Vengeance (17 page)

Good! He’s not trying to get her any business because he knows she’s a fucking liar!

“Miss Marilyn’s coming back for you.” I spotted her headed in our direction. “I’m about to roll, but have a good night.”

“She and I are not serious,” he made sure to tell me. “She’s actually more like a friend.”

I giggled. “Does she know that?”

I walked off before she got back to us. KAD followed as I searched for that other whore. I found her with her asshole of a man, Michael, cheesing for photos on the lower level.

She spotted me and rushed up to me. “Wicket! I’m so glad you’re here! I have a seat for you in the show!”

“I’m not staying for the little performance,” I said with disdain. “I’m on my way out.”

Cherie’s face almost dropped to the floor. “But I wanted you to see my fashions, and then I have some media that wanted to ask for your opinion afterward.”

“Unless you’re paying me five hundred grand to peddle your shit for the evening, I’m not giving any opinions. You do realize that people of my stature get paid to show up at events, to tweet or post status updates, and whatnot?”

“I realize that it could work that way, but—”

“And actually, I don’t even do any of that. Those are the ones stressing over exposure and who need the money.”

Michael walked over to introduce himself. “Hey there, I’m Michael Vinson.”

He reached out his hand and I just stared at it until he pulled it back.

“You must be the actor.” I smirked. “Cherie said you were in
New Jack City
decades ago, but I don’t remember your face.”

Kagiso and Antonio chuckled. Diederik didn’t get the joke because he had likely never heard of the Wesley Snipes movie about the crack explosion in NYC.

Michael seemed ashamed. “I’ve done some things since then. I’d love to be in one of your music videos, if you have any about to go into production.”

“And what could you possibly do in one of my music videos?”

He shrugged. “Play one of your love interests or something. We’re about the same age.”

I laughed and pointed at KAD. “Do you see my bodyguards? I mean, do you
see
them? It takes more than good looks to be in one of my videos. They’re a walking video.”

Michael was getting upset. Poor Little Tink Tink.

“Well, maybe I can have my agent submit my information just in case something comes up.”

A lightbulb went off in my head. “Tell you what. Give me your cell number and I’ll be in touch personally. Now that I think about it, I may have a role for you. I’m cutting my new album and soon I’ll be working on the title-cut video.”

The expression on his face went from disappointment to euphoria. In his mind, he was thinking that he might be able to resurrect an acting career that was never breathing in the first place.

“Sure, let me give you my card.” He reached into his jacket pocket and handed me a tan card. “My cell’s on there, and my e-mail. Whatever works for you.”

Cherie was starting to get uncomfortable about her man giving me his personal information. “Michael, she really could contact you through me. We’re already friends.”

“Friends?” I rolled my eyes at her. “Yeah, whatever.”

Diederik was eyeing me suspiciously again. I was doing the most and decided to cut it out.

“I’m ready, guys.” I started walking toward the stairs that led up to the entrance. “We need to get to the studio.”

As we were leaving, I spotted Jonovan and his
friend
. Once again, he forgot all about her and started staring at me. It was all so confusing. He thought I reminded him of Caprice and it felt good to know that he had never forgotten her. I was still attracted to both his looks and his spirit, after all that time. But what could become of it? There I was, hell-bent on getting revenge on people for being wolves in sheep’s clothing, but what the fuck would that make me?

B
rian and I were in my new studio. Instead of continuing to rent one in the Atlanta area, I had one built on my own property. It was finally ready, and I was loving it. I had it completely decorated in white. Something about white calmed me when I was singing. I also slept to white noise most of the time. The blankness of it all helped me zone out everything and everyone else. I spent a lot of time meditating as well. Sometimes it helped; sometimes I had problems relaxing and controlling my breathing and thoughts.

