Counterfeit Wives Read online

  Do this. I make note of those words. They aren’t very promising.

  Nikki says, “The ghosts of death sleep here undisturbed. Trust me.”

  Jacqueline whistles. Impressed, I imagine. “Nikki, I tell you, the things you say sometimes are so surprising and…”

  “Poetic,” Nikki finishes. “There was a time I felt for my poetry the way Dawn did about her singing. I was a little black girl lost until I found…words. Girl I went to school with, Shannan Alston, my one true friend. She introduced me to Maya Angelou. I Know Why the Caged Birds Sing. If Maya could come up, I could come up. That’s what I told myself. That’s the platform I stood on. Homegirl was a trip in her young days. Poetry was my salvation, my religion. Some Sundays I wrote from day up to day down. Until…”

  It was stolen from her.

  Jacqueline says, “We’ve all lost so much.”

  Nikki adds, “Yep. And this is where Redemption Highway and Death Boulevard fucking intersect.”

  Damn her poetry.

  The car comes to a stop.

  Nikki says, “Dawn, check us in. They might remember me.”

  “Then they might remember me, too. After we do this.”

  After we do this. I make note of those words. They aren’t very promising.

  “Nah, not after one time,” Nikki says. “They’d remember me only because I was in here a lot.” She pauses at that comment, thinks about its implications on her old life. “All the Patels are thinking about is money and the sitar.”

  “Sitar?”

  “Instrument in their music. You’ll hear it playing as soon as you step inside. They be banging that bullshit. Stereo’s right next to the coffee station they got set up in the lobby. Coffee tastes like Mississippi mud, by the way.”

  She’s rambling. Nervous. This makes me nervous. Hearing her speak of the coffee triggers me. I start counting Mississippis again.

  Counting down the time until the ghosts of death come to whisk me away.

  That’d be fitting, I suppose. I deserve this end. I did them wrong. All three. Horribly, terribly wrong. I made them Counterfeit Wives.

  Dawn takes a deep breath. “Okay, wish me luck. I’m going in.”

  Nikki says, “Just be cool. Get a room. Ask for one around back. But don’t make the shit obvious. Okay?”

  “I got it.”

  A door opens and then slams shut. That’s a metaphor. The doors are about to slam shut on me, too. The Counterfeit Wives will see to that.

  Jacqueline says, “Foot massages and crossword puzzles.”

  Nikki asks her, “What you carrying on about?”

  “It’s come to this,” Jacqueline says. “And all I wanted was someone to massage my feet every once in a while, and help me fill out crossword puzzles.”

  Nikki huffs. “I wanted a man to blow my back out every day and hook a steak up for my ass every now and again. But mostly blow my back out.”

  “You had to ruin my Hallmark moment with something sexual.”

  “I’m a Scorpio.”

  “You’re a freak.”

  “You ain’t ever lied.”

  They share laughter.

  When it dies down Jacqueline says, “Getting your back blown out is awful nice, isn’t it?”

  More laughter. Then silence. Then sniffling. Tears. Tears are flowing. The emotions of a woman are like that. Especially a woman scorned. And I’m dealing with several. That isn’t good. Not good at all.

  Nikki taps me, says, “I’m gonna go ahead and remove the bra so…”

  Jacqueline finishes, “…you can see what a broken woman looks like.”

  I want to tell Jacqueline about my own mother, that I know what a broken woman looks like. I can’t. The panty hose stuffed in my mouth.

  Nikki tugs at my head, yanks it forward. Roughly undoes the bra.

  I blink to get my bearings. Then I look at her. She’s in the front seat, passenger side. Eyes bloodshot, makeup running, wild fury painted on her face. The .22 rests in her hand, her arm calmly rests on the dashboard. And yet she is still beautiful. Gorgeous, even. Deserves so much more than what she’s received. I should spend these moments asking for forgiveness. Begging for it.

  Nikki says, “I’m gonna take the panty hose out of your mouth. Don’t say anything or it’s going back in.”

  I nod.

