Pretty Kings

by T. Styles

  RACE KENNEDY

  The first thing my husband did for me was kill a man. I can’t say it was my idea of romance, but I do know I loved him harder for it.

  Warm water from my shower runs down my body. Now I can smell the fragrance of the banana candles I lit all over my room, instead of my own body waste. When I learned Ramirez was killed, I lost control of my bowels in my bed.

  What am I going to do? Who is going to hold me when another hurricane comes through Maryland, and brings down the trees in my yard? Who is going to speak up for me when my voice feels weak and I can’t say what’s on my mind? And, who is going to love me? Who is going to protect me?

  I step out of the shower after rinsing the feces off my body. The soiled sheets lay next to my bathroom door for me to burn outside later. After my shower, I slip into the tub of warm water waiting on me, so that I can get my mind right. If I try hard enough, I wonder if I can drown myself.

  I want to test the theory so I slip deeper into the water. First my shoulders are covered, followed by my neck and shoulder length hair. Under water, I open my eyes and can see the cream and gold celling in my bathroom. My eyes burn a little but I don’t care.

  Ramirez wherever you are, I’m coming with you.

  ****

  5 Years Earlier

  While most twenty year old girls shopped at high fashion shoe stores, Race Anthony’s favorite place to shop was Mostly Monster, a special effects store in Washington DC. Race designed special effect prosthetics for several independent moviemakers. She was so good, that several large movie production companies in Hollywood approached her about relocating. But her Harvard graduate parents, Cindy and Bill Anthony, prevented her from pursuing her dreams in the hopes that she would return to Harvard, for a degree in law. To spite them, Race dropped out of college all together and never went back.

  Race was walking out of the store with two large buckets of liquid silicone, dangling from her hands. Race hustled toward her black pickup truck so that she could lift the heavy buckets up and put them inside. Standing 5’5 without heels, her plan was starting to feel easier said than done. She was doing a mold, for a rock band of a large, vagina, and it was due tomorrow morning.

  The buckets of liquid silicone were heavier than she imagined and she dropped one of them down. Luckily it didn’t tilt over. The top fell off, and she placed it back on haphazardly. Moving to her truck again, she saw a black Range Rover pull up in front of her pick up truck. The driver parked, hopped out, and smiled at Race who was walking in his direction.

  Although a shorty, Race was extremely beautiful. It didn’t matter that she dumbed down her sex appeal to prevent anyone from taking interest in her. Mainly because she felt like nerds didn’t deserve love. Besides, she had loved once and it was the scariest moment of her life.

  “Damn, cutie,” Mr. Range Rover said leaning on his car, and activating his alarm. “You need help?”

  “I’m fine,” she replied although the top had fallen off of the silicone again. She decided to get the buckets into her truck, and walk back to grab the top and place it on later. “Thank you anyway.”

  But, the moment Race stepped to her truck; the bucket without the top toppled out of her hand. The white silicone tilted to the side, and splashed onto the new shiny Range Rover. The driver’s expression turned from lust to anger in less than a second when he observed the condition of his leased ride.

  What neither the driver or Race knew was that a few cars up the block sat Ramirez in his black BMW. He was waiting for his girlfriend Diamond to come out of the hair salon. The moment he saw Race leave the shop his heart skipped a beat.

  Ramirez Kennedy remembered Race clearly, because they went to high school together, and he was always attracted to her. But, because Race was considered awkward, and he was dealing with Diamond, the chick in the salon, he could never tell her about his feelings. Unlike meek Race, Diamond was loud, tough and a gold digger. Race on the other hand was quiet, and chose to wear plain clothing, despite her mother and father being financially able to buy her any designer label she chose.

  In high school Race use to get picked on and laughed at because of her large blue glasses and above-average intelligence. Ironically the main reason for Race’s dismay in high school was Ramirez’s girlfriend.

