Best Dressed Lie (Keisha Jackson)

by Batiste, Kimberly

  Once we got into the car, I saw him walking towards Kayla.

  “Why is he talking to her?” I said angrily, staring out the window.

  “Who?” Zan asked, with a nervous look on her face.

  “Randy. I see him walking towards Kayla.”

  “Keep her away from your man, that bitch is evil,” she said, starting up the engine.

  “What happened back there ?”

  Zan’s eyes teared up. She pulled the car over into an abandoned parking lot. “Keisha, it’s a long story. I will give you the short version because I know you’re going to keep asking me what happened,” she said, wiping her tears.

  “I met Kayla and her daughter Kelsey at a shelter in New York, shortly after I left the foster home. We used to hustle on the streets. We did whatever it took to feed her daughter, even it meant selling ourselves to old men. I didn’t have Jason at the time, so I looked out for little Kelsey as if she was my own. One night one of the men raped me. That’s how I got pregnant with Jason.”

  “Why would you keep something like that from me? You know I would never judge you.”

  “Why is Kayla so upset with you? It sounds like you helped her. Why did you never mention to me that the two of you knew each other?”

  “First of all, when have you ever introduced me to anyone at your job?”

  “True,” I said, “But you’ve never talked about being homeless in New York.”

  “Let’s drop it Keisha, I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” she said, pulling out a cigarette. “That part of my life is in the past. This is the last time I’ll ever speak on it. What you need to be worried about is that she’s at the picnic alone with your man.”

  As much as I wanted to dig deeper into Zan’s past, Randy was at the picnic without me.

  ******

  Meanwhile back at the picnic, Randy was curious to find out exactly what Kayla said to Zan that got her so upset.

  “Kayla,” he said, walking towards her like a beast.

  “What do you want?” she snorted, another cup of beer in her hand.

  “What happened with you and Zan? I hope you haven’t been running your damn mouth.”

  Kayla was intoxicated after downing four drinks back to back.

  “Ha, I got my eye on you playboy,” She said slurring her words and pointing at him.

  He frowned. “What?”

  “You’re a liar, that’s what!”

  “Listen, you keep your mouth shut or I’ll send you back where you came from,” he said, vindictively.

  “Are you threatening me?” she said staggering. “You don’t scare me, Randy.”

  “I’m asking you to leave. Now,” he said, tugging at her arm.

  “You piece of shit. You owe BJ some money and he is pissed!” she shouted, in a drunken tone.

  “You are pathetic! Get outta here,” he said, making a fanning motion with his hands.

  “Tonight is your last night seeing Keisha. She has a surprise waiting for her. Your gambling will take her to the grave.”

  “What are you talking about? You’re drunk and pitiful!”

  Kayla was so drunk she hiccupped after almost every word. But everything she said gave Randy a lot to think about. He did have to borrow a lump sum of money from BJ behind Keisha’s back.

  Randy was behind on his mortgage. He was on the verge of losing the home, so he went to BJ for help. He signed a contract with BJ promising to pay him back with interest. It had been weeks and Randy didn’t keep his promise. Now, BJ wanted revenge and would do whatever it took to get Randy’s attention.

  “Damn! I’ve got to get home before she does.”

  Randy was scared as hell and freaking out. He dialed her number as he walked towards his car.

  ******

  “Randy, let me call you right back,” I said, not giving him time to say anything.

  “Wait!” he yelled. “Damn it, she hung up !”

  SIX

  Finally, we arrived at my house and a black Nissan Maxima was in my driveway. The bumper had a rental company sticker on it. “Who does this rental car belong to?” I wondered.

  “What the hell?” Zan said, coming to her senses. “Is that the car from the other night?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Do I need to walk you in?”

  “I’ll be okay girl,” I said, unconvincingly. “It’s similar, but not the exact same car,” I said. “One of his coworkers probably rode with him to the picnic and left their car here, that’s all. I’ll be fine.” I called Randy’s phone just to make sure. It went straight to voicemail. “He would have his phone off!” I said, pissed.