  Roughly, she removes the panty hose. I watch each of them in silence. Nikki and Jacqueline. Looking from one to the other. So many thoughts rest between us. None of them spoken. Sleeping like the ghosts of death in the motel.

  The Benz’s side door bursts open. Startles me. Dawn slides in, sees me without the bra mask, mouth void of panty hose. She gasps, but recovers. Then, once she’s at ease, she also joins in the staredown.

  The Counterfeit Wives. Driven to be women gangsters.

  Camden during the dark edges of night turning to morning. It’s the time of day when the ghosts of death have their say. When they speak loudest.

  Nikki breaks the silence. “Ready, Dawn?”

  Dawn answers, “Yes. Drive around. Our room’s in the back.”

  Nikki asks, “Everything went cool in there?”

  Dawn says, “Yes. I was nervous, though. I have to admit that. Patel didn’t even look up, though. He counted my money and tossed me a key.”

  Nikki says, “Told you.”

  “This was easier than I thought.”

  Nikki says, “It’s gonna get harder, Dawn. Believe me.”

  We move inside. The room is rich with smells. But not the type you’d want to sleep through. Roach spray, bleach and an optimistic burst of air freshener. It’s stiflingly hot, too, which amplifies the smells. My eyes start to water and pain. My nose burns.

  Dawn says, “God, we have to open a window.”

  Nikki advises, “Now you’re a smart girl, Dawn, rethink that one.”

  Dawn says, “Oh…the noise we’ll make.”

  The noise we’ll make. I make note of those words. They aren’t very promising.

  Jacqueline says, “I’ll turn on the air conditioner. Get some air circulating.”

  Nikki tells Dawn, “Turn on the television. Turn the volume up nice, but not too loud.”

  Dawn does as directed. A Dennis Hopper movie is on. Kid Blue. It’s a western. Hopper with long hair, some kind of pseudo-hippie vibe. He’s a train robber in the flick, trying to go straight. The movie is loud, with the constant ringing of gunfire. I can imagine that real gunfire will mesh with the TV gunfire, soon. I wish the Counterfeit Wives would find something else to watch.

  Rachael Ray, the Food Network.

  Nikki turns to me, says, “You. Sit your ass in that chair.”

  The room is pretty bare. A battered desk in one corner. A bed, of course. Twin size, horrible bedspread. And the chair Nikki directed me to sit in. It looks regal. Out of place in this room. With a high back and sturdy frame, its only flaw is a tear in the cushion. Looks like a knife wound. Foam bleeds out of the cut.

  I plop down in the chair.

  Jacqueline fumbles with the air conditioner. Pressing buttons randomly, it seems. Finally, it coughs out a pound of dust and comes to life. It rattles, but surprisingly releases cool air. The cool air chases away the smells of roach spray and bleach. My eyes start to settle, stop burning.

  My arms are still bound behind me with the Baby Phat belt. I try but can’t loosen them. This makes me angry. I bark, “Let’s move along here. Do what you have to do. Finish this.”

  Nikki moves near me. The .22 in her hand. Her gaze is on me, but her thoughts are elsewhere. She has a vacant look in her eyes. She stops a foot in front of me. And, zombie-like, starts talking.

  “Words can’t describe the feeling inside. Torment, torture, treachery. Deceit, disloyalty, dishonesty, disrespect. Hatred, humiliation.”

  “What are you talking about, Nikki?”

  “All the things a woman of a broken heart can feel. Promises broken, respect not given. You played me. Played me for your friends, you left me fo
r them.”

  I bark, “What the hell are you talking about, Nikki?”

  “You prayed for me to be asleep so you could go chill. You always wanted to see me last. I could wait, you would say. You’re insecure, calm down, I only want you. I am happy. I can deal with it. I don’t want you to change. I should have known then that you wanted out. Change, no change. Never gave it a real chance. My heart has been stabbed, tears have fallen. Yet I stay nice.”

