Over. (This. Is. Not. Over. #2)

by Dianne, Shannon

  “He’s such a fucking pussy. Where’s everyone now?”

  “Lola’s at my place with Winnie and Cadence is at his, with the bolt on his door.”

  Thank god we all have condos in the same building. If not Cadence’s dumbass would have called the cops. Your wife’s sister is missing, burned out of her home and then you call the cops on your wife for domestic abuse. What kind of sense does that make? Then again, I probably should let him. It would keep the heat off of Red for the time being.

  “Is he on his way?” I say as I take a seat.

  “Yeah and he says he has no idea where Laura is.”

  “I don’t believe him.”

  “Me either.”

  “Because if she’s not with Dena, she’s not with her parents and she’s not with Cadence, where the hell is she?”

  “Stop acting silly!” Rossi screams from the living room. “Cynthia is out of the picture. I told you I haven’t spoken to her in over a year!”

  Ahh … Cynthia.

  Laura

  10:30 a.m.

  “You fucking bastard!”

  “Laura?” Malcolm says. “What number are you calling me from?”

  “It was you! You were the one who burned my house down! I’m thinking it was Lola this entire time and it was you.”

  “Where are you, baby?”

  “Oh don’t give me that shit! Don’t give me that baby shit, Malcolm! I’ve got you figured out; you were trying to kill both me and Cadence. We’re the two biggest thorns in your side, isn’t that right?”

  “Laura, I’m at my parent’s house right now with your parents. All we’re concerned about is your safety, that’s it. Your parents are worried silly over you. Why don’t you come here so that we can talk? I’ll call Dena and have her meet you here and we can all try to figure this out.”

  “Fuck all of you! You froze my accounts so that I’d have to come crawling back to you. What, are you trying to finish me off? I get to your parent’s house and Bang! Bang!, I’m gone. Cadence is probably already dead, huh? I’m not stepping anywhere near that house.”

  “Wait a minute, what’s wrong with your accounts?”

  “Oh please, you’re such a bad actor Malcolm.”

  “Laura, what’s wrong with your accounts?”

  “I can’t even get a goddamn hotel room Malcolm! I can’t even refill my Lithium prescription. Did you think about that before you froze my accounts?”

  “Laura, go to Nat and Dena’s. Okay? Can you do that?”

  “Hell no! Dena called me right before the fire. She was making sure that I was home, wasn’t she? She’s was in on it too, wasn’t she?”

  “Laura, Dena’s your friend–”

  “I am going to fucking destroy you, every single one of you.” I slam the pay phone down and try to think. Think Laura, think! It’s Saturday, I have no wallet, I have thirty-four dollars left and Malcolm’s trying to kill me. I need money. Where can I get money?

  Where can I go?

  Where can I go?

  Where can I go?

  Cynthia’s.

  Malcolm

  10:35 a.m.

  “Jacob, are you at Cynthia’s?”

  “Parked outside.”

  “Laura’s on her way.”

  Danielle

  4 p.m.

  Virginia

  “Potential side effects include impaired mental functioning, headache, dizziness, numbness, panic reactions, hallucinations, flashbacks–”

  “What?” Rena asks as she looks in the rearview mirror at me. I’m in the back of the car keeping Georgie company.

  “Nothing.” I say with smile as I close the WebMD page on her cell phone.

  I have a confession. I’m thinking that I may have had a contact high when I planned this trip with Rena and Georgie. I’m thinking that I felt both guilty and high, which in turn made me feel extremely paranoid. I’ve been looking up the side effects of cannabis on the brain and let’s just say, it’s not looking good for me. In the light of day and after my nap, I believe that I may have gone overboard last night. But now, I’ve got Rena all hot and bothered, we’re already in Virginia and, well, I’m afraid to tell her to turn around.

  “Umm, how many miles have we traveled?” I ask.

  “Five hundred and forty-eight.” Rena says as she whips her head from side to side to scan the perimeter. Yeah, I can’t have her turn around now. I’m in this too deep. I’ll try to lighten the mood instead.

