Damsels in Distress (3 page)

In the mirror, Celeste saw Anthony leaning against the doorframe watching her. She didn't acknowledge him but by how far Celeste's lips were poked out, Anthony sensed that she was upset.

Celeste tossed the cotton ball toward the trash can but missed. Anthony picked it up from the floor and threw it in the trash can, then came and sat next to her. Celeste inched over to allow him more room.

Anthony faced his wife. He exhaled. “Let me guess. Ginger and Ron, right?”

“Yep, you guessed it.” Ginger opened the cabinet next to her left leg and grabbed a bottle of Sea Breeze astringent. She soaked a cotton ball with the blue liquid and began rubbing it all over her face.

Anthony extended his legs and crossed his ankles. He leaned backward and placed his elbows on Celeste's vanity. “What did that punk do this time?”

Celeste threw the cotton ball into the trash can. “He hit her again, Tony. You should see her shoulder. Bruises are all the way down her arm.”

“She showed them to you?” Anthony asked.

“No. Evidently, Ginger didn't know the marks were there. Portia and I saw the bruises while she was modeling the suit she's wearing to church tomorrow; that is, if Ron even allows her to go to church.”

Anthony could only imagine how Celeste behaved when she saw Ginger's bruises. “You didn't freak out did you, Celeste?”

Celeste was applying moisturizer to her face when she stopped and looked at her husband. “Heck yeah, I freaked as I should have. What would you do if your best friend was getting his butt whipped all the time?”

“Look, baby. You and Portia have to come to the conclusion that Ginger is an adult. You can't live her life or make decisions for her, nor can the two of you fight her battles. Yeah, Ron is a punk. But until Ginger decides that she's had enough of his crap, there's nothing you, Portia, or anyone else can do.” That wasn't the first time that Anthony had to remind Celeste to stay out of Ginger's business. “My concern is you,” Anthony stated. “You're my wife and I don't want you to have a stroke or develop ulcers over Ginger and Ron's issues. The only thing you can do for Ginger is pray for her and be there when she needs you.”

Tears ran down Celeste's face. “Portia and I took her to the police station but she wouldn't even get out of the car. I went inside and got a female cop, a sister, and brought her to Ginger but she sat in the back seat and wouldn't open her mouth. Portia and I looked like two fools.”

Anthony grabbed Celeste's hand and kissed her open palm. “You and Portia have been going through this with Ginger for years. Nothing will change until she faces reality and realizes that it's up to her, and only her, to get away from Ronald. So let's change the subject. How did your doctor's appointment go this morning?”

Celeste wiped the tears from her eyes. “And that's another thing that's getting on my nerves, Tony. I'm sick of being disappointed every month. We try and try and try but I always get my period. Today Dr. Bindu took my temperature and gave me an ovulation predictor. He said that our best chances of becoming pregnant is between now and next Friday.”

Anthony stood behind Celeste and massaged her shoulders. What he didn't know was that his loving wife, the wife he cherished, and the wife he desperately wanted to have a baby with, had just lied to him. Those were not Dr. Bindu's words. He had sent Celeste home with bad news. The ovulation predictor was a purchase that she'd made at Walmart after her appointment. But she had wasted her money. Doctor Bindu told Celeste that her chances of conceiving a baby were slim to none.

“So, what are we waiting on?” Anthony asked.

Celeste dismissed Anthony's question and asked one of her own. “What am I gonna do about Ginger?” She was not in a rush to make a baby because a baby would never be made.

Anthony let out a loud sigh. “Celeste, I want you to let Ginger take care of Ginger. And I want you to come to bed so I can take care of you.”

* * *

In her bedroom, Portia pressed the play button on her answering machine. She listened to her messages as she undressed.

“Hey, beautiful. What's up with you? It's me, David. I've been calling you all day. Hit me on my cell when you get in.” Beep.

David insisted that Portia only called him on his cellular phone. She wasn't worthy of his home number. His wife could answer.

“Hi, Portia. This is Greg. I've been trying to hook up with you for two weeks. What's up? Are you missing in action or what?” Beep.

Every two weeks, like clockwork, when Gregory's wife got a headache, he wound up in Portia's bed.

“Portia, this is Richard. Why are you avoiding me? You think a brotha ain't got nothing else better to do than track you down?” Beep.

Three days ago, Portia received a dozen red roses at the car dealership where she worked as an administrative assistant. The inside card read:

Portia did a little detective work and found out that Tamara was Mrs. Richard Clark. The fool had mistakenly written his wife's name on the card.

