by Mary Monroe
“And I’m sure she’d like to chat with you again, too,” Rockelle told me. “But if I were you, I wouldn’t bring up…you know.”
“The tricks?” I asked.
Rockelle dropped her eyes and nodded. “Yeah,” she muttered.
“Uh, do you still read a lot of books?”
“Every day,” Rockelle said cheerfully, giving me a thoughtful look. I’d never seen her looking as relaxed as she did at that moment. “You know, somebody ought to write a book about us. Me, you, Ester, Rosalee. And even Helen and Megan. Maybe if other stupid females read about all the dumb shit we did, they’d learn something.”
“It would take somebody like Stephen King to tell our strange story,” I said, laughing.
Just thinking about Clyde, Mr. Bob, Fat Freddie, and all the other hundreds of men we’d slept with for money made a sharp pain shoot through my stomach. And it didn’t stop there.
My son was born later that night. I named him Richard.
A READING GROUP GUIDE
RED LIGHT WIVES
MARY MONROE
ABOUT THIS GUIDE
The following questions are intended to enhance
your group’s reading of
RED LIGHT WIVES
by Mary Monroe.
DISCUSSION QUESTIONS
The six women in this story were prostitutes and Clyde was a pimp. Did you notice that the words pimp and prostitute do not appear anywhere in this story?
Lulu lost a lover, a newborn son, and a husband all within a matter of weeks. Do you think it was her overwhelming grief that helped her decide to sleep with men for money or was she just plain stupid?
Even though she was a hooker Rockelle had the nerve to look down on her siblings and her parents and treat them like dirt. But when Rockelle’s daughter, Juliet, started treating Rockelle the same way, Rockelle’s attitude began to change for the better. Do you think that this was the best way to get Rockelle to come to her senses?
Knowing that she had been left in a Dumpster to die shortly after her birth, Ester felt she had cheated death. As a teenager, she had been very reckless and angry because she felt like she was living on borrowed time. Do you think that Ester was better off after she teamed up with Clyde?
Rosalee was a fool to desert a husband who treated her like a queen, to run off with her mother, who was not only superstitious but very materialistic. Rosalee’s mother manipulated her so severely when she wanted something that Rosalee had to secretly sell her body to keep the greedy old woman happy. Was Rosalee too harsh with her mother when she told her she could stay in San Francisco and fend for herself, or return to Detroit with her?
Was Rosalee’s husband, Sammy, an even bigger fool than Rosalee for taking her back after she left Clyde and moved back to Detroit?
Despite Helen’s mental retardation she wanted attention. She got a lot of it when she started selling her body. However, her behavior led her to some manipulative and abusive men. Does it make you angry to know that there are men who would not hesitate to take advantage of a mentally challenged female?
Megan regretted having a relationship and a biracial child with Clyde when they were teenagers. She chose to have nothing to do with Clyde or their daughter, Keisha. Many years later when Megan encountered Clyde again, her past came back to haunt her. Do you think she got what she deserved?
Even though Clyde’s grandmother Effie was an uneducated housekeeper, she was a strong-willed woman with a lot of common sense. Do you think that was why Clyde was so responsible when it came to his handicapped daughter?
Clyde was no angel, but because of his devotion to his daughter and the grandmother who raised him, did you feel any sympathy when Lula accidentally killed him?
Megan was horrified when Clyde forced her to go to a hotel to spend the night with one of Clyde’s most important clients and it turned out to be her own husband. It ended her marriage, but it brought her and the biracial daughter she had denied together. Did Megan’s decision to be responsible for taking care of Keisha after Clyde’s death surprise you?
Lula and Ester eventually fell in love with men who had pasts that included drugs and gang activity. But Richard and Manny had turned their lives around completely. Do you think that Lula and Ester were better off with these types of men or should they have pursued relationships with men who had lived more respectably?
