by Maya Rossi
I had the most fun preparing for the date. Merrick gave us money to make our hair and buy clothes. I.J convinced me to fix my nails, I made it really short so I could do house chores. I waved it around so much Merrick laughed at me.
At the shack, we sat around on plastic chairs talking and drinking. It was my first time out like this, and I was beside myself with excitement. Many patrons stopped to greet Merrick or discuss a business or land matter.
When the music came on, I.J dragged me to my feet. She looked good in her simple gown and sneakers. Her make up was light and her smile glorious. We were having a great time when Merrick joined us. He danced with I.J, and then me.
The song was slow and the volume whisper-low. The effect was nostalgic. I kept my eyes fixed on his chest. If Madam saw me now, how do I defend myself?
“Hey.”
I looked up. His gaze was warm on my face, his feelings on his sleeve for anyone to see. “What?”
“Remember how we met?” His mouth curved in a smile. “Whenever it was time to visit home from school, I would get seriously drunk.”
“You always dragged Jerry along?”
His smile disappeared. “He always insisted on coming and ended up driving me home or being sober enough to call one of our friends.”
“He’s a good friend,” I said.
“Yeah,” he confirmed, “you’ve got Joy and Riggy and the other one…”
“Mary.”
“What is it like?”
My arms tightened around his neck, and he pulled me close. When did we start whispering? “Lots of sneaking around.”
He looked startled. “Like forbidden lovers?”
His comment drew a laugh from me. “It’s not that exciting. Madam doesn’t like Joy—”
“Because?”
“She’s…. different.”
“May I ask why?”
We danced past a teenage couple, then Merrick neatly sidestepped a drunk. My arms remained tightly curled around his neck. His scent overwhelming the strong smell of sweat and alcohol on the dance floor.
“She’s the smartest of us—” I broke off, compelled to tell him the truth. I tipped my head back until our eyes met. “She fucks most of her Oga. For money.”
My words hung in the air like a bad stain. Merrick held my gaze, unflinchingly. But his nostrils flare. “She doesn’t want you corrupted.”
I’m disappointed. I wanted him to mention my sleeping with his father, lose his temper and end this madness between us.
He grinned knowingly. “Tell me about Mary.”
I smiled. He made a strange sound deep in his throat, like a grunt. “She’s the gentlest. But she’s really sick. Epilepsy."
“God that’s rough.”
He said and did the right things and I hate him for it. Was this how it was for Joy?
It was the first rule and the last rule. The Madam’s son was off limits. Oh, we could be used by the Oga or the son. But it couldn’t be anything more. The way my heart slammed against my ribs each time our bodies brushed, and the tremble in my legs both excited and shamed me.
A man tapped Merrick’s shoulder, and he excused himself. I hurled myself to the bar and then our table where I.J was resting her legs. Because it was an open air shack with no doors or wood at the side, the music pulsed through the air, vibrating into the sand-packed earth. I lifted my braids, so the breeze cooled my heated neck.
“You look good, girl,” I.J said.
My face burned, but I smiled. “Thanks. I enjoyed myself tonight.”
“I will talk to Merrick, not everyday farm work, we should do this often.”
The overhead lights danced over her face. Relaxed and happy, I.J looked beautiful. “You look great too.” I laughed. “You’re right, we should do this often,” I wanted my eyebrows, “take time complimenting each other. We both don’t have males in our life to pay us compliments.”
I regretted saying that almost immediately.
I.J smiled knowingly. “But you could have that, with Merrick.”
He’s my Madam’s son.
Words that they had thought me from an early age. Words that should have come easily struck in my throat. I cleared it noisily. “He’s my Madam’s son.”
“Really —”
Suddenly, I.J’s eyes widened, and she lurched up in alarm. I ducked instinctively and turned around. My first thought was those motorcycle boys had come to finish the job. Especially the one who cut me. I exhaled in relief when I saw Tom pushing his way through the crowd.
I smiled. He didn’t smile back. He walked right past me, features set in angry lines. He got to his mother and leaned down saying something, I.J cowered, raising her hands to cover her face. Sheer terror colored her formerly relaxed face. She waited to be hit.