“Hey, beautiful. I'm in town for a few days. Let's get together. Give me a call at my mother's house. 555-3743. I would love to see you.” Beep.

The last message was from Gary Stokes. He was stupid fine and had always been Portia's weakness. She returned his call.

* * *

Forty-five minutes later, Portia stood at her stove and unwrapped a king-sized milk chocolate Hershey's candy bar. She placed it into a small saucepan then added two pats of butter. She heated the saucepan on low then stirred the chocolate and butter until the mixture melted and blended well. On the sink next to the stove was a bowl of fresh, ripe, juicy, sweet strawberries. Portia removed the melted chocolate from the heat then dipped the strawberries, one by one, in the chocolate and laid them on a plate. She placed the plate in the freezer then showered while the chocolate hardened.

Fifteen minutes later, Portia removed the plate of strawberries from the freezer and set it on the sink next to an open bottle of Pink Moscato. She filled a syringe with the wine and carefully inserted the needle into each strawberry and emptied it. She smiled when she heard a soft knock on the front door. It was time to play.

She carried the plate of chocolate-covered strawberries into the living room with her. Portia greeted Gary wearing a white sheer teddy and a smile. “So glad you could come over.”

Gary stood in the doorway looking as fine as he wanted to look. Retired from the National Football League, where he was a wide receiver for the Chicago Bears for nine seasons, Gary's broad shoulders, buffed arms, and thick neck were easy on Portia's eyes. Six feet three inches, and 260 pounds of solid muscle walked past Portia. He left a whiff of Usher cologne in the wind.

Portia shut the door and leaned against it. She admired Gary's smooth bald head. His goatee mended greatly with his mustache. His caramel-colored skin was as smooth as silk. “Umph, umph, umph. It's a shame your wife lets you travel alone.”

Gary's mischievous smile melted Portia. “Why is that?”

“Because you don't know how to behave yourself.”

“That's not true. I'm always on my best behavior when I'm away on business. It's only when I come back to Chicago that I get into trouble.”

Portia walked to Gary and wrapped her left arm around his broad neck while holding the plate of chocolate-covered strawberries in her right hand. “Is that what I am, ‘trouble'?”

He pulled Portia's body closer to his. “With a capital T. But you're the kind of trouble I don't mind getting into, if you know what I mean.” Gary seductively bumped his torso against Portia's.

Portia picked up a chocolate strawberry from the plate and inserted it into Gary's mouth. He bit into it and when he tasted the wine, he smiled. “Umm, yummy.”

Portia returned the smile. “You like?”

“I love,” Gary answered sinfully.

She set the plate of strawberries on the cocktail table and stood on her tippy toes to kiss Gary's forehead, his left cheek, and his right cheek. Portia took her time and ran her tongue along his mustache from left to right. Gary picked Portia up and she wrapped her thighs around his waist. The married man carried Portia to her bedroom and there wasn't any shame in their game.

On Sunday afternoon Ginger stood behind the podium and introduced the speaker of the hour for the afternoon service. “Let's give a good and hearty ‘God bless you' for Evangelist Yvette Shaw.”

Ten minutes into Evangelist Shaw's sermon, the women at True Holiness Church were on their feet. She was no stranger there. For the past seven years Evangelist Yvette Shaw had been chosen to be the main speaker for the church's annual Women's Day celebration and she had brought the house down each and every time.

Evangelist Shaw wiped sweat from her brow with her hanky. She whooped and hollered as she strutted across the pulpit. “Women of God must understand that we are not to pick and choose our mates. Often we go against the will of God and plan our own lives, rather than submit ourselves to Him. That's when we end up on paths of self-destruction. Everything that looks good to us is not necessarily good for us. And how many of you know that everything that shines ain't gold?”

There were a bunch of amens to that comment. Portia, who sat next to Ginger, nudged her elbow and leaned into her. “Pay attention. She's preaching to you.”

Ginger rolled her eyes at Portia. “Where's Celeste?”

Portia looked around the church but didn't see Celeste anywhere in the sanctuary. “I guess she decided to skip this Sunday.”

Ginger was disappointed. “She knew I was hosting this program. She could've come to support.”

“Ginger, she tried to show you support last night, we both did, but you didn't want it.”

Evangelist Shaw started to pace the pulpit. “Ladies, you don't have to go to a lounge, sit at the bar, and wait for a man to come along and offer to buy you a drink.” She spoke to the handful of men present in the sanctuary. “Men, you don't have to sign up for a step aerobics class and wait for a woman to commend you for not being intimidated by sweating with a bunch of women.”