  “Georgie really is a cute kid Rena and I just love his new hairstyle.” I give Georgie a kiss.

  “Why do we think Malcolm will try to stop us in Virginia?” She asks as she looks in the rearview mirror at me.

  “I think you mentioned Virginia.”

  “No, you mentioned Virginia. You said they’ll try to kill us in Virginia.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Yes you did!”

  “Rena, I have nothing but wonderful thoughts about Virginia. Remember when we went to Virginia Beach during spring break? We had a blast. Why would I worry about getting murdered there?”

  “Danielle, you said that Malcolm was going to spray us with bullets in Virginia.”

  “Oh, Rena … that doesn’t even sound like me.”

  “That’s what you said!”

  “Well if I said that I don’t think that anymore.”

  “Fine. Because if they kill us anywhere, it’s sure to be Tennessee.”

  “Why Tennessee?”

  “Remember that song by Arrested Development called Tennessee?”

  “No.”

  “Let me rap it for you … Although I’m black and proud, problems got me pessimistic … My grandmas past, my brothers gone, I never at once felt so alone …”

  “Oh god … okay Rena, I get it. We’re going to die in Tennessee.”

  Laura

  8 p.m.

  Dear Danielle,

  I’m writing you this letter, because of the current circumstances that I’ve found myself in. I’ve also decided not to mail this letter since I’m sure Malcolm will intercept it before it lands in your hands. So I plan to give this to you in person. There’s a method to my madness, you’ll see …

  First things first, no matter what you’re led to believe, Lola did not start that fire. Last night, after Cadence and I escaped the fire, we caught a cab to the Ritz, checked in, ran upstairs and showered together. It was while Cadence was lathering that he decided that Lola started the house fire:

  “She went to New York, discovered that I came to Boston, she flew into town quickly, tried to kill us and is now calling Met Life.” He was convinced of it. And, I’ll admit, while he helped me rinse my hair, I agreed with him.

  After our shower, I was shaking like a leaf from fright. Cadence carried me out of the bathroom, ripped his towel off of his waist, threw me on the bed and we made love. He was spent afterwards and therefore gathered me in his arms and recited me a most appropriate Shakespearean quote: Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs. (He’s so damn corny.) He then kissed me on my forehead and floated into a blissful sleep. I fell asleep as well but I was awaken by an awful nightmare. I was in Hilton Head again and watching Malcolm eating your pussy in his car. Black girl with red hair, the black girl with red hair, I kept saying. Cadence woke me up, said that I was having a nightmare and then floated back into sleep. And then out of nowhere it dawned on me: If Lola will go as far as to try to kill me once, she may very well do it again. While Cadence was lying by my side quoting Shakespeare, Lola was making his funeral arrangements.

  I grew afraid, so I ran.

  I went to a Starbucks, waited until my bank opened, went to the teller to retrieve cash (hoping they’d let me do it without an ID) and wouldn’t you know, Malcolm had frozen all of my accounts. He thought that I’d have no choice but to come running back to the family once he did that. But he was wrong. I have options. Trust me, I do. It was in that moment that I realized that the house fire was not set by Lola. It was set by Malcolm.<
br />
  Think about it, Lola would never kill Cadence Blair. She doesn’t want to be his widow, she wants to be his wife. A widow has no power. A wife will. She would never risk losing the prestige afforded to her by being married to a Blair. No, she wants to be on Cadence’s arm, she wants to sit on the throne next to him. Lola did not start that fire. Malcolm did. It’s a known fact that Cadence is the weakest link of their mafia chain and it’s a known fact that I am now their outcast. Everyone’s growing tired of Cadence being an idiot and Malcolm’s growing tired of me coming to his office and trying to make him listen to reason. Malcolm has tried to kill me because he was afraid of all the information I have on him. He wants to make sure I don’t become a disgruntled ex-lover. He was hoping to kill two birds with one stone with that house fire. I plan on making his ass pay for that.

  $0 funds available.

  I’m broke.