Tom didn’t disappoint. He slapped her hard across the face. I was so shocked; I did nothing, unable to believe my eyes. He said something I couldn’t make out, shouting at her. She raised her head, and he hit her again, on her shoulders, her ribs and back.
When he raised his hand again, I moved to intercept. “Stop.”
Our eyes met, and I struggled not to flinch at the sheer rage that darkened his brown eyes. There was none of the charming, adorable boy in him. He stuck his head around me. “Get home, bitch.”
“I have to get going.”
At I.J’s words, I pulled my attention from the rapidly disappearing Tom. “What the hell? I.J, when did this start?”
Her face was remarkably unmarked. There was no sign of Tom’s abuse. She sat up and winced at the slight movement. “He hits where no one can see. How old is he again?”
“Sixteen,” she muttered.
“Jesus.” I covered my face with my hands. “How long has this been going on?”
She bit her lip, dropped her face in shame. “Since Joe, I mean my husband, since he left.”
“I can’t--”
She reached for my hand across the table. “Please, I want…. don’t tell Merrick, I just… don’t tell him anything.”
I looked around the shack. People were dancing their hearts out, singing at the top of their lungs. No one, not a single person, noticed the beat down from Tom. It was a situation I was familiar with. People will find it easier to look away, to mind their business.
When Merrick returned, he looked from I.J to me and back again. “Should I ask?”
I.J begged me with her eyes, and I forced a smile. “We’re good, and ready to leave.”
We were quiet on the way home. The contrast between our going and coming back from the shack too much for words. Merrick tried to keep the conversation going but gave up when he got no response.
At home, I stopped by the kitchen. As a maid, I should cook and prepare water for his bath. But things between Merrick and I had never been normal.
“I’m fine, go to bed,” he urged.
I didn’t sleep that night. I listened to Merrick heat the food from afternoon himself to eat. He had been hungry but sent me to bed. I was confused, by Merrick, by I.J. Merrick had rich parents but lived in squalor. I.J had money, but her husband and now her own son abused her.
Merrick moved from the kitchen to the bathroom. I knew his night routine by heart now. He would towel up, cream his body, pull up his shorts and beat the mat into submission. Despite myself, my mouth curled up in a smile.
“I don’t think a hundred blows will soften that mat,” I murmured.
He laughed, low and easy. “You won’t believe how expensive real beds are.”
“Where did you get this one?”
A loud yawn. “From Aunty Gladys.”
The night had a cool bite, my legs ached from all the dancing but my mind was abuzz. I couldn’t sleep. I curled on my side so I could see Merrick in the dark. He yawned loudly again. If I didn’t speak up, he would fall asleep.
“Why?”
“Why what?” he asked through a loud yawn.
“You could work for your father, not live like this.”
H
e didn’t reply for a full minute and I feared I had over stretched the limit of what he would allow.
“It would have been his life, not mine.”
I didn’t understand, and I didn’t press for more. We slept off like that. Me on my side, thinking of how our choices in life determined where we end up. Merrick, like the dead.
I woke early enough to prepare and pack a lunch for Merrick. He shook his head. “Did you sleep at all?”
“No, I’m fine.”
“I won’t ask why you’re doing this,” he teased. “Try to sleep.”
It was barely daybreak when I ran over to I.J’s place. It was right behind our house, so it was no hardship. When I got to her place, the windows were locked up, and the curtains drawn tight. I spent over thirty minutes knocking insistently before the curtains closest to the door ruffled.
An eternity later, the door opened. I.J stood with most of her body behind the door, peeping through the gap. The one eye I could see was swollen shut. If just her eye looked this bad, how about the rest?
I shoved the door open and forced my way inside.
“What happened to you? Wetin be this?” In my shock, I slipped into pidgin English.
When I saw her fully, I covered my mouth with my hand. Jaw three times its size, both eyes swollen shut, split lip. And I saw firsthand how much care Tom took to restrict the blows to her body. “You should be in the hospital.”
“No.”
Covering one side of her face with one hand, I.J scurried towards the hallway. I followed, struggling to keep up.
“Where are you going and where the hell is that bastard son of your--”
She lunged at me. Peaceful, smiling I.J lunged at me. Hands extended like claws, eyes wild like those of the abused dog we had at Madam Gold’s, she went for my throat. I barely got away, scrambling back on all fours.
