A Deeper Love Inside: The Porsche Santiaga Story

by Sister Souljah

  He walked to the driver side and opened my door, saying nothing. I tossed my left leg out first, turned my body and stood up. He followed me around to the passenger side backseat, saying nothing. I could feel the heat from his body. He opened the door for me. I entered and sat comfortably. He was, after all, the only man who came for me when I was locked down. He was the man who saved my twins, when I myself failed to save them. Not to forget, that he was the first man to ever rescue me and my sisters after my mother was shot in her face back when I was seven. He had covered up the incident to protect my young heart and ears, telling us only that my momma had an accident and would recover soon. For three or four days, he was our only protection. I remember, remembered, and was remembering.

  I was thinking about how to think about him. Is he the hero or the villain? Or is he so clever, seductive, and disarming, that he was both? How did he become the main player? Why did he seem so paid? How come he was the last man standing in what was described as a one hundred-million-dollar empire? Should I allow myself to react naturally to his hypermasculinity as any woman would? Or should I squash that feeling and interact with him as my sister’s stepfather, which strangely, would make him a father figure to me also?

  He changed the radio station, which accelerated my feelings. Now Maxwell was singing: The volume was low, which made it sweet and arousing. Suddenly I began thinking about how as I traveled through the United States and toured through Europe, restraining myself was simple. At home now, the closer I get to Elisha, the more open and sexual my feelings and thoughts become. Private, sensitive, and personal parts of myself that had been paralyzed by grief were awakening.

  Now my eyes were back onto my regal driver.

  Midnight had to be about twenty-nine years young, not too much over that, if any. Not even double my age, I guessed. Could I seriously shift myself and view him as a father? Maybe I should test him.

  As a dancer, I had encountered many men who tried to get at me, despite the difficulty of the task. I had two big bodyguards outside of my dressing room and at all rehearsals and performances. One was a huge Samoan, the other a bonafide well-fed, overgrown black man. I was well hidden and secured, a minor in the “major leagues,” so to speak. I was working in casinos where liquor I wasn’t even old enough to look at was served around the clock. Most importantly, I didn’t want none of those men to be successful in getting at me, not even for only a lustful close-up or stare, an autograph or “accidental” touch, or a private dance or a photograph or even a conversation. I was, and am, a sixteen-year-old virgin who had laid down naked body to body, who had been touched up passionately, caressed, kissed, and even sucked and licked by only one man, Elisha Immanuel, and my heart, mind, and body belonged exclusively to him. I could cum, and many lonely nights I did, just recalling the sensation and feeling and touch of Elisha. I could imagine so deeply it would be as though he was breathing in my ear, tongue swirling in my mouth, fingers pressing on my pleasure button. I could cum simply anticipating the night when he would finally push into me with full hardness and intent and a love that made my nerves tingle and then erupt.

  Being that I was sure of my man, and our love, it was nothing but pure sport watching other men go crazy over me. I’d sit at my dressing room vanity table opening up their cards and gifts, looking over their fruit baskets, candies, and bouquets of flowers sent over directly. I’d even receive jewels that I swiftly sent back, including a 10-karat diamond wedding ring from a prince from a country named Qatar, that I never even heard of and doubt existed. Jewels were always intimate to me, only to be accepted from blood or from someone I loved who wanted to become my king.

  I had rejected NBA jerseys from off of the backs of NBA players who had a thing for gambling, who happened upon my show. I tossed VIP tickets in the trash from celebrities who wanted to mix it up with me.

  I could look at any of these men eye to eye and measure the intensity of their desire without experiencing any feelings of my own. I’d be laughing on the inside, once I knew for sure that they had already been informed, quietly and repeatedly, that I was underage. I knew and I could tell that they didn’t care. There would be this glint in their eye that spoke to me, “C’mon, little girl, how much for me to fuck you one good time?”

  Mr. Sharp had prepared me well. “Your beauty is bait. Don’t let ’em touch. As soon as you do, your value decreases immediately.” So I didn’t.

  Would Midnight look at me with that glint in his eye? How good is he? Could he see me as his daughter? I wanted to know that for starters, so I could move beyond the whole man-woman thing, to the business at hand.

  He looked back, finally. Didn’t move his neck an inch. He was using the rearview mirror I was using to watch him, to watch me. He had an unusual gaze, hard to read. It wasn’t the usual look I got from men who looked into my unusually colored eyes, fell in, and drowned. His eyes returned to the road.

  “Where are we going?” I broke the silence between us.

  “First stop is to get you into some clothes. You and I have some unfinished situations. Should I buy you something new, or would you like to give me your address?”

  I rolled my eyes and turned my head, looking out of my window.

  “Buy me something new,” I said. I don’t know why.

  Parked on Fifth Avenue in Manhattan, he exited the car and locked me inside with the windows slightly dashed. I didn’t resist, just sat calmly thinking. Why did he wait for me at the graveyard? Where did he send the twins and his entourage? Why did he feel the need to drive with me in my car, and alone?

  Forty-two minutes later, he opened the opposite back door. He put the purchases, which were hanging on hangers in the hanger cases on the hook and set a shopping bag on the floor.

