According to the fairy tale they’d invented, Grandma Eula Mae hadn’t started out selling dinners in her whorehouse; they pretended that she had sold dinners from her modest home. According to their story, a well-to-do client who loved my grandmother’s soul food gave her the down payment to open her restaurant.
Grandma Eula Mae’s tapes contained so much wisdom, it was if she were guiding me from the afterlife. It was a passage from one of the tapes that was enabling me to rest so peacefully tonight.
• • •
In many cases, my earnings came from not only the customers, but also their wives. It sounds crazy, but I’ve counseled more enraged white women than I can count. In a fit a jealousy, angry white women have come to the colored section of town to fetch their husbands.
Not wanting to lose the husband’s business and not wanting the irate wife to cause a commotion in my establishment, I have taken many a surly wife aside and educated her on the ways of men.
I remember how I had to hold my temper when Marge Tasker slapped me dead across my face after I told her I was helping to hold her marriage together by providing whores for her husband. I came close to whooping her ass, but I realized if I beat on that cracker, I’d have to do some hard time.
She was huffing and puffing like she was the one who had been slapped, and after she calmed down, I explained the true nature of men to that simple-minded woman. I told her that it was a man’s nature to have perverted urgings. I assured her that her husband’s strong sex drive had nothing to do with a lack of love for her. I asked if she wanted him jumping on top of her two and three times a night and doing unspeakably filthy things to her. Looking horrified, Marge shook her head.
After I informed her that there was a nasty, animalistic side of men that a clean-living woman like herself should never have to experience, she began to get the point. With curiosity getting the best of her, Marge and many other white women, paid good money for me to let them in on menfolk’s dirty secrets. I entertained them with naughty tales. Not one to betray the confidentiality of my clientele, I never named names. I simply told them that there was a great deal of cunt-eating, dick-sucking, butt-fucking, titty-slapping, and other forms of perversity that went on within the confines of my establishment.
After the women gasped and turned deep shades of red, I’d ask if they’d put up with such immorality in their bedrooms, and of course they wholeheartedly rejected the idea of engaging in anything other than missionary sex once or twice a week.
I convinced them to let the whores do the dirty work while they led clean lives. And to this day, I am convinced that whores save marriages. When menfolk feel the need to splash their ejaculation into a woman’s face, they don’t want to have to look at that woman across the breakfast table the next morning.
Women who try to curtail their husband’s nasty habits are asking for trouble. A wise woman would turn a blind eye to her spouse’s extramarital shenanigans and be thankful that he’s not forcing his angry pecker between her lips or trying to shove it inside that very private and restricted back entrance that the Lord did not design for penile penetration.
Imagining poor Sophia enduring Maverick’s depravity instead of me, I turned on my side and contentedly drifted to sleep. I awakened briefly when Maverick came home and slid into bed beside me. I felt him brush aside the hair that had fallen into my face, kissing me softly on the cheek. As he placed an arm over me, I snuggled close to his warm body. We lay together, entwined and at peace.
It was a good thing Sophia’s husband was deployed in Afghanistan. Otherwise, how would she explain the teeth marks that I was certain now marred her body?
• • •
I woke up at five and tiptoed around the dim bedroom, trying not to awaken Maverick as I got ready for work. In case he wanted to share the sordid details of his evening with Sophia, which I wasn’t interested in hearing, it was best to get out of the condo before he woke.
Dressed in tights, an oversized, shapeless top, and a pair of flip-flops with my pink Birkin bag looped over my arm, I looked like a homeless person who’d stolen rich lady’s handbag. But I didn’t care. As long as my team did their jobs and made sure that I was camera-ready in time for my segment, I could look a hot mess when I walked out of my apartment.
Prepared to dart out of the bedroom, I pulled a turban over my head to hide my tousled hair, but to my dismay, Maverick sat up and grinned at me.
“That housewife you hooked me up with was a feisty little freak,” he announced.
I plastered on a tight smile. “Glad you liked her.”
“I’d like to get with her again.”
“It was a one-time deal, Mav.”
“No. You and I have a new arrangement, now. I have needs that you don’t want to fulfill, so I should be able to have a prostitute whenever I want. I prefer Katya, but if her schedule is still full, then I want you to book Sophia, again,” Maverick said, as if it was perfectly normal for a wife to set up fuck sessions for her husband.
“I’ll see if Katya’s free, but don’t get used to this, Mav. You can have one more session with Katya, and then we have to resume our original agreement: you can have new pussy twice a year, during Carnival and on your birthday. You’ve already exceeded your limit.”
“I was hoping we could raise the limit to, uh, maybe six times a year.”
“I don’t think so. You’re getting carried away!”
“Only kidding,” he said and flashed that cute smile of his, which made me sigh in relief. I planned to make up a story about Katya being deported back to Russia, and of course, after I put my plan in motion regarding Sophia’s unplanned pregnancy, he’d be scared straight. Out of fear and contrition, he’d keep his dick in his pants. At least for a while.