  One day Diamond took to making fun of Race in front of Ramirez, and he was turned off. It happened when Race was coming out of the school’s office after learning she was valedictorian. Diamond was so overcome with hate that she slapped the books out of Race’s hand with Ramirez standing right next to her. When Race bent down to pick up her books, Diamond kicked her in the stomach repeatedly. From the floor Race looked to Ramirez for help but he didn’t do anything. He never forgave himself for not taking up for Race and denying what he felt in his heart. Fuck Diamond, he wanted Race, but it never happened.

  “Bitch, why the fuck didn’t you watch where you were going?” Mr. Range Rover yelled at Race. “What you need stronger glasses or something?”

  Race examined the splatter which was hardening, all on the side of his truck. “I’m so sorry. I’ll pay for it. I promise.”

  “That ain’t gonna be enough, bitch.” He stepped to her and grabbed a wad of her hair. “Because, you fucked up my ride, it means I’ll be out of commission while it’s repaired for at least a week. Who gonna pay for my time, and inconvenience?”

  Race was so scared that she felt faint. When she felt it couldn’t get any worse, Mr. Range Rover crashed into her face with his fist, knocking her out cold.

  Two days later Race was in the hospital with her jaw wired. When she looked around her room, there wasn’t an available space on the table. Red rose arrangements were everywhere and she wondered where they came from. She didn’t have a boyfriend and her parents believed that spending money on flowers was wasteful spending.

  When Race turned the TV on, the first thing she saw took her breath away. The man, who hit her in the jaw, causing her mouth to be wired, was murdered. His body was found in a dumpster behind a gay bar in DC with the word punk written on his forehead. Instead of being frightened Race was relieved. Mainly, because she didn’t know if Mr. Range Rover would come for her after she got out of the hospital. Besides, if Mr. Range Rover was alive, she didn’t have anybody to protect her out in the world. She was frightened all of the time, and all alone. His death gave her peace.

  As Race wondered who could’ve killed him, her question was answered when Ramirez walked inside of the doorway to her hospital room. “How you feeling?” He asked with sad eyes. “In much pain?”

  Because, she couldn’t speak she nodded instead. Her heart rate sped up because he was one of her secret crushes all throughout high school. Race knew she didn’t have a chance because of his beautiful girlfriend Diamond. Not only that, Ramirez never spoke to her prior to this moment. So what was he doing there?

  “I saw what happened a few days ago,” he cleared his throat. “And I’m sorry you gotta go through this shit.” He looked around the room. “Only a weak as nigga would do a bitch like that.” When she tried to speak again he said, “Don’t do that. I don’t want you to hurt yourself.” He paused. “One of my biggest regrets was going with my mind and not my heart. In high school I was a weak ass kid unable to make decisions for myself. But I’m not a kid anymore, Race and from here on out, I vow to always protect you. I promise you now, no matter what, I will always be there for you. And I will always come back to you.”

  The rest was history when a few years later, he made her his wife and moved her into the Kennedy home along with Bambi and Scarlett.

  ****

  I realize killing myself at the moment isn’t going to work, so I pulled myself from the bathtub, threw on a black and gold Victoria Secret velour pants set, and called my parents. I didn’t have the best relationship with them but it wasn’t because I didn’t want to be closer. The reason we didn’t get along was all on them. No matter what I did, I could never convince my mother that not going
to Harvard because I wanted to stay here to pursue my dream in special effects makeup was my decision, not Ramirez’s. Anything gone wrong in my life was his fault to hear them tell it, and now I was going to have to tell them that he was dead.

  I sit on the edge of the bed and make the call. “Hi, Mommy. It’s me, Race.”

  “How are you, sweetheart?” My mother asks. “Is everything okay? You sound terrible.”

  “I’m fine,” I tell her. When I hear my father pick up the other line like he always does when I call, I sigh. Not two damn parents at the same damn time. “Hi, Daddy...how are you?”

  “Race, what is your mother talking about?” He yells. “That drug dealer didn’t hurt you did he?”

  “Daddy, no! Ramirez would never hurt me,” I say in a frustrated tone. Especially now. I think. Because he’s dead. “All he ever did was love me, daddy. Why would you even think something like that?”

  “Honey, why don’t you come home?” My mother continues. “You sound so sad right now and I want to take care of you. Did you lose your bowels again?”

