Sinful

by McGlothin, Victor

  “What?” Dior said with the same curious frown as before.

  “Don’t what me. I want you to be on your best behavior in there,” Chandelle demanded. “Not that you would, but I don’t need to get jammed up behind some stolen goods misunderstanding, and I’m certainly not in the mood to watch you try and urinate your way out of a shoplifting beef.”

  “Chandelle, I wouldn’t do that to you,” she answered, lowering her head in shame. “Anyways, I ain’t even got to pee. Let’s go.” Dior hopped out of the car like it was on fire. “Hurr’ up, cuz, the quicker we can shake you loose from that funky coat, the quicker we can scout around for sales.”

  “I thought you couldn’t make rent,” Chandelle asked, as they stepped inside the entrance doors.

  “I can’t, but what does that have to do with anything?” Dior reasoned, despite her bleak financial predicament. “I left one of my favorite dresses at the apartment. Might not get it back after they find that window I smashed.”

  “And if you had taken care of business like I suggested, instead of dashing over to Kevlin’s, you might not be in this mess,” Chandelle told her. “Why don’t you like normal men who want to treat you right?”

  Dior’s impulsive and sometimes carefree attitude was legendary. She had no use for normal men who actually were interested in working on more than merely perfecting various sexual positions. Dior craved drama and men who could deliver it by the bus load. Pure and simple, she was known in certain circles as a jump off, the kind of woman who committed men often kept on the side for quick hits and cheap tricks. While stumbling through life and searching for her place in it, Dior had grown accustomed to being the other woman. She preferred things that way. Her biggest weakness was a yearning to acquire without exerting the effort and energy required to do it honestly. After she continually managed to come up short, the same questions traced her lips: Why does it take the wrong men a hot minute to love me while the right ones never seem to want to?

  “I don’t have time to sort through normal brothas trying to figure out why they don’t already have a woman and what they did to chase the last one off. And I don’t have room in my life for misfits. One’s plenty, and I’m it.”

  Inside of the glassed-in elevator, Chandelle pushed the button going up. She allowed Dior’s flawed logic to play around in her head until she became dizzy. “Your way of thinking missed me. It almost sounds like you couldn’t be interested in a man unless he has at least one woman in his life to start.”

  “At least one,” she answered matter-of-factly. “Take Marvin, for instance. My friends think he’s so cute, but they love the fact that he has a real pretty wife. Don’t ask me, but that’s the way it is, coming from where I’m from. His stock went way up when he married you.”

  “Dior, promise me you won’t tell anyone else what you just told me? That’s two kinds of crazy.” Chandelle asked Dior to take a seat on a bench outside of the furrier’s. She didn’t need another dose of ghetto rationale to show itself while she was conducting business. It was a good thing because the saleswoman initially refused to accept the expensive fur that she deemed as a slightly used, nonreturnable item until Chandelle articulately argued that the coat not only possessed a peculiarly foul odor, but that her husband didn’t like the looks of it whatsoever. After she threatened to complain to the platinum card company, the snotty saleslady reluctantly complied. With a signed charge-back receipt in hand, Chandelle strutted out of the store with a sigh of relief and a zero balance on her brand-new credit card. “Come on, Dior,” she said, grinning gleefully. “We have an hour to see what’s what.”

  “That’s what I’m talking about,” Dior agreed. “Let’s hit that boutique you like so much. I think they carry the Marc Jacobs bags everybody’s packing, the real ones.” Through the specialty shop window, Chandelle remembered admiring that designer’s line of purses as well.

  “Yeah, I’ve seen those, the soft leather with the gold buckle. Uh-huh, real cute but not my style. Well, more like not in my budget since I’ve decided to do better.” She entered the shop, ogling the sales racks. “Dolce and Gabbana dresses, ohhh…that’s hot,” marveled Chandelle, until she flipped the price tag over. “Humph, unfortunately the cost is not.” She craned her neck in search of the clerk who typically assisted her. The thin redhead sauntered closer, and then smiled brightly when she recognized one of her favorite customers.

  “Chandelle, I didn’t see you come in. And I probably wouldn’t have recognized you over here at the sales rack.”