I walked over to a jewelry box where I kept some of my less-expensive pieces. I perused my collection and my eyes settled on a pair of diamond studs that I’d never worn and never planned to. I believe they’d been inside a swag bag from some stupid event I’d attended. I slipped the small box inside my Birkin bag.
“I’ll see you tonight,” I said and kissed Maverick on the cheek.
“You’ll be seeing me a lot sooner than that.”
I gave him a curious look.
“You forgot?”
“Forgot what?”
“Don’t you remember that your boy, Josh is paying me a lot of money to make an appearance on your show.”
“Oh, right.” I’d been juggling so many important life situations, I’d completely forgotten that Josh had come up with the idea of including Maverick at the judge’s table as guest-judge. Josh felt it was a great idea to have the man who enjoyed my food on a regular basis on the show, weighing in on the decision of which contestant had best replicated my dishes.
I dreaded having Maverick on the show. If Josh thought I was a diva, he was going to find out today who the true diva was in this marriage. After he saw the array of outlandish demands listed on Maverick’s backstage rider, he’d think of me as being down-to-earth and a joy to work with.
I laughed to myself imagining befuddled staffers running around attempting to find Maverick’s favorite pumpkin seeds that were seasoned with soy sauce and a sprinkling of exotic spices. The healthy snacks that Maverick enjoyed were special-ordered from a Zen center in Detroit and prepared by Buddhist monks. If Josh’s gofers had waited until the last minute, they would never find any of Mav’s food requests. Maverick would respond by pitching a bitch. Displaying the aggression he used to exhibit on the football field, he was likely to topple tables, kick shit, and maybe punch somebody if he didn’t get his way. A part of me wanted my husband to reveal his spoiled-brat ways, which was the complete opposite of his golden boy persona. Maybe if he exposed his true nature, everyone would stop insinuating that I was so lucky to be married to a football icon.
“I’ll see you at around noon, babe,” Maveri
ck said.
I waved and left the bedroom.
It was bad timing for Maverick to be on the set today. I had so much to deal with, and his presence would stifle me. Sophia was scheduled to have the embryo implanted in her uterus today, and I needed to make sure she kept her appointment at the fertility clinic. Her pregnancy would seal the deal on my marriage for the next eighteen years. Maverick cared too much about our brand to even think about walking out on me and our child.
Sitting in the backseat of the Town Car as my driver cruised along the streets of New York, I sent Ellie a text, instructing her to accompany Sophia to the clinic today. I want Sophia to feel special, so use a car service. When the procedure is finished, see to it that she stays on bedrest for the remainder of the day. Treat her like fucking royalty. Rub her feet, order takeout, and spoon-feed the bitch if necessary.
When I arrived at the Chelsea studio, I was informed by an androgynous-looking person from the production staff that there would be a delay in filming today.
“Are you sure?” I asked, not knowing whether I was talking to a man or woman.
“Yes, Josh told me to let you know.”
“Damn,” I murmured. I had planned to surprise Sophia with a visit after work—woo her with the diamond studs that were much too small and cheesy for me. I couldn’t accomplish that if I was stuck filming late into the night.
“What’s the cause of the delay?” I asked.
“One of the kids had a meltdown at the hotel.”
A part of me was relieved that a contestant was showing their ass and holding up production. The fact that someone was having a meltdown meant that once again, Ralphie would be spared from getting the ax. I didn’t care what Josh wanted; I was going to insist that the troublemaking contestant be kicked off the show no matter how good or bad his or her food was.
“Who’s having a meltdown?”
“That skinny kid, Ralphie.”
“Ralphie?” I couldn’t imagine impish, self-confident Ralphie having a meltdown. “What happened?”
“No idea,” the staffer replied. “I heard he’s threatening to walk. Josh is at the hotel trying to convince him to at least finish filming today.”
Most of the emotional breakdowns among the cast were caused by too much drinking or heated arguments between cast mates. Ralphie didn’t drink and he got along with everyone, so I was perplexed as to what the problem could be. Although I was genuinely concerned about him, there was no way I was going to miss out on an opportunity to show myself in a favorable light. I gazed around the large room and noticed one of the cameramen laughing and goofing off during the delay. “Are there any cameras at the hotel?” I asked the androgynous staffer.
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“Okay, thanks.” I pulled out my phone as I rushed toward my dressing room. I called Gina, who was no doubt using this free time to take a cigarette break. I told her to round up the rest of my glam squad and to get to my dressing room ASAP.
Next, I called Josh. “Whatever is going on with Ralphie, I’m sure I can fix it. Give me ninety minutes to get myself together. Have the camera crew meet me at the hotel. Filming me talking Ralphie down from the ledge, so to speak, will make good TV. Don’t you think?”
“It would make excellent TV if that scrawny piece of white trash would open the damn door to his room and allow someone to reason with him.”
“What exactly is going on?”
“We got a call late last night. His foster mother had some sort of diabetes crisis and was hospitalized. From the kindness of my heart, I personally informed Ralphie, and I also assured him that we’d keep him updated on her progress. But that little ingrate insisted on leaving the show to be by his so-called mother’s side,” Josh said with undisguised revulsion.
“If the kids were allowed even minimal contact with their family, maybe we wouldn’t be having this issue,” I said.