  “Ma, no!” I’m so embarrassed right now.

  “Your old room is still available and you can have it. I’ll put on your favorite movies, make you some fried chicken and your favorite Hot Colonial Rum drink without the rum. I’ll do whatever I have to; I just want you to come home. Bill, make her come home,” she cries to my father.

  “She’s right, sweetheart,” my father says, “after all you’re still an Anthony and Anthony’s stick together. If you’re going through a tough time we will support you.”

  The moment he says I’m an Anthony I grow angrier. “No, daddy, I’m not an Anthony. I haven’t been one for some time now. My name is Race Kennedy, and the sooner you remember that will be the moment we can have a relationship. I’ll call you both later. Bye.”

  I didn’t tell my parents Ramirez was dead because I didn’t want to go home. Although I’m an adult now, they have a way of making me feel guilty, and before long, my bags would be packed and I would be in my old room at their house wearing my old Strawberry Shortcake pajamas again. They don’t treat me like a woman. They treat me like the mousy girl who can’t make decisions on her own. I hate that about them, mainly because in the back of my mind, I think they are right.

  But I still need support right now from an outside source. I love my sisters-in-law more than anything in the world, but sometimes they don’t understand me either. They think I’m just some weird girl in the basement making horror masks, and that I don’t have feelings. That’s a lie and it’s untrue. They don’t get how it really is to love Ramirez the way that I do, but his girlfriend Carey does.

  I know it’s creepy, and some may not be able to handle this but I was aware of Ramirez’s relationship with Carey from the gate. She is a sweet girl who he met with me when Ramirez and I went to a club a couple of summers ago. Carey is a stripper at Smack Back strip club in Washington, D.C, and Ramirez and me are her best customers. Carey is the best because we both fuck my husband and we both love him. Me and Carey’s bond with Ramirez makes me love her even more.

  I’m about to call Carey to tell her Ramirez is dead when Bambi burst through my door and yells, “Don’t call anybody yet. We have to talk first.”

  DENIM KENNEDY

  I loved my husband harder than my sister; I guess that’s why I took him from her. And, now he’s gone. Is his death my karma?

  As I lie in the bed, with my eyes closed, I’m disgusted when I feel the seat of my four-year-old daughter’s urine soaked pamper rub against my face. I take it from her, sit up straight and lift her into my arms. Naked from the waist down, she stiffens under my grasp and babbles like she normally does. I hold onto her tighter, rock her back and forth and cry. We lost the best thing that ever happened to us yesterday.

  I cry harder now because I won’t get to love Bradley more than I already do. I cry because Jasmine will never know the type of wonderful father he could be to her. And I cry because I thought we would be forever.

  Although I’m weeping, Jasmine’s babbling has gotten louder. She’s autistic and it’s hard to connect with her. When I talk to her, I feel like I’m talking to a doll.

  Jasmine doesn’t make eye contact. She doesn’t respond when I call her name, and she seems preoccupied with herself at all times. But every now and again, although rare, she’ll do something to make me think there is hope for her. Like when she wipes my face with her pamper to let me know she needs to be changed. Or when I’m making her breakfast, and turn around, only to see her staring at me. But whenever I try to teach her something new, she doesn’t respond and will break out into a temper tantrum.

  I take Jasmine to our bathroom. I run a tub of warm water, undress us both, and we sit inside. She’s in front of me and I’m looking into her eyes. She’s occupied with the pink soap bar and I want her so badly to focus on me.

  “Jasmine,” I say softly, “Your daddy is dead. What are we going to do now?”

  Jasmine babbles like she usually does and places the bar of soap over her little lips. I take it from her and ask her again. This time she slaps the water repeatedly, and I try hard not to be mad at her. I give her back the soap and she quiets down.

  Why do I hate her slightly in this moment? God, please forgive me for this feeling. I want her to grieve like I do, because her father is dead. At least then I would know that she’s alive. Why did God give me a baby who can’t love me back? All of the medicine and therapy we give her doesn’t make her respond. And, I hate her for it. But, I hate myself the most for feeling this way.

