Bad Girls Finish First

by Shelia Dansby Harvey

  Jerry Minshew was about to get punked, Raven style.

  “Mrs. Joseph, what are you doing here?” The people who rang Jerry Minshew’s doorbell were usually selling cookies or salvation. So he was understandably frazzled to find Raven on his doorstep.

  “I came to talk about my husband. May I come in?” As Raven talked she made her way into Minshew’s apartment. It was spacious and had a great layout, but Minshew didn’t know what to do with it, any more than he knew what to do with his own body. He had a pleather sofa; an ancient, wooden, floor-model television; and dingy walls. Raven glanced toward the kitchen, which was just as outdated. The only thing she liked about the place was the bookshelf against one wall. Not that the shelf looked good, but it gave the room a little personality.

  Raven walked over and read the titles. At least he’s got good taste in books, she thought. The idea put her at ease, humanized Minshew enough to help her do what she had to do.

  “I understand you’ve got reservations about endorsing my husband for governor.” Raven stood with her jacket closed and her hands in her pockets. Her voice was throaty. “And I hear that those reservations have to do with me.”

  “Mrs. Joseph,” Minshew began in an officious voice, “this is quite inappropriate. I’ll have to ask you to—”

  “To what?” Raven challenged. By now she’d unbuttoned her jacket and let it fall open, just a bit. Just enough to let Minshew get a peek. “Whatever you ask me to do, Jerry, that’s what I’ll do.”

  Minshew, bless his heart, was speechless.

  Raven stayed where she was and kept talking. As she talked, she let her jacket open more, more, more. With every inch of her body that she revealed, Raven hoped that Minshew would lose it, that he’d turn and run to the bathroom, sparing her from having to go further. But it wasn’t working out that way.

  “Michael said that you seem interested in my past. Is that true?”

  Minshew found a tiny piece of his voice. “Well, I . . . I think it’s newsworthy, that’s all.”

  “Jerry, I don’t mind letting you know me better, but I don’t want my information going public. I’d like for whatever I tell you, or show you, to be our secret. Can we do that?” Raven spoke as though she were talking to a child. “Why don’t you sit down?”

  Minshew just stood there, mouth agape.

  “Go on, sit.” Raven motioned toward the sofa. Minshew sat and Raven walked up behind him.

  She slowly rubbed his bald, disfigured head. “From what Michael told me, you’ve discovered that I’m a naughty girl, who’s done some naughty things. I can’t lie, Jerry, I am a naughty girl. The worst. But I’m also good, and very smart. You know what I mean?”

  When Minshew didn’t reply, Raven patted his head and said, “I know. Kind of hard to talk right now, huh? That’s understandable. But we’ve got to figure out a way to communicate, Jerry. Because before I let you know what I’m all about, we’ve got to reach an agreement about the paper’s endorsement. Now I’m going to ask you a series of questions, and if you agree with me, just nod yes, okay? If you disagree, shake your head no. Let’s begin.

  “Do you think Michael is more qualified than Sweeney to be governor?” Raven fondled Minshew’s ear as she spoke.

  He shook, No.

  “Wrong answer,” Raven said. She squeezed Minshew’s earlobe.

  “Ouch! That hurts!” he said, pulling away and grabbing his ear.

  “I can’t help it if you gave the wrong answer, Jerry.” Minshew had halfway turned around to look up at Raven, but she took both hands and turned his head face forward. Raven would do what she had to do, but she didn’t have to look at the pig while she did it.

  “I didn’t mean to hurt you.” Raven again massaged Minshew’s earlobe. “Let’s try again, and this time be honest. Do you think Michael’s more qualified than Sweeney to be governor?”

  “Yes.”

  Raven rolled her eyes, leaned down, and gently sucked Minshew’s earlobe.

  “Good.” She massaged Minshew’s temple and whispered in his ear. “Question number two. And this is a very important question, Jerry, so pay attention. Is there any chance, any at all, that I can do something to help you convince your colleagues at the paper to endorse Michael?”