  “Hey, Sally, I thought I’d luck up and find a steal. My man’s watching my money, if you know what I mean.”

  “Huh, that’s why I can’t afford to shop here unless it hits the clearance rack first.”

  Chandelle laughed. “So you feel my pain? Does this red tag mean twenty percent off the sales price?”

  Sally glanced at the sales tag she’d altered earlier in the day and nodded. “Yep, gotta make room for the latest stuff coming in on Tuesday. Hold on a minute, I’ll get the catalog so you can check out all the cool winter skirts.” When Sally found what she’d gone after, she waved for Chandelle to meet her at the counter. “Here it is. Find what you like and I’ll put back a few pieces of it in your size.”

  “Miss 60?” Chandelle moaned excitedly, while perusing the pages thoroughly. “These are really nice.”

  Back in the fitting area, an ugly incident had taken shape. “Mrs. Jennings, how’d you know where to find me?” Dior yelped.

  The blond woman, wearing a ritzy jogging suit and a crazed stare, held her right index finger to Dior’s mouth to silence her.

  Rosalind Jennings, a former employer and severely unstable 42-year-old socialite, used her other hand to caress Dior’s face.

  “Uh-uh, I ain’t with that no more,” Dior said. “You got to get out of here.”

  “Shush now, Dior. Now that we can talk face to face, it’ll all be okay,” she answered in a hushed tone. “Be quiet and no one will get hurt.” There was something extremely unnerving going on behind the white woman’s pale blue glassy eyes. If she meant to frighten the pants off Dior with her deranged-white-lady-in-the-fitting-room routine, it worked. “Oh, sweetie, why haven’t you returned my calls? You should have. I left tons of messages. And the letters I sent, it wasn’t very nice of you to ignore them. I’ve spent too much time following you, staking out the little apartment of yours and that other place on Britstone. It took some doing, but I had to find you again.”

  Britstone, Dior repeated, although silently, that’s Chandelle and Marvin’s place. Throwing down in the small booth occurred to her more than once. However, Mrs. Jennings didn’t appear to be in her right mind while seemingly capable of anything. Dior had only played the part when it suited her. She’d seen her share of textbook fixations during her stint at Happy Horizons, and this was the real thing, a bona fide psychosis. Dior cowered against the mirrored wall then. “Mrs. Jennings, you need to see somebody—”

  “I said to keep quiet,” the woman interrupted her through gritted teeth. “I would really like you to come by the house,” she offered pleasantly as if another personality had superseded the last. “I, we want you to work for us again. Wasn’t it a mutually rewarding situation? We went out of our way to take care of you. You must know that. The sex was good and we paid you well for it.”

  Dior had no idea what to think. Visibly shaken, she became more withdrawn as if succumbing to a fearful alternative. Dior had hired herself out before getting arrested. She was employed by the wealthy white couple to play with the kids during the day and then later entertain the parents after hours for $500 a week and another $500 for her nightly duties. After two months, the Jennings introduced Dior to other couples and things were getting increasingly more aggressive. They were heavily into bondage, role-playing, and other kinky sexploits. Dior received bonuses when performing the parts of strippers and prostitutes, but she charged double for playing the role of a plantation wench being taken advantage of b
y the overbearing white master. Incidentally, Rosalind Jennings became jealous when catching her husband, Paul, in Dior’s room without having been invited to join them. When Rosalind discovered them, she displayed mere hints of the frantic behavior unleashed in the fitting room. After Dior sneaked out in the dead of night, Rosalind grew verbally abusive over the phone. The threatening notes she posted on Dior’s car windshield intensified. She was petrified to be home alone. All of that had culminated into Dior being held hostage.

  What if I have to kill her to end this? Dior contemplated nervously. I could end up in jail just like Billie. Huh, I’d be better off if she killed me.

  Near the front of the store, the mood wasn’t nearly so tumultuous. “Uh-oh, Sally, you were right. There might be trouble over Tuesday’s shipment. Sale or no sale, I want one of everything.” Chandelle continued thumbing through the magazine until a cold chill ran down her spine. Speaking of trouble, where’s Dior? she thought. “Sally, have you seen another black woman in here? I came in with my cousin.”