I used to think that meditation was complicated, and while some people do make it that way, the overall idea is to sit still for at least twenty minutes—I tried to do it both in the morning and the evening—and control your thoughts. Obviously you will not be able not to think or worry—especially when you are going through a lot of shit—but you put your thoughts and worries into compartments and analyze them one by one. Tons of meditation music was available right on YouTube if you didn’t want to pay for it.

That night, after seeing Jonovan, I decided to work on a new song impromptu. I was going to call it “Surge” because that was how I had felt the two times I had seen him. Just seeing him brought out something powerful in me, in my soul. The sad part was that it was as plain as the nose on my face that I couldn’t do a damn thing about it.

One of the things that I had learned in therapy when I was younger was that being delusional was very damaging to me. Over the years, I had fantasized about being in normal relationships with various men. I had detailed, vivid dreams about our lives together. Cooking and eating dinner together via candlelight; curling up and watching movies on the sofa or in the bed; making love all night until the break of dawn; celebrating holidays together, especially Christmas, New Year’s, and Valentine’s Day.

There was only one thing that I never fantasized about when it came to men. I never dreamed of having children. A few months earlier I had come across an online survey—I spent a lot of time alone, so I read a lot on the Internet—where they had interviewed about three hundred women regarding why they had made the decision to never have kids. I read through each and every one of them. The list included:

Concentrating on their careers

Not having financial stability

Their man already had kids and had a vasectomy

They’d rather have pets

Too scared to carry a baby in their bodies

They have an illness

They don’t like kids

They haven’t met a man they want to have kids with

The world is too fucked-up to bring a child into it
(I totally agree.)

They were stuck raising siblings and didn’t want to raise their own

They didn’t believe it was in God’s plans

They have never married and don’t want to have kids outside of it

They are lesbians

They are too selfish to be mothers

All the work falls on the women

Too much responsibility for them to handle emotionally

The list went on and on, but what I found fascinating is that none of them said because their own mothers were bat-shit crazy. Surely there were women on that list who had been abused. A few made note that they grew up in a dysfunctional home but did not go into details, even though everyone was kept anonymous. All I saw was denial, denial, denial. I recognized it because I was the same way.

I often wondered what would happen if I ever told the truth. No one had a heaven or a hell to put Caprice Tatum in. What would have been the reaction if I held a press conference, or wrote an open letter to the world, and confessed who I really was? How would my fans have reacted to me? Would they look at me differently if they knew that I was the by-product of incest and rape? If they knew that my sick-ass uncle was my father and possibly my grandfather? If they knew that I was ugly and disfigured as a child? If they knew that several boys had run up in me raw dog after my homecoming during my freshman year in high school? If they knew that instead of facing them, and pressing charges, I ran away in a suicidal state?

I really hated living a lie. Even though I had it all—based on societal views—I was lonely, depressed, and the only thing that made me happy was my music. I didn’t and couldn’t truly trust anyone. That would have been the case if I wasn’t a celebrity, but being a celebrity made it a hundred times worse. It never escaped me that there were strangers who wanted to see me fail, for no other reason than they couldn’t stand a black woman being successful. Yes, there were some famous white female singers in the same boat. It was part of the industry, but the hatred was always worse when it came to celebrities of color. If we made mistakes, or nasty rumors started about us, people were ready to rejoice in the streets like they had gained something from it.

I would have loved to see the expressions on the faces of Cherie, Bianca, Herman, and Michael if they ever found out that I was Caprice. They had no reason to do what they did to me. I was always kind to them and I thought we were cool.

Monday, May 27, 1985

Memorial Day

4:56 p.m.

Atlanta, Georgia

I
can’t believe school’s almost out!” Cherie was flipping burgers on the charcoal grill in her backyard. “Two more weeks and summer vacation!”

“You act like your father’s actually going to take time off to go on one.” Herman was playing DJ on the boom box that he had brought with him to Cherie’s customary Memorial Day cookout. “Raspberry Beret” by Prince was going off, so he pulled that cassette tape out and popped in another one. Within seconds, “Cool It Now” by New Edition was pumping through his speakers.