After all she’d gone through to improve her life, Rockelle ended up back in the ghetto where she’d come from anyway. However, she seemed happy for the first time in years. Her experience with Clyde helped improve her relationship with her family, and it made her appreciate the many things she had to be thankful for. Does this prove that the grass is not always greener on the other side?
The following is a sample chapter from
Mary Monroe’s upcoming novel
IN SHEEP’S CLOTHING.
This book will be available in
September 2005 wherever books are sold.
ENJOY!
Chapter 1
I didn’t know if the gun aiming at my head was real or not. But the sudden wetness between my legs told me that my bladder malfunction was real. So was the sweat that had saturated my hair and covered my face like a facial. I expected to look like a wet duck by the time my ordeal was over that dreary Friday afternoon. And the way things were going it looked like I’d be a dead one, too.
“You might die today, bitch.” My assailant didn’t raise his voice or even speak in a particularly menacing tone. He was just as cool and casual as he’d been when he entered the store a few minutes earlier. A moment before he had given me a possible death sentence, he’d asked, “Do y’all take checks?” Before I could respond, he had whipped out a gun. Just the sight of it would have been enough to bring me to my knees. It was a long, dark, evil-looking weapon, complete with a silencer. His threat streaked past my head like a comet and bounced off the cluttered wall behind me. It even drowned out the piercing, ongoing screams of the spoiled Porter baby in the apartment across the parking lot.
“Please…please don’t hurt me,” I managed. “I’ll do anything you want me to. Please…” I had never begged for anything before. I never dreamed that the first thing I would beg for would be my life.
It seemed like every part of my body was in pain. My throat felt like I had swallowed a sword and my stomach felt like it had been kicked by a mule. Cramps in my legs made it hard for me to remain standing. Even my eyes were in pain, throbbing like I had run into a door. But that didn’t stop me from staring at what I thought at the time was the last thing I’d see on earth: the face of my killer. And on the last day of one of the most miserable jobs I’d ever had before in my life at that.
“You goddamn right you gonna do anything I want you to do! You stupid-ass heifer! I’m the one with the gun!”
“Well…please do what you have to do and leave,” I pleaded, ever so gently. It was bad enough that I had already emptied my bladder. Now my stomach felt like it was about to add to the puddle of pee that had formed on the floor around my feet. I heaved so hard I had to grab onto the counter and cover my mouth.
“Look—I just et lunch. If you puke in front of me, I’m gonna whup your black ass before I kill you!”
I had almost used a “sick” day that morning. I had almost asked to work the evening shift, but had decided not to because it was the shift that most robbers usually chose to do their dirty work in our neighborhood.
“Bitch, don’t fuck with me today!” My tormentor waved his gun at me as his spoke. His beady black eyes shifted from one side to the other as thick yellow snot trickled from both sides of his wide flat nose. This seemed to embarrass him. He turned his head so abruptly his knitted cap slid to the side, revealing neat, freshly braided cornrows. With a loud snort he swiped his nose using the sleeve of his baggy plaid flannel shirt. “Do you wanna die today?” This time his voice sounded like the thunder I’d heard just before he had entered the store.
“No, I don’t want to die
today,” I told him, my voice barely above a whisper. A purple birthmark about a square inch in size and shaped like a half moon, occupied a spot directly below his right eye.
“Then you better stop lookin’ at me and do what I told you to do! Open that fuckin’ register and gimme every goddamn dollar in it! I ain’t playin’ with you, bitch! Shit!” He glared at me as he rubbed the mark under his eye. But it would take more than that to remove it. He had been branded for life. You would have thought that somebody with such an identifying mark would have concealed his face. But most criminals were as stupid as they were crooked.
The individual who held my life in his hands reminded me of my eighteen-year-old cousin, Dwan. He was the same age and height. He was even the same shade of cinnamon brown. And like Dwan, he wore clothes big enough for two people. But my cousin had come to his senses before it was too late and was now in Iraq risking his life to keep America safe for me and fools like the one facing me.
