The Plug's Wife (3 page)

Summer concealed her eyes with black, oversized Tom Ford shades.  The brim of her large, black straw church hat left most of her face in shadow.  She wanted to be able to hide her thoughts from the guests.  Summer knew that most people might not understand the way she handled death publicly—no tears, no falling out over the dead, and more importantly, no signs of weakness.  It was a survival strategy, ingrained in her since childhood.

When she stepped inside the funeral home, Summer held onto Mitch and Billy for support.  All of the partition walls had been taken down to make room for the swelling crowd.  The inside of the funeral home looked like one big chapel instead of three or four separate rooms.  Summer’s stomach swirled and the pain meds she had taken seemed to dissipate as soon as the reality of the situation hit her.  Her gunshot wounds seemed to come alive and suddenly her clothes felt too tight, painful even.  She stumbled as they crossed the threshold of the room where Jesse’s casket lay.  From the back of the room, Summer could see solid oak closed coffin with a large portrait of Jesse sitting on top.  She wouldn’t even get to see his face again.  Mitch had told Summer, “JB always said when he goes not to have people staring down in his face.”  They had respected his wishes. 

“Summer…you sure you can do this?” Mitch asked as he clamped down on her elbow, careful not to hurt her injured arm.  Summer couldn’t breathe.  The air was suddenly so thick it felt like a sponge was in her throat, soaking up all the oxygen.  Her nerves were like exposed live wires. 

“I’m fine.  I have to pay my last respects.  I have be here to represent him,” she gasped, pushing her glasses back into place.  Mitch and Billy led her towards the front of the chapel.  The room smelled of embalming chemicals and newly bloomed flowers—a stomach curdling mixture.  The buzzing crowd parted to allow Summer through. 

“That’s the new wife.”  “She got shot too.”  “People are saying it was a set up...an inside job.”  “She will inherit all of his money.”  “I heard he got in bad with the Mexican cartel.”  “His partner threatened to kill him right before his wedding.”   Hushed, gossipy murmurs filtered through the room. It was impossible not to hear. 

When Jesse’s full face in the portrait came into view, Summer’s legs went slack. 

“Shit!” Mitch exclaimed, catching her before she hit the floor.  Summer let out a groan like a wounded dog. 

“Let’s sit her down,” he told Billy.  They led her to the first row of seats where Caralina greeted her.  Summer eased onto the seat.

“It’s okay, chica.  It’s okay.  He’s in a better place…trust me…a better place than this hell we live in,” Caralina comforted, placing her arm around Summer’s shoulders.  Summer wanted to push her friend off, but she didn’t want to cause a scene.

Summer sat painfully erect, her barely healed wounds ablaze.  She hadn’t been to many funerals in her lifetime, but she’d experienced a lot of death and loss.  Growing up in Cuba, it had been different. There was no pomp and circumstance, no expensive funeral services and burials. Families grieved at home, consoling each other.

Summer raised her chin and listened to the service.  Some learned behaviors were hard to break.  She wanted to be seen with her head up, not sniveling and sobbing like some weak woman whose whole life ended when her precious husband died.  Summer was sending a message—she wasn’t weak.  She was already setting herself up to command respect from those around her.  If they saw her as weak, they would take advantage of her or worse, pity her. Summer had learned the hard way that crying was a shameful act and disrespectful to the dead.  She’d never forgotten the way she’d been taught that lesson either.  Behind her dark shades, no one could see the pain that memory evoked as it crashed in on Summer like a ton of bricks dropped from the sky.

*************************

She was seven when her father was shot dead at her feet.  His body had jerked and spun while his eyes bulged out of their sockets from the powerful shots.  She had been standing so close to him that the tin-like smell of his blood shot up her nose until she tasted it on her tongue.  “Poppy!” she had let out an ear-shattering scream, tears bursting from her like a geyser, flowing freely down her face.  She threw herself down at her father’s side.

“¡Cállate!” The man who shot her father screamed, grabbing her by her hair and tossing her frail body aside.  She felt something crack in her back as she hit a wall inside their small, tin roof shack. 

