She washed and ironed all of our clothes, cleaned the house, helped bathe me, and even cooked dinner. Even at age nine, when she issued an order or told me that “It’s time for you to come home now,” I scrambled as fast as I could. If I didn’t, Lynzee would beat the shit out of me. I respected her as much as I did my mother, maybe even more. Lynzee didn’t ask for this job. It was bequeathed to her by our mother, who worked long hours. My big sister took her job seriously. Out of respect, I rarely questioned Lynzee’s commands,
Each night, she took her time to attend to my hair. Some mothers comb their kids’ hair once a week, but Lynzee did mine every night. She would sit me between her legs and patiently work magic with her fingers. As I grew older, she would roll up my hair with paper curlers made out of grocery bags. Then I had to put a stocking cap over my head so it would look fresh in the morning.
I don’t know how my mother and I would have made it without Lynzee. Unfortunately, Lynzee didn’t have much of a childhood. She had too many responsibilities.
I grew up thinking Lynzee was Joan of Arc. I wanted to do everything like her. When she cut her hair, I wanted to cut mine. When Mama taught Lynzee how to sew, I learned from Lynzee. When Lynzee polished her nails, I copied. When she took typing classes, so did I. And when shorthand came later, my mother teased me about being Lynzee’s shadow.
I couldn’t help it. Lynzee could do just about everything exceptionally well. Why wouldn’t I want to be just like her?
One of my fondest memories of Lynzee is when she taught me how to dance. I was incredibly stiff as a teenager, and didn’t have an ounce of rhythm. I couldn’t dance to save my life. Lynzee was patient with me. She wouldn’t quit until I could dance as well as she could. My confidence grew and my best friend, Freddie Russell, and I, won numerous dance contests. We were the Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers of our hometown. Thanks to my loving sister, I felt like I had wings.
And now my Joan of Arc is in trouble. How can I help her?
It doesn’t dawn on me to call Lynzee’s house. When I do, the recording comes on the first ring. I alternate calling Lynzee and Zedra over the next few days. Still nothing.
Finally, I receive a call from Zedra. She asks, “Have you heard from Lynzee?”
“Is this Zedra?”
“Who else would it be, heffa?” Her tone is terse. “Well, have you?”
“No.”
“Look, I’m not going to say I’m sorry for not keeping in touch these past few years. It’s not my style.”
“You’re so full of shit, Zedra, you must have a halo of flies above your head.”
“I won’t comment on that, cow.”
My voice is firm. “Now, where is she? I called her house.”
“She’s supposed to be at a health spa in Arizona.”
“Supposed to be? I heard about the Percocet.”
“This isn’t the first time,” Zedra admits.
“You’re kidding. No one ever told me.”
“That’s because you’re so judgmental.”
My free hand automatically brackets my hips. “Look, Zedra, I’m not in the mood to argue with you. Now, what’s happening with Lynzee? Is she okay? And where’s Tyler?”
“Whoa. One question at a time. Tyler is at Lynzee’s neighbor’s house. I’m not sure about Lynzee. I haven’t heard from her in ten days. I called her editor. She claims that Lynzee hasn’t contacted her either.”
“Where could she be?” I’m getting as agitated as a termite in a cement castle. I have an eerie feeling that something ominous is going to happen.
“With her money, she could be anywhere.”
Zedra is right. But there is one thing we know: if she is anywhere in the States, the place is expensive. Lynzee strictly goes first class or goes home.
“Charity… I…”
“What!”
“I might as well tell you.” I can hear the trepidation in her voice. “Tyler told Lynzee that she thinks she’s pregnant.”
“You’re lying. Not perfect Tyler?”
“I’m serious as death. She told Lynzee the day she checked in at the spa.”
“How? When? How far along is she? Who’s the father?”
“Her boyfriend Raymond.”
“Lynzee should have seen this coming letting that boy stay overnight at her house.”
“She claimed they slept in separate rooms.”