“Come on and talk about it. Tell the truth. You're in the house today,” the congregation responded.

“When God brings your Adam or Eve to you, it will be totally unexpected. Women, he'll walk up to you and say, ‘Excuse me, I've been watching you for weeks. I've been praying for the nerve to approach you. I want you to know that I love your praise. I saw you a few Sundays ago when you were on your knees engrossed in true worship while crying out to God and for some reason, I found that very attractive. I saw how you dismissed everything around you and concentrated on worship. I love it when a woman is not ashamed of letting her mascara run or is not in fear of ruining a pair of stockings.”

The women in the sanctuary were on their feet. “All right, Evangelist. Teach it, teach the truth.”

“Ladies, God knows your heart's desire and He sees you exactly where you are. But He wants to make sure that you're ready for the blessing before He sends him to you. If you're not faithful to God, how can He trust you to be faithful to your Adam? The man God has for you will never come to you in a nightclub and offer you a drink. The man sent from God will not proposition you to his bedroom after he buys you an expensive gift. A man sent from God will not share a home with you without giving you his last name.”

Ginger looked around the church wondering who was looking at her.
Why did Evangelist Shaw have to put my business out there like that?

After the benediction, Ginger raced out of the church toward her car. She couldn't speak to Evangelist Shaw and tell her how great her sermon was. Ginger couldn't stay and linger in the vestibule like everyone else. She turned down an invitation to go out to dinner and fellowship with a few of the women.

Ginger had a curfew to beat. The streetlights on Ada Street would be on at exactly 7:00 p.m. Before Ginger had left for church Ronald told her that she had to be home before the streetlights came on. Ginger worried that if she stepped foot inside the door at one second past 7:00 p.m., she would have hell to pay.

Driving home from church Ginger was on a spiritual high. She stopped at a red light and reflected on Evangelist Shaw's words. She really put something on Ginger's mind when she talked about breaking soul ties and being unequally yoked with a mate.

Ginger knew she had made a mistake sending for Ronald and allowing him to live in her home three years ago. It was Ginger's addiction to online chat rooms that brought Ronald into her life. At first it was harmless idle chat with various folks about various topics. But when Ronald chimed in and asked Ginger to send him a picture of herself, she went against her better judgment and obliged him. Soon after Ronald e-mailed Ginger and complimented her beautiful mocha skin, petite nose, and sultry lips. The next thing Ginger knew, Ronald had sweet-talked his way to a first-class one-way airplane ticket from New Orleans to Chicago, at her expense. It was only a week and four days into her forbidden living arrangement when it was revealed to Ginger what a monster Ronald was. She would never forget the first time Ronald smacked her across her face.

The driver behind Ginger pressed the horn. Ginger snapped out of the daydream and stepped on the gas pedal. The digital clock on Ginger's dashboard read 6:49 p.m. She floored the gas pedal and raced west on Ashland Avenue toward her home.

At 6:57 p.m. Ginger lowered the garage door and stepped out of the car. No sooner did she insert her key into the lock on the door to the breezeway, than Ronald yanked it open and in a split second, punched Ginger in her left eye. Because she didn't see it coming, Ginger fell backward. Ronald reached down and grabbed Ginger's hair and dragged her into the house and kicked her in the stomach. Ginger screamed out in pain.

“What did I tell you, Ginger?” he yelled. His eyes were blazing.

She didn't know why Ronald was so angry. She had made it home with three minutes to spare. Her left eye was burning and already beginning to swell. “It's not seven o'clock yet, Ron.”

“Don't play with me. You know what I'm talking about. And don't eyeball me.” Ronald once told Ginger that women were inferior to men and should never look them in the eyes.

Ginger focused on the dark hardwood floor. She covered her sore eye with her hand. “I don't know what you're talking about. You told me to be home before seven. I'm home before seven.”

Ronald gritted his teeth and balled up his fists. “You wanna play games? Huh? Are you playing with me, Ginger?”

Ginger looked up at Ronald standing over her then quickly averted her eyes to the floor. It was becoming difficult for her to see out of her left eye. “Ron, I swear to God. I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Well, since you don't seem to know what I'm talking about, I'll show you.” Ronald stood Ginger up by her hair. He forcefully pulled her into the kitchen and yanked open the cabinet over the sink that housed the can goods. “Look at this. Now do you know what I'm talking about?”