  Malcolm realizes that without money, I am helpless. He’s a cocksucker of sorts, that Malcolm. You see, he’s afforded me $250,000 a year for as long as I can remember. I’m sure you didn’t know that, how would you after all? He’s very careful in his dealings. Did you know that the house he just burned down belonged to him? And my shiny black car? And my glossy silver truck? No of course not. I have to say, Malcolm is an upstanding man, if you ignore the fact that he’s been keeping me the entire time that he’s been fucking you. If you can’t ignore that then he’s a cocksucker of sorts. Tomato … Tomato.

  You see, my father is a selfish bastard and believes that I should have gotten a job by now, since I’m 32 years old. He cut me off the moment I met Malcolm. Thank goodness, let his silly ass foot your bill, were his exact words as I was preparing for Malcolm and my first date ten years ago. I’ve been running around, trying to put a roof over your head for 22 years, he continued. Well, that comment in itself was laughable because my father only runs for two things: money and political office. He in fact runs over anyone who stands in his way for either. He never runs around.

  So daddy and Malcolm have both cut me off. $0 funds available. I need cash.

  As I sit in my hotel suite, I’m writing you because I want you to understand me and I want you to understand why I’ve been driven to desperate measures. I know that others will have you believe that I’m insane. But as you can see, out of my sister and me, I was given the extra dose of sense. I don’t care what my psychiatrist says. (Don’t worry about me going to a therapist; when you have a certain amount of prestige, you have to have one. It’s a formality really. By the way, who do you use?)

  So here’s the real reason for this letter: I made it out of the house with an atlas sized book in my hands. I’m talking close to a thousand pages. Guess what it was? My diary! I have enough information about The Blair-Rossi-March Family to turn my diary into a bestseller. It’s the reason I had to grab it. I think that the Rouge Literary Agency should publish it. I know how hard it is to get a book deal so I figure that since I know someone who owns their own publishing agency, well … this all should be fairly easy. This diary will put Rouge Literary Agency on the map. Because let’s just be honest, presently, you’re just a two bit book-girl with a staff of four.

  This isn’t personal. I need money and I have no job. This diary is sure to bring me a steady source of income. So this is how this will all go: Either you give me a hefty book advance and publish my diary as a fictional novel (changing the names and places, of course) or I’ll shop this diary around to another company and publish it as a non-fiction biography (keeping the names and places, of course). The fate of the Blair-Rossi-March family is in your hands. Choose wisely.

  In closing, this isn’t about you. I would never go after the other woman; it’s not your fault that you were raised to be a whore. I’m going after Malcolm … and money. So tonight, I’ll be visiting a ‘friend’. As a matter of fact, that’s what we’ll call this person in future letters: Friend. Because, until you make my diary a bestseller, I need money in order to survive. Friend will most certainly oblige the deal that I plan on offering. I do believe Friend is the type to care about what I’ve just found. Some people really are only concerned about appearances. Shame. I hate those kinds of people. I mean, look at you. You were fucking Malcolm when you were married. You had the man that you’re fucking draw up your divorce papers. (Even though that seems like a faux pas, at least to me … and to the journalist at The Boston Globe I just spoke to.) Lastly, you wore a powder pink cashmere sweater to Starbucks last week, even though pink is the mortal enemy of redheads. And you’re doing all of this –fucking Malcolm, divorcing husbands, wearing pink– in front of your son. What’s that boy’s name? Ricki? Dicky? Mickie? (I’m acting like I’m not too involved in your life, after revealing that I’ve watched you at Starbucks. So I’m pretending that I don’t know your son’s name when I of course know it’s Nicky.)

  Good golly, you’re a mess! I like that. It makes you human. You could care less about what people say about you. That’s the kind of person I want to represent me.

  I admire your gumption,

  Laura

  PS

  It really is fortunate that I grabbed my diary as Cadence was dragging me out of the house. If I hadn’t, I never would have found this picture nestled between the pages of it. I’ll save this picture for Friend.