  “Yes.” Now that he’d been shocked into speaking by having his ear pinched, Minshew barely waited for Raven to finish her sentence before he answered. He’d thought about saying no, to see what Raven would do. When she squeezed his earlobe it hurt, but not in a bad way; the way she punished him for saying no was almost as good as the way she rewarded him for agreeing with her. But he was in a hurry to get to the ultimate question and the ultimate reward, so he didn’t have time to say no.

  Raven used one hand to unfasten her bustier. She leaned her cool bare breasts against the back of Minshew’s head. Surely this ought to do it, she thought. Although he groaned and sank into the pleather sofa like a wounded animal, Minshew held on.

  “What do you want me to do?” Raven asked.

  “Anything. Just, please hurry!”

  “Well then, I’ll skip the details of my past life and give you the big picture. Show you what I’m about. If you’re happy—well, happy isn’t the right word; satisfied, I should say—if I satisfy you, Michael gets the endorsement and my past is forgotten. Agreed?”

  Minshew squeezed his already-closed eyes even tighter and murmured, “Agreed.”

  She licked Minshew’s bald spot, and suddenly he was thankful for supersensitive nerves that his botched hair implant experiment left behind. Jacket and bustier now discarded, Raven and her badassed Jimmy Choo’s walked around the sofa and faced Minshew. “Tell me how you like it, Jerry.”

  Two hours later, after he’d closed the door behind Raven, Minshew managed to take two shaky steps toward his sofa before he fainted from exhaustion.

  Raven pranced into the master bedroom bearing breakfast and the Austin American-Statesman.

  “Where’d you get that so early—why’d you get it so early?” Michael asked as he yawned.

  “Special delivery,” she replied and dropped the paper into his lap. “Look at this.” JOSEPH BEST CHOICE FOR GOVERNOR

  “Unbelievable,” Michael said as he read the banner across the front page of the paper. He relaxed as his body released tension he wasn’t aware he carried. “For this to happen, Minshew had to change his mind about me. Wonder what made him do that?”

  “I had a talk with him,” Raven said as she took a bite of French toast. “He’s a weird guy, but quite reasonable, once you get to know him.”

  Michael looked surprised. “You?”

  Raven licked syrup from her lips. “Don’t look at me like that. You know damn well that I want to be the governor’s wife. You didn’t seriously think I was going to let a loser like Jerry Minshew stand in my way.”

  “Aren’t you worried that, well, maybe this could turn on us?”

  “How, Michael?” Raven thumped the newspaper. “Look at this, they’ve already committed, and besides, it’s true; you are the best choice for governor.” Michael watched his wife lick her fingers as she spoke. There was a carafe filled with warm syrup on her breakfast tray. They kept a chef’s torch in their nightstand.

  She asked him, “Are you having some sort of black man’s inferiority complex? Feeling like you’re getting something you don’t deserve, not qualified for?”

  “Of course not!”

  “Well then, accept this victory and move on to the next one.”

  Michael leaned forward and kissed Raven. “You’re right. I deserve to be the big man in the governor’s office, but in this room I’m nothing but a servant to my queen. My wicked queen. Feel like showing me how undeserving I am?”

  Raven smiled at Michael. Sometimes they were so compatible. “I’ll make a deal with you,” she said sweetly. “Let me have your French toast and when I finish, I’ll treat you like the worthless scum you are.”

  8

  “Son, come on in.” Michael took off
his reading glasses and stood. He’d felt someone watching him and looked up to find an infrequent visitor—Evan.

  Evan took a step into the room, then just stood there. Michael’s internal alarm bells went off. Evan must have gotten himself into a scrap he couldn’t get out of on his own. Even if Evan was about to give him bad news, Michael was happy for the rare visit.

  “Something going on I need to know about?”

  “Naw. Just wondering about the Juneteenth party.”

  “You mean the fund-raising gala? Oh, that’s tomorrow night.” Michael relaxed and sat down again. “It’s going to be—what’s that you young people say—off the chain?”

  “Yeah. I heard.” Evan scratched his head and studied the floor. “I was thinking, you know, a Juneteenth party. That’s tight.” He looked at his father and asked, “What ya’ll wearing?”

