Читать книгу Cruisin On Desperation - Pat G'Orge-Walker - Страница 11

After Needy finished her conversation with Sister Hellraiser, she replaced the telephone in its cradle, seemingly in slow motion. Like a queen with well-trained servants, she relished the attention from the others. The silence was thick in her living room, making time stand still.

“Okay, the deal—as well as that Lyon’s behind—is sealed.” Needy’s smile started slowly. No one knew how hard she tried to contain her enthusiasm.

“We need to stand and hold hands,” Needy continued. “Let’s ask the Lord to bless our plans.”

“That’s a good idea. It’s always good to have the Lord on your side when you getting ready to dish out a righteous retribution,” Mother Blister said as she struggled to stand. “I also think we need to thank the Lord for Birdie. After all, we ain’t got the money to hire a hit man, and she does.”

Birdie wasn’t quite as sure as the others if her financial contribution to the plan would be looked upon favorably on Judgment Day, but she didn’t want to discourage her newfound home girls. She decided to seek God’s counsel on her own, later.

Cill thought they were taking too long to get heaven on the line so she started dialing by cutting to the chase.

“Heavenly Father who art the bright and morning star, we’re calling on you. We need you to give us the strength to dismember a man who has done harm to your faithful women…”

Petunia became caught up in the fervor of the prayer. Her head started bobbing side to side with enthusiasm as she held on to Birdie’s hand tight enough to cut off its circulation.

Birdie struggled to extricate herself from Petunia’s grip. She thought Cill had gone too far in asking God to step aside and let them do His work. She didn’t want to be counted among the number when God started slaying them in Needy’s living room, one by one.

“…And if you do these things,” Cill implored, “Lord, we promise to give you the honor and most of the glory, amen.”

When Cill proudly lifted her head, thinking she’d prayed better than a bishop at a revival service had, she discovered that the others had taken a few steps back, virtually leaving her standing alone.

“It was a good thing that y’all stepped back. I was in the presence of the Lord, and it was just Him and me while I prayed.” She was quite pleased and at that very moment, she decided that praying for retribution was her calling and purpose.

The complacent look upon Cill’s face spurred Needy to bring the meeting to a complete halt. “Well, we certainly don’t need to add to Cill’s prayer.”

“You can say that again,” Petunia quipped as she rushed to gather her pocketbook and other belongings. She thought Cill was being selfish in only offering to give God most of the glory.

“I, personally, don’t want God to even know I was here when you called on Him,” Mother Blister added as she dragged her stiff hips towards the front door. She turned towards Cill, pointing directly at her. “You’ve really lost your mind.”

“I’m not crazy. Doesn’t the Word say that we need to come boldly to the throne of Grace?” Cill said without a hint of remorse.

It was the first time they’d actually seen any sign of weakness from Cill.

“Boldly, yes, but He certainly didn’t tell you to come before Him acting crazy,” Petunia shouted as she slammed Needy’s door hard enough to make the screen door rattle.

Cill almost knocked Mother Blister down, causing her belongings to spill from her hand, as she raced past her to catch up with Petunia. There wasn’t a doubt on any of their minds that Cill was rushing to lay hands on Petunia and it would be Petunia calling on the Lord.

Mother Blister seemed dazed as she gathered her things.

“I’ll need to call a cab,” Mother Blister told Needy. “I’m not riding in the same car with those two nut cases.”

“Don’t worry, Mother Blister,” Birdie cut in. “I’ll call a cab for you and pay for it, too.”

Instead of acting grateful, Mother Blister became even more annoyed. “You should pay for it,” she barked. “This is all your fault, Birdie.”

“How is it her fault?” Needy asked. She was genuinely surprised at Mother Blister’s ungratefulness.

“If that woman,” Mother Blister yelled while pointing at Birdie, “knew the difference between a duck and a swan, we wouldn’t be swimming in this cesspool…” She stopped yelling and adjusted her wig, thinking she’d completed the sentence and made her point.

Both Needy and Birdie looked at Mother Blister with their mouths gaped. They were shocked.

The taxi couldn’t arrive fast enough for Needy and Birdie. Mother Blister had spent the past ten minutes ranting and raving in half-sentences. One minute she’d call them idiots and the next minute ask Birdie for money to tip the driver. Needy almost broke out in applause when she finally left.