  Oh, if only Malcolm wouldn’t have burned me out of my home, killed my gymnast trophies and frozen all of my accounts. You can thank him for what’s to come.

  Malcolm

  9 p.m.

  “What the hell is she up to?” I ask Jacob as we sit in my parent’s kitchen alone, both with a glass of scotch in our hands. Cadence, Rossi and Eva are already asleep, all claiming that they were worn out from their ‘long weekend’. Mind you, I still haven’t been to sleep. I’ve been trying to buy off a journalist who called me a few hours ago, claiming that someone informed him of the fire … and Red’s marital status when we first got together. After some research he discovered that I owned the house and that Red was likely having an affair with me. I’ve tried everything on this journalist:

  Humor: Come on, me having an affair with a married beautiful redheaded black feminist? I wish I was that good.

  Charm: I admire your work, I read your column every day. Surely you’re above this soap opera shit you’re talking about now. Leave this story to Us Weekly.

  Buy-outs: How much do you want? … Everyone has a price, I’m willing to compromise on yours.

  And most recently threats: Try me muthafucka. I’m begging you. Try me.

  He’s still threatening to publish those two stories in the paper tomorrow. It’s not looking good. Don’t get me wrong, I’ll eventually take his job and credibility but it’ll be after he publishes those stories. And, as far as the human mind is concerned, it tends to believe the first story it hears. If I drag my feet on this, the public will hear his story first and already be convinced of its merits. I was debating on releasing a statement by tomorrow morning, when Jacob came back to my parent’s house with news about Laura.

  “I have no idea what Laura’s up; she didn’t even get out of the cab. Cynthia rushed out of the house, passed her money through the window and then the cab took off. I didn’t even have a chance to get out of my truck. She went to a hotel, I waited around and followed her there.”

  “And that’s when you saw them?”

  “As clear as day. They were standing outside, talking.”

  “What the hell are they up to?”

  “I can’t even imagine.” Jacob shakes his head and downs his scotch. “Shit …” He pours himself another glass. “I just hope …” He lets his words drift off as he starts to sip his scotch.

  “And when she pulled away in the cab, you lost her in traffic.”

  “Yeah.” He exhales deeply and takes another sip of scotch. “The streets are icy, the holiday traffic is crazy … shit.”

  “It’s alright. At least we aren’t completely in the dark here.” I lean over and slap him on the back. “No need to w
orry, you and I will figure this out.” I smile at him before I take a sip of my scotch. “Don’t we always?”

  Sunday

  Danielle

  12 a.m.

  Tennessee

  “I think I should call Malcolm.” I pick up my new prepaid phone and flip it open.

  “Don’t touch that goddamn phone!” Rena snaps. I drop it on my lap like it’s hot.

  “Well it’s ringing now.” I say as I look down at it.

  “Who is it?”

  “My parent’s house. I texted them my new number.”

  “You may answer.”

  “Thank you … gee whiz.” Now Rena’s phone is ringing.

  “Oh boy, Jasmine.” She says as she looks at it.

  “Good luck.” Jasmine’s royally pissed off about the fight and she’s been calling Rena’s phone all day. Each sentence has been starting with ‘And another thing’. It’s been torture.

  I answer the phone for my parents. For about ten minutes, while they have me on speaker phone, I regale the story of a desperate Jon and his low life entourage who tried to murder the innocent and unsuspecting Malcolm.

  “He’s a prince, Malcolm’s simply a prince. And Jon’s the evil dirt bag.” I say to them.

  “Oh yeah? Good.” My mother replies, “Ya know, I’m thinking we can go to aunt Gisele’s house for hushpuppies and moonshine tomorrow night! Actually, I already called her and told her we’d be there.” My mom giggles.

  “I didn’t hear that,” my father, the law man, says, “but I’ll be there.” Mom and dad aren’t necessarily as appalled at Jon’s visit to New York as I want them to be. Don’t you hate that? You’re all pissed off about something and you want someone else to be pissed off with you but they can see the ‘flip side’ of the matter? Needless to say, mom and daddy just got on my damn nerves.