Dorcas Palmer
So I’ve been sitting down and watching this man sitting down and watching me for an hour now. I know I’m waiting on instructions from the Mrs. or the Miz or whatever this Colthirst woman choose to call herself, but he’s just sitting like he’s waiting on instructions too. Back firm, hands in his lap, head straight ahead like C-3PO. I’d say that makes him look like a pet dog, but then being the female would make me the pet bitch. It must be a thing, a whole new level of license to know you can keep people waiting for as long as you feel like it. I always wonder if this was some power tactic bullshit, something to let people know their place. I’m paying the cheque, come kiss my ass. Here’s the cheque, now stop the cab and wait four hours. This damn country. Then again, it’s her money. If she wants to pay me for doing nothing, I get paid by the hour and it’s her tab. Honestly this man really looks like Lyle Waggoner. And I watch Carol Burnett reruns every week. Tall, black hair white at the temples and a chin straight out of a cartoon of a handsome man’s chin. Every other minute he looks over at me, but turns quick when he sees my eyes waiting on him.
Maybe I should just say I need to piss so I can get out of this room. Or rather I need to pee. Lord Jesus I can’t stand that word pee. No male over ten should use that word. Every time I hear a man use it all I can think is only small cocks pee. He looks at me sudden, probably because I chuckled. God, I hope I didn’t say all that out loud. Nothing left to do now but pretend it was a cough all along. The Mrs./Miz just raised her voice from her office, probably with the husband or whatever. Lyle Waggoner looks at her door and laughs, nodding the whole time. What kind of man wears pink pants? Brave? Homo? Well if he was homo there would be no daughters and granddaughters, I guess. White polo shirt with his chest and biceps stretching it in a nice way. Honestly Lyle Waggoner wouldn’t get kicked out of the free love orgy if he showed up. I’d bet my next pay that he wear briefs, and a bikini to the pool. You could even say he was a hot silver daddy or fox as American girls call men they have no business fucking. I wish the Mrs./Miz would finish up her r’asscloth call or sooner or later I’m going to start thinking aloud and I won’t know until Lyle Waggoner here starts to point at me in shock.
Might as well check out the house. I would get up but something tells me that Lyle Waggoner would blurt out, don’t touch that, as soon as I left a foot to move. This just looks like the kind of house where you know there is no penny or lost button in that empty vase on the table. Glass of course, but not a dining table. Both me and him sitting on wooden chairs with a circular back and puffy cushion. Fabric pattern looks like cream and brown paisley. The usual paintings on the wall, three old white women clothed right up to the neck, two white men, all with that sour look white people always have in paintings. Two more chairs on the right and left of the room just like the one we’re sitting on. Carpet just like the chairs. Coffee table with Town & Country magazines all over it, the one part of the room that looks slightly untidy. Purple love seat with the same animal claw legs as my bathtub back home. One of the living rooms you always see in those ads at the back of the New York Times Magazine. On the left wall the paintings just gone mad.
—The one in the middle is a Pollock, he says to me.
—Actually it’s a de Kooning, I say.
He glares at me and nods.
—Well, I don’t know what the hell my family buys, although that one’s been here for a while. Looks like a kid ate all his Crayolas and vomited up the whole thing, if you ask me.
—Okay.
—You don’t agree.
—I don’t really care what other people think about art, sir. Either you get it or you don’t, and it seems pretty stupid waiting on people to get it when you could just as easily enjoy having more museum space to yourself, thanks to one less idiot telling me how his four-year-old daughter could do that.
—Where in blue blazes did they find you?
—Sir?
—Ken.
—Mr. Ken.
—No, just . . . never mind. You think Miz Busy Bee will ever remember to respect people’s time and GET THE FUCK OFF THE PHONE?
—I don’t think she heard you, sir.
—I told you my name is . . . whatever. You probably have no way of knowing this anyway, but do you know if my daughter-in-law specifically asked for a black maid?
—I’m not privy to that kind of information, sir.
—Ken.
—Mr. Ken.
—I was just wondering, since Consuela, at least I think her name was Consuela, damn near stole everything she could carry out of the house.
—Okay.
I’m pretty sure there was no Jamaican maid named Consuela.
—I thought she was ingenious. Everything she stole, she put underneath the furniture, right? Say today she’ll steal bed linen. She stashes it under the bed. The next day it may be soap under the chair near the bedroom door, the next thing by the table right outside, then the armchair in the living room, then the next armchair, and on she goes till she has one item at the console table by the door. That way, every day by just moving each thing over by one space, she always had something right at the door to take away. I said to her, That wetback built a fucking underground railroad right in our home! You know what she says? She says, That kind of talk is unacceptable in the North, Papa, like I wasn’t born in fucking Connecticut. So I figured she had had her full of Puerto Ricans.
—Jamaican.
—You don’t say. I’ve been to Jamaica.
And all I could think of is, Oh Lord here it comes, another white man about to tell me about how much he enjoyed Ocho Rios, but would have enjoyed it so much more if it weren’t for all the poverty. And the country is so beautiful and the people so friendly and even in all this tragedy everybody still manages a smile especially the bombor’asscloth children. Although he looks like the Negril type.