  “There was one, a minute ago, shorter than you and real cute,” answered the clerk. “She was taking a few things into the fitting room last I looked.” The telephone rang near the cash register. “Excuse me, Chandelle, I have to get that.”

  And I have to get back there to see if Dior is going back on her promise, Chandelle thought. Lord help her if she’s ripping off the boutique and using me to run interference. Chandelle tipped into the fitting area of the store, whispering her cousin’s name. “Dior? If you’re back here, you’d better speak up,” she demanded finally when rustling noises from the rear stall drew her attention. “Dior, bring your butt out of there or I’m coming in to do it for you,” Chandelle threatened. Cautiously, she shoved on the swinging door. “What the…” was all she could get out before her eyes told her to shut up. She gawked at the white woman holding her hand over Dior’s mouth, like a 7-year-old playing a quiet game. Chandelle gave the odd scene a once over, then lowered her purse to the floor. She called Dior’s name, this time with disbelief written all over her face. “Uhm, what are y’all doing back here?” she asked the both of them at once, although her stern tone was directed at the woman she hadn’t seen before. Neither of them moved, so Chandelle motioned with her hand for Dior to come forth. The piecing stare she shot at Rosalind held her at bay for the time being. “What’s this about?”

  “Mrs. Rosalind Jennings,” answered Dior, humiliated by Chandelle’s presence but thankful for it simultaneously. “She’s the lady I was working for as a nanny, only she didn’t like it that I quit.”

  “Who’re you supposed to be, Dior’s girlfriend?” Rosalind huffed, as she made a sudden move to exit the stall.

  “Naw, you got me messed up,” Chandelle replied, refusing to let her pass. “See, I’m the cousin about to break you down.” She glanced at Dior to question why she allowed another woman to play her weak. “Dee, tell me why you’re afraid of her? What’s she holding over you?”

  Dior exhaled like she’d rather not say, but Chandelle had sufficiently taken over the situation leaving her no choice. “She’s been leaving messages on my phone and on my car saying if I don’t come back to work she’ll make life hard on me or worse. That’s why I wouldn’t let you drop me by the apartment. Chandelle, she won’t let me out.”

  “Won’t let you?” Chandelle barked heatedly. “You’re a grownup, Dior.

  “Please tell her I don’t want to be a nanny no more,” Dior whined.

  “You tell her yourself, once and for all. Here and now.”

  “Mrs. Jennings, you can tell your husband that I’m through with that life and I mean it,” she spouted with a renewed assurance.

  “We’ll just see about that,” Rosalind challenged, with both arms folded. She talked tough but at no time did she try to run over Chandelle the same way she’d manipulated Dior.

  “Want to see about it now?” Chandelle offered boldly. “Right now, we can iron out any misunderstandings you might have concerning ever coming around my family again. I’m not above breaking the law to end this if I have to. Believe you me, there’re lots of us, and we don’t scare so easy. You can bet your life on that.” Chandelle felt Sally standing behind her. She raised her hand, signaling that she had a handle on things. “Mrs. Robinson or whatever you call yourself, I will not entertain having this discussion again. You can go now.” As soon as Chandelle stepped aside, the disgruntled socialite stormed away before experiencing firsthand the willful woes of a South Dallas “breakdown.”

  Sally made sure that Rosalind left the store before calling off the dogs. She didn’t know Chandelle possessed street savvy beneath her polished veneer. “Wow, I’m impressed,” she ranted upon returning. “The sistah’s got skills,” she joked. “Call me on Tuesday. I’ll have a package waiting for you.”

  Chandelle was so angry with Dior that she could spit nails. “Yeah, thanks, Sally,” she groaned, while catching her breath. “But right now someone’s got a lot of explaining to do.”

  After Chandelle literally dragged her to the car by the nape of her neck, Dior did explain, as best she could, how she managed to get her life jammed up in lustful, triangular vice. “I know you’re mad at me, Chandelle, but you didn’t have to pull me out here like I was a stupid kid. I never planned on getting involved with the Jennings past looking after their two children. When Rosalind’s husband, Paul, started peeping the way I walked, it was kinda cute. I mean, he is rich and fine for his age. As white boys go, he’s even a little sexy.”