  I didn’t have a clue as to who this car belonged to, but I was about to find out. Once I got inside the screened porch, I waved Zan off, indicating everything was okay.

  “Call me,” I said smiling, holding my pinkie and thumb to the side of my face.

  Zan drove off. I noticed the front door cracked open. My first thought was that randy was having sex with another woman in our bed, forgetting I left him at the picnic. I elbowed through the door, looking down as I walked in. Furniture was scattered everywhere. “What the…”

  My eye scanned the floor like a police dog searching for drugs. They stumbled upon a pair of khaki Timberland boots standing before me. The boots looked like a size fourteen men’s, not Randy’s size.

  I slowly skimmed up his body from the feet up. I stopped at his face and screamed. “What are you doing in my house?”

  He had on a black mask, covering everything but his eyes, nose and mouth. His eyes were blood shot and his lips were cracked. He was unquestionably a black man.

  “Where is Randy?” he said, grabbing the back of my head, pulling my hair. I felt my hair follicles peeling away from my scalp.

  I was so scared; I tried to listen carefully to his voice, to figure out who he was. “Please, no,” I pleaded. “Who...who are you?” I was stuttering and fumbling over my words.

  “He owes me money and I want it now,” he said, calmly. “I’ve been sitting here for hours waiting for him.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

  “Shut up!” he said. ”I’m tired of riding around following his ass. The only reason I haven’t put him on blast at work, is because I’m afraid of losing my job! Now where is he?”

  With no response from me, he opened the basement door and tossed me down the stairs like a rag doll. My scream echoed through the room as I tumbled downward. “Help!” I yelled. I fell on the concrete floor headfirst and everything went black. I was unconscious all night.

  The next morning, my eyes opened to the glare of morning sunshine beaming through the side window in the unfinished basement. I lay on the floor like a fish out of water, stiff and almost lifeless. I felt vibrations against my stomach but was too scared and hurt to move. Then I remembered I kept my cell phone in my pocket.

  After fifteen attempts, I tugged it out while lying flat on my stomach. Once I removed the phone, I slid it upwards toward my head and then slowly turned it towards my face. I had ten percent left on my battery, with five missed calls from Zan.

  My body was sore and bruised. I was not going to waste the little strength I had returning her call. I heard voices from upstairs. I started panicking. I was afraid the masked man was still in my house. I made sure the phone was still on vibrate. I did not want him to hear it ringing.

  “God, please help me,” I whispered in tears, as I dialed 911 slowly, one digit at a time.

  “Nine, one, one…. Police, Fire, or Ambulance?” asked the operator.

  “I need a police!” I said desperately in a loud whisper. The concrete floor was cold and I was shaking in shock.

  “Ma’am, please… calm down,” she said, “What’s your emergency?”

  Hearing squeaking sounds of footsteps above me, I glanced at the unfinished wooden ceiling. The reflection of his body was traumatizing.

  “He’s coming, please!” I said, holding the phone wit
h my bare shoulder.

  “Keisha!” he yelled through the floor cracks, pressing his eyeball to the crack.

  “What are you doing down there?!”

  The phone slid off my shoulder. I crawled my way towards the stairs and climbed upwards. I stretched my arm as far as I could to lock the door.

  “Please God, help me reach it!” I was terrified. Grime pinched and dug into my scratched knees .

  The door jerked open and brushed against my mouth barely missing knocking my teeth out. “What the hell are you doing?!” he said, standing over me. His face covered with the black mask.

  “Who are you?” I asked, petrified.

  He grabbed my face under my jaw. He clenched his dirty fingernails into my skin. He squeezed hard and blood oozed out of my mouth. It ran down the side of his chafed hands. He pulled my face towards his. My mouth nearly touched his mouth. I could smell vodka on his breathe. His sweat drizzled down his lips as his devious eyes watched me.

  “Now,” he said, viciously. “You listen and you listen real well, your trifling-ass boyfriend messed up and I’m going to wait and torture you until he gets here!” he said undressing me with his eyes.

