect house, take a knife to every pillow, couch, chair, and bed in the place.

But to tell the truth, I was just a scared 17-year-old. I thought he could come back at any moment. I really didn’t want to be here when he did.

I left Jack’s precious yellow house untouched, rushing out the door and to the bus stop with no destination but “away.”

* * * *

Girls had gone in and out of the lounge while I told my story, but Mama had never looked at them. She gave me her undivided attention.

It had been years since I’d spoken so much and for so long. The glass of water had long since been drained. My throat was sore and I was emotionally spent. Once I’d started, the words had tumbled out, building and building in a frantic crescendo in their haste to leave my body. Someone had to know what happened to me. Someone had to help me.

Mama stayed quiet for a long time. I was scared to death that I’d driven her away with my horrors. I’d tried to censor myself, tried to hide the worst parts, but I knew she could tell everything that had happened. I couldn’t even think about those parts.

Finally, she covered my hand with hers. That hand—dark, meaty, perfectly manicured, and utterly comforting.  It told me everything I needed to know even before Mama opened her mouth.

“All that is over,” she said. “I’m sorry that it happened to you. No girl of mine—if anyone ever—oh, Lord help me.”

Mama took a deep breath and composed herself, her hand not leaving mine.

“This is your home now,” she said. “I want you to think of it like that. I’m your Mama, and these girls are your sisters. We’re going to take care of you now.”

Tears obscured my vision. “Thank you, Mama,” I said, my voice thick with emotion.

“Tonight, I want you to rest,” she added. “First thing tomorrow, after you get a big breakfast in you, we’re going to go out and I’m going to get you a few things. Then we’ll talk about work and what you’ll be doing here.”

“That sounds good,” I said, wiping my eyes.

“Now, you go on upstairs and back to Cocoa’s room and bed down,” Mama said. “That’s where you’ll be staying for now on. I’ve got a nightclub to run or I’d take you myself.”

“I remember the way,” I said.

Chapter Two

Cocoa woke me up with a steaming tray of food.

“Mama sent it up,” she said, setting it on the table and handing me a robe. I’d gone to sleep wearing just the loaned panties and uniform blouse, not wanting to go through my roommate’s clothes.

“Sorry I slept in your shirt,” I said, tying the robe closed and sitting at the table. “I’ll get it washed and ironed for you.”

Cocoa smiled and shook her head. “You should’ve just gotten a T-shirt out of my drawer or something,” she said. “I’ll give you a top and some jeans to wear out shopping today.”

She left the room and I was able to tear into the breakfast. The tray was positively loaded down with food—a pair of waffles, scrambled eggs, fruit salad, and four pieces of bacon. Breakfast hadn’t been in my vocabulary for a long time.

Cocoa came in just as I was polishing off the final bites.

“I just left!” she exclaimed, laughing. “What happened to all your food? Did someone come in here and steal it?”

I giggled. “I’m so embarrassed,” I admitted, covering my eyes. “This food is amazing. I have zero restraint.”

“Well, it did look awfully good,” Cocoa said. She sipped a mug of tea, the tag of the bag hanging down over the side.

“How was work last night?” I asked, curious. “I think I’m going to start today. Mama said I was going to find out about everything tonight.”

Cocoa raised an eyebrow. “Everything? I doubt that.”

I drew my eyebrows in, confused. “She said I was going to work here.”

My roommate’s face softened. “Of course you’re going to work here,” she soothed. “It’s just that … this place is kinda complicated. I don’t know if I can explain.”

“Will you try?”

Cocoa sighed and shook her head. “I’ve upset you,” she said, “and you need to be getting ready for your big day with Mama. She really seems to like you, you know. She’s not like that with everyone.”

“She’s very kind,” I said, trying to hide my frustration with Cocoa. How could she lead me on, implying that something that was wrong with the nightclub without telling me what it was?

Cocoa pulled some clothes out of her dresser and handed them to me.

“I bet a shower will make you feel nice,” she said.