“You do not say that about my son, not my Tom,” she screamed. “Not my boy. You don’t call him that, you hear me?”
I put my hand up, pushing her face away. “He beat--”
“He did not.”
Her stubborn refusal to accept reality stunned me. “He did this to you, he did this to--”
She slapped me, rocking my head back. I froze, stunned. “Joe did this to me!” She slammed a trembling hand into her chest. “Joe, not Tom, not my Tom, did this!”
“OK, OK, let me up. Not Tom, right, not Tom?”
She searched my eyes, as if to make sure she had convinced me. Not Tom, Jesus. And I thought only Mom was crazy.
The second she released me, I levered up. One look at her features clenched up in determination and I laughed.
I.J stomped her feet. “Stop laughing. It’s not funny.”
I only laughed harder.
“Stop!”
Somehow, I caught my breath. We were still in the hallway, breathing hard. “Where’s he?”
She raised her chin. “None of your concern.”
I nodded in agreement. “My mother was, is mad.”
“Why are you telling me?”
The words were strong with defiance, but her eyes softened in sympathy. Underneath the madness, I.J was still there somewhere.
“You’re mad.”
“I’m--”
“Mad,” I confirmed. “Your son of sixteen years beat you up and--”
“He did not--”
“A boy not fit to clean your shoes--”
“He’s my son. My son.”
Silent tears tracked down her cheeks. Gently, I steered her to the nearest room, a toilet. She sat on the toilet seat sobbing while I knelt before her.
“How long has this been going on?” I asked.
“Four years now,” she drew in a shuddering breath, “it started when I was still married to Joe.”
“Beaten by husband and son,” I murmured, thinking aloud.
“Shut up, you know nothing about me or any of this.”
And she believed it, too. With every word, spittle flew from her mouth to land on my face and chin. “He will kill you.”
“He’s my son.”
“Think of yourself.”
She shook her head, adamant, defiant and broken. “He’s my son.”
I wanted to pull my hair out in frustration. My new hair. “What do you mean to achieve? You’re a great writer, people spend money to buy what you write. You have money but you allowed yourself to be beat up by your husband and son?”
She stared, her lips moving to words she didn’t say out loud. Then she smiled. “Allowed. Maybe I did, but it was my choice. He stayed, Ada. Joe fucked up and left, but Tom chose me. He doesn’t see his father unless he has to, but he chose me.”
I tried. “Think of what you could be doing, writing what you--”
“It is my choice. I’m not achieving anything, true. I chose to remain with my son just as he chose me. I’m hurting myself--”
“He’s hurting you.”
She cupped my cheek, fingers light and shaky. “But it’s my choice. Don’t you see. It’s mine. When last did you do what you wanted? I see you stare at those books all day but you can’t even spell correctly, I saw the list you wrote in the market. You can't spell. Ada, was it your choice to come here? You hate this place.”
“I don’t, not anymore.”
“And your Madam, when she calls you’ll go back even though her husband hurts--”
I lurched to my feet. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve got many faults but a sixteen-year-old child do not knock me about.”
I ran all the way back to the house. The neighbors called my name, curious and alarmed, but I didn’t stop. My mind taunted me with the times Benita slapped me just because she could. Oga ordering me to strip, taking pictures.
“It’s not the same,” I hissed at the voice.
The animals called for their food, and I went to feed them. As I gave them water, I cried for I.J and myself.
When last did you do what you wanted?
And Merrick’s words last night. His life. He chose this. I had chosen nothing in my life.
“It’s not the same,” I gritted out. I said the words over and over until I believed it. But what to do about I.J?
I should tell Merrick. And break her trust? But what if something happened?
Maybe I could convince her to send that bastard to his father.
Chapter sixteen
“I want to join you at the farm.”
Merrick stopped, trowel in hand, cement at his feet. The death stairs looked good, cemented and laid out. Knowing he only did it for me gave me a dangerously warm feeling, and it irritated me.
“What happened?”
“I’m a maid.”
“That’s what happened? I mean you could have remembered before you spent my money, dolled up and went dancing.” His expression turned mocking. “Pick a struggle, Ada.”
His words sent fire racing through my veins. I picked the nearest stone and threw it at him. He jumped back just in time. I stood with my fists clenched at my side, wishing I could hurt him.