Insatiable (11 page)

T
he bedroom door was closed but the unmistakable scent of marijuana filled the air. Terelle sighed, opened the door and looked disgustedly at the large marijuana buds that filled the lid of a Timberland box. Marquise sat on the rumpled bed puffing on a blunt. He set it in an ashtray and began to break up the buds, carefully taking out the twigs and throwing them inside a wastebasket beside the bed. Inside the Timberland box were more buds, small plastic bags and two unopened blunts. Marquise didn’t utter a sound; he didn’t even turn his head in Terelle’s direction. He was in a zone, his face as serious as a surgeon performing a risky operation, as he diligently continued to bag up weed. His defiant silence spoke volumes:
I told you
w
hat was up, so just kill whatever noise you’re about to make.

Feeling helpless to stop Marquise from this downward spiral that was certain to send him back to jail, Terelle shut the door and went into the living room. She came out of her coat, flung it on the futon and flopped down beside it. Perhaps sitting still would provide inspiration. She needed to come up with the right words to make Marquise realize he was jeopardizing his freedom—their future together. She tried to calm down, but kept hearing Saleema say, “
Girl, all that shit Marquise is talkin’ ain’t nothin’ but jailhouse promises.”

Marquise had broken their agreement. Painfully aware that Saleema was right, Terelle wept softly; her hands covered her face.

A moment later, Marquise crept up behind her. She felt his hand on her shoulder. The gentleness of his touch caused Terelle to sob. Shoulder-shaking, wracking sobs. She wondered how someone so gentle and caring could also be so reckless and irresponsible?

“Terelle?” He stroked her hair. “It’s gonna be aiight.” Marquise sat down, removed her hands from her tear-stained face and entwined her fingers in his.

“I know you’re disappointed. You think I’m about to fuck up again. But you’re wrong. I got this…I know what I’m doin’.”

He lifted her chin with his thumb. She turned away from him, lowered her gaze and stared unseeingly at the floor.

Terelle took a deep breath, and looked up at Marquise. “I gotta go pick up Keeta from day care. I don’t want her to smell weed or be around your drug paraphernalia. Think you’ll be finished when we get back?”

“Damn, you act like I’m sellin’ crack or somethin’. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with weed. It don’t destroy nobody’s life. Doctors prescribe this shit to heal people.”

“Justify it anyway you want, Marquise,” she said, glaring at him. “It’s illegal and you can do time over it and doin’ time is something you said you’d never do again.” Terelle wiped her moist eyes. “I can’t believe you’re actually smokin’ a blunt when you know you’re gonna have to take a urine test when you visit your P.O.”

“Yo, Terelle, tighten up. Cut this shit out,” he said with a grimace and an angry tone. “First of all, I was just testin’ the product, had to see what it was hittin’ for. It’ll be outta my system by the time I see my P.O. I promise…I won’t be gittin’ high no more.”

Terelle stood up. “Why should I believe your promises when you break every promise you’ve ever made?”

Marquise nervously bit his lip. “I know my track record is fucked up, but babe…You gotta understand. I gotta do somethin’ to put some money in my pocket. I can’t sit around here day after day askin’ you to give me money for cigarettes and every other little thing I need. How you think I feel when I have to ask you for money all the time?”

“I know you don’t like it, but that’s the way it is for now,” Terelle said apologetically.

“Don’t
like
it? I hate it! I’m used to havin’ my own. I feel like shit havin’ to ask you to buy me a pack of cigarettes.”

“That’s not my fault, Marquise. I’m doing the best I can. I give you everything I can. I do without—I don’t buy shit for myself, just so I can keep us afloat. I have to pay Keeta’s day care bill, pay that high-ass cable bill with all them premium channels so you won’t get bored at home all day. I spend a fortune on junk food—pizzas, cheese steaks, Chinese food…whatever you’re in the mood for. And I do it with a smile. Never have I made you feel like you were getting on my nerves. Because you’re not. I’m so happy to have you home, I’d do anything to keep you happy.”

She paused in thought, then continued, “Damn, Quise…do you realize that as bad as we could use the money, I don’t even accept overtime anymore because I know you’ll be home by yourself…bored and lonely.”