  After I wash us up, I pick her up and walk to the bedroom. Bradley’s blue baseball cap is on the dresser, where he left it right before he went to LA. I pick it up and place it on Jasmine’s head. She throws it off and plays with her fingers instead. She doesn’t understand what she just did. She doesn’t care. Suddenly I’m jealous of her and wish I could feel nothing too.

  After getting us both dressed, my phone rings. It’s my mother, and I sigh. My mother is 550 pounds and confined to the bed due to her size. She can’t do anything for herself. When she needs a sponge bath, I wash her flesh. When she needs groceries, I pack her refrigerator. When she needs medicine, I buy it. When she needs someone to talk to, because the perverted men who love large women keep breaking her heart, I console her. It doesn’t matter that my older sister Grainger lives there and doesn’t do a thing but take advantage of both of us.

  “Ma, I can’t talk right now,” I say trying to slide Jasmine’s red sweater over her head. When Jasmine doesn’t release her fingers so I can put it on, I separate them. She screams loudly until I’m done. When her sweater is on she plays with her fingers again. “What’s up, mama?”

  “What’s wrong with my granddaughter?” She asks breathing hard into the phone. She’s so big that the weight presses against her lungs making it difficult for her to breathe. Not only that, she also has diabetes and Kidney disease but she still won’t eat right. “And how come you don’t let me spend time with her? I haven’t seen Jasmine in over a week. Every time you and Bradley come to visit, ya’ll tell me one of your sisters-in-law has her.”

  “Ma, the last time I let you keep Jasmine she got into the ammonia under the kitchen sink. Do you remember that? Had I not come back when I did, she could’ve drunk it and died. I would’ve murdered everybody over there including you. Now if you can’t even get out of the bed, you can’t watch her.”

  “Grainger was here,” she says. “She was supposed to help me. You know that.”

  “Well Grainger doesn’t give a fuck about me! She doesn’t even like her niece.”

  My mother starts crying. Something she always does when she doesn’t get her way. “You hate me! You hate me just because I can’t get out of the bed. If Grainger wasn’t here I would probably die.”

  “To this day you take Grainger’s side when she can’t even stand you.”

  “Don’t say that, Grainger is just sick and she needs help.”
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  “Grainger is on heroin, ma,” I yell at her. “That’s not sick. That’s selfish.”

  “Well we aren’t talking about Grainger. We talking about you and I’m calling because I need your help,” she cries louder.

  “Ma, please stop crying,” I rub my throbbing temples. I contemplate telling her that Bradley is dead, but for some reason, I decide against it. She would probably cry harder, make his death about her to get attention, and I don’t need that right now. “I’ll bring Jasmine over later to see you okay? I’m sorry for yelling at you, ma. I’m just going through a tough time. Now stop it.”

  She blows her nose and the noise is so loud I feel like she’s doing it in my ear. “Thank you, Denim. I don’t know what I would do without you.”

  I sigh. “It’s fine, Ma. Now what do you need?”

  “I asked Grainger to get my medicine for my diabetes and some ice cream, but she don’t have no money right now. Can you get it for me?”

  All I want to do is stay in my bed, but if I don’t help her, Grainger won’t. Remembering how much I despise my sister and her conniving ways, also reminds me of Bradley and how we fell in love.

  ****

  5 Years Earlier

  Denim Cotton watched as her sister Grainger pulled her panties out of the drawer and onto the floor on the hunt for her 9-millimeter handgun.

  Denim stood in the doorway horrified for a few reasons. Number one she didn’t want her sister getting locked up, and number two she loved Bradley and didn’t want him hurt, despite the fact that Bradley was Grainger’s boyfriend, and not hers.

  When Grainger found the silver handgun, she loaded and cocked the weapon. She made a move for the doorway but Denim blocked her path. Bradley was in the living room unaware that his life was in danger.

  “Grainger, why are you about to shoot him?” Denim asked. “Bradley loves you and he doesn’t deserve this.”

  “Because, I know the nigga is stepping out on me,” Grainger explained trying to push Denim out of the way. “He only comes over here once a week, and when he does stop by he doesn’t stay long. I can’t even remember the last time we fucked.”