  Parked along a tree-lined sidewalk at Central Park East, Midnight got out saying he’d wait while I got dressed.

  “Why not the presidential suite?” I asked him.

  “Checked out this morning,” he said.

  “How do you know if these clothes will fit me?” I asked.

  “They’ll fit. I looked at you first. Everybody can see you,” he said calmly. Behind tinted windows, I pulled off the white minidress and stilettos.

  Unzipping the hanger bag, I found a pistachio-colored silk dress by Fendi. It was soft, feminine, and very pretty. Midnight liked women to be feminine and men to be men, I thought to myself. Then I also saw the pants. Checking the labels and tags, I could see the two pieces were not made as a set, although to the artistic eye they could work and blend nicely. It only took me half a second to decide that he wanted me in a dress and pants, covered like the Arabian chicks.

  The outfit was high-quality and it worked. The designer pants hugged my hips perfectly. I wondered how could he know? So many clothes don’t give way for the beauty of hips. I wouldn’t say so, but I was impressed, even more so when I opened the Jimmy Choo shoebox.

  I knew I looked good, clean, and rich. I also knew that none of this was what mattered most.

  “What’s next?” I asked him, my voice calling out to him through his slightly dashed driver-side backseat window.

  “Do you have a cell phone?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I replied. He nodded his head to say that I should leave it in the car. I removed my cell phone and also had laid my handbag on the floor hidden beneath the shopping bag. He came around, opened the back door for me and extended his hand to help me out. We walked together beneath the blue sky and afternoon sun against the beauty of Central Park.

  “Sit down,” he said, pointing out a bench with his nod.

  “Can we walk towards the carousel?” I asked him. He nodded.

  “Are you okay?” he asked me, walking.

  “I’m good . . . enough,” I said, forcing a smile then dropping my head a bit.

  “I regret that it had to be the passing of your mother that finally brought us together,” he said, sounding sincere.

  “It was a long journey with Momma and me,” I said. “Not
hing was sudden. When I got that call, I felt sorrow, but I wasn’t shocked.” Then silence fell between us, but nature still sang its song.

  “I have some questions for you and some information,” he said, facing forward instead of looking into my eyes. “My questions, your answers and the information we share is only for me and you. If you ever repeat it, you’re on your own. I won’t confirm it,” he said.

  “Then why are you asking and why are you telling?”

  “I’m asking for my own satisfaction. I’m telling, for your satisfaction, safety, and for your freedom,” he said. Then he added, “If you don’t want to answer my questions and you don’t want to know the information, tell me now.” He stopped walking. “I’ll take you back to your car. We’ll go our separate ways and there will be no reason for me to return or to search for you, or to look back any further.” I looked at his handsome profile. Each of his words were spoken with 100 percent certainty. He must feel good about himself. Unlike most of us, he didn’t entertain, or make space for even a speck of self-doubt.

  Standing at six-two, I took his words as a threat. He has my twins, so of course me and him needed to stay in touch. I had not “buried” the twins. They never abandoned me. They are innocent in all of this. I knew it would take some time to heal their feelings towards me, their big sister. I wanted to make it happen though, naturally.

  “It’s closed,” I said, pointing to the carousel.

  A hundred-dollar bill, crisp and clean as though he had made it himself, eased from beneath his gold money clip, exchanged hands, and the carousel began to spin.

  “Lift me up, please,” I asked him sweetly. “I’ll feel better if you let me ride. Besides, you paid for it.” I smiled. He placed both hands on my waist and lifted me onto the painted horse, which would normally bore me if Midnight were not the one beside me. He seated me sideways and ladylike. Out of some type of respect, I didn’t throw one leg around the other side of the horse like I would’ve if I were back on the reservation. Midnight leaned against a still horse, facing me, as my horse moved up and down.

  “Okay, ask me.” I smiled. “If it’s about me, I’ll tell you honestly. If it’s about anyone else, I won’t.”

  “Why have you agreed?” he asked strangely.

  “For my own satisfaction, for my safety, and my freedom,” I said, using his words on him. Some carnival music interrupted us. I rode round and round, up then down as he stood, still guarding over me.

  “Thank you so much. I feel much calmer. Please help me down,” I said. He did.

  Beneath a wide oak whose branches hovered over a small curved bridge that looked like it belonged in a fairy tale, we were paused in heavy conversation. We each held a bottle of water, which he purchased for us.

  “This world is confusing, isn’t it?” he said, leaning on the railing thoughtfully.

  “Yes.” I definitely agreed.

  “And no one is who they say they are, are they?” he asked, but it also sounded like a confession.

  “True,” I agreed.

  “And that includes you and I . . .,” he said with certainty.

  “Yes.” I exposed myself.

  “And there are more liars than truth tellers, right or wrong,” he stated.

  “Right.”

  “Still, some people are good, and others are evil,” he said.

  “More evil than good,” I said sincerely.

  “I’ve been looking for you for eight years. If you were hiding, you did an incredible job. Your father asked me to find you and give you a good life. For three years, I was searching for you for him. For the following five years up until now, I’ve been searching for you out of a certain amount pride and disbelief,” he said. He paused, then he admitted to me, “You were the only person who I ever searched for, but never found.”