  I leaned on the stairs railing trying to ease down the steps, motionless and scared stiff.

  “I’ve been waiting on him for hours,” he said, poking my forehead with his finger. He sat on the steps near the door and demanded, “Come closer.”

  I sobbed and mumbled under my breath, “Randy, where are you? Please get here!”

  He reached down and slapped me. “Didn’t I say come here, whore?!”

  I crept over to him holding my face. My chin lifted by the strength of his finger. He roughly kissed me with his chapped lips. He sucked the blood out of my mouth.

  He held my bloody slobber in his mouth and then yanked my mouth opened and spit it back in. I gagged and begged, “Please stop!”

  He clamped my lips shut, forcing me to swallow. “Shut up!” he demanded.

  He took the palm of his hand and covered my face, then pushed me backwards nearly knocking me unconscious again.

  “Get your ass up!” he said, raising his fist.

  Everything was a blur, so I lay there.

  “Get up now!” he said pounding his fist into the palm of his hand.

  I cried so hard, I could barely breathe. “Somebody please…please, help me!” my throat was burning. Sluggishly I tried to get up. I was too weak.

  “That’s all right, stay right where you are,” he said, heated.

  He stripped down his dirty, white, rugged jeans splattered with my blood. He lit a cigarette, placed it in the corner of his mouth, stood over, pointed at his penis then shouted, “Come slob on my knob!” He was drunk and musty, with old dried up mucus from previous sex, matted and tangled in his pubic hair. “I can’t move,” I said, lying on my back.

  “ You better not move!” he said, flicking ashes on my body. I slowly made my way up. I was dizzy.

  “Bring your ass here,” he said, grabbing the back of my hair. He dragged me up, leaned my head back, and put his cigarette out on my forehead. He scorched my skin.

  “Ouch…Ouch!” I screamed, whacking his hand.

  “Shut up,” he said, forcing his penis down my throat, violently moving my head back and forth.

  I started gagging and vomiting from the pressure hitting my tonsils. “Look at me!” he yelled, looking into my watering, swollen, red eyes as he tortured me. I vomited and he let go of me. I fell weakly to the floor.

  “Get up, you’re not done!”

  I tried to yell, but I couldn’t. I knew I could not fight him and even if I tried, he was going to kill me. He tried to find something to punish me with for throwing up and interrupting his arousal. He angrily stomped up the stairs and talked shit as he went.

  “You better not move, whore!” I stayed there watching him go up the steps. I closed my eyes as tightly as I could. I knew that once he returned, the beating would be worse. I heard him rambling through the open door.

  “Just what I need,” he said, stomping back down the stairs with one of Randy’s fifty pound weights.

  He made his way back down the steps one at a time. He stood over me breathing like he’d finished a marathon. He held the weight around one end with both hands. He raised it in the air as high as he could…

  “Police, put down the weapon!” The officer stood in the doorway, pointing his gun at him. I was in too much pain to make a sound. I inhaled deeply and exhaled with more tears. Thank God! I thought.

  The policeman gradually walked down the fragile, wooden steps one by one towards the psychopath. The police officer stared at him like a hawk never moving his gun out of the murderer’s face. He stood there, looking down at me with hatred. “Put down your weapon now!” the police officer demanded. He moved closer.

  The masked man didn’t move. He made a sound in the back of his throat and then leaned down toward my face and spit in my eyes. The cop grabbed him roughly from behind. The 50 pound weight came crashing down towards me, but thank fully fell to one side at the last moment.

  The two men wrestled as the officer tried to subdue him. He broke loose; head butted the policeman and took off up the stairs. The officer fell backwards and called for backup. Luckily, several cops heard the call and arrived to the scene. As he bombarded his way out the door they started shouting, “Get down…down now!...Now!” The police officer tried to corner him, but he managed to get away. They fired several gunshots and chased him through the woods. He was too fast and got away. They didn’t know whether a bullet hit him or not. The ambulance finally arrived and the paramedics rushed to my side. Tears crawled down the side of my face. I was limp, broken and distraught.