The idea of another shower made me forget all about finding out what Cocoa had been talking about. Another shower sounded downright decadent.

I grabbed the bucket of toiletries and raced across the hall to the bathroom.

The place was empty. I kind of expected some of the girls to be up, but it was as quiet as a tomb. I enjoyed my shower in peace, massaging my scalp until it tingled. The cigarette burn scars dotting my body were fading with each day that passed. I looked forward to the day when my skin would be completely unblemished, but part of me knew I’d bear these marks for the rest of my life.

After I got dressed and toweled my hair until it was damp, I crossed back into Cocoa’s room.

“Where is everyone?” I asked.

“It’s early, Jazz,” Cocoa answered, punctuating her response with a wide yawn. “The nightclub doesn’t close until 4 in the morning, and then we clean up. It’s normal to stay up until 6 a.m. or later.”

My eyes nearly popped out of my head. “That’s late!”

My roommate nodded in agreement. “And that means most of us don’t wake up until 2 or 3 in the afternoon,” she told me. “At 6, we start getting things ready to open again. The nightclub opens at 8.”

I absorbed all this information as I combed my hair. It sounded like it was easy to get completely consumed by work here. I imagined many girls would go to bed late and wake up late, only having time to get themselves and the club cleaned up each day.

“You ready to go?” Cocoa asked. She shrugged on a silky kimono over her camisole and shorts. “I’ll take you downstairs to Mama. She’ll probably be in the office.”

We tiptoed past closed doors in the hallway and down the stairs. The nightclub looked out of place when illuminated by sunlight trying to work its way through the tinted windows.

I hadn’t heard any of the music or activity down here during my sleep last night. I must have been out cold.

“The office is right through that door,” Cocoa said, pointing to the right of the kitchen. “I’m going to go back upstairs and try to take a little nap. I’ll see you later.”

“See you,” I echoed.

I walked over to the office and knocked gently. There were sounds of rustling and movement, but no call to enter. I waited a few moments before pushing the door open.

Mama was kneeling in front of an open safe, placing a few stacks of money next to many, many stacks of money. The inside of that safe looked like what I imagined the inside of a bank looked like. How much money could be in there?

“Jesus save me!” Mama exclaimed, making me jump. “You nearly scared me to death, Jazz!”

“I’m sorry,” I blurted out as she snapped the safe shut and spun the dial. “I knocked but no one answered.”

“I’m a little deaf, sweetie,” Mama said, pointing at her ears. “I blame it on my career in entertainment. You got to practically beat that door down for me to hear it.”

“Okay.”

Mama was dressed a little more low key than last night, but she still looked very fine. The high waist on her trousers and the way her satin blouse was tucked into them accentuated her impressive curves. She looked like all kinds of woman—more than most men could handle, I’d bet.

“You ready to do a little shopping?” Mama asked, rubbing her hands together. I realized shopping was probably one of her favorite things.

“I sure am,” I said, smiling.

When we came back, I had a manicure, a new haircut, two pairs of jeans, no less than ten shirts, a new coat, my own toiletries, and two work uniforms.

“Now, it’s up to you to keep these clean,” Mama said as we re-entered the nightclub. “I like for all my girls to look sharp when they’re working—even when they’re not. Remember that you represent my nightclub, my place of business. And you look especially sharp in clothes your own size.”

Standing in front of the dressing room mirror, Mama had hooted and hollered when she got me to open a couple of buttons of the uniform blouse. It had also helped that I was wearing a brand new bra.

“Let’s put your things in the office for now,” Mama said. “You can take them up later, after I’ve shown you around and talked about work.”

I was excited to show Cocoa my purchases and even more eager to return all of her clothes to her. I felt like my new possessions made me belong here. Mama had bought them and given me a place to live. I’d do anything for her now.

She almost felt like family—that idea that had eluded me for so long.

“You know the kitchen, of course,” Mama said, pushing open the swinging door. “When customers ask for food, you write it down on your pad and stick it here for the cooks.”

