“You know we’re now soul sisters,” said Sharon.
Jennifer couldn’t help but giggle holding Sharon’s wet, warm hand.
“That’s right, we’re sisters,” said Jennifer.
It was shortly after dinner, when the last dirty dish was washed and put away, that Sharon asked Sue if they could talk. She had something on her mind, and it was important.
They sat down in the living room, and Sharon looked directly into Sue’s eyes.
“Do you think I can stay here and live with you?”
Sharon explained that she didn’t like Arizona, her life wasn’t good there, and she wanted to remain in Atlanta, a familiar city.
Most of all, she wanted to be with the Fisher family.
Sue listened, but told Sharon she didn’t think it would be possible. It wasn’t that the Fishers didn’t want Sharon. They loved her. Instead Sue explained that it would be up to her father to decide.
Sharon said no, arguing that it was her decision, and pleaded with Sue to change her mind.
Sue sensed a change in Sharon, a desperation. She asked if something was wrong, if there were other reasons why she wanted to leave her father. Sharon said no.
“I’d really like to stay here,” she said, her voice cracking with emotion.
“Why don’t you ask your father. If he approves, then we’d be happy for you to stay with us.”
Sharon shook her head.
“No, that’s not a good idea.”
Sue turned to Joel, who had walked into the room, and explained that Sharon wanted to live with the Fishers. Joel didn’t like Warren Marshall, but agreed with his wife. They could not, and would not, take responsibility for a young woman who had a parent.
Sharon decided to end the conversation as abruptly as it began.
“You know what, I was thinking, I have to go home. I keep my dad’s books and he’s lost without me. I don’t know what I was thinking. As a matter of fact, I should call him.”
Sharon walked over to the den, picked up the phone, and called her father. A minute later she pulled out her pocket calculator and began adding and subtracting numbers given to her over the phone. She then turned toward the Fishers and whispered, “See, he really can’t do anything without me.”
As their conversation continued, Sharon told Warren she was boarding a bus the following morning for the return trip home. Joel interjected, suggesting that he put her on a plane.
“I don’t think you should be traveling on a bus alone,” he said.
Warren said no, but Joel insisted.
The drive to the airport the next day was relatively quiet. Sharon remained mum, staring outside the car. As happy as she had been when she’d arrived the week before, she was equally sad, which was disconcerting to Jennifer. She’d always known her friend to be upbeat, happy. But the events of the last month had changed all that, and Sharon was sullen. Her hopes and dreams had faded, and her future was uncertain.
When they entered the terminal, Sharon began to cry like a baby. It was clear she didn’t want to go, and Sue Fisher fought to keep her emotions from taking over, reminding herself that Sharon was not her daughter, and unless Sharon told her something otherwise, it wasn’t her place to interfere.
“Sharon, are you sure there isn’t anything you want to tell me?” asked Sue.
Sharon said no, wiping away her tears. Jennifer prodded her to tell them what was really wrong, but she knew that wasn’t Sharon’s way. During the three years they had known each other and become best friends, Sharon would divulge intimate details of boyfriends or talk about her once bright future, but she’d never let anyone really get inside. The Fishers surmised that Warren had something to do with that. He had been, and was, a demanding and controlling presence in Sharon’s life.
Sharon tried hard to smile as she thanked Joel and Sue for their love and hospitality. She then turned to Jennifer.
“I’m going to miss you, Jenny. Please don’t forget me.”
“Forget you? Sharon, we’re best friends. We’ll always be close.”
Sharon wiped her cheeks.
“That’s right, Jenny. We’ll always be close. Remember, we’re sisters.”
CHAPTER 6
Tulsa, Oklahoma
April 1990
Dim lights highlighted the single dancer gyrating against a silver pole at the Passions gentlemen’s club. Several dozen metal folding chairs, the kind used at church Bingo parties, surrounded the stage and were half-filled with scrubby men lunging with paper money in hand.