“Rules are rules and he’s being irrational. He locked his roommate out of the room and he’s having a meltdown because he can’t afford to buy a plane ticket home—not with the twenty-dollar daily stipend the show pays the talent.” Josh sounded cocky and insensitive.
“But I thought we paid for the contestants’ flights back home.”
“We do. But only after they’ve completed their contractual obligations.”
“I’m confused. You don’t even want Ralphie on the show, so why are you forcing him to stay?”
“He’s free to leave after I get the footage of his shocked face when the judges vote him off tonight.”
“That’s low, even for you, Josh. You’d actually do that to him while he’s going through a personal crisis?”
“I’d do it with a smile,” Josh retorted. “Locking himself in his room and refusing to communicate is not going to resolve the issue. He’s being childish, and he’s costing the network a ton of money by holding up production.”
“Well, if you knew how to talk to people, maybe he’d cooperate.”
“I’m not kissing Ralphie’s ass or anyone else’s,” Josh spat. “It was on the tip of my tongue to tell that little twerp that all he had to do was cook one more meal and then he’d be free to pack his bags. But of course, I couldn’t do that. Giving him a heads-up about his doomed fate would take away the element of surprise.”
I hated the fact that the producers and not the judges had the final say in who stayed and who got sent home. I could intervene every now and then, but Josh was so hell-bent on getting rid of Ralphie, it wasn’t likely I could save the poor kid.
“I can get through to him, Josh. I know I can. But you’re going to have to bend the rules a bit and allow him to video chat with his family. Is his mom conscious? Is she able to talk?”
“Hell if I know—or care,” Josh said irritably.
“I need you to arrange for him to Skype with his family.”
“Does that heathen family of his even have Internet access?”
Running out of patience with Josh, I sighed in exasperation. “Everyone has a cell phone these days. Your attitude toward Ralphie’s family seems downright racist.”
“I’m sick of you pulling the race card, Cori. I’ll have you know, my ex-boyfriend was black.”
“Loving black dick doesn’t mean you’re not racist,” I retorted.
“You can be such a vile person sometimes, Cori.”
“I call it like I see it.”
“Whatever,” he said sullenly.
Winning even a small battle with Josh filled me with satisfaction. “I’ll be at the hotel as soon as possible,” I said and then hung up.
It warmed my heart to think of the high ratings we’d get for tonight’s show, and it was entirely possible that I’d be nominated for an Emmy after the performance I planned to give.
CHAPTER 11
Although the show was technically unscripted, there were writers on the payroll who crafted plot lines, twisting and tweaking footage to create conflict. But the writers had nothing to do with the important scene that was about to be filmed between Ralphie and me. It had been created from my own brilliant mind.
Looking sensational in a Balmain jacket and a black-and-gold-toned beaded mini skirt, I arrived at the hotel and rode the elevator to the tenth floor with the camera crew trailing behind me.
Holding an iPad, I knocked on the door. “Ralphie, it’s Cori. Can I speak with you?”
“Unless you have a plane ticket for me, go away,” he responded harshly.
I frowned.
“Don’t worry, that part will be edited out,” one of the camera guys assured me.
“I have wonderful news for you, Ralphie. Your mom is doing much better.”
He opened the door and I eased inside with the cameras closely behind.
“I hope you’re telling the truth,” he said, his voice raspy and his eyes red from crying.
<
br /> “I wouldn’t lie about something as serious as your mom’s health. But you can see for yourself.” I tapped the screen of the iPad and a few moments later his foster family appeared. A group of roughnecks were gathered around his foster mother’s hospital bed.
“Mama!” Ralphie cried out excitedly. “Mama, I was so worried. They told me you were in a diabetic coma.”
It was weird as hell hearing a white boy sounding exactly like a black person from the ’hood.
“I wasn’t in a coma. I had a seizure, but I’m doing much better, baby,” the woman in the hospital bed answered. “What’s this I hear about you leaving the competition?”
“I got upset when they wouldn’t let me speak with you.”
“I wasn’t in any shape to talk while the doctors were working on me, but as you can see, I’m doing fine. You don’t have to worry about me; I have the whole family by my side. I want you to get back in that kitchen and burn! Cook the way yo’ mama taught you. I want everybody in America talking about the way my boy throws down.”
“I will, Mama. I promise, I’m gonna make you proud. I’m gonna win this thing…for you!”
“Now, that’s my baby boy!”
Ralphie sniffled and wiped away tears of joy. The love I witnessed between Ralphie and his foster mother was strong and sincere. I was genuinely touched and had to dab at a tear trickling from my eye.
After Ralphie finished chatting with other family members, he disconnected from Skype and gave me a hug.
“Thank you, Cori.”
“Ralphie, I’ve watched you put your heart on the plate in every cook-off since the beginning of this competition.”
“I try.”
“Tonight, I want to see you try even harder. You need to put both your heart and your soul on the plate.”
“I will. I promise.”
“No more talk about going home?” I asked with a lifted brow.
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “I was feeling emotional about my mama, but now that I know she’s okay, I’m going to give two hundred percent.”
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