Third Girl from the Left

by Martha Southgate

  9

  IN 1973, CHEAPLY MADE ACTION FILMS STARRING black actors, which had commonly come to be known as blaxploitation movies, earned millions of dollars. So much so that it was widely said around town that blaxploitation was keeping certain studios afloat. Only a tiny percentage of this money ended up in the pockets of black people in the industry; almost all of the producers and directors were white. That year, Angela Edwards earned $7,000, and that was mostly through Bunny work. Sheila earned $10,000, but she kept on fucking Bert Schneider, hoping it would lead to a part. It didn’t, but she explained her continued relationship with Schneider this way: “You know, Ange,” Sheila said one night as she eased her shoulders under Angela’s gentle hands. The breeze coming through the window smelled of car exhaust. “I actually kind of like the guy. He scores great coke and he makes me laugh.” She paused. “And he loves going down on me. But he doesn’t do it as well as you do.” They both smiled. Angela gave Sheila’s shoulders a little squeeze.

  Angela was getting tired. At first, she’d thought that small parts would lead to bigger ones, more fucking would lead to less fucking, or at least the room to be more discriminating. With Rafe it was good. With Sheila it was better. With everyone else it was something to do, a way to score coke or relax or try to get a part.

  But she looked the tiniest bit used up. It wasn’t even that much fun anymore. Her eyes felt like smooth black rocks. She had thought acting would be a way to get inside the glow she always used to feel at the Dreamland. She thought that this work would let her make something real, be seen for someone real. But now she’d been doing it and doing it and it turned out that there was only one thing they wanted to see. And so she was hard-pressed to keep her clothes on in a scene, let alone speak.

  Since the high of Coffy, that glorious fight scene, that glorious party, that glorious day, her life had fallen into an unvarying rhythm. She kept working at the club, so most of her days were free. She auditioned four days a week (got her hair and nails done on Fridays). She read Variety and The Hollywood Reporter religiously. Nights before work, she went to Rafe’s on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday (unless he was shooting late), and spent Tuesday and Wednesday with Sheila. The weekend nights were for producers, the days spent with Sheila. Sometimes she came to Rafe or Sheila after a producer and he or she, depending, would hold her while she cried, or get high with her. Sheila was going through the same thing. She’d been a little bit luckier, but not a lot. They were both on the pill. They had to be careful to get different color cases so they didn’t start taking each other’s. Sheila’s case was purple, Angela’s pink. One day, in the bathroom, after carefully applying her false eyelashes and lipstick, she picked up her pink case, her mind completely blank, as it so often was these days, and opened it. There were her pills for the last two days. Sitting in the case. How the fuck did that happen? Her throat constricted. What happened if you missed two days? She hadn’t missed two days fucking. She’d been with Rafe last night and the Friday before that—no producer this week. Christ. She took today’s pill, her heart pounding. The two untaken rested in the case, looking at her like stony white eyes. She drank more water. It burned her throat. She looked at herself in the mirror. Beautiful. She was always beautiful. Why was she so scared?

  Sheila knocked on the door. “Come on, Angie, get a move on.”

  “Coming.” She ran a hand over her flat stomach. “Coming.”

  Sheila didn’t notice anything. They were going to a premiere and she was giddy and high with the moment, plus a little speed. She talked nonstop. Angela didn’t say anything, only looked out the car window, seeing those two pills nestled accusingly in their slots. “Do you have a joint, Sheil?”

  “Sure. Look in my bag.”

  Angela looked around, found a small half-smoked one, pushed in the cigarette lighter. Waited.

  “You OK, Angie Bangie?”

  “Yeah. I’m fine. Just a little tired, though.” She inhaled deeply, tried to let the joint do its restful work. But her stomach stayed knotted. She could feel small dark claws tearing at the inside of her head. But she tried to ignore them, smiled and took Sheila’s hand.

  Of course, she was pregnant. Remarkably, it had never happened before. But she knew it, even though she tried to act like she didn’t. She missed her period, her breasts started hurting all the time, she felt like crying half the time. One night she got in the car and drove the streets, looking for an open fried-chicken joint. She had to have some chicken that minute or die trying to get it. A couple of days later, she started throwing up.