“If I was doin’ what I’m supposed to be doin’, there wouldn’t be no need for you to work no damn overtime,” Marquise replied.

He started breathing hard, walking back and forth…making Terelle nervous. Then he went to the kitchen, poured some juice, but instead of drinking it, he threw the plastic tumbler followed by the container of orange juice against the wall.

It sounded like an explosion; Terelle jumped and jerked her head toward the kitchen.

Orange juice splattered the walls, the counter tops, and the floor. Marquise was working himself up into a rage—trying to go to that place where neither she nor anyone else could reach him.

“Quise!” she yelled. “Calm down.”

“Calm down?” he asked, storming into the living room, his tee shirt stained with orange juice. “How the fuck can I calm down when I’m tired of spongin’ off you…taking food outta my baby girl’s mouth?”

Terelle could see the bulging veins in his neck.

“I ain’t tryin’ to make no major moves. I just wanna be able to help out so I can feel like a man again,” he roared. “Damn, this shit is so fucked up!” He punched the wall, making a fist-sized dent.

But Terelle refused to be intimidated. She’d hear him out, but she was not going to compromise her principles.

“You know what kinda man I am,” he said, continuing his tirade. “How long do you think I can just sit still and watch you go to work to take care of me? And on the real…I can’t stand thinkin’ ’bout you cleanin’ and wipin’ them old people’s asses. Fuck that, Terelle. The only person you supposed to be takin’ care of like that is our daughter.” Woefully, he cupped his head with both hands.

“I don’t have the trainin’ to do anything else. But now that you’re home, I plan on taking some classes,” Terelle said, speaking softly and hoping she sounded reasonable. “It only takes eighteen months to become a licensed practical nurse. The job will pay the tuition, but the classes are full-time. I can’t go to school if there’s no paycheck coming through.”

“That’s what I’m sayin’. If you wanna go to school, you should be able to. If I was handlin’ my business the way I’m supposed to, you could just sit home…relax and do…you know, whatever. You been carryin’ my weight long enough.”

Terelle’s face crumpled in confusion. “Why would you risk getting back into that life when you’ll be off house arrest in a couple days? Don’t you think you should be thinking about working a real job?”

“Who’s gonna hire me? Nobody.”

“I spoke to the Housekeeping supervisor—Mr. Hicks and he might have an opening for you. And that department gets lots of overtime,” she said brightly. “With both us bringing home a regular paycheck…before you know it we’ll have a car, a house, a little somethin’ in the bank…and we’ll ride off into the sunset,” she said with a chuckle she didn’t feel. She hoped Marquise would listen to the voice of reason.

“Get serious. Like I said, ain’t nobody gonna hire my black ass. And if the best offer is to clean up that stinkin’ nursing home, you can forget it. I ain’t tryin’ to disrespect myself like that.”

Terelle was growing weary of this “poor Marquise” routine; she could feel herself becoming angry. “Do you think it’s honorable to be out there huggin’ the block again? You wanna be out there ’til the wee hours—again—getting stuck up, dodging the police, having your money come up short? Do you want me goin’ off over the phone numbers I’m surely gonna find in your pockets—in the cell phone you’re bound to acquire as soon as you get back out there? I’m a lot wiser than I was before, Marquise, and you won’t be able to convince me that every female name attached to a phone number is just a customer.”

“Here you go,” he said, laughing and shaking his head. “What did I put on your finger? What else I gotta do—tattoo your name on my forehead?” Terelle laughed despite herself. “Can’t nobody come between us.”

“Sounds good right now, but once you’re out there…anything goes. And another thing, why do you wanna disrespect our people by selling drugs and whatnot all out in front of their homes—in front of their children?”

Marquise smiled and shook his head condescendingly. “You don’t understand, Terelle. I’m not goin’ back out there like that. I’m twenty-three years old. Too old for that shit. I ain’t standin’ around outside like a sucker. Not no more.”

“So what are you talking about?” She felt relief wash over her.

“I plan to deal with weight—and I’m only selling weed. I refuse to fuck wit nics and dimes.”