  She looks at me, eyes filled with water. Her body is racked by sobs for a moment, and then she settles into a quieter cry. She lets the tears flow unabated, unashamed by the raw emotion of the moment. Dawn sits on the bed watching us. Jacqueline does the same, leaning against the wall in the farthest corner of the room. On the television, Dennis Hopper is in a serious tête-à-tête with a cruel local sheriff, “Mean John” Simpson.

  “No wonder a part of me is insecure,” Nikki continues after some time. “The repetitive cycle endured over the years. The friends I had to fight, the shit I had to clean up. Sacrifices I made. I fought through the bludgeoning of chance. My hands are bloody. Do I wash my hands of this, or do I take the blood of my counterparts and smear it on my body and make it a part of me. Do I take the mark of my enemies and take it as a victory? I brand the mark of a lioness…calm, stern, a caretaker, hunter, serene along with the words Only the Strong. Ferocious words for the ferocious woman on the verge of an attack to take on the world. Do YOU. Doing me. Out for me. What’s best for me. You think you got me down, but in actuality you made me stronger. Thus the words, Only the Strong.”

  She stops then. Tears still flowing. I sit quiet and wait.

  Finally, she says, “Wrote that about a guy I talked to right after I graduated high school. He was a bit older. Smart. Fly. My self-esteem wasn’t the greatest back then. Bitches I went to school with were petty. I always had a pretty face, cute little body, but they were quick to point out my little handful of boobs, rank on me because they didn’t think I had enough ass. My shit was round and tight, they all had them monster ghetto booties. I went out of my way trying to make friends, though. But nah. Girls were worse than the guys. Judging. All about the physical. I wasn’t typical. Had a different body type. They weren’t trying to hear me. Seemed like the guys agreed. Wasn’t nobody trying to get with Nikki. Nowadays, I could win America’s Next Top Model as is. Go figure.”

  Eva Pigford. She could be Nikki’s twin.

  She goes on, “The guy, Colin, man he changed the game for me. He wanted ME. That was some powerful shit. Told me I was beautiful every chance he got. In so many different ways, too. I guess because he was a writer. Went on and published a bunch of novels. I’d be the first one up in Barnes & Noble, pretending the Colin Sheffield writing those books was still with me. He wasn’t, though. Left me and ended up marrying some other bitch. I never understood why things changed so much between us. He was so good to me for so long, and then…things just shifted overnight. He became cruel.”

  She stops and hugs herself before continuing.

  “Said I wasn’t on his level. Colin started letting me know that. Letting me know he didn’t want some ghetto girl. Told me endlessly that I had limited worth. And I took it. Accepted it. I just wanted him in my life on whatever level. Then he left me. I begged him to stay. That man treated me like shit, and I begged him to stay. Of course he wouldn’t, didn’t. So I was alone again. That shit was pain on a level I never dealt with before.” She pauses, composes herself and shakes her head at the memory. “I tried to kill myself. Drank a bottle of some bullshit Spumante, took some pills. Ain’t do shit but make me real sick. Like I ate some bad seafood or something.”

  From the corner of the room Jacqueline says, “Don’t relive it, Nikki.”

  From the bed Dawn says, “Yeah. Let it go.”

  Nikki ignores them both. “I said fuck it, started stripping. My way of getting back at all them that didn’t think I had the bomb body in high school. My value was my body, that’s what I told myself. On stage—” she sweeps her arms to illustrate the room “—here, in the beginning, before I decided I wasn’t doing nothing extra, I demeaned myself on a daily basis. Demeaned myself at The Liquid Kitty. Then I met my knight in shining armor. He changed the game just like Colin had done.”

  I shift, uncomfortable. I don’t want to hear this.

  “It almost killed me when Colin left,” she says. “I told myself if I ever felt that kind of pain again I would turn into the coldest bitch alive, that I would take out whoever made me feel that way. Take him out rather than myself. And I meant that shit. My knight in shining armor turned into a Trouble Man. Trouble Man. Trouble Man. Trouble Man.” She pauses a beat, seems to come to some conclusion. “But I ain’t killing myself over that shit. Flipping the script this time.”

  She raises the .22, sights it on me.