  She kept going to work. She could still fit into the costume, still do the required Bunny dip when serving drinks, was still able to stand all night, only resting on the edges of things. She still glowed, beautiful, some nights, but not every night. Not the way she used to. Sometimes, after her shift, she lay in bed, her breath shallow, her hand resting on her stomach, wondering what would happen to her when she could no longer lean, do the Bunny dip, hide her belly or the motherhood to follow. What would she do when she was no longer herself alone?

  It would have been easy to have it taken care of. It was 1975. It was legal now. One or two phone calls or a shy admission to Sheila, who freely admitted having had two abortions and being more than ready to have another should she ever need to. Days went by. She didn’t say anything. She felt sick all the time, though she didn’t tell anyone. The girls were always talking in the locker room about who was best to take care of it. Somebody was always pregnant or getting over having been pregnant. Angela didn’t have to tell them about herself.

  “Well, you know, Doc Finkelstein over on Wilshire? He’ll fix you up just like that. Uses that, what’s it called?

  “Vacuum?”

  “No, girl, that little spoon. Damn, what is it? It’s some letters.”

  “D and C?”

  “Yeah, that’s it. You don’t bleed at all hardly. You can be back at work in two days.”

  “Mmm. I remember when that stuff used to damn near kill you.” This from Becky, one of the oldest Bunnies. “My friend Sarah got so messed up she won’t ever be able to have children.” The room went silent. “But now it’s all different,” Becky said after a while. “You can just walk into a clinic and take care of it now.” Becky had worked for Playboy so long it was hard to imagine her taking any interest in the world outside these flocked velvet walls. She’d given up trying to make it as an actress. She just worked her shift, did her thing, and went home. She violated the no-fraternizing rule as much as she could get away with, but none of her regular dates had become sufficiently infatuated with her to get her out of the business yet. She was thirty-two years old. Angela had to sit down as the conversation ended. No one said anything to her. Sheila gave her a sharp, appraising look but then finished squeezing into her shoes without comment.

  That night, on the way home, Sheila said, “So when were you gonna tell me? When you went into labor?”

  “What?”

  “Angie, I know you’re pregnant. Think I ain’t seen you running to the bathroom all hours?” She made a face. “Or heard you throwing up?” Sheila looked quickly away from the road at Angela. “You can hear that shit, you know.”

  Angela crossed her arms over her stomach and ducked her head to hide her eyes, which were suddenly full of tears. She let them fall. She could just barely feel the warmth through her jeans. “I thought if I didn’t . . .”

  “Didn’t what? If you acted like it wasn’t happening, it wouldn’t be?’

  Angela was silent.

  “Look. I’ve been where you are. We can take care of it. It’s not no big thing, just like the girls said it’s not.”

  Angela tightened her arms across her stomach. She looked out the window of the car, still crying. She had a sudden memory of being in church, her mother’s firm shoulder next to her, Mrs. Hamilton’s square brown neck and head, topped by a black straw hat, in front of her. All the things she’d done—slept with all these people, been Sheila’s lover all
this time, all these things. She was afraid of being a mother, but she was more afraid of what might happen to her if she didn’t have the baby. Maybe she’d have to keep begging for something she was never gonna get. Maybe she’d be punished. Maybe she was being punished now. What if she died trying to have an abortion? And it might be nice to have a baby: Someone she created. Someone she could always hold. A reason to stop auditioning. She was so tired. “How much does it cost to do it?” she said, her voice flat.

  “Usually it’s about two hundred dollars. I’ve had it done a couple of times.”

  She had that much socked away. Not a whole hell of a lot more, even with all the tip money. It just seemed to go in and go right back out again. She always looked good. But that cost money. Everything cost money. “Sheil, I could come up with that kind of money, but. . .” She drew a shuddering breath. “I just don’t know. I don’t know if I can do it.”

  They were almost home now. Sheila spun the wheel confidently. “You’d be giving up everything, you know. You ever seen any pregnant Bunnies? Or pregnant girls in these movies out here? And do you think Rafe wants a baby? I doubt it. He’s out here trying to get his break. Just like the rest of us.”