“So, why are you bagging up those dime bags?” she asked, deflated.

“Babe, I’m on house arrest. This is the best I can do right now. My young buck Nazeer is gonna move this shit for me. I only have to give Nazeer a dub off every hundred he sells. And check it, Dante is only chargin’ me three seventy-five for that half-pound,” Marquise said, beaming at Terelle.

“So, once you deduct the three seventy-five from the money you make after paying Nazeer, you’re not gonna have very much for yourself.” Terelle sucked her teeth. “It doesn’t seem worth it to me.”

“That’s just to git started,” he explained. “Somethin’ to put some change in my pocket for now. But once I’m out there…Shit, once I’m back out there, the shit is on! I got a connection with this Jamaican brotha—he’s gonna set me up. He gotta little grocery store, a take-out restaurant and all kinds of shit…”

“Good for him,” she said sarcastically. “You better believe he’s selling more than weed ’cause weed money don’t come fast, Marquise,” Terelle said forcibly. “You know that. You’re gonna get frustrated and it’s only a matter of time before you start handlin’ coke again.”

“Naw, babe. I learnt my lesson; I ain’t sellin’ no coke; I promise.”

“Yo, check this!” he added. “The Jamaican dude got a sweet hook-up. He don’t even talk to mufuckas on the phone. You call his cell, leave a message…If you want an ounce, you tell ’em you wanna git a onion…he got codes for everything. He’ll fill your order but he has to meet you at a different location every time. He calls his setup, The Delivery Company,” Marquise said, looking hopeful that he had swayed Terelle to his way of thinking.

In fact, he looked so hopeful, Terelle thought it safe to bring him back to reality. “You should see yourself,” she said, laughing, depending on her laughter to take him off guard. “You’re all hyped…just itchin’ to get back into the game, aren’t you?”

“True dat,” he admitted. “But it won’t be the same. It’ll be different this time.”

“Listen, Marquise. Things will never be different. You and nobody else is ever gonna win the game.”

Marquise looked stunned. He’d obviously thought he’d persuaded Terelle to trust his judgment.

Terelle continued to hit him with her words. “As much as I love you, Marquise…and you know I’d kill for you. But after all I’ve been through, I can’t sit back and let you take us all down with this stupid small-time hustling.”

“How you figure I’m gonna take us down,” he asked, his voice sounding both peeved and curious.

“You made a promise to me and you’re gonna stick to it.” She twisted her engagement ring for effect. “This ring means the world to me,” Terelle said softly. “But I’ll give it back,” she announced in a serious tone and wearing a serious expression. “It’s me and Keeta…or drugs. You make the choice.”

Terelle grabbed her coat and handbag. “I’m going to get our daughter.” She nodded to the kitchen phone. “Call Dante and tell him to come get his shit. For the sake of our family, I hope you get rid of it before I get back.”

Terelle left, closing the door softly behind her. She meant every word she’d just spoken and Marquise knew it. She’d risk losing the only man she had ever, could ever love before she’d go back to living the hellish existence she’d lived before.

Night had fallen when Terelle returned home with Markeeta. The darkened apartment did not bode well. Also troubling to Terelle was the silence. Had Marquise packed up his drugs and fled? With a sense of dread, and scarcely able to breathe, she clicked on the kitchen light and was surprised to find the room was spotless—no traces of orange juice anywhere.

The steady green light of the house arrest monitor reassured her that Marquise was in range—he was home.

“Daddy,” Markeeta called, breaking the silence as she toddled away from her mother.

Terelle followed her daughter to the bedroom. The door was open. The light from the kitchen illuminated the room and cast an angelic glow upon Marquise. The temper he’d displayed earlier followed by the thorough cleaning he’d done in the kitchen must have taken an enormous toll for Marquise appeared comatose. He was in a state of slumber so deep, he didn’t respond to Markeeta’s calls.

“Daddy,” Markeeta said again, this time in a softer voice.

“Shh, Keeta. Daddy’s asleep; be quiet,” Terelle whispered as she stood in the doorframe, holding her daughter’s hand.