—Yeah, Treasure Beach.
—Wah?
—Excuse me?
—I’m sorry, Treasure Beach?
—You know it?
—Of course.
The truth was I didn’t know it. I barely even heard of it. I wonder if it was in Clarendon or St. Mary, one of those parishes I was never in because we didn’t have no granny still living in country. Or one of those other places you have to be a tourist to know about, like Frenchman’s Cove or something. Whatever.
—So unspoiled. Granted, that’s what everyone says about a place they’re busy spoiling. Let’s put it this way; nobody there was wearing a Jamaican Me Crazy t-shirt. I asked this one guy because he was in a white shirt and black trousers if he could get me a Coke, and he says, Go get it your bombocloth self. Imagine that. Loved the place right there and then. Anyway, you—
The Miz finally come out of the room clutching her bag and touching her hair.
—Papa, be a dear and show Miss Palmer around, will you? Just don’t overexert yourself this time, okay?
—I’m sorry, Miss Palmer, but is there a fucking kid behind you? In the doorway somewhere.
—Papa.
—’Cause I have no idea whose kid she’s talking to.
—Oh for heaven’s sake, Papah. Anyway, your son is going absolutely bonkers over the new apartment just because I want a microwave, saying it’s too expensive. So I have to skedaddle. Do show her where kitchen is, Papah, and Miss Palmer, do you mind me calling you Dorcas?
—No, ma’am.
—Peachy. Cleaning supplies are under the sink, be careful with that ammonia business, the odor has a way of sticking around. Dinner is usually at five, but you can order pizza this once, just not Shakey’s pizza, they’re way too salty. What am I forgetting . . . hmmm. I dunno. Anyway, toodles, bye, Papah.
She closes the door, leaving me and the father in the house. Should I tell him I’m not a maid and God Bless is not a maid agency?
—I think there must be some mistake.
—You’re telling me. But my son married her anyway, so that’s that.
He stands
up and goes over to the window. Tall too. The more I look at this man the more I wonder why I was here. I could pretty much assume there would never come a time when I have to clean this man of his own shit, or put him back to bed after I change out all the pissed-up sheets. He was really tall and now leaning into the window, one leg straight, the other bent like he’s trying to push out the glass. I don’t think I’ve ever seen an older man who still had a backside.
—You’re the second one in a month. I wonder how long you’ll last, he said, still looking out the window.
—I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t know why I’m here.
—You don’t know why you’re here.
—God Bless is not a maid service, sir. That might be why the other employee didn’t work out.
He turns around, with his back now leaning into the window.
—I don’t know anything about a God Bless and please, please, please stop calling me sir.
—Mr. Ken.
—I guess that is as good as it’s going to get. What time is it? You hungry?
I glanced at my watch.
—Twelve fifty-two. And I packed a sandwich, Mr. Ken.
—Know any games?
—What?
—Just kidding. Though I far prefer your wah, to your what. One of the few times I feel like there’s a real Jamaican in the room.
I tell myself, This is bait, don’t bite, this is bait, don’t bite, this is bait, don’t bite.
—And what am I if not a real Jamaican, Mr. Ken?
—I dunno. Somebody on the make. Or maybe somebody performing. I’ll figure it out soon.
—I don’t know about that, sir, since your daughter clearly called the wrong agency. I don’t do maid work.
—Oh please relax, that dumb cunt thinks everybody here is the maid. I’m sure it was my son who called your agency, not her. Usually she ignores me, but I’ve been talking to my lawyer a lot lately so she’s probably worried I’m modifying my will. Somehow she convinced my son that I have come to the point where I need to be taken care of.
—Why?
—You’re going to have to ask my son. Anyway, I’m bored. Got any jokes?
—No.
—Oh for God’s sake, are you really this humorless and dull? Fine. I’ll give you a joke. You look like you need one. Okay, here goes. Why do you think sharks never attack black people?
I was just about to say look, this is one Jamaican that can swim when he says,
—Because they always mistake them for whale shit.
Then he laughs. Not a hard laugh, just a chuckle. I wonder if I should get all black American and scream offense, or if I should just let the silence hang until the moment dies out.
—How long does it take white woman to shit? I say.
—Oh whoa. I . . . I dunno.
—Nine months.
He goes red just like that. One long second of silence and then he bursts out laughing. He laughs for so long that he almost having a fit, heaving and coughing and eyes wet. I really didn’t think it was that funny.
—Oh my God, oh my dear Lord.
—Anyway, Mr. Ken, I should leave. Your son needs to call a maid service and—
—No no no, hell no. You can’t leave now. Quick, why do blacks have white hands and feet?
—I’m not sure I want to know.
—They were on all fours when God spray-painted them.
He laughs again. I try not to laugh, but my body starts shaking even before the laugh comes out. He walks over to me now, laughing so hard his eyes almost disappear.
—On all fours, eh? I say. What do you do if you’re being gang raped by a bunch of white men?
—Oh sweet heaven, what?
—Nothing. Unless you worried about being fucked by a pimple.