  “Ma’am,” the medic said, “We’re taking you to the hospital.” He held the blood pressure cuff around my arm and asked, “Ma’am, what’s your full name?”

  I was very frail but managed to say, “Keisha… Keisha Jackson.” My body and mind were not responding. My weary eyes slowly closed. I could not and was not answering any more questions .

  SEVEN

  When I got to the hospital, Zan saw the incident on the news and was already there waiting. From a distanced, she saw the paramedic wheeling me in. My head was wrapped in white bandage, with my face barely showing. I had tubes running out of my arm with lifesaving fluids doing their job.

  Zan hands started trembling. She covered her mouth and slowly fell to her knees. “Keisha!” she said, dramatically breaking down. As soon as the gurney got closer Zan sprung up and looked down at me. The paramedics rushed me into the emergency room bay like a stampede. Zan wanted to be right next to me.

  Deliriously, I saw a vision of the burglar, walking along side my bed holding and rubbing my hand. I snatched my hand away.

  “Keisha! Talk to me,” Zan yelled, bringing me back to reality. Gently smoothing my hair into place, she watched me with disbelief.

  “Keisha, I’m sorry,” she sobbed, “I’m so, so, sorry.” I was too frail to speak. She looked directly into my eyes and asked, “Did Randy do this to you?”

  With no response from me, she yelled, “Answer me god dam it, did he?!” She was emotionally out of control. “It’s my fault!” she said, making fists.

  The nurses quickly grabbed her and said, “Ma’am, we need for you to wait in the waiting room.”

  “Damn you, Randy!” Zan said in rage walking toward the indicated room. “Damn you, Randy!”

  She cried hysterically and stumbled over her heels. She squatted down to sit in a corner. Shortly, a nurse came into the room and called out, “Zan Davis?” Not giving her enough time to respond, she called again, “Zan Dav…”

  “I’m coming!” Zan answered with a ruthless attitude, rushing over and dropping her purse. Cigarettes, pills, money and makeup fell out. She was shaking so badly, the more she tried to pick up her things, the more they fell out of her hand; all but the pack of cigarettes. Once she got her things together, she walked towards the nurse.
She walked so fast, one of her heels bent and broke.

  “Damn it!” She tugged at her clothes as she limped her way over to the door.

  “What are you staring at?” she screamed, pointing at the family members of sick patients.

  The nurse softly asked, “Ma’am, are you a family member?”

  “I’m her best friend Zan…Zan Davis. Is she okay?” “She’s stable. Do you have any contact information for her family?”

  Her eyes teared up. “I’m her family. All we have is each other.”

  “Alright Miss Davis, I’ll let you sit with her for a few minutes.” She said, comforting Zan. “Remember she can’t speak, so look but don’t touch and do not ask her any questions.”

  “Thank you,” Zan said. She wiped her tears and headed towards the room.

  Zan eased her way into the ER bay where I lay feebly. She pulled the thin curtain back, the metal hooks rasping in their groove. Then she swished the curtain closed again. She gasped when she saw my battered and swollen face.

  I had an oxygen mask covering my mouth. My head, knees and hands were wrapped in white bandages. More tubes ran to various clear bags hanging above my head. Machines beeped, whirred and flashed tracking my vital signs.

  Zan tried to hold back the tears, her lips were quivering. Her shoulders started moving up and down from her quiet crying. I could just see her, although she was blurry. I could not speak. My puffy black and blue eyes filled with tears. She felt helpless, so she knelt down at my bedside and started praying, “Father God, please heal Keisha’s body. She’s been through so much Lord, she needs you. Father God, heal her body and soul, may her pain cease, may her strength increase, may her fears be released, and may blessings, love, and joy surround her. Amen.”

  There was a discreet knock at the door.

  “Keisha Jackson?” the man in the white coat said, looking down at my chart, making his way into the room. Zan slowly raised her head.

  “Hello, I’m Dr. Baker,” he said, reaching out to shake her hand. She stayed on her knees.