There were about two dozen kids there—most of us twelve or thirteen and heading to the eighth grade—and the boys were sporting high-top fades while the girls all had “big hair.” Back then, the bigger the blowout, the better. It was the age of Madonna and her pointed bras that every teenage girl wanted while they felt “Like a Virgin.” The Pointer Sisters had everyone doing the “Neutron Dance,” the Commodores were working the “Nightshift,” Phil Collins wanted “One More Night,” and Aretha Franklin was cruising on the “Freeway of Love.”

Life was so simple then, even for me. My mother had been safely tucked away in a sanitarium for years and even though the scar on my face was a constant reminder of her hatred toward me, I felt safe because I knew she wouldn’t be sneaking into my bedroom to finish killing me. For years after “the event,” I wondered why she hadn’t simply taken my life. It was clear that she was not prepared to take care of a child, and while I understood that she was forced to have sex with Uncle Donald, that didn’t give her just cause to disfigure me.

Most of us had snuck in to see
Rambo: First Blood Part II
over the weekend. It was the big picture for the weekend. Back then, movie theaters weren’t tripping so hard on kids seeing R-rated movies.
The Breakfast Club
had come out for Valentine’s Day Weekend that year and Cherie, Bianca, and I had gone to see it.

We pretty much had Cherie’s house to ourselves, as usual. Her father was indeed a workaholic. He had his own garage and worked on cars daily, even on the holidays. He only had two workers and neither one spoke good English, so he didn’t want to miss out on any possible money by leaving them in charge. They were beasts when it came to fixing cars, but giving estimates and explaining what was wrong to people was a challenge. Cherie told me that he was seeking a bilingual mechanic so he could take some time off.

Cherie’s mother was a trip. Best way for me to describe her. She was afraid to embrace her aging. She dressed young, acted young, and was completely irresponsible when it came to parenting. She rarely cooked, but she would go grocery shopping. She wanted to be in control of the finances. Cherie’s father would bring home the money, or put it in the bank, and her mother would write the checks and spend it. She was out shopping somewhere that day. She was always shopping and returning home with her Chevrolet Camaro IROC-Z packed to the brim with bags. Half the stuff ended up staying in the bags and shoved into corners and closets throughout the house.

Michael emerged from the back door carrying a twelve-pack of Coca-Cola and a bag of ice. He had made a run to the corner store to replenish our supply.

“ ’Bout damn time,” Herman said, getting the naps out his fade with a hair pick. “I thought I was going to have to come find you.”

“Man, you should have seen these honies at Quick Stop. They were phat as all get-out. They go to Mays.”

Herman smirked. “Don’t no high school babes want to roll with you, shorty.”

Michael was still short back then. Herman was taller than all the girls in school, but Michael hadn’t hit his growth spurt yet. He would later shoot up within the next couple of years, but at that moment, he looked more like nine than twelve.

I got up off the lounge chair that I was sitting in, trying to stay in the shade, and decided to help out. “You want me to put ice in the cups?” I asked Michael.

“Yes, do your woman’s work,” he replied jokingly.

He ended up helping me while Bianca flirted with most of the boys there. This was well before Herman and Bianca hooked up in high school. Michael had confided in me that he liked Cherie, but she wasn’t feeling him at all. Not until he was tall and his dick had grown several inches.

“You still want to go to the pool next weekend?” I asked him. “The passes are almost sold out for the summer. I need two more dollars to get mine, but I can ask Grandma.”

“I’ve got you on the two dollars, Caprice.” Michael hit the bag of ice on the side of a picnic table to bust it up some more. “I’m doing that paper route, remember?”

“I know, but I hate to take your money.”

Michael put down the ice and then sat on the edge of the table. “It’s cool. All the rest of us have parents, or at least a mother in my case. Your grandma’s sick and all. Two dollars isn’t a big deal.”