  “I’m wearing a tuxedo.”

  “Chris too?”

  “I’m sure he is. Did you ask him?”

  “Naw. Him and Genie, they went to Vegas for the weekend. They ain’t coming back till tomorrow afternoon.”

  Evan’s grammar was killing Michael, but this was the longest conversation they’d had in weeks, and Michael wasn’t going to disrupt it by harping on Evan’s slang. When he was a toddler, Evan had the vocabulary and reading skills of a seven-year-old. Evan’s eagerness to learn was so remarkable that Grace and Michael had started to worry that Christopher was a little slow until the pediatrician told them, “Chris is exceptionally bright for a child his age, but don’t compare him to his little brother. Evan’s the smartest little boy I’ve seen in the last ten years.”

  “I was thinking about going, but I ain’t got no tux. My old one’s too small.”

  Michael looked at the clock. It was ten o’clock on a Friday night. “I’ll have Lawrence meet us out front.”

  Minutes later Michael, Evan, and Michael’s driver, Lawrence, were tooling down Tenth Street toward a downtown men’s store. The owner, Rudolpho “Rudy” Dominica, was a tailor for Austin’s powerful men and a longtime supporter of Michael. When he first moved to Austin thirty years before, Rudy had jumped when his clients called, but these days he didn’t get out of his bed for just anybody.

  “Rudy, my friend, thank you for helping me,” Michael said as he embraced the tailor. “My son needs a tuxedo for tomorrow night.”

  “Have you been to Italy, son?” Rudy asked Evan as he measured him.

  “No, sir,” Evan replied. “We went to Europe when I was a boy, but we only visited the UK, France, and Germany. I wished we’d have gotten as far south as Italy, but we didn’t.”

  I knew it; perfect English and accurate geography when the time is right, Michael thought.

  “The most beautiful people, the best-dressed people in the world, are in Italy!” Rudy exclaimed.

  “No? Why are you laughing? It’s no lie!” Rudy said to Michael and Lawrence. They were laughing because they’d heard Rudy’s spiel before and knew what was coming next.

  Rudy hung his tape measure around his neck, so that he could use both hands to gesture as he talked. “The black man, he has style, yes! Much style! But it comes from Italy. Black men have Italian blood in them, I’m sure of it!”

  Michael egged Rudy on because he always did, and also because he wanted to stretch the moment out for as long as he could. Michael took advantage of the time to study his son and saw that although Evan had inherited his own lean body, the rest of him was Grace made over. He had Grace’s quiet, fluid way of moving, but masculine athleticism replaced feminine charm. He’d gotten his height and coloring from Grace’s side of the family. Grace was barely five three, but her father had been a tall man, and so was Evan. He had Grace’s father’s deep-brown hue, which set him apart from Grace, Michael, and Christopher, who were all fair skinned.

  Evan was shy, too, like his mother, and it took him a while before he’d look the tailor in the eye as Rudy asked whether the jacket was comfortable along the shoulders and whether the trousers pinched his crotch when he sat down.

  “You’re Italian here too, son, you need plenty of room,” Rudy teased as he measured Evan’s inseam.

  By the time he’d finished being measured, Evan was as loose as the other men. He dropped his mask of surly nonchalance and softly sang along with the Joe Williams CD while Rudy made the alterations.

  Rudy looked up from his work and said, “Michael, your son sings like an angel.”

  Evan looked alarmed. “Naw, I ain’t—”

  Rudy stopped him. “Your voice is a gift from God, do not be ashamed.” He nodded knowingly. “With a voice like that you will go to Italy one day. Sing at La Scala, maybe.” Rudy gave Michael a look that said, Wouldn’t that be something? He turned back to Evan and told him, “And when you do, think of old Rudy, eh?”

  On their way out of the shop, Michael said, “I’m still wide awake. What about you guys?”

  They all nodded, then Lawrence said, “A Burns’s link sandwich would be pretty good right about now.”

  “Or an order of ribs,” Michael said.