“Bullshit. You and I both know that the moment Lynzee went to sleep they fucked like gerbils.”
“I think that’s why Lynzee made a quick exit. She doesn’t want to deal with it. Think about all of the negative publicity: the Percocet, the teenage pregnancy, and more importantly, your book. What a bummer. The hate mail is already coming in from folks who read advance copies of your book. And to make matters worse, Tyler received a scholarship from Harvard Law School in January. If she’s pregnant, she can kiss that opportunity good-bye.”
“Who gives a fuck about a scholarship? What about Tyler? Is she thinking about having an abortion?”
“Hell no! Hell, I don’t know. Like I said, she’s not sure. Besides, have you forgotten about how many abortions Lynzee’s had?”
“I only know about one,” I offer weakly. I can’t help but think, And the one she should have had before that one—April. I’m hurt that this is obviously another of the many secrets that they’ve kept from me. Then I know something for certain: Zedra doesn’t know about April.
“She’s had six. The last one in 1988. She almost died. We didn’t tell you because you’re so self-righteous. The doctors told Lynzee that it would be a miracle if she ever conceived a child. And then Tyler came along seven years later.”
“So Tyler is Lynzee’s miracle child?”
“Damn straight.”
“I didn’t know.” So, that’s why she spoils Tyler so badly. Who could blame her?
“Charity, what you don’t know would make the world go ’round.”
Momentarily, I don’t have a comeback. That exact phrase was one that my mother used to say to me when I was younger.
Did Lynzee and Zedra plan on telling me the truth about Tyler, or were they going to keep yet another secret between them? It’s common knowledge that secrets can tear families apart. My sister knows that as well as I do. Does she view me as being so sickeningly self-righteous that she, my own blood kin, has to keep things from me? But then again, who am I to talk? I still haven’t found the nerve to tell Jett about his daughter. I don’t know if I ever will.
19
As I’m getting ready for work one morning, I hear the doorbell ring. Jett and the twins have already left for work and school. I cover my slip with my housecoat and hurry to the front door, heels clicking against the ceramic tile. To my shock, I see Lynzee with a scowl on her face.
“Let me in, bitch,” she snarls.
I open the door and say, “Did Zedra call you? I was worried about you and Tyler.”
“And what about April? Were you concerned about her welfare too?”
I keep silent.
She stalks past me and goes into the kitchen. I follow. She slams her keys down on the island and turns to face me.
“I hate your fucking guts, bitch.” She pushes her flat hand against my chest and continues, “I wanted to tell you face to face.”
“Whoa, what happened to the twelve steps that they taught you in rehab?” I ask.
“Fuck rehab. Those fools don’t have a clue about my real life. I told them a bunch of lies and they believed me.” She snorts a laugh.
It kills me to ask, but I do anyway. “What about April? How is she?”
She snarls. “April is out of my life. I found out that she’s an alcoholic and she’s gay. Plus, she blames me for giving her up for adoption. In short, she hates my guts.”
“Why?” I feel totally relieved.
“She’s single and sterile, and did I say gay already? I have no tolerance for people who feel sorry for themselves and turn to their own sex for comfort.”
“Stop it, Lynzee.” I feel my back press against the refrigerator.
Lynzee is wearing jeans and a sweatshirt, something she never wears. “You underestimate me, girl. It’s time that I taught you a lesson.” She quickly releases the belt around her waist. I grab her hand and she astonishes me with her strength.
“Stop it, Lynzee!” I try to fend her off, but it’s getting difficult. “I’m not in the mood for your bullshi—” Before I can finish my sentence, she reels back and hits me on my shoulder with the belt. As I try to protect myself, the tie loosens on my housecoat. I tussle with her, but she continues to attack, and strikes me in the stomach with her knee.
“I’ll show you, you soulless heffa.” She spits in my face. “How dare you write about me in your book? I’ll show you!”