Dank and seamy, Passions reeked of muck and beer. Half a dozen men encircled two pool tables in the rear near the main entrance while several others sat on wooden stools along the mirrored bar on the right—some watching the entertainment, others too drunk to do anything but sit and stare into the neon beer signs that flickered above the bar.
The throbbing music that accompanied the dancer came to an end, and she walked off the stage to a smattering of applause, with some men leaning over to place even more bills in her G-string. Others reached for her breasts, but she smacked their hands away.
“Oh, c’mon. Just a little touch, Connie.”
“You guys know the rules,” she said.
Shapely and bleached blonde, Connie was a nineteen-year-old college student named Karen Parsley when she answered the ad for “Exotic Dancers” during the summer of 1988. Connie had never danced in public before, much less without any clothes on, but overcame any lingering doubts and apprehension after her first night when she left the club with 175 dollars. It was more than she ever earned working a full week at TJ Maxx.
Connie made even more after learning the subtleties required to maximize earnings, such as hustling for tips by delivering drinks to customers or providing a private show.
Dancers could earn as much as two thousand dollars, or more, per week at Passions. The work wasn’t easy; the hours were tough and the dancing physically draining. And there was the clientele, which ranged from lonely business executives to beer-swilling blue-collar workers to deranged perverts who remained in the shadows until the club closed early in the morning, when the dancers were escorted to their cars by the club’s burly bouncers. New women passed through Passions each week and, despite the money, only a hardy few remained, like Connie, and Lavernia Watkins, a crooked-toothed brunette known as “Bambi,” and June Bolles, who took the name “Desiree.”
Connie worked a manageable three-nights-a-week schedule, kept her day job to maintain health benefits, and filled her free time with her studies. She figured that as long as the money kept coming in, working as a stripper in a dive like Passions wasn’t the worst thing in the world.
Walking off the stage and through a door beneath a Private sign, Connie wiped the heavy perspiration from her brow as black eye makeup dripped down her cheeks. She was attractive, but like many of the women who danced at Passions, Connie had a hard look that suggested she had more life experience than her age would indicate.
She stood there naked, picking the bills from her waist, mostly ones and fives, when J.R. Buck, the club’s owner, interrupted her. Fortyish, J.R.’s real name was Clyde Caster Buck, Jr. Short and stocky with light brown hair, J.R. wasn’t much of a businessman, given the letters from creditors and the bounced checks that filled the drawers in his desk. But his employees were always paid on time and he seemed to watch out for the girls, which was more attention than most of them received outside the club.
Something was wrong, and J.R. couldn’t mask his concern.
“You have a call. It’s Clarence Hughes. He said there’s been an accident. Tonya’s in the hospital. He’s in Oklahoma City. Take it in my office.”
Connie reached into the dressing room, grabbed her robe, and flung it around her back as she ran to J.R.’s office, where she picked up the phone.
“Clarence? What happened! What did you do to her?”
“I didn’t do nothing!” said Clarence. “She went out for some baby food last night and got hit by a
car. She’s out, unconscious, in a coma. Thought I’d call and tell you. We need her money. Don’t come visit, doctors won’t allow it. I’ll come there and pick it up. Probably on Tuesday.”
“Why is she in Oklahoma City?”
“She had a doctor’s appointment. A gynecologist.”
“Where’s Michael?”
“He’s with me. He’s fine.”
“What hospital is she in?”
“Presbyterian. Oklahoma City. But like I said, she’s in bad shape and doctors don’t want no visitors. I got to go. I’ll be by for her money on Tuesday.”
Connie placed the phone down and sat in J.R.’s chair as several dancers and other employees gathered in the doorway.
“Tonya’s in the hospital. She got hit by a car last night. I don’t know what happened, but Clarence said it was some sort of accident,” said Connie. “First night she ever takes off, and she ends up in the hospital? Bullshit. He tried to kill her.”
Oklahoma City was 120 miles to the west-southwest on I-44, and Connie enlisted Kevin Brown to accompany her to Presbyterian Hospital. Kevin was a college student and a Passions customer who knew Tonya well.
