Black Orchid Blues (28 page)

“But you also blame your mother, don’t you? You also think you’re here because of her.”

Queenie exploded. “Stop calling her that! I told you that bitch wasn’t my mother. I’m my own damn mother! And I don’t know why the fuck I’m here. Do you know why
you’re
here? Don’t nobody know, do they? We’re all just here, and there ain’t no turning back. Once you’re here, you’re here. You just keep on keeping on.”

Maybe I should’ve stopped there, but I couldn’t. “What did she say when … you know, he was hurting you?”

“Say? She didn’t say anything. She was deaf, dumb, and fucking blind. All that bitch ever did was tell me not to mess up my clothes. She dressed me up during the day and he undressed me at night.”

“You mean she was there when he …”

“Hell no! That would’ve damaged her delicate sensibilities. You know, the two of them hadn’t done it in years. He must’ve raped her to get Junior. All she cared about was pretty things and pretty people, and all she wanted was a pretty baby girl. When she found out she didn’t get one, she made one.”

“What do you mean? I thought you said …” I hesitated, cleared my throat, uncomfortable with the words. “I thought you said you have both, you know, parts.”

“I do. They had a choice: raise a girl child or a boy child. A girl is what she wanted, so they went with it. Funny when you think about it. I was the one she really wanted, not Junior, but somehow I’m the outsider, the freak.”

“Almost sounds like you were jealous of him.”

He shot up in his seat. “Hell no! I wouldn’t have wanted them as parents. Nasty hypocrites, the both of them.” He paused, then added morosely, “But I got to give it to her. The bitch had taste.” His expression turned wistful. “Just my luck. By the time we turned thirteen, she’d lost interest in dressing us up. That was a damn shame.”

“Why?”

“Because by then I was really into it. I mean, shit, it was the only upside to the whole thing. But my voice was dropping; I was growing a little hairy in all the wrong places; and, well, it was just getting too damn complicated.”

So, with puberty, Junior’s body had suddenly decided it was masculine after all. That would explain why the Bernards yanked the child from public view.

“Did you and Junior always live with them?”

“Yup. They thought about sending us away. But where and how in the world could they keep me quiet? Suppose I came out, talked to somebody? Better not take the chance. So, they kept us in the house. That damn house in Brooklyn. For five years they kept us locked in there. Told everybody they’d sent their little girl down South to live with relatives. People are so stupid; they believed them. We used to stand at the windows just wishing that for once someone would look up and see us.”

“What about relatives? What happened when they came by?”

“Hardly ever happened.” He shook his head. “Few times it did, Mrs. B told them I was out of town, visiting Daddy Bernard’s kin. When his kin came to town, they said I was visiting her kin. But hardly anybody ever came, and nobody asked twice.”

“Okay, then, what about your studies? How’d you get your schooling?”

“Phyllis taught us at home. Daddy Mojo, he only stopped by when he needed something. He’d come in the room practically holding it in his hand. Then Junior would disappear, and I’d take care of business.”

I glanced at him, knowing I couldn’t begin to imagine what Queenie had gone through. And knowing that it was Queenie who’d taken over when the going got rough; he was the one who weathered the storms that had cracked Junior’s mind. I could see him as the child he’d once been—hurt, angry, and terrified—one who by age seven had endured more abuse than most face in a lifetime.

“You think he bothered other children?” I asked.

He gave a grunt. “He brought one of them home once. Some kid he’d found on skid row. The kid was starving, didn’t have a place. You could tell he didn’t want to be doing it. But he did.”

I frowned. “How do you know?”

“How do you think?” He looked at me incredulously. “First, Daddy Mojo watched while this kid did me. Then he did me too.”

“Dear God,” I whispered.

“God didn’t have nothing to do with it. I’d just about bust out laughing when the reverend came over. Man, I used to wonder what he would’ve said if he’d known who he was breaking bread with.”

“And you never said anything?” I felt naïve the moment the words left my mouth.

“How could we? I told you they kept us locked up. But even if they hadn’t—shit, you sound like you blame us.”

“No, I—I’m just trying to understand.”

“You—” He laughed bitterly. “All right. You want to know if we ever said something? Well, I did, once. Must’ve been seven or eight. I tried to talk to the Sunday school teacher. What do you think she did?”