  “Rich, fine, and sexy?” Chandelle shouted. “It sounds like you were feeling this man. No wonder his loony wife went ballistic on you and kicked your butt out of her house.”

  Dior’s eyes drifted toward the floorboard. She drew her lips together and pouted. “Shoot, if you’re gonna stay on me for something I’m not into anymore, then you can forget talking about it.”

  “Nah, that ain’t even it,” argued Chandelle. “You’re going to spill it all so I’ll know exactly what you’ve snatched me into.”

  When Dior continued brooding, Chandelle squinted furiously, then popped her on the back of the head with an open hand.

  “Oouch, girl,” Dior whined. “Why’d you hit me?”

  “Because somebody needed to tell you to stop acting like the stupid kid you claim that you’re not,” Chandelle barked sternly. “Don’t make me tell you twice.”

  Dior flinched when Chandelle’s eyes narrowed again. “Okay, I get it. I—I got it. Humph, that’s why I kept all of this from you, because I knew you’d snap. Sure, I like being watched and it felt good that the man treated me like I was somebody. Rosalind was extra nice to me too,” Dior said, thinking back. “It was a trip when she came to me that first night, in my room off the kitchen. I just figured she was trying to check on me at first, talking about how handsome her man was and how he could go on for hours in the sheets. I laughed because it was funny imagining them two slapping skins, all off rhythm and bumping into each other like two whack dancers looking for the perfect beat. Then she asked me what I thought about him, you know, if I was attracted to white men and stuff like that. I told her he was all right and real sweet when he wanted to be.” Dior glanced up at Chandelle, who was peering straight ahead with the car running. “That’s when he started buying me things, like shoes and blouses and other little trinkets. Rosalind was cool with it because she’s the one who brought them to me. One evening, she poured two glasses of wine and then said that she was going on up to bed early. I told her she was forgetting her glass, but she just kept on going up the steps to the second floor. I was ready to chill with the TV and get my drink on alone…didn’t matter to me. A few minutes later, Paul comes floating downstairs in some silk pj’s. He was fresh from the shower because his hair was still wet.” Dior looked up at Chandelle again, this time she was looking back at her, attentive and disturbed.

  “I think I’ve heard enough,” she said softly, deciding to forego hearing whatever happened next.

&n
bsp; “There’s not too much more to it anyway. We drank on a few bottles, told jokes we knew, and then started kissing. Paul told me that Rosalind was cool with it as long as we didn’t sneak, and how her leaving the wine was the signal. Humph, I didn’t know anything about rich folks’ freak games, but it seemed all right so I went with it. They doubled my pay and Rosalind started pouring three glasses of wine.” Dior didn’t have the guts to glance up to see what kind of face Chandelle was making then, neither did she have the stomach to share how their private episodes eventually included other adventurous couples from within their gated community. Before Dior knew it, she was in way over her head.

  Chandelle found it difficult to string two words together. Her riddled emotions came out in a labored groan. “Don’t hate me,” Dior said, uncharacteristically solemn and still like a repentant sinner who had eased her burdened soul.

  Chandelle knew what feeling alone could do to a woman lost and seeking something to hold on to, even if it was morally appalling to others. She fully related. “I could never hate you, Dior, you’re family,” she told her. “Although I do feel sorry for you…for the hole you’re carrying around inside. You need to be around your people and you need to find a way to fill it.”

  8

  Devil’s Got a Hold

  During the two weeks since Dior made herself at home in the Hutchins’s small apartment, she had been on her best behavior. She also took pride in tidying up, and helping Chandelle with dinner and the dishes. Other than the tedious chore of riffling through the job classifieds every morning in the newspaper and following up on leads every afternoon, Dior was comfortable with her duties in the household and her status as the “unemployed third wheel” in their relationship. However, comfort took a backseat to Dior’s personal aspirations when she got it in her mind that she was due for a promotion. With Chandelle spending half of her leisure time running back and forth to the home design stores searching for items to jazz up the new home she and Marvin had been approved for and the other half running down Marvin for pulling extra shifts and then subsequently hanging out with his coworkers after that, it allowed an opportunity for evil intent to creep in and shake up an otherwise manageable living condition.