  I manage, “Nikki, don’t be stupid. Put that fucking thing down.” Speak to her in her own language.

  She eases up just a bit. Calms. Probably too calm, and says, “Say something to save your life. Something more profound than Nikki, don’t be stupid. And cursing doesn’t suit you, by the way.”

  I open my mouth to respond, but nothing comes out.

  She nods. “Didn’t think so.” She raises the .22 again.

  I say, “The baby.”

  That stops her cold. I know something she thought I didn’t. She spoke of her period earlier. A lie, an attempt to throw me off.

  Dawn and Jacqueline’s voices mingle. “Baby? What baby?”

  Nikki doesn’t answer them. She rubs her stomach, a pained expression on her face, and shakes her head. Relaxes the gun down by her side. Smiles. But it isn’t a smile of joy. “Illegitimate. Bastard. Out of wedlock. Mistake.”

  I say, “Confucius, William I of England, Leonardo Da Vinci, Thomas Paine and Alexander Hamilton. All of them were, too. They turned out just fine.”

  She says, “Ain’t a Jamal or a Laquisha in the bunch you mentioned. It’s different for a black boy or a black girl.”

  “You’re a strong black woman, Nikki. That baby is a blessing. You’ll make it a mistake, though, if you do this thing. Leave me be. Go and make a life for you and your baby.”

  “What’s going on? Nikki, you’re pregnant?”

  That’s Dawn. Nikki ignores her. Speaks to me and only me.

  “Thanks,” she says, nodding slowly. “For clarifying things for me. You’ve made this crystal clear.”

  I nod in turn.

  She says, “What did you say? ‘You and your baby.’ That’s how this shakes out, too. It’s just me and the baby. No father. I’m Scary Spice up in this bitch. I’m Shar Jackson. And I ain’t got Eddie Murphy or K-Fed to help me out.”

  “Nikki.”

  “Alone. Me and the baby.”

  “Nikki.”

  She tenses again, raises the .22.

  “Nikki. Nikki. Nikki. Come on, honey. This is some movie crap. Don’t make this into some movie crap.”

  “Movie crap?”

  “Yeah. You’ve got a gun. You’re about to shoot me. This is some…you’re a hot mess. Don’t make this some movie crap.”

  She smiles wickedly. “Sorry to say, you haven’t changed my mind. And you’re right, this is some movie crap.” She settles her finger over the trigger, says, “Hasta la vista…baby.”

  Then a flash and a blast.

  Rhymes. Like poetry.

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22 />
  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 1

  If looks could have killed, I’d have been a dead man.

  Six-two, two hundred and twenty pounds, yet cut down by a woman a foot smaller, over a hundred pounds lighter. Like Adam succumbing to Eve, or Samson falling prey to Delilah. It would have been fitting. Men have been catching a bad one from women since the Almighty tossed them one of our ribs.

  I was knee-deep in some serious mess.

  My fiancée’s jaw muscles flexed. She flared her nostrils. Murder was in her eyes, and even more significantly, embedded on her heart. I held tight to her wrists to prevent her from slapping at me and pounding on my chest again. She jerked and twisted like a fish out of water, to no avail because my grip would not loosen. She was trapped, and human nature was to fight when trapped, fight until there was no fight left. That’s the moment I longed for, when she had no fight left. I knew from experience it would come. I counted on it. It was my cushion.

  Around us, the living room was in total disarray. The neoprene waist bag she wore when jogging was a big knot on the carpet, contents spilling from it: Claritin allergy medicine, a pack of tropical-flavored Life Savers, a Razr cell phone, her key ring. Her sneakers were haphazardly strewn by the couch, one pink-swooshed Nike on top of the other. The coffee table that centered the room was turned over on its side. Magazines from its top were scattered on the floor. Essence, Black Enterprises, Jet and Sports Illustrated piled on one another like dead soldiers over in Baghdad. My fiancée was responsible for the disarray.

  Almost made me reconsider taking her as my fourth wife. Almost.

  None of my three previous wives had displayed that kind of anger.

  I didn’t know how I felt about that.