From his expression, the answer was obvious. “Nothing.”

“Oh no, she did something, all right. Hushed me up. How dare I tell such nasty lies about my fine upstanding daddy! Said she’d wash my mouth out with soap if I did it again. The thing is, she knew I was telling the truth. I could see it in her eyes. But she had a thing for Daddy B.”

“You could tell that? At your age, you could see that?”

“Honey, at that age, I could tell that and a whole lot more. Later, when we got older, and I was much stronger, they made sure we weren’t heard, much less seen. They didn’t just keep us locked in that house. They kept us locked in our room. When visitors came, we didn’t dare leave it, not even to go to the bathroom. That woman used to bring in a chamber pot and carry our meals upstairs on a tray. As for the rest …” He took a deep breath. “You’d never understand, Slim. Nice, so-called normal people like you never do.”

C
HAPTER
45

W
e lapsed back into silence. I recalled that last talk with Sheila, realizing how much about her marriage she had still kept hidden, and I mulled over what Queenie had just shared. An ugly story. Sordid. Painful. The Bernards had destroyed a child’s mind. They had created a monster, and he had destroyed them. I wondered about that child, about what he must have gone through, what he must have contemplated during those long years of torture and imprisonment.

“Did you ever think about running away?”

“Sure I did. Damn near every minute, day and night. For years. But when it came down to it, I was just too damn comfortable. And I was getting stronger while Junior was getting weaker—and so were the Bernards. I figured that all I’d have to do was wait. They’d kick the bucket and I’d get everything. But they sure showed me.”

“What did they do?”

“Something I wouldn’t have expected in a million years: they sent Junior off to college. That shocked the socks off of me. When I woke up in that dorm room, honey, I was fit to be tied.”

I was stunned too, but not just because the Bernards had relented and given Junior his freedom. What puzzled me even more was Queenie’s surprise. Why hadn’t he known of Junior’s plans to go to college and the process he’d gone through to get there? There must’ve been discussions, maybe even arguments, definitely negotiations, promises made. Then there would have been the whole application process, the testing, the interviewing. Finally, the acceptance and the packing, followed by the actual trip and arrival. How could Junior have accomplished all of that without Queenie being aware of it? Maybe Junior was stronger than Queenie realized or wanted to admit.

“But what really screwed things up,” he continued, “was when he met that Sheila bitch.”

At the mention of Sheila, my nascent sympathy for Queenie vanished. “He loved her.”

“He didn’t need to love her. He had me.”

“So you were jealous.”

“No—”

“And you meant to kill her from the very beginning.”

“Put it like this: I knew I had to get rid of the bitch. Junior’s stupid kidnapping plan gave me the chance.”

I peered at him. “She loved you, you know. You destroyed the one person who was totally on your side.”

“She loved
him
. She should’ve known better than to mess with me. I always knew what that whiny-ass husband of hers was up to. But he never knew a damn thing about me.”

That was a lie. Queenie had just admitted that he didn’t know everything that Junior knew. He hadn’t known about the plan to go to college. And the bitterness in his voice. It was the voice of someone who felt neglected and ignored, who felt his work had gone unappreciated. So he reveled in his supremacy over Junior, but resented it too.

“Just when did you step in with the kidnapping?”

“I knew about it from the get-go, just as soon as it popped into his head. I let him play with it and I made my own plans. It was easy once Stax sent Olmo after me.”

“A bad mistake, huh?”

“Bad for him, good for me.”

I was really beginning to understand now. It was Olmo who’d enabled Queenie to go through with his plan. “Olmo made all the difference, didn’t he?”

“Honey, I laid the kind of loving on him that a man don’t forget. He didn’t know what hit him. By the time I finished with him, he was in my hip pocket.”

“But Sheila said Junior mentioned Olmo to her. How could he have known him, when it was you who—”

“When it was me who met him?” He laughed. “I simply told Olmo what the deal was, told him how to approach Junior. At first, Junior didn’t know what Olmo was about. But Olmo played it right. Pretty soon Junior was spilling his guts, begging Olmo to help him.”