When they arrived two hours later, Connie went directly to the information desk, asked for Tonya Hughes’s room number, and then took the elevator to the third floor, leaving Kevin in the lobby. She found the room, saw the ridiculous No Visitors sign taped to the door, then poked her head inside. Tonya was alone, lying on her back, faint noises coming from the medical equipment monitoring her condition.
Connie opened the door all the way and slowly walked up to Tonya’s bed, stopping by her side. Tonya looked like she always did, like a pretty blond angel. Her face was unmarked, as were her arms. Connie was confused. Clarence said she was hit by a car, but she appeared to be in perfect condition. There were no scratches on her face, no broken bones, no scrapes from the road. She looked as if she were sleeping.
Connie leaned over and whispered, “Hey, Tonya, it’s Connie. I came to take care of you. Kevin is here. You’re gonna be all right now.”
Tonya Dawn Hughes had arrived at Passions in the fall. Blonde with blue eyes, Tonya initially drew attention for her odd figure, which suggested far too much time with an inexperienced, or incompetent, plastic surgeon. Her breasts were almost comical, the implants round and hard. They looked unnatural, like two oranges that squirted milk. Her hips and thighs were too full for her short body, resembling a woman who had just given birth.
What Tonya lacked physically, she made up with her passionate dancing, and she was immediately hired. Originally from Alabama, she said she’d learned her trade at a club in Tampa, Florida. Her maiden name was Tadlock—Tonya Dawn Tadlock. She lived in a piss-poor trailer park on the other side of Tulsa with her husband, Clarence, and two-year-old son, Michael. Tonya worked a demanding seven-days-a-week schedule, never missing a day except for Thanksgiving and Christmas, when the club was closed.
Following her arrival, Tonya attracted a small following. She often performed as a young teen, appearing on stage wearing a low-cut school sweater, pleated skirt, bobby socks, and high-heeled shoes. Her music of choice was “Locomotion,” the 1962 classic by Little Eva.
Tonya rarely drank alcohol and eschewed the various drugs that pervaded the club, such as speed, cocaine, and marijuana, which drew her closer to Connie, who also avoided drugs. They were also close in age. Tonya was a year younger, and unlike the other girls, she and Connie were devoid of tattoos.
Connie also admired Tonya’s intelligence. She was smart and liked to read between sets. Books, magazines—it didn’t matter. She usually brought something to read. There were even nights when she’d walk into the club with a crochet set under her arm. She was making a sweater for her son. Tonya explained that the reading and sewing calmed her painfully ailing stomach. She often complained of some unknown medical problem and was never without large jars of Rolaids, which she popped into her mouth like candy.
It was clear to all at Passions that Tonya’s problems centered on her volatile husband, Clarence. He was twice her age, maybe more, with thin gray hair that hung to his neck. Of medium size, Clarence was about as nondescript as one could get. His unremarkable features led many to question Tonya’s attraction to him, though it was clear that Clarence was obsessed with his young wife. He controlled her every move, driving her to work daily and often picking her up late at night. He was creepy, calling the club nearly every hour throughout the evening to monitor Tonya’s whereabouts. Most unsettling to all was his demand that Tonya bring home a minimum of two hundred dollars each night.
Tonya obeyed her husband and hustled for every dime, either by dancing or mingling with customers at the bar. When she’d fall short, she’d be in a nervous tizzy, knowing that Clarence was waiting in the parking lot. Connie and the other dancers would offer to make up the difference, but Tonya would decline. She’d meet her husband, turn over every penny, and bear the brunt of his anger. She’d return the next day with fresh bruises on her body.
Tonya’s plight drew empathy from her coworkers at Passions. She was overworked, and at times while sitting at the bar entertaining a customer she would close her eyes and fall asleep on his lap. She’d awaken with a tap on her shoulder from Connie or one of the other girls.
“Tonya, c’mon. You have to dance.”
