Whispers in the Night (17 page)

He drove her to his apartment, and one by one, he and his buddies had their way with her.

When he sent her to walk home, he told her, “Tell Chocolate, I want my money. Or next time I'll kill you, bitch.” And then: “You even think about goin' to the cops and my boys will kill all three of you.”

 

 

Naomi got the call at work. Her sister was hurt. Malaya had gone to Lady Black's apartment; their phone had been long disconnected.

When Naomi walked in, she saw her. Malaya's eyes were swollen shut and had a deep cut on one lid. Torch had knocked out one of her teeth and it had lodged in her lip, so the girl could barely speak. The entire right side of her face was bruised and she had small circular burn marks on her face and body—from a cigarette. Torch's.

Naomi could tell that Malaya had been crying, but now she put on a brave, strong face for her.

Naomi couldn't do the same; she cried. “Oh, my God. What did he do to you?”

Malaya sat up on the couch. “He didn't do this.” The pain from her embedded tooth was obvious.

“You mean, Torch didn't . . .”

“Oh yeah, he did it with his buddies.” She covered her mouth as blood ran from her lips. “But Co, she let it happen. She's been hurting us for a long time. This is just another way.”

How do you choose one sister over the other?
Naomi looked at Lady Black, whose eyes once again told her everything she needed to know. Louder than words they shouted . . .

“Pack your stuff, we're leavin'.
Now
!”

 

 

Naomi found Colleen in Chocolate Park with her john. “Get up and leave. Now!” she told the man.

He looked at her strangely, but didn't argue. He stood up, zipped his pants, and ran off.

Chocolate just lay there, naked.

“Torch wants his money,” Naomi said.

“I'll pay. I'll pay, okay?”

“When?”

“When I can.”

“He raped Malaya. Him and his fucking friends. They raped her.”

“What?” To Naomi's surprise, she looked concerned. “He what?”

“Beat her up too. Bad.”

Chocolate covered her face. She cried; Naomi could see her tears glisten in the moonlight. But Naomi felt no remorse.

“How much stuff is worth him raping Malaya? Huh, Chocolate? How much?”

She sobbed. “I stole some of his stash. I was gonna pay it back, I swear.”

“When?”

“When did I take it? A couple of weeks ago. I didn't even think he'd notice. I . . . I was gonna pay him back.”

Naomi shook her head. “You fuckin' junky. What you gonna do about it?”

“Do? What can I do?”

“I don't know. Do something to keep him from hurting Malaya again.”

“He'll kill me!” she cried.

“He raped your sister. Isn't that enough? And I know that's why you haven't been home, so he couldn't find you. You've been hiding out. But maybe if you go to him, tell him to leave Malaya alone . . .”

“I . . . I can't.”

“He said he'd kill her next time. He said he'd
kill her
, Chocolate!”

“I can't.”

Naomi shook her head. “I knew it. You're a coward. You won't even do it to help Malaya.” She sighed. “I love you, Co.” She held out her hand to the girl. “We're leaving tonight. I'm taking her and getting outta this stinkin' shit hole. Come with us, Co. Come with u—”

The shot came from behind Naomi. The echo bounced from tree to tree. Instinctively, Naomi ducked and fell to the ground.

When she looked up, the second shot pierced Chocolate's chest. The first had hit her in the stomach.

Naomi looked at the shooter.

It was Malaya.

The girl cried and dropped the gun. “We don't need her, Nay. Mama used to cry. Did you know that? I would hear her through the walls. She would cry. She'd cry for her—now she's made you cry, too. And me.” She wiped her eyes. “But we don't have to cry for her anymore. We can forget her. She's with Mama now.”

In the end, the choice was easy—choosing one sister over the other.

The hard part was burying Colleen in her Chocolate Park.

Robert Fleming

B
efore I got in here, my family had me locked up, in a psychiatric ward, for my safety. At least, that was what they said. Three times in Bellevue. How they caught me was when I went over to a girlfriend's apartment and she ratted on me, called my sister and told her that I was here. When I arrived there, I had no idea that she would snitch on me like that. I was telling her that I was sleeping in all-night theaters, in hallways, in the bus terminal, on subways, anywhere but home.

He was there, my husband. I was tired of being alone and hungry, but I was scared of him. He had beaten my ass so badly the last time that he put me in the hospital. I was tired of being his doormat. I told her that. I was afraid for my life. He told me he would kill me.

And he meant it. I got a protection order from the police, but it didn't do any good. My mother, before she died, told me that I should have left him a long time ago, but I was too afraid to do it. Also, he kept telling me that I wouldn't have made it without him. I was nothing without him. If I started a new life, he would find me and I would be sorry that I left him. He would make me pay.

“He's going to kill me,” I told the cop when I was in the police station to get the protection order. “He means it. He was choking me under the water in the tub last night. I thought I was going to die. I don't want to die. I'm only twenty, I haven't lived yet.”

“What were you arguing over?” the cop asked. “Some man you were flirting with? I know how you young girls are. You see something you want and you go after it.”