  Angela drew another breath. “I know.” They were in the parking lot now. Sheila turned off the car but didn’t open the door. Angela’s stomach leaped and rolled, but she knew things had changed. She wasn’t going to throw up anymore. She was just going to keep this slime at the back of her throat. “But what if I went ahead and kept going like this . . . and that break never comes? Maybe I’d be sorry.”

  Sheila pulled out a cigarette and lit it. “Well, girl, you better decide. You don’t have long. What are you, about six weeks along now?”

  “Yeah, that’s what the doctor said.”

  “OK then. You can’t go to the clinic after twelve—too dangerous. You need to make up your mind.” She blew a stream of smoke out, her eyes narrowing. Angela didn’t say anything. What was she going to say?

  One night when Angela was about sixteen, sometime after she lost her virginity, her father came home looking shadowed and beaten. Angela was setting the table slowly. She hated setting the table. She was thinking about Warren Beatty, which she spent a great deal of time doing. Her mother continued her usual efficient progress around the kitchen, from stove to counter to table. “Hey, Johnny Lee. Supper be ready in two shakes. How was your day?”

  “My day?” he said, his voice heavy. Mother and daughter both turned to look at him, startled by the rawness of his voice.

  “What is it, Johnny Lee?” her mother asked. Angela didn’t dare open her mouth. Her mother stood still, a casserole dish in her hand.

  “I had to help Doc Taber with the Montgomery girl today. Lord have mercy. What a mess.”

  Mildred put the casserole down on the table, went to her husband. “What do you mean, Johnny Lee? Help Doc Taber do what?”

  He sat down, heavily, wiped his sweating face. Angela suddenly felt very aware of the smell of meatloaf cooking. “Well, I guess I might as well tell this in front of Angie. She gon’ hear it ’round town anyway. And it’s something a girl like her oughta know. Hilda Montgomery was in the family way.”

  Mildred drew a sharp breath. Angela didn’t say anything, her mind briefly full of images of herself and Bobby Ware making love every chance they got. Hilda was the same age as her—she went around with Henry Wright. She always had his letter sweater draped over her shoulders. Her father was still talking “. . . so she tried to take care of it herself—must have been six or eight weeks along. She used a knitting needle.” He trailed off, was silent for a short while. “God almighty, what an unholy mess.”

  “Well, Johnny Lee, what’d the doctor need you for?” Angela’s mother asked, her voice shaking. She set down her spoon and folded her hands in her lap. Angela had the sense that they were shaking too.

  “Needed something to stop the bleeding. Nothing in his bag was workin’. Sent that boy, that Eddie that lives next door to him, over to get me from the store with some cotton wool and some alum. He used up every damn thing he had in his bag. But wasn’t nothin’ gonna save that girl.” He stopped again. “I ain’t never seen so much blood. Not even in the war. She musta bled out right there on the floor.” A harsh, sudden sob escaped him. “There wasn’t nothin’ we could do. Not a damn thing. You hear that, Angie?” Angela stood in the corner, gone to stone. “Couldn’t do a thing. Folks’ll be talkin’, but I want you to know what can really happen if you start messin’ around. You can end up dead. You understand me?” Suddenly he rose, and in two strides, stood directly in front of her, his face so close she could smell his grief-soured breath. “Dead. You got that?”

  “Yes, Daddy.” Her voice a whisper.

  “All right, then.” He left the room without another word, silence lying between mother and daughter. They never talked about it. But it lay between them. They sat together at Hilda’s funeral, her mother’s arm around Mrs. Montgomery’s heaving shoulders. When Angela walked up to Hilda’s coffin, she thought about how she’d known that girl all her life. Her face looked gray and waxy under the make-up. She had none of the beauty she used to possess. There was nothing of Henry’s in the coffin with her. She was wearing her best churchgoing dress. Angela stood there until the breath of the next mourner was on her neck. But Angela didn’t stop making love to Bobby. She just made damn sure he had a condom on every time he came anywhere near her.