  “I’m right here. You got me,” I said, trying to lighten it up some.

  “I know you must’ve been somewhere feeling a deep sense of anger, the kind that strangles you so tightly that you feel prevented from doing anything else.” He had my full seriousness now. He was describing my exact feelings.

  “Anything else like what?” I asked him. I wanted to feel more from him.

  “The most important things; like being free, being able to say the truth out loud when you feel like it, loving someone, getting married, having children, feeling safe, having peace of mind and heart. The things everybody should have, true?” he asked, turning towards me, but I knew he was sure, and that it wasn’t a question.

  “Yes,” I said, and I meant it.

  “It’s an anger so thorough and complete that it turns into obsession so strong that you can’t move on to anything else,” he said. I wondered, how could he possibly know?

  “Yes,” I agreed.

  “That anger pushes you to do things, and to say things that no one within your reach in your world can ever understand,” he said.

  “Yes!” I screamed out into the trees. I pictured Momma when I had her cuffed, and how she never understood that I was angry about what was happening with her, but everything I did to her, I did it for love. “Yes,” I said again more calmly. He didn’t react, instead stayed smoothed out like the coolest man in the world.

  “The less they understand, the deeper the anger runs within you. Then it appears to everyone else to be insanity,” Midnight said calmly.

  “Yes.” I thought of Momma cursing me, threatening to kill me. I thought of the warden, the guards, my teachers. My angriest tears boiled up warming my hot cheeks and spilling down my face.

  “Then there is your need to have someone who is regarded as sane, respectable, and important, to admit to you that you have been seriously wronged,” he said. I gasped.

  “The more the sane and professional adults deny that you have been wronged, and that their system is wrong, and that your instincts and reactions were normal in light of the wrongs that they did to you, but won’t admit to, the deeper your anger moves in, separating you from everyone else.”

  “Yes,” I said almost silently. The taste of my tears was on my tongue.

  “Where is St. Katherine’s Group Home?” he asked, and I was humbled.

  “22-15 Suphtin Blvd. in Queens.”

  “How long were you there?”

  “Two months.”

  “Who is Lucy Jackson?”

  “Foster care lady.”

  “How long were you with her?”

  “Three days.”

  “Why did you leave?”

  “Her husband was a pervert. He tried to show me something nasty,” I said, trembling.

  “Who is Evelyn Sandstone?”

  “Foster care parent.”

  “How long were you there?”

  “Five days.”

  “Why did you leave?”

  “Her son was an abuser. He tied me to a chair in his room when no one was looking.”

  “Who is Bernice Wilkins?”

  “Foster care parent.”

  “How long was you with her?”

  “Four days.”

  “Why did you leave?”

  “She was a drunk who wouldn’t feed us.”

  Who is Mrs. Griswaldi?”

  “Caseworker.”

  “What happened with her?”

  “I stabbed her with a pencil. She got paralyzed.”

  “Were you convicted?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sentenced?”

  “Yes.”

  “How long?”

  “Eight years.”

  “Where?”

  “New York State Juvenile Prison for Violent Girls, Upstate New York.”

  “How long were you there?”

  “Two years, 297 days,” I said, and I could even give him the count on the hours, minutes, and seconds.

  “What happened on July 20, 1996?”

  “I left the NYS Juvenile Prison for Violent Girls.”

  “Where did you go?”

  “I escaped.”

  “Where did you g
o?” he asked again. I didn’t answer. I remained silent.

  “What happened on July 20, 1996?” he asked again.

  “I escaped and been on my own since then,” I told him. It didn’t matter how many times he asked that question. Pressed or tortured, I would never reveal NanaAnna. A promise is a promise.

  He stayed silent for a while. He was so still. But I could see his mind moving. I appreciated the energy and feeling and concern he was showing me simply by concentrating so hard and trying to decipher my roller-coaster life. He had been searching for me for eight years! So many other people seemed so comfortable not knowing anything about what was happening to me.

  “Who is Edith Kates?” he asked surprisingly and suddenly. Of course I remembered her.

  “New York Daily News reporter,” I said.

  “Why is she looking for you?” he asked.

  “I wrote her a letter,” I said.

  “When?”

  “March 1996.”

  “About what?” he pushed.

  “About a nasty news article that she wrote about my father.”

  “What is the Kennedy-Claus facility?” He asked

  “Don’t know,” I said.

  “Have you ever been there?” he asked.

  “Never.”

  “Has anyone ever mentioned the place to you? Do you know anyone else who went there? Think about it before you answer,” he said.

  “Never, I’m one hundred percent,” I said.

  “Has anybody hurt you?”

  “Only my feelings,” I said.

  “Are you sure? Did anyone put their hands on you?” he pressed.

  “No, I mean I been cuffed and trapped. But no one violated me like that, just messed with my head. They do that to everybody on lockdown,” I said.

  I could see his jaw flinch. I liked this exact feeling. It was like if I had said someone had hurt me, and said their name, that person would suddenly lose their life. That was rare energy. That was extremely arousing to me.

  “Where did you get that car?” he asked.

  “I bought it.”

  “How?”

  “With money I earned.”