Even as scared as I was, I was so angry that I was not able to keep my thoughts completely to myself. I pressed my sticky wet thighs together, angry that my urine had drenched my favorite pair of socks and my only pair of Nikes. “It’s a damn shame that Black folks are the ones keeping other Black folks down. If you just got to rob somebody—why us? You know how hard we work for our money!” I yelled. “How can you sleep at night, brother?” I asked, folding my arms. Bold was one thing I was not. At least not under normal circumstances. But even meek women like me had a breaking point. Especially when I thought I was about to die anyway.
“Aaah…I sleeps like a baby,” the young robber sneered, his eyes rolling back in his head in mock ecstasy. Then his face tightened and he gave me a sudden sharp look. “No wonder you Black women so evil—y’all too hardheaded! Don’t know when to listen! Didn’t I tell you to keep your hands up in that goddamn air?”
“I can’t open the register and do that, too,” I smirked, placing my hands on my hips.
“Uh,” the bold thief began. He paused and whistled to get the attention of his even younger accomplice guarding the door, not taking his eyes off of my face. “Snookie—everything still cool?”
“It’s all good, dude! Hurry up so we can get up out of here!” Snookie yelled back, sounding almost as frightened and nervous as I was.
Armed robberies in broad daylight had become a way of life in certain parts of the South Bay Area. Liquor stores seemed to be the most popular targets. Especially “Otto’s Spirits,” the liquor store conveniently located between Josey’s Nail Shop and Paco’s Bail Bonds.
My daddy, Otto Bell, owned the liquor store where I’d been working for the past six years, six days a week, eight hours a day. While I was being robbed and terrorized, Daddy was at home, in his frayed gray bathrobe, wallowing in depression on our tattered couch. This was how he now celebrated Mama’s birthday every year. Even though she’d been dead for sixteen years. The sudden thought that I might die on my mother’s birthday increased my anger. Not just at the young robber, but at life in general. No matter how hard I tried to enjoy life, things always seemed to blow up in my face. Even the little things. Earlier that day a drunken prostitute had sprayed my face with spit when I’d asked her not to solicit in front of the store.
“Gimme the money, bitch! I ain’t tellin’ you no more.”
I popped open the cash register and scooped out every dollar. I dropped the small wad of bills on the counter next to the Ebony magazine that I’d been reading, and the two bags of Fritos, six-pack of Miller Light, and six candy bars the perpetrator had pretended he’d come in for.
He snatched up the money with two fingers and counted under his breath. “A hundred and seventy-five dollars?” he gasped and looked at me with his mouth hanging open. “Now that’s a damn shame.” His eyes were as flat as his voice.
“That’s all we have,” I whimpered, wringing my hands. It was hard not to look at his face. His eyes and the birthmark kept grabbing my attention.
He rolled his eyes then looked at me with extreme contempt. “Stop lookin’ at me so hard!” he screamed as he lunged across the counter, punching the side of my arm. His hand, the one with the gun, was shaking. I could not decide if it was because he was nervous or just that angry. “You stingy bitch, you,” he roared, grinding his teeth. “I went to all this trouble for a hundred and seventy-five fuckin’ dollars.” He gave me an incredulous look. “What is the matter with you people? Broke-ass niggers! Don’t y’all know how to run a business? Them damn Asians puttin’ y’all to shame! At least with them, I get paid right!”
“It’s been a slow day and people around here barely have enough money to live on,” I explained, my hands back on my hips. “Look—uh, the other cashier will be back any minute so you better leave now while you still can,” I said.