I manage to grab the belt and push her back a few inches. She uses her shoulder to muscle her way forward, and pushes me until my back is against the oven door. I stomp on her feet with the heel of my shoe. She winces, but doesn’t relent. In a matter of seconds, she grabs a handful of fabric. The shoulder of my housecoat rips. I crouch down, trying to ward off another blow from the belt. It’s useless.
One slap of the belt hits my cheek and I can feel it swell. Another blow strikes my bare shoulder. It stings like hell. Now I’m mad. This bitch is going to get hers. I manage to grab the belt and sock her in the jaw with my left fist. I quickly follow it up with a solid blow to her chin. The skin splits and blood seeps out.
Lynzee is two sizes smaller than I am, but as agile as a snake and surprisingly tough for a woman in her fifties. As we struggle for leverage, I can smell her breath, foul with salami and cheese.
“You fat-ass motherfucker,” Lynzee wheezes. “I’m going to kill your fat ass.”
“The fuck you will,” I say, putting force in my voice.
I don’t see the next blow coming as she punches me in the eye. I’m wheezing, breathless with fatigue and filled with supreme hatred. A profound picture of April is lurking in my mind, and I can’t dismiss the sinfully sweet smile on her face. We both lose our footing and slip to the floor. I can feel her fingernails digging into my wrists as she tries to pin me down.
My left eye is aching like a toothache, and I can feel that it, too, is swelling. She forces her narrow body on top of me and continues punching me in the face.
“Get off of me, you fool!” I scream.
I’m praying that Lynzee is getting as exhausted as I am, but she seems reinvigorated by my helplessness. As I try to arch my back and roll over to one side, I can’t throw her off. I’m shaken by an involuntary muscle spasm as my body reacts to the growing interruption in my air supply and in the amount of blood to my brain.
“God, help me!” I plead.
I feel Lynzee’s body relax for a fraction of a second. I manage to get a hold of my shoe and bring it up to my waist. I struggle to lift it up higher. When I do, I reach back, then forward, striking Lynzee on the back of the head. Momentarily, she appears to go limp in defeat.
As she slowly rises up on her knees, taking her weight off of me, I continue to attack her with my shoe. I back-pedal, trying to get into a better position.
In that brief moment, Lynzee regains her strength, raises her hands to my throat, and squeezes harder. I begin to gag and cough uncontrollably and drop my shoe. The other one has fallen off, and I can feel the heel of it close by. I have to hang on until I can take possession of it. Using all of my strength, I grab her hands and force them away from my throat.
I’m so exhausted, it hurts to breathe. As I grab my other shoe, we manage to get to our feet, both weary and out of breath. I don’t expect it when Lynzee gives me a hard blow to the stomach. I stumble back a little, but manage to get my elbows up, almost simultaneously hitting Lynzee in the abdomen, back, and shoulder with my heel. She crumbles to her knees, the wind knocked out of her. I hate to do it, but I land one, then another blow to her jaw. I hear something crack, give.
Lynzee’s two front teeth are nearly knocked out, and she’s bleeding profusely from the mouth. As I move to grab her arm, Lynzee threatens, “I’m going to kill your ass. This isn’t over.”
Tears crowd my eyes as I grab her keys off of the island. I drag her beaten body to the front door. I open the door and push her outside. I throw they keys out into the yard. “Now, get away from me.”
I wait with my back pressed against the door until I hear the motor start. Seconds later, I hear the screech of tires. I exhale and let my body relax.
I call into work and tell them I won’t be coming in.
I should have expected it. Should have seen it coming. Still, her husky voice stuns me.
“You dirty, low-down bitch. You hurt my friend.” The call comes in late at night.
It was Zedra. “Cut it, Zedra. Lynzee had it coming.”
“You won’t fare so good with me. I weigh two-eighty.”
I hear Jett stirring beside me. He’s pissed about my swollen face and all of the purple bruises on my body. “Let it go, Zedra. This is between Lynzee and me. It’s none of your business.”
Jett pokes me in the side and asks, “Who is it, Charity?”