She pointed at an expanse of stainless steel with a special groove to hold the papers.

“Come back in here and check on the orders as often as you can,” Mama continued. “If another girl’s orders are up, take them to her table. Everyone helps everyone.”

“Everyone helps everyone,” I repeated. I liked that.

“Now, when you’re not working, this kitchen is yours to use,” Mama said. “Don’t interfere with the chefs and don’t eat the restaurant food. There’s plenty of food for everyone in the other fridge.”

I remembered this from earlier and nodded.

“Everyone sort of trickles down here when they want and fixes their meals, but some girls like to cook and eat together,” she explained. Mama opened the refrigerator door and my eyes feasted upon all the stacks of cheese, lunchmeat, veggies, fruits, and more. It was everything I could imagine.

“If you want to keep something of your own, I’d recommend getting a mini fridge,” she said. “I think Cocoa may have one. You can always put your name on something and stick it in here, but don’t be surprised if it goes missing.”

What would be the first food item I would buy? Ice cream, I decided swiftly, then pizza. Those were what I wanted the most, and in that order.

“You’re going to be working as both a waitress and part of the service crew,” Mama said. “Most everyone here does the same thing. Sometimes girls pull hostess duties, but I usually take care of that myself. Adds a personal touch. Waitress means you wait on the customers and bring them everything they want. Service crew means you clean up after them and prepare before them.”

I thought of entering the nightclub last night and seeing all the girls preparing the tables. That would be me tonight—and hopefully for many nights to come.

“As for pay,” Mama began, “it all depends on you. The time you work, the time you’re out in the club cleaning or waiting or bussing, that belongs to me. That’s your room and board.”

I nodded. That sounded reasonable.

“The tips, on the other hand, we split. At the end of every night, you’ll give me 10 percent of what you earned tip-wise. That’s for operating costs.”

Ten percent wasn’t bad, I mused silently. I bet I could make some real money with tips if I turned on the charm. I was already starting to believe Mama and Cocoa when they told me I was a beauty.

“What do the girls spend their money on?” I wondered aloud.

Mama shrugged, pulling a bottle of water from the fridge and handing it to me. The perpetual readiness of food and water was still a little foreign to me.

“The normal things, I guess,” she answered. “Clothes, makeup, shoes, treats, decorations for their rooms, magazines, anything, really.”

“And how many days do I work?”

“That’s also up to you,” Mama said. “Everything’s up to you. I’d like to see you out there at least five days—like a normal workweek. But the more hours you’re out on the floor, the more chance you have at making money. Especially if you get in good with one of our regular customers, one of the real good tippers, it’s hard to take off time. If they request you, you have to work. Many girls flat don’t take days off. They love making money.”

I thought about this. I’d never had a real job. This would be my first. If I was having fun and making money—and repaying Mama for her kindness—I didn’t see a problem with working seven days a week. I decided to see how it would go.

“So is that everything?” I asked, thinking suddenly about my earlier exchange with Cocoa. My roommate had said that Mama wouldn’t tell me everything about the business, but what would Mama hide from me?

“Everything?” Mama said, putting her hands on her hips and staring up at the ceiling. “Well, yes, I suppose that’s it. Just ask Cocoa or any of the other girls if you have questions.”

Maybe I would ask Cocoa if I’d heard “everything.”

“Bless me, is that the time?” Mama said, staring at her watch in shock. I looked at the wall clock, which read nearly 6 p.m. “I was having such a wonderful time with you, Jazz, that I forgot about business tonight.” She winked. “Not many people can do that.”

“I’d better get ready, too,” I said, eager to start my first day of work. I was excited about the idea of making money. Money of my own. I didn’t know what I would spend it on, yet, but I wanted it.

I retrieved my bags of new things from the office and ran them upstairs, aware that many of the girls were already sprucing up the nightclub for the night. I burst into Cocoa’s room, puffing with my rushing and the weight of all my purchases.