His hand is on my shoulder now, and he’s laughing so hard I think that it’s for support.
—Hold on, I’ve got one for you, and it’s a white joke this time. What does a white woman and a tampon have in common?
—I don’t know. They both suck blood?
—No! They’re both stuck-up cunts.
Now my hand is on his shoulder and I’m the one who cannot stop laughing. We both stop and start again. I don’t know at what point my bag fell off my shoulder and landed on the floor. We both sit down in facing armchairs.
—Please don’t leave, he says. Please don’t.
John-John K
Three doors down the kitchen was all bacon smell, crackle and pop. Dark wood cupboards went all the way around, one of which opened up to show Wheaties, Corn Flakes and Life cereal. A man, not much different from Brown Suit, was at the head of the table like Big Poppa or some shit, reading the newspaper and making lines with a red marker. Two boys on either side of him, one looking older with a moustache he was spending too much time Vaselining. Boy was cute and could’ve sworn he winked, but his ears were Alfred Neuman Mad magazine big. The other boy made me wish I had a dad who didn’t call me a fucking fruit every time I tried to grow my hair long back at twelve.
—Yuca! Yuca! Yuca!
—Arturo! How many times I say no shout at the table, she said. Her back seemed to sigh out every word. Her ribbed sweater gave her too many Michelin man curves, but her white slacks pulled it off, that tacky rich feel of men who bought but couldn’t sail boats. She had tied her hair tight in a bun, which made her eyebrows seem pulled when she turned around. Dark eyes, plenty mascara this early in the morning, and lips shinier than a teenage girl going down on a Lip Smacker.
—You short.
—Wha? Excuse me.
—Excuse me? Did I utter, mutter or stutter?
The older kid groaned.—You’re killing us, Ma, he said. She smiled.
—You like that, Guapo?
—Yeah, Ma, all the groovy cats be digging it.
—Don’t be no jiving turkey on my ass.
The older kid groaned again while the other held his plate up for more yuca.
—You, sit down for breakfast, she said, and pointed the frying pan at me.
I kinda stood still. I wasn’t sure who she meant, until Brown Suit pushed me, more like double-punched me in the back. Older kid looked at me once then turned away, younger kid sucked up what looked like albino fries and the man said nothing, not once taking his eyes off the paper. Go get him a plate, she said to no one. The man got up and grabbed a plate from the cupboard, then went back to the paper. She spooned out yuca into what I assume was my plate, and chorizo from a red frying pan.
—You the motherfucker who messed up my business, she said.
—Excuse me?
—Again with your excuse, excuse, excuse. Do you need to go potty?
The younger kid laughed.
—How does it hang?
—It’s how’s it hanging, Ma! Fuck!
—My muchachos, don’t think I talk English too good. I tell them I am businesswoman in America and I need to sound more American, right? Keep on truckin’.
—Righteous, Ma.
—Anyway, you—yes, I mean you, I’m talking to you. You the bitch who messed up my hit.
—I didn’t mean to. Your boy—
—That boy is historical.
—History, Ma!
—History. That boy is history. Got sloppy. Always happen when you give a job to a black-black. No discipline, no nothing, all they do is talk your business yap yap yap yappa-doodle. What he tell you?
—Nothing, really. Said he was going to wipe out a table full of some wetbacks—
—Mind your fucking mouth, putito.
—Sorry. Said he and his boys were going to wet some Cubans in the club. Tipped me off to get out of there. Told my buddy Paco that we got to go. He said he was going to warn his friend. Figured it was some bouncer or something, not some—
—Enough talking. Your side of the story is . . . not interesting. You know what’s interesting? Them maricones haven’t been in the same place in six months. Six months, honko.
—Honky, Ma, Jeezus sakes—
/> —Enough with your disrespect at the table, she said and pointed at the boy. He lipped up quick.
—Back to you. You know what I am? I am American businesswoman. You just cause me a lot of money. Lots and lots of cash. Now what I wanna know is what you plan to do about it.
—Me?
I bit into a yuca. Figured if this was my last meal it makes some sort of sense it would be breakfast. The sound of the TV finally drifted into the room, something about a forty-foot gorillillillillilaaaa! The man was still deep in the newspaper. I never thought anything interesting happened in Miami that somebody would sit down to read about it. But this was good yuca. Not that I’ve ever had yuca before, but this was a home-cooked meal and that must mean it was good, even though my ma’s food sucked.
She slapped me hard. Said something about me not paying attention, but the slap struck me fucking blind. I reached inside my jacket so quick I forgot I didn’t have a gun. Before the sting burned my fucking face, before Griselda pulled back with a hot pan full with oil ready to strike, before I jumped up and the chair fell backward, before I could even call her a motherfucking cunt son of a mangy wetback bitch, I heard the clicks. Five, ten and fifteen all at once. I couldn’t remember when the Hawaiian Shirts came into the kitchen but there they were. And the man in the brown suit. And the man at the kitchen table. And the older boy, all looking at me with the same furrowed brow, all pointing guns at me, 9mm’s and Glocks and even a six-shooter with a white ivory handle. I raised my hands.
A Brief History of Seven Killings Page 50