“Lourdes!” her brother Benicio called out to her, then took off charging at their father’s killer.  Benicio was only two years older than her, but Poppy had taught them that, no matter what, even if it meant death, family always stuck together. 

Benicio growled, his small fists flying out in front of him trying to connect with any body part on the man who had assaulted his sister and killed his father.  The other man, the one with the eye patch, grabbed Benicio around his throat and hoisted him off his feet like a ragdoll.  Both men laughed, making the fine hairs on the back of her neck stand up. Benicio’s legs pumped feverishly, like he was pedaling a bike or running an invisible race.  His arms swung like the blades of a windmill too.  The man holding Benicio by the neck squeezed harder and harder, choking off his oxygen, until his little legs finally slowed to a halt and his arms dropped at his sides.  The color had faded from his face and his eyes rolled up until all his sister could see were the whites. 

Fear had a stronghold on her now.  Her stomach muscles clenched so hard she wanted to drop, but she stood there seemingly rooted to the floor.

“¡Basta ya!” her father’s killer had screamed at his one eyed partner.  At that, the one eyed man tossed Benicio’s limp body down to the floor.  The men obviously took amusement in their work.  She watched in horror as her brother jackknifed onto his side, wheezing and coughing until the color started returning to his face.  She trembled, not able to help the tears leaking in steady streams from her eyes.  She couldn’t understand why they were here or what they wanted from her family. 

Before she knew it, the men turned their attention to her.  She felt the cold kiss of a pistol against her temple. 

“Su padre ya no llevar esto ... esto …
Yo No Coopero Con La Dictadura
,”
Your father will no longer lead this…this…I Do Not Cooperate with the
Dictatorship
.  The man growled as he pressed his gun harder into her skin.  Her bladder released all over her feet as she sobbed.  She knew her father had been what they called in Cuba “revolucionarios civiles,” but she had no idea his activities would result in such a violent end. 

She had always been proud that her father spoke up about their oppressive living conditions.  Her father had been a prominent figure in their poor village, helping those who were wronged by the government or whose breadwinners had been jailed on trumped up political charges.  She was too young to fully understand the brevity of her father’s activities.  Now, she just wished he had been more careful.   

“¡Cállate! No habrá llanto por los muertos! Si lloras. Usted va a morir!” 
Shut up! There will be no crying over the dead! If you cry.  You will die
.  The shooter barked, grinding his gun into her forehead even harder.  Standing in a fetid mix of her own body fluids, she swallowed her cries sending them tumbling down her throat like hard marbles.  The men laughed maniacally, amused by the fear in her eyes.  The two circled her like vultures over a rotting animal carcass. 

“Ahora. Vamos a intentarlo de nuevo.” 
Now.  Let’s try this again. 
The man with the gun hissed as he turned his aim once more on Benicio.   “Nunca llorar por los muertos. Sólo los débiles hacen.”
You never cry for the dead. Only weak people do. 
The man said heartlessly.  She shook her head slightly. Then he blew Benicio’s brains out.

“No!” she shrieked, her legs giving out as she collapsed.  But no new tears fell this time.  She would never cry for the dead again in her lifetime. 

***************************

“Oh my God, no!  JB! Oh JB!” The deep, guttural screams snatched Summer out of her nightmarish memory.  She blinked her eyes rapidly, focusing on the source of the noise. 

“Can you believe these bitches?” Caralina whispered in Summer’s ear.  Summer checked her shades to make sure they were in place. 

“Who is that?” she asked evenly as she watched a kitschy dressed woman with a bad weave throw herself onto the casket and scream over Jesse’s picture. 
How fucking disrespectful of this bitch to be crying over a man that is not hers.
Summer fumed silently.  She was very good at remembering faces and she’d definitely seen this slut before, she just couldn’t remember where at that moment.  “Your guess is as good as mine.  There’s been a whole bunch of bitches here screaming over JB today.  They probably exes that wish they could be you…the legally married
wife
,” Caralina placated. 