  “With potato salad, beans, and a strawberry soda on the side,” Evan added.

  As they rolled toward Burns’s, Evan leaned forward and asked Lawrence, “Is that Parliament I hear?”

  “What you know about P-Funk, youngster? Yeah, that’s Parliament.”

  “George Clinton? Man, I haven’t heard Parliament in years. Turn it up!” Michael ordered. Pretty soon all three men were making their funk the P-funk, getting all funked up.

  “Dad! I didn’t know you could get down like that,” Evan said. He flashed a smile so brilliant that it stopped Michael mid-bop and wiped the smile right off his face.

  “What? What’d I do?” Evan asked.

  “Nothing . . . It’s just—your smile—it’s just like your mother’s. It’s beautiful.”

  Christopher banged on Evan’s door. “It’s me, Ev! Let me in!” He could hardly hear his own voice above the bass line blasting from Evan’s room. Christopher opened the door and found Evan lying on the floor with his eyes closed and his beautiful voice shouting to the beat, something about mutherfuckers, gats, and hos.

  Christopher slowly turned down the volume.

  “The fuck you want, Chris? Cain’t a nigga knock?”

  Christopher playfully kicked his brother. Evan was the biggest thug wannabe in the world. He talked hard, but Christopher had caught the soft surprise on Evan’s face before he slipped on his gangsta mask. Christopher rarely visited his father’s home except for business. When he and Evan spent time together they went somewhere or hung out at Christopher’s apartment.

  “I did knock, but you got it thumpin’ up in here.” Christopher bobbed his head for a beat or two before turning the sound even lower.

  “ ’Sup? Dad send you in here ’bout that thing I got into at school?”

  “What thing?” Christopher asked, then waved both hands, palms open. “On second thought, I don’t even want to know.”

  Christopher sat on Evan’s bed. “Dad didn’t send me.” He paused, then said, “I talked to Mom this morning. She asked about you. Mom misses you, Evan. She’d love it if you rode down with me to spend the weekend with her. At least do it every once in a while.”

  “It’s boring at her house.”

  “I know she’s not as much fun to be around as she used to be, but she’s our mother.”

  “Does she still cry every day?” Evan asked.

  Christopher blinked and they both looked away at the same time. The brothers didn’t say anything for a while. The air was thick with shared and individual memories and hurt—there was no room for words.

  “You said she asked about me.” Evan’s voice came out high-pitched and cracked.

  “I told her you’re trying out for the city choir.”

  “Is she going to come to my audition?” Evan still sounded funny, but there was something else in his voice, too. Hope for Grace.

  “I wouldn’t count on it, Ev.
Mom’s still not . . . she’s not right. Besides, I’ll go with—”

  Evan cut Christopher off by lying back on the floor with a thud. He reached behind him and turned up his music. Christopher stayed just long enough to watch his little brother mumble hateful lyrics—something about “bitches ain’t shit.”

  Grace sat in the center of the small reading circle. She was surrounded by boys at their terrible best. At twelve and thirteen years old they were victims of the havoc wreaked by surging testosterone. Squeaky voices, hair in strange places. Caught between wanting to hit a girl or kiss her. The boys’ mix of emotional impulsiveness and burgeoning intellectual maturity made for an energetic, hard-to-control group.

  “Boys! Boys! Please calm down!” If there was such a thing as a timid shout, Grace used it. The students ignored her. They threw balled up wads of paper at each other and refused to stay in their seats. They raised hell.

  John Reese, drawn by all the commotion, walked in and asked, “What’s going on in here?” He didn’t shout, and his voice wasn’t particularly deep, but it was authoritative.

  “Nothing, Mr. Reese,” James said as he and the rest of the boys scurried to their seats.

  John looked around the room, giving each of the six boys an evil eye meant especially for him. “I don’t want to have to come in here again.”

  He looked at Grace. Everything okay? his eyes asked.

  “We’re fine, John. Thanks.”

  “Now boys, where were we?” Grace opened her third-grade reader. “Oh, yes. Open your books to page sixteen, please.” Grace didn’t look at the youngsters as she spoke.