I cover the mouthpiece. “Zedra.”
Zedra’s voice turns ominous. “Forget what I said. I’m going to pay someone to kick your ass. Someone professional. Just know that you won’t know when or where. You better check over your shoulder every minute of your useless life.” Click.
I can’t help it; I tremble with fear.
“What’s wrong, Charity?” Jett demands.
“Zedra threatened me.”
He sits up in the bed and turns on the light. “Did you record the call?”
“I wish I had, but no. She hung up too quickly.”
I tell him exactly what she said, and he insists that we can’t take her threats lightly.
When we get up in the morning, Jett takes action. He gets all of the information I need to get a gun permit. Within two weeks, I attend an eight-hour seminar and take a written test.
I’ll never forget the instructor’s words: “When you shoot a gun, you’re responsible for that bullet until it hits the ground.”
Jett buys me a .25 semi-automatic Smith and Wesson with a pearl handle. Of course, I can’t use it yet. It takes three months to get a gun permit. Even so, the next day Jett goes with me to the firing range. He’s had his gun permit for seven years and is an expert shot. It hurts that he is so impatient with me. He wants me to shoot almost as well as he can. I can’t. I try my best, but come up short. I believe that a human target is much larger than the one at the firing range, and when I need to, I won’t miss. That’s for damn sure. And permit or not, I’m going to be strapped day or night in case Zedra decides to make good on her threats. The po-po is just going to have to bust me red-handed for being in possession of an illegal gun.
After weeks of looking over my shoulder constantly, I decide that Zedra’s threats weren’t real. Maybe she has calmed down because it seems that Lynzee’s career is not faltering due to the release of my book. The tabloids are in a feeding frenzy, trying to dig up people from the past to verify the details of Lynzee’s past, but even so, the New York Times announces that Lynzee’s publisher is going ahead with the release of her latest book, Skull and Bones. They are dropping a huge amount of money to promote the book.
Jett interprets it as a bad thing that they’re spending so much to promote Lynzee’s book. They printed 500,000 copies, and he thinks they’re afraid that her reputation is damaged, and she will no longer be able to sell books on the strength of her name alone.
I don’t know if I agree with Jett. In the past, Lynzee never had a problem selling hundreds of thousands of books, and I don’t think her fans wil
l turn against her now. After all, there are millions of people who are bisexual and homosexual. I also know that controversy sells books. Skull and Bones just might be her biggest novel yet, I think hopefully.
But just in case, I will stay strapped.
20
Now that my book is on store shelves, it’s time to do a promotional blitz. I spend a large part of my advance on publicity. This is part of the reason I have kept my job, because I knew I would need money for my tour. My publisher is spending a lot also, but a rule I learned a long time ago is that an author must go above and beyond to really stand out. I am determined to be super successful, and I am willing to do whatever it takes.
I do a radio promo commercial and pay to have it aired in seventy-five cities. I line up interviews with radio hosts across the country who supported me during previous promotional tours. Herman takes a vacation day and helps me stay focused and organized during the interviews. I appear on Good Morning America, Oprah, and a host of local morning shows. My picture is on the cover of several magazines that cater to African American women.
Both Oprah and Good Morning America try to get Lynzee to appear on their show with me. She declines both offers. I’m not the least bit surprised.
I finally quit my job when it’s time to go on the road and do book signings. I travel to thirty cities, where I am met by throngs of people who have read my book. My readers are back stronger than ever. The success of my book is almost better than I even imagined it would be.
I make the New York Times bestsellers list two weeks after my publication date. In no time, Revelations is in its tenth printing. The hardcover sales are in excess of 400,000 copies. My phone is ringing off the hook for speaking engagements. Since making the Times, Arlene has been able to lobby my speaking fees to $15,000. I am willing to do two engagements a month, but no more. Funny, not long ago I was broke as a sick dick dog; now I’m swimming in cash and offers.
We Ain’t the Brontës Page 9