  And now, here she was, pregnant by her own stupid mistake. She sometimes thought she should have just kept on with Sheila, and stopped with Rafe. Then nothing like this ever would have happened. Time went by. One week, then two. Sheila didn’t say anything, but Angela could feel her counting off the days, watching. Three months. It was too late now. Her pants were getting tighter. She could hardly fit into her Bunny costume anymore. One afternoon, a hot afternoon kind of like the one when they had cut their hair all those years before, they sat on the sofa, watching TV, legs entwined. “So you’re going to keep it,” Sheila said, her eyes not leaving the television screen.

  Angela didn’t look away either. “Yeah. I guess I am.”

  The room was quiet except for the yammer of the television for a moment. “Gonna tell Rafe?”

  “I guess I’d better.”

  “I guess you should. Let me know what he says.” Sheila sat up and rubbed Angela’s feet experimentally. Then her belly. “Well. My Angie Bangie a mama. How about that?”

  She went over to Rafe’s one night after this, maybe thirteen weeks along now. He’d been away on location for three weeks (his first location shoot), so she’d been able to avoid this moment. She had to pull over to the side of the road once to throw up for the first time in weeks. She lit a cigarette as she mounted the stairs to his apartment. This was a new habit. She never used to buy them, just take hits off the other girls’ cigs. She buzzed, walked in, but as Rafe went to kiss her, she turned her head away, afraid of what her breath must smell like.

  “What’s up, baby? You ain’t seen me in three weeks and you can’t give me a little sugar?”

  “Just not feeling sweet tonight, I guess.” She pushed past him to come in. He scowled but didn’t say anything. She went straight to the couch, picked up the wine he’d poured, drank. “I mean, I missed you and all, baby. I just had a bad day.”

  “Still, I ain’t seen you in three weeks and you’re all . . .”

  “All what?” She couldn’t stop the evil tone in her voice.

  Rafe closed his mouth, drew his lips into a tight line. Angela could almost see him deciding not to talk. She’d loved him so much once. “I don’t know, you just seem a little upset.”

  Angela leaned back on the couch, closed her eyes, and pressed her fingers into them until she saw the orange-red blood pulsing through. Nausea overcame her again. She leapt up and barely made it to the bathroom, leaving Rafe astonished on the couch. When she came out, shaky, angry, embarrassed, Rafe stared at her. “That’s right. I haven’t had my perio
d in thirteen weeks.” She almost screamed it. “Damn you. I don’t want your damn baby. I don’t want anybody’s damn baby.” She crumpled to her knees like a soul singer, the sobs she’d been keeping to herself suddenly pouring out. Rafe did not get up from the couch. He stared as her ragged voice filled the room. “Fuck you. All right, fuck you. I’m an actress, not a mother. I’m an actress.” Now she was screaming. Her eyes hurt. Her head hurt. She wanted Rafe to put his arms around her, but she thought she’d never ever be able to get up from the floor again if he did. She stopped screaming, looked right at him. He loved her, she knew suddenly. But not enough. And she didn’t love him enough either. He sat on the couch as she continued to kneel on the floor, scrubbing at her eyes with the heels of her hands like a child.

  Finally, he leaned forward, years older than he had been when she walked into the apartment. “You’re keeping it,” he said finally.

  Angela continued to kneel on the floor. “Yeah.”

  “Why, for God’s sake? Nobody gotta have a baby these days if they don’t want to.” His voice cracked, broken.

  “I just . . . I don’t know. It ain’t anything wrong with having an abortion, but . . . I’m scared to have the operation. I couldn’t decide. I been feeling like nothing’s gonna happen for me in the business anyway. Like maybe it’s time to make a change . . . I didn’t mean for this to be the change I made, but . . . sometimes stuff just happens.”

  He stood up and went to the big window that overlooked the parking lot. “Yeah, stuff happens. But this . . . I’m not gonna be a daddy. I’ll tell you that right now.”

  Angela eased up off her knees but not off the rug. She pulled her legs up under her chin, fetal position. “I didn’t think you would be. I wasn’t even sure I was going to tell you. Sheila thought I should.”

  “Sheila.” His back was still to her.

  “Yeah.”