With all the women except Birdie gone, Needy retreated to her bedroom to change her clothes, leaving Birdie alone with her thoughts.

So now, this is what it’s like to be like one of the sistahs, Birdie thought. She exaggerated pronouncing the word sister while trying to calm down after Mother Blister’s unwarranted tirade. I can see where it could be a very expensive relationship. She laughed softly to herself more out of disappointment about the lack of solidarity, than happiness. Whatever the price, she’d pay it.

In truth, Birdie would’ve hocked her mother’s lung machine to get back at Lyon Lipps.

It didn’t matter to Birdie that, unlike the other women in the group, Lyon Lipps had yet to take full advantage of her and that it had been two years since they’d laid eyes upon each other. He was still going to pay for all the other men who had broken her heart. And, besides, now she had help. The other women from the singles group would see to it that she got her money’s worth. She was going to rip a page out of the Sistahs’ Revenge Handbook and use it until the ink wore off the page.

“If you want something to drink just help yourself,” Needy shouted from the bedroom, interrupting Birdie’s thoughts. “I’ll be out in a moment. I just need to wear something appropriate for our visit to Sister Hellraiser’s house.”

“Why do you need something special to wear?” Birdie shouted back as she started towards Needy’s kitchen for a glass of cold water.

“I forgot. You’ve never met Ima Hellraiser. Do you own a bullet-proof vest and a cross?” Needy asked with a nervous laugh. Her words were starting to fade as she struggled to get into a nylon slip that kept clinging to the perspiration on her body, brought on by her fight to get it over her wide hips.

Birdie wasn’t quite sure she’d heard Needy correctly so she just answered, “Yes. I do have a cross and whatever else is needed.” She wondered why she needed protection from a church sister. The humidity in the house quickly nudged away any further thoughts of concern as she held down the lever on the refrigerator’s ice dispenser, allowing small chips of ice to fill her tall glass completely, then she added water. The taste of the refreshingly cold liquid quickly erased her need to ask any more questions.

“Are you going to be much longer?” Birdie shouted as she made her way through the cluttered hallway and back into the living room. Her costly blouse felt clammy and the water offered no relief. I wonder if Needy would be offended if I bought her a new air conditioner as a pre-Christmas gift while this weather is still hot. I’m about to melt.

Birdie chuckled as the liquid raced down her throat. She remembered that she hadn’t sweated this much since she’d tried to dance the Macarena at an all-black after-hours club back home in California. It was before she’d joined any church.

This heat is affecting my mind. She’d almost forgotten about that fiasco. Earlier, on the dance floor trying to do the Electric Slide, she’d already stepped on toes and turned in the wrong direction. Birdie learned quickly that black folks could get downright nasty when someone messed up the Electric Slide. She recalled that when she’d felt brave enough to return to the floor to dance the Butterfly, she’d ended up with bruised knees from trying too hard. She’d worked her knees like they were wings.

On her third attempt at blending into the sea of black faces Birdie accidentally slapped a young woman when she tried to coordinate her Macarena arm movement. The woman, whose complexion was so pale she looked like she spent all her time inside the dark club, quickly placed her hand on the bright red spot where Birdie had decked her on the cheek. The woman inched slowly closer to Birdie while the sea of black faces parted.

With the crowd chanting over the loud music, “Fight, fight,” the perspiration of fear poured from Birdie like she’d been shot with buckshot. She wanted to die before the woman killed her. Still caressing her bruised cheek, the woman leaned over and hissed in Birdie’s ear, “Take your no-dancing behind off this dance floor before I mop it with you—”

Birdie didn’t realize that if that woman could’ve fought she would’ve fought. She sold Birdie a wolf-ticket at a discount and Birdie bought it.

“I’m so sorry.” Birdie’s halting apology cut the woman off as the smell of alcohol and cheap cigarettes accompanied the woman’s whisper.

“The only reason I don’t return the slap is because I’m white, too. You can’t dance and you’re messing it up for us.”

Us. Birdie thought. What us? She’d been to that club a few times before, enjoying the sounds, the smells and the company of blackness. Had she been too absorbed to notice other whites? She strained her eyes and suddenly saw, even with the low lights, pale faces sprinkled in among the other dancers. Each of the pale faces squinted their eyes and gave a quick head nod towards the door to tell Birdie all she needed to know. She almost slipped in her own puddle of sweat as she dashed out of the club without as much as a goodbye to anyone.