With her right eye, Ginger saw a can of whole kernel corn stacked on top of a can of string beans. That was a no-no.

Ronald grabbed the can of corn and tapped Ginger's right temple with it. “It's the stupid and careless crap you do that pisses me off, Ginger. You may be a dumb broad but you're not stupid. How many times do I have to tell you to stack corn on top of corn, peas on top of peas, and string beans on top of string beans? You're not in preschool. This ain't no romper room.”

Tears ran down Ginger's face as she stood next to him. “I'm sorry. I swear I stacked them right, Ron. I swear I did.”

“Ain't nobody living here but you and me. What are you saying? That I did this?” Ronald tapped her right temple again with the can of corn. “Huh? Is that what you're saying, Ginger?”

She opened her mouth to speak but decided that she should say nothing.

A can of cling peaches in light syrup, which sat on the top shelf in the cabinet, caught Ronald's eye. He set the can of corn on the counter and grabbed the can of peaches. “What the heck is this? You know I like my peaches in heavy syrup.”

Fearful that he would hit her again, Ginger flinched at every gesture Ronald made. “I was gonna make a cobbler. This can must have been mixed in with the peaches in heavy syrup. I can still use it.”

Ronald gripped the can tighter. “You can't make peach cobbler with this crap. You gotta have the heavy syrup. What's wrong with you? Do you like pissing me off? Do you enjoy getting knocked on your butt?”

Ginger focused on the bottle of Dawn dishwashing liquid next to the faucet as she spoke softly to him. “I thought I had bought the right kind. I'm sorry.”

Ronald threw the can of peaches across the kitchen and it slammed against the wall. The sound of the can hitting the wall made Ginger scream out in terror. Ronald retrieved the dented can of peaches and set it on the counter in front of Ginger. “Open it and eat 'em.”

Ginger didn't need to be told twice. With shaky hands, she slid open the utensil drawer. She saw a steak knife and wanted nothing more than to drive it straight through Ronald's heart. She found the can opener. As she turned the can, Ginger could hear Ronald's heavy breathing in her right ear. She snapped the lid off and contemplated sliding the sharp edge across Ronald's throat. Ginger laid the lid on the counter and reached in the drawer for a fork. Just as she was getting ready to insert a slice of peach into her mouth, Ronald turned the can over and poured the peaches on the counter. He grabbed Ginger by the back of her neck and slammed her face onto the counter. Ginger yelled out at the pain when her front teeth split open the inside of her top lip.

Ronald rotated her face in the peaches. “Eat 'em, eat 'em.”

* * *

On Monday morning, Celeste sat behind the counter at Midway Financial Savings Bank and sighed. She looked toward the door and saw customers outside waiting for the clock to strike 9:00 a.m.

Celeste had awakened that morning with Ginger on her mind. She thought about the events that took place on Saturday evening. Celeste felt bad about the last words she'd spoken to Ginger that night. And to make matters worse, she didn't support Ginger's program at church the day before. Celeste knew that Ginger was so excited about hosting the Women's Day service because she had been obsessing over it for weeks.

Celeste glanced at the huge clock over the main door as her fellow bank tellers assembled behind the counter and readied themselves for business. Celeste had about a minute and a half to get a quick prayer in. She leaned forward, placed her elbows on the counter, lowered her head and closed her eyes.

When Celeste opened her eyes and looked up, there was an elderly Caucasian woman standing on the opposite side of the counter smiling at her. “Good morning.”

Celeste returned the smile. “Yes, it is. How may I help you?”

The woman set two two-and-a-half-pound Folgers coffee cans on the counter. She removed the lids from both cans. Celeste saw both cans were filled with pennies.

“Can you give me what this is worth in dollars?” the woman asked.

“Yes, ma'am, I can.” Celeste took both cans to the coin machine. Most banks required customers to roll their coins. Celeste was excited that she got to operate the coin machine.

She returned three minutes later with a receipt and cash. “Thirty-four dollars and seventeen cents,” Celeste said to the woman.

The elderly woman looked at Celeste. “You stole my money.”

Celeste was sure she hadn't heard the woman correctly. “Excuse me?”

“There was at least one hundred dollars in pennies in those coffee cans. You bring me thirty-four dollars like I wouldn't know you stole my money.”

The bank teller working next to Celeste heard the woman's complaint and called for their supervisor to come to the teller's station.

“Miss, I don't need to steal your money,” Celeste said. “Those were pennies in those cans, not quarters.”