I knew he was just saying that because he had an audience. The other guys chuckled. See, I knew men stick together. A lot of them think all women are sluts and whores. I'm not like that.

“Yeah, what were you arguing over?” another cop asked me.

“I don't want a baby and he does,” I said. “I don't want to have a baby. I want to go back to school. I want to make something of myself. He's in a rush to have a kid and I don't want to do it.”

“Why not?” the first cop asked me. “Every woman wants to be a mother.”

“Well, I don't want to be a mother,” I said. “My mother had nine.”

“Different fathers?” the cop asked with a smirk. If it was a black woman, she had to have multiple fathers, not one, but several.

“By three fathers. But that is not it. I'm just not ready.”

The cop laughed with the other men. He was white and so was the other guy, but there were three black guys around the desk. It was a man thing. A woman should have babies and that was that. You were put here on earth to be a breeder. I knew that I was not put here to be a breeder. And I knew how hard my mother had it when all the men left. She was left to be a mother and father to these kids and it killed her.

“Is it about childbirth?” the first cop asked. He was trying to be nice, at least nicer than the other guys. “It hurts but then you forget it. The pain goes away. My wife had five kids. You know, we're Irish. We like big families.”

“And you're Catholic,” the other guy teased. “The pope doesn't like birth control.”

“I'm not ready,” I said. “I should have control over my body.”

“Then you should not have gotten married,” one of the black guys said.

“Are you a dyke?” another black cop said. “You like women?”

“Hell no,” I replied coldly. “I just don't want kids.” I thought about other young women who pushed their baby carriages, proud to be a mother, female superior, proud to be a breeder. They made you walk around them.

The first cop tried to lecture me about motherhood. “One day, you'll regret that you didn't have children. You'll be alone. Home, family, and the domestic life are all that matters, especially when you get old. You don't want to get old and miss out.”

I heard about the biological clock, the fertile time running out and menopause setting in. Tick, tick, tick. I didn't think it was a disgrace. I tried to make them understand.

“Do you like cats?” the second cop teased. He was smirking and the guys laughed.

“I hate cats,” I answered. I didn't get it.

“But if your husband wants children, you should give him children,” the first cop said. “Being a mother is a part of marriage. Also, your parents would want to become grandparents. That's part of the cycle of life. Grandchildren continue the cycle of life, but you know that.”

“My mother is dead,” I said.

“I'm sorry,” the first cop said. “You're not a feminist, are you?”

“No. I just don't want to have any kids.”

The second cop laughed sullenly. “You want to be a whole woman, right?”

“What is a whole woman?” I asked, like he would know.

“Like biologically what you want to be, a woman and a mother,” the cop said. “A whole woman. Normal. It isn't normal to be childless. It just isn't.”

“It should be my choice, not his,” I said firmly. “Can I get the protection order? If you don't give it to me, he says he will kill me.”

The cops gave me the order, but with conditions. I knew what they meant. I had to submit to him. I moved out and tried to find a place to stay. The rents were outrageous. I spent a couple of nights with a coworker but I had to move. She tried to feel me up. I didn't even know she was lesbian. She had never tried anything before.

I rode the trains the following nights. I would wash up in the restrooms, change clothes from the two shopping bags I carried, and go to work. The coworker tried to whisper to me, telling that she wouldn't do that again if I came back. No way. I was scared being on the streets. But I had no choice.

One afternoon, I walked into my boss's office. He was a computer nerd who loved science. There were other nerds standing around, talking about some astronomers saying they had detected water at the most distant point from Earth in a galaxy two hundred million light years away.

I waved to the boss to get his attention. He waved me away. He was holding court and loving it. When I tried to approach him in the hall, he chided me for being brazen in barging into his office. I just wanted to ask for a raise. Maybe my timing was off. Maybe just a couple of dollars an hour would have made finding a room in an SRO hotel a bit easier. All because I didn't want to be a mother.

 

 

I really didn't know I was being abused. I thought it was love, love between men and women, the routine matters of the heart. My husband had hit me, repeatedly. I didn't like it, but I put up with it. I'd look in the mirror and my face would resemble a beaten boxer's face. Black eyes, bruised lips, twisted arms, aching limbs and ribs. True, he stomped and kicked me too. I believed he hated women. I knew he hated his mother but I think he hated females, women in general.

At parties, he'd loud-talk to his men friends with their girls: “See, she dances like a white girl. She dances like she fucks.” He loved to shame me, embarrass me.

In bed, he laughed at me, said I had no rhythm.

My girlfriends said I should leave him, before he killed me. The papers were full of guys who wanted to control their women, gave them low self-esteem, and shot or stabbed them. I couldn't leave him. I tried, but I couldn't. So when I finally did, just ran away, I started to make up reasons why I should go back. I always returned.

That day about three years ago, when I got off work, Jack, my husband, was waiting for me. I was headed to the bus terminal to get to my locker so I could change clothes and wash up, but he dragged me to the car. He had a gun. I didn't argue with him.

“What is it you want from me?” he shouted. “You want a divorce?”