This didn’t stop her from going to after-hours clubs in the Compton area, it only made her determined to learn the Macarena. It was shortly after that awful experience that she’d found God to be more important to her, but every now and then she still felt the urge to do the Macarena; sometimes even as she shouted in church.

“Just give me a few more minutes. It’s so hot everything I put on is clinging.” The high-pitched voice coming from Needy’s bedroom suddenly interrupted Birdie’s bad memories, replacing them with a smile.

What you really mean is that you’re so big and that’s why everything you try to put on is clinging. Squirts of water spurted from Birdie’s mouth as she laughed at her observation, which she’d never make to Needy’s face. “Not a problem,” Birdie replied. “I’ll just make myself comfortable.”

Birdie took the liberty of adjusting the old air conditioner. She reset it twice, trying to get it to blow out colder air. When nothing but a rattling sound happened, she made up her mind that Christmas was coming early to Needy’s house—whether Needy wanted it to or not—or they’d have to hold their singles meeting elsewhere.

Birdie sat down on the sofa. It was her first opportunity to look around Needy’s living room without the constant chattering of the other women distracting her.

It was the old, broken cat-shaped clock that first grabbed Birdie’s attention. She compared it to the grandfather clock in her mother’s home when they were back in California. Her mother’s house was filled with antiques handed down from her mother’s parents, who never found anything they wanted to throw away.

Birdie was so absorbed in her thoughts that she almost didn’t hear Needy call out again.

“I’m almost done putting my clothes on,” Needy yelled. “I just need to do something in the bathroom and I’ll be right with you. At least it’s closer to my living room and I won’t have to shout for you to hear me.” Needy wanted to stop shouting because it was making her sweat more. She also didn’t want to be a bad hostess by not paying attention to Birdie.

“Birdie, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you ever since you joined our church and our singles club,” Needy said as she waddled down the hallway to the bathroom with her slip riding up her hips. “I know we’ve known each other since college, but I don’t know a lot about you—the real you.” She stopped speaking and waited for Birdie to reply.

Birdie said nothing.

“It’s been a while and I can’t remember where you’re originally from.” Again, Needy heard nothing. She continued the pressure. “Where are you from?”

“Really?” Birdie finally replied. “I thought everybody knew everything about me since my money seems to be so well known.”

“Well, you know I try and stay out of folks’ business,” Needy lied.

“I’m from Old Money,” Birdie said, proudly.

I knew she had a ton of money! Needy thought with excitement riding her like a Saturday morning bill collector. “Is that so? I would’ve never thought that,” she lied again. “You’re from Old Money? That must be so nice.” It’s going to be wonderful to have a friend who is financially stable. I’m so tired of the poor, living from paycheck to paycheck crowd—

“It’s wonderful,” Birdie replied, interrupting Needy’s delusional thoughts.

Suddenly Birdie started feeling a little homesick. The small community of Old Money, California would always have a place in her heart no matter where or how far she moved. She’d been happy there for most of her younger years. It’d only taken one unfortunate incident for her to leave the comfort of her mother’s eclectic home, piled high with a vast assortment of memories. The memories, some good and most bad, were jammed haphazardly between crumbling pages in numerous leather-bound scrapbooks that cluttered every corner.

Despite the chaotic décor inside, outside the two-story house the one-acre ground was well-kept, dotted with orange, lemon and palm trees that always seemed to bear fruit when others on the tree-lined street did not. Her mother, Kanair Ree Tweet, worked diligently to keep some semblance of order outside. It seemed to help Kanair Ree cope with her confused life.

Unlike her mother, Birdie lacked any of life’s gardening skills to help her cope with her surroundings. So there was one innocent error in judgment and the next thing she knew, she was on a plane, that time headed for South Carolina. It was about as far away from the West Coast as she could get with limited funds in her hands and unlimited embarrassment at her back.

Coming to South Carolina where she knew no one was the only option Birdie thought she had. After all, besides living in Old Money, she’d only gone to Hampton University in Hampton, Virginia.

Her mother was against her leaving Old Money to travel across the country for an education. Birdie’d tricked her mother by having one of her then-best-friends, Muffy Brewington, say that she too was going to Hampton to seek fame and fortune. That’s all Birdie’s mother needed to hear.