Incredible. Queenie had actually used his lover to trick himself—his alternate, original personality—into a double-cross. Then he’d double-crossed the wife and the lover. And what had he said?

“Junior’s gonna lay down and die. I’m gonna make sure of it.”

So now he intended to double-cross himself too.

C
HAPTER
46

F
or a while, Queenie was voluble, talking about his plans, his dreams. I soaked up every word. I formed phrases to use in the piece I would write, and tried not to worry about whether I’d live to write it.

Queenie remained introspective. “Know who I’m thinking about?”

It was a rhetorical question. “No.”

“Olmo.”

I glanced over and darned if I didn’t see a wetness gleaming in his eye.

He felt me staring at him, raised a hand to his face, and turned it away. He cleared his throat. “You got a man?”

That same question again: I had the same response.

“You don’t have to answer. I know you do despite what I said before. Pretty woman like you … It’s your boss, ain’t it?”

No comment.

He continued: “What happened with that accident, it’s a shame. You want to be back there with him, don’t you?” When I didn’t answer, he said, “Stupid question,” then sighed. “Well, I don’t blame you, Slim. I don’t blame you at all. And when you get back,
if
you get back, do something for me.”

“What?”

“Hold on to him. Never let him go. If he’s the kind of man I think he is, the kind who sees you for what you are, who you are, and still wants you, then never let him go.”

I was stunned and could only nod my head. Queenie faded back into silence. When I glanced over at him just after three a.m., I heard the soft drone of a light snore.

I thought about driving off the road, jumping out, and leaving him. But there was a good chance that any change in the speed of the car would wake him. He’d be after me in a second. True, visibility was bad—it was pitch black outside—so he’d have a hard time shooting me, but that velvet darkness also meant I’d have a hard time seeing where I was going.

We were in the middle of nowhere. Where would I go?

I soon realized I couldn’t keep on driving like this. He was asleep and I’d caught myself dozing off. I had to pull over and rest.

I searched for signs of a place where we could spend the night. Finally, just after midnight, a billboard caught my attention.
Bricks Family-Owned Hotel
. By then, I wasn’t even sure where we were, but we must’ve been north of Tarrytown.

I slowed and turned off the road. Queenie woke up instantly, jittery and paranoid. He pointed the gun at me, ready to pull the trigger. “Where are we? What the hell are you doing? Stop before—”

“Calm down. I’m just pulling up to a hotel, that’s all.”

“I’m not tired,” he said, in all seriousness.

“Well, I am.”

I made to get out of the car and he gripped me by the elbow. “Get back here.”

I yanked my arm away, too exhausted to be scared. “You can keep on driving if you want to, but I’m going to find me a bed.”

“I can’t drive,” he said.

“Of course you can’t. You’re too tired.”

“No, I mean I can’t drive. I don’t know how.”

I was surprised. “You mean Junior never learned to drive?”

He shook his head. “No, he did, but …”

“If he knows, then you should know.”

“It doesn’t always work that way.”

“So you two don’t share the same skills?”

“Not always. Take shooting, for example. Junior’s scared of guns. Wouldn’t go near one if you paid him. Me, I love ’em. And I’m a crack shot too. Whatever I aim at, I hit.” He gave an evil little smile.

I was growing tired of his threats. “Would you really shoot me when we’ve still got so far to go?”

“No, but I’d shoot one of
them
.” He motioned toward the little house. “Whoever’s in there. You step out of line, they pay for it.”

He’d pushed the right button. I looked toward the house with longing, then sank back in the car. We were soon on the road again. A half hour later, Queenie’s head was sagging once more.

C
HAPTER
47

I
t was frigid in the car. The cold and the exhaustion were getting to me. I was shivering and my eyelids were heavy. One minute I was again considering whether to drive off the road and attempt a getaway; the next, I
was
driving off it.

Somewhere in between I’d fallen asleep.

I awoke with a jolt, just as the car busted through a wooden railing. I held on tight to the steering wheel and the car bumped and rocked its way down an embankment. Wavy stalks of tall, dead grass and low-lying tree branches smacked the windshield. Rocks clattered against the sides of the car. On reflex, I hit the brakes, but the car was flying downhill with momentum. It banged and bucked at least another ten yards before slamming into a tree and rocking to a nauseating halt.