Tonya would stumble toward the stage, regain her wits, then lose herself and her clothes to the music while the men in the club followed her every fluid move.
Tonya’s situation angered Connie and some of the other girls, who tried unsuccessfully to convince her to leave her husband, to take her son, and simply leave town. Tonya guarded her privacy, and Connie was really the only girl who could talk to her. Tonya said she feared Clarence, and always trembled when discussing her situation. She said that she had tried to run away twice before, a long time ago, but he had tracked her down both times and said if she ever tried it a third time he’d kill her. Tonya knew her husband well and believed him. Her black-and-blue marks served as reminders of his resolve.
“Things are not as they seem with me,” she once said to J.R. Buck.
Compounding Tonya’s problems was Clarence’s relationship with local law enforcement. He was a member of the Tulsa Fraternal Order of Police and had a good friend, a sheriff’s deputy, who lived in the same trailer park. Clarence also had several guns in the house, including a shotgun. With his police connections and weapons, Tonya believed there was no place for her or Michael to hide.
There were times when Clarence pulled into the parking lot to drop Tonya off and they were met by Connie or one of the other dancers, who would yell out to Clarence that Tonya should leave his sorry ass.
“If she ever left me, I’d kill the bitch,” would be Clarence’s standard response.
Given Tonya’s reluctance to take matters into her own hands, Connie decided she would help her friend out of her predicament.
Tonya would have a boyfriend.
She was first paired up with Chris Matheney, a Passions bouncer who’d drive her home on nights when her husband remained home. Like everyone else in the club, Matheney noticed the bruises on her body. He figured the fresh black-and-blue circular welts from her shoulders down to her ankles were the result of Tonya’s new relationship.
“He found out, didn’t he?” said Matheney.
“No, no,” said Tonya calmly. “It’s OK, really. Don’t worry about it.”
Her disposition changed dramatically when Matheney said he was going to confront Clarence.
“This guy needs an ass-kicking,” he said.
“He’ll kill you!” shrieked Tonya. “He has connections everywhere. You don’t understand. Just let it go.”
Matheney liked Tonya, but the added baggage of Clarence was too much, and their relationship fizzled. A month later she turned to Kevin Brown, a college student and frequent Passions customer.
Kevin was drawn to Tonya the first night he saw her on-stage. He bought her a soda after h
er set and learned she was married but appeared desperately unhappy. Kevin became a regular at Passions and soon heard all the awful stories concerning Tonya, particularly the one where Clarence hit her in the head with a soda bottle because she didn’t prepare dinner in a timely fashion.
Tonya and Kevin dated, sneaking out of the club for late-night dinners while Clarence remained in the parking lot. On nights when Clarence didn’t drive Tonya to work, he’d call the club and Connie would answer the phone, telling him that his wife was busy with a customer, which technically was the truth. Only this customer was now her boyfriend.
As their relationship evolved into something serious, Kevin offered to take Tonya and her son out of state. Kevin had friends, family, and the money to get Tonya out of Oklahoma safely.
Tonya initially declined, fearing for Kevin as she did for Chris Matheney, herself, and especially her son, Michael.
“I want to leave. I’ve thought about it every day for the past year. And I’m ready to leave. But you don’t know this man. He has connections. He’ll kill you, me, and Michael,” she said. “I need to be sure that we’re safe.”
Michael was the only true joy in Tonya’s sad life. He turned two years old on April 21, could count to ten, and recite part of the alphabet, from A to H. Several mornings each week, Tonya, Clarence, and Michael would visit Connie at TJ Maxx on their way to breakfast at the Country Buffet, which was next door. It was clear to Connie that the bond between mother and son was deep. Tonya was openly affectionate with her son, holding his hand, kissing him on the cheek, and always smiling when she spoke to him. By contrast, Michael appeared to have little interest in his father. He spurned his awkward offers to hold his hand, instead turning to his mother for comfort, holding his arms out to her to pick him up, then burying his head in her chest and wrapping his arms around her neck.
A Beautiful Child Page 5