Kanair Ree considered the Brewingtons to be the crème-de-la-crème of the community because they were one of the founding families. If Muffy batted her large green eyes and tossed her long blonde hair, and said that she was going to Afghanistan to wear a burka and become head of the Taliban, Birdie would’ve been encouraged to do likewise.

Birdie hadn’t totally lied. Muffy was traveling to Hampton, Virginia. She just hadn’t told her mother the truth about why Muffy was going.

The real reason Muffy had gone there was to shack up with one of the up-and-coming football players. He was a young black man by the name of Lance George who was only twenty-one and had the physique and looks of a young Fred Williamson.

Birdie had met Lance first. He’d briefly visited Old Money to work at a pre-college job the previous summer. Birdie took to him immediately but he didn’t seem interested, so she moved on. She didn’t know he’d moved on to Muffy until a few months later. She saw them together walking down Rodeo Drive. It wasn’t the thing to do back then, with the color difference being a barrier. Muffy cared little for conventionality or their racial differences. She said it was love at first sight when Lance changed a flat tire for her at the Sears shop. They struck an instant friendship and her plan was to do anything to make sure that Lance made it to the NFL.

Birdie and Muffy had parted company when they landed in Virginia. Birdie moved onto the Hampton University campus and that’s when her life truly began.

Unfortunately, Lance suffered a career-breaking knee injury and ended up working at a Columbia, South Carolina post office. Muffy then decided that if the NFL didn’t want Lance there was little chance that she would either. She disappeared from South Carolina without telling either Birdie or Lance. At least that’s what Lance told the authorities when Muffy’s mother hadn’t heard from her daughter.

Hampton University always held a special place in Birdie’s heart. It was on that small campus that she’d lived and learned racial harmony, which was the total opposite of her exclusively Caucasian community in Old Money.

As she twisted and turned on the sofa trying to catch more of the uneven breeze from Needy’s old air conditioner, Birdie suddenly felt as if she could almost recall the aroma from the orange blossoms from the garden blending with the perspiration of her mother. It was as though time had transported her back to Old Money from Needy’s living room, and she didn’t want to return just yet.

However, she had to. It was just the smell of Needy’s cheap orange fragrance and her perspiration as she entered the living room.

“Are you ready?” Needy asked. She needed to make sure that Birdie was up for the job. When Birdie nodded yes, Needy became excited. “When we get finished with old Lyon Lipps, he’s gonna wish for death.”

Again Birdie nodded in agreement and then said, “I’m ready but I do have one more question.”

“What is it?”

“What’s in this for you? Other than being the president of the club and seemingly destined to remain single, what do you get out of helping us to destroy a man you’ve never met?”

Birdie’s anger at Lyon Lipps was beginning to fade as common sense revisited, accompanied by too many questions. But she didn’t want to use common sense, she wanted to stay angry. She needed Needy’s inspiration.

“What do I get out of ripping a new hole for this man?” Needy repeated the question while balling her fists. “Well, my biggest reason is that men shouldn’t treat women the way he’s doing, and he should pay for all the times men have treated me badly.” She stopped abruptly as her hairy top lip began to quiver. “They don’t seem to want dark-skinned women like me,” she continued. “So what if I have a little more on my chest and butt than most women. I’m a good person. I have feelings…” She seemed about ready to cry and that lip was doing its own thing.

“And what are the other reasons?” Birdie’s need to get answers from Needy was quickly replaced by her anxious need for Needy’s hairy top lip to stop shaking, so she didn’t know why she bothered to ask another question that would require a reply.

“My other reasons are the same as my first reason,” Needy snapped as she dabbed at her moist eyes.

Birdie decided not to ask more questions, particularly when Needy, on the way out of the house, became so agitated she slammed her fist against the old air conditioner. She hit it so hard the machine gave out one last sputter and died.

It was the perfect opportunity for Birdie to offer to buy her a new one, but she didn’t. Instead, the two women walked to Birdie’s pink Lexus in silence.

The death of an innocent air conditioner should’ve been a sign to Birdie to just leave well enough alone but she wasn’t carrying her Signs for Dummies handbook.

Birdie should’ve had that book stapled to her hand, because she was about to learn that both Needy and Ima Hellraiser had their own handwritten chapters in it.