Summer did not appreciate her friend’s running commentary during the funeral services.  She filed that away in her mental Rolodex. 

“How many?” Summer asked, her eyebrows arched at Caralina. 

“How many what?  Exes? Or bitches crying over him in general?” Caralina asked, her voice faltering.  Summer gave her friend a hard stare.

“Uhhhh….I’ve seen about three or four so far.  But don’t quote me on that,” Caralina replied, her voice jumpy.  Summer watched Scrap move the screaming hoochie away from Jesse’s casket. 

“Nah ma, we ain’t having none of that in here today.  Keep it moving,” Scrap said brusquely as he guided the woman towards the exit.

Summer sat like a queen in the first row designated for family and close friends.  A woman’s statuesque frame emerged from the crowd, dressed in a black silk pants suit that fit her like a glove.  Summer watched the woman gracefully saunter up to Jesse’s casket.  The woman’s hair was pulled back in a classy chignon and her blemish-free cocoa skin gleamed under the funeral home lights.  Her features were model-like—high cheekbones, pouty lips, and dark, intriguing eyes.  Summer instantly felt a pang of jealousy.  The beautiful woman was holding the hand of a small boy, no older than three or four years old.  When they stopped at the casket, the woman shuffled the little boy in front of her and pointed to Jesse’s image.  She kneeled and whispered something in the little boy’s ear.  The little boy looked up at the portrait and then at casket with confused eyes.  He was clearly too young to understand.  The woman roughly swiped away her own tears, her jaw firmly set like she had wired it shut to keep from saying to Jesse’s image what had intended to tell Jesse when he was alive. 

Bat-sized flutters rippled through Summer’s stomach.  She quickly averted her eyes from the little boy’s chubby face.  He was still a baby, but his features were shockingly familiar.

“C’mon baby.  It’s time to go now,” the woman whispered to the boy, grabbing his hand as she got to her feet.  When they turned to exit, the woman looked down at Summer through hooded eyes. 

A cold chill shot down Summer’s spine.  She instantly hated the woman whose faced she would never forget her.   

“Who the fuck was that?  She is fucking beautiful and the kid…too damn cute,” Caralina whispered, making matters worse. 

Summer buried her face in her one good hand, trying to keep her composure.

“What’s wrong, Summer? Did I say something wrong?”  Caralina probed, not entirely heartless. 

Anger welled up inside of Summer like hot lava threatening to erupt.  If Jesse were alive at this moment, she would probably have killed him herself.

Summer knew Jesse was a good guy. In fact, that was one of the compelling reasons for marrying him.  During his brief life, Jesse had given back to the community where he was from, donating generously to help folks pay their rent, send their kids to school, buy clothes, and even get a lawyer when necessary.  Summer wondered if the people Jesse had helped showed up to the funeral because they were truly grateful or because they wanted to continue to tap into the Jesse Banks money tree posthumously. 

Representatives from charitable organizations also attended to offer their condolences.  Summer heard their real underlying intentions in their words. 
Let’s stay in touch. Let us know how we can be of service.
Jesse was a regular hood Robin Hood. 

According to Jesse’s lawyer and Caralina, her husband not only ran Banks and Reid Imports, but he also operated an illegal enterprise that included millions of dollars in drug and possibly human trafficking.  Of course, most of the information Summer had came from Caralina and the news reports, but Summer planned on doing some verification of her own. 

Another screaming hoodrat sashayed up to Jesse’s casket, looking like she was heading to the club afterwards. 

“These bitches are ruthless!” Caralina whispered harshly.

By this point, Summer was physically and emotionally drained.  She summoned Mitch to get her driver.  She wanted to go home.  She didn’t think she could handle going to the burial.  Besides, she wanted to be alone with her own memories of Jesse, not all of these people forcing their opinions and memories on her. 

Summer tossed two Percocet into her mouth and stepped out of her heels as she waited in the lobby of the funeral home.  Caralina stood next to her, running her mouth, but Summer tuned her out.