He blinked and released a loud breath. He slid his thick tongue across his lips then formed a cruel smile. “Not unless he Superman he won’t. I seen that lame old motherfucker leave ten minutes ago. Matter of fact, I know for a fact that old dude was on his way to that massage parlor around the corner to get him some pussy. I been checkin’ him—and you—out for two weeks now.” Looking around he added, “I done did my homework. I ain’t no ignorant punk. I know what’s up around here…”
“You know Mr. Clarke?” I asked, praying that another customer would wander in and possibly save me. Even if Mr. Clarke had come back in time, he would not have been much help. The last robber had beaten him and Daddy to the floor with the butt of his gun. Then the greedy thug had helped himself to what little money we’d had in the cash register at the time, a sack full of alcohol, and other light items.
“I know everybody and everything that go on in this neighborhood, girl. I ain’t stupid.” As cold and empty as his eyes were he managed to wink at me. Then he leaned forward far enough for me to feel and smell his hot sour breath. My face was already sizzling with rage so it didn’t make that much more of a difference. “I know about you and James and I know you give him some mean head,” he told me, his voice low and hollow. “If I was a little older I’d let you be my main woman…” He paused and whistled again and yelled over his back. “Snookie, if anybody come up in here—pop ’em in the head. I’m fin to take this stingy ho in the back room and get my dick sucked.”
Chapter 2
It was March. For most of the people I knew, it had been a pretty good year so far. A few were still grumbling over the fact that California now had a movie star, who had played the Terminator of all things, sitting in the governor’s seat. Daddy wouldn’t even call our new governor by his name. “I can’t even fix my lips to pronounce his whole name no how. Arnold Swattzen…Swattzuh…oh, shit! If he don’t do nothin’ to help Black folks and cut taxes, he ain’t nothin’ but a terminator after all,” Daddy complained.
I had done my taxes myself earlier that morning before the robbery, and I was still upset because I had to pay Uncle Sam three hundred dollars. After that, and what the robber took and did to me, I felt that I’d been “fucked” twice in the same day by two different hounds from hell.
It had been raining off and on for most of the week. The cool air and dark clouds seemed to fit the mood that had already settled over me before the robbery.
The robbers had entered the store just after the noon hour and the whole episode, the robbery and the violation, had taken only a few minutes. But it had taken the police more than an hour to show up, which was quicker than when they usually arrived to investigate crimes in the inner city. A month ago the jealous ex-husband of a waitress on Mercer Street had stormed her apartment waving a tire iron. By the time the cops showed up the woman, her new lover, and the pit bull she’d bought for protection had all been beaten to death. I was one of the fortunate ones.
Before the cops arrived I snatched a bottle of Scope off a shelf, rinsed out my mouth, rearranged my clothes, and composed myself. My urine had almost dried on my jeans but I smelled like a nanny goat. Several other customers had entered the store during tha
t hour, but I’d turned them all away and placed the “closed” sign in the front window.
I told the cops as much as I could. How much money had been taken, the robbers’ clothes, and how they sounded. The only thing I left out was the sexual assault. How do you tell a cop, one who didn’t seem to care anyway, that a robber had made you suck his dick, too?
“Did the perpetrators harm you in any way, miss?” The young white policeman couldn’t look more bored if he tried. With a grunt and a sigh, he paused and chewed on a toothpick as he scribbled on a notepad. He was the same officer who had come to take a report the last time we got robbed six weeks ago. “Did they touch you?”
“No, they did not,” I lied, rubbing the sore spot on my arm where I’d been grabbed and dragged into the dim broom closet-size rest room to be further humiliated. “They just took the money and some beer.” I slid my tongue across my lips and clenched my teeth. I knew then that I would never look at oral sex the same again after this day.
“And do you think you could identify the suspects in a lineup? Maybe look at a few mug shots?” Lineups and mug shots would not have done any good even if every face I looked at was the face of the boy who had robbed and assaulted me. I knew enough not to identify my assailants. From past experiences I knew that it would only make the situation worse. I knew of too many shady lawyers who got their clients released on bail long enough for them to come back to retaliate.
I started to shake my head but stopped because it was now throbbing on both sides. My assailant had gripped my head like a vise, and held me in place between his hairy legs until he had had his way with me.