“No, I just want you to stop pressuring me about having a baby,” I said, trembling. “I love you, Jack. I still love you. Give me time, please.”

“We're married,” Jack yelled. “I'm the man. I'm your husband.”

“But you don't own me,” I yelled in return. “I'm young. I want to live life. I want to go back to school and get a career. Is that so wrong?”

He poked me in the side with the gun. “Yes, it is if I say so.”

“Why don't you want me to go back to school?” I tried to stay calm.

“Because I don't want them to be filling your head with all that nonsense,” he said. “You don't need a career. I'm the man. I can provide for you and the kids. I can provide for this family. All you need to do is stay at home and take care of the kids.”

“Suppose you leave me and the kids?” I asked, watching him start the car.

“I won't do that,” he said, pulling out into traffic. “I love you. I just want you to do what I say. It's for the best. If your mother were around, she would agree. All she wanted to do was to have you happy. I'm a good husband.”

“I want to do the school thing while I'm young,” I said. “I can make you proud of me. You'll see. Then we can earn money, then we can have our babies and a good home. I want a house in a good neighborhood. I'm tired of being poor.”

We pulled up to a light. A cop car eased alongside us. My husband tucked the gun between his legs. He shot a bitter glance at me,
keep cool
, and leaned forward to talk to the police officer in the next car.

“Do you know your turn signal on the rear left light is out?” the police officer was asking my husband.

“No, I didn't, sir,” Jack replied. “I'll get that fixed as soon as possible.”

“You better,” the cop said. “I'll let you off with a warning.”

“Thank you, Officer,” my husband said, smiling.

The patrol car sped away. My husband didn't speak to me until we got home. He didn't ask me where I'd been. He acted like I had been at the job after a long day, but he didn't try to figure out what I'd been doing. My mother warned me about him. She said he was a strange man.

 

 

My husband marched me down to a gynecologist, or “pussy doctor” as my mother used to call them, so he could get me checked out. To see if everything was in working order. Jack was religious about doing the speculum bit, every six months, no abnormal Pap smear for me. He found a woman doctor, who was a friend of his mother. Sometimes, he would sit in there as she asked me questions. I hated it, no privacy.

“Are you having any irregularities in your menstrual cycle?” Dr. Reina Amado asked me. “Bleeding heavier or lighter?”

“No.” I loathed him sitting there.

“Do you examine your breasts for lumps?”

“Yes.” I glanced at him, this two-hundred-and-thirty-pound muscle boy, weight-lifting fool, watching me for any blemishes or flaws.

“Do you inspect your vulva for lesions, warts, or abnormal moles?”

“Yes.”

“Do you examine your vaginal walls?” the doctor asked. “Is your discharge normal? Or is it indicative of a yeast infection?”

“Everything is normal down there,” I replied.

“Take your clothes off and slip into the gown,” she said and chatted to my husband while I walked beyond the screen. I returned and lay on the examining table.

I saw her wink at my husband. Maybe they were lovers. She wasn't that old. She put on gloves, rubber ones, and took out the speculum. Cold metal.

“Watch again and let me show you how it is done,” Dr. Amado said, putting her hands on my body. “With one hand on your belly and two fingers inside your vagina, feel your uterus, fallopian tubes, and ovaries. Are your hands washed?”

“Yes.” I hated my husband to see this. It was like watching me play with myself. I did as I was told, reluctantly.

“Now, with one finger in your vagina and another in your rectum, feel the area behind your uterus,” the doctor said. “Good, that's it. Explore. Feel anything out of the ordinary?”

“No.” I was ashamed. Totally humiliated.

“You might have a yeast infection, very slight,” Dr. Amado said, holding up a glove to see a thick, curdlike discharge. “I'm going to prescribe some Monistat. Do you get these often?”

“No, it's my first time.”

“Is it VD?” my husband asked the doctor. “Has she been fooling around?”

“No, it's normal,” the doctor answered. “Some women just get them. It will clear up. Also, drink cranberry juice, lots of fluids. Okay, Maya?”

“Yes, all right.” I knew Jack would be interrogating me all night, to find out if there was another guy, if I was fooling around.

Later, Jack was jovial in the car, but upset at my angry face. I was pouting. He said he'd slap me silly if I didn't lighten up. After all, he was my husband and not a stranger. I flinched when he raised his hand to slap me, but he stopped. He hugged me instead, cooing that he loved me, that he'd love me forever. He was the master of mixed signals.

 

 

In the beginning, Jack was the kindest man I knew. My family loved him. When he was just a boyfriend, he used to pick up groceries for my household, take my mother to the Laundromat, drive us to church, even ride with my mother to the doctor's office. He was so patient, waiting around when she went to the drugstore to get her medication. My mother had nine kids, but she was a lush, so the city took most of her young kids away. She couldn't take care of them.

And then she got liver cancer. The doctor told her that she would get sick if she didn't stop drinking. She loved bourbon, straight up. She drank like a fish. She didn't start drinking until the last of her husbands left her, and then she couldn't stop.