The Plug's Wife

by Chynna

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  She was seven when her father was shot dead at her feet. His body had jerked and spun while his eyes bulged out of their sockets from the powerful shots. She had been standing so close to him that the tin-like smell of his blood shot up her nose until she tasted it on her tongue. “Poppy!” she had let out an ear-shattering scream, tears bursting from her like a geyser, flowing freely down her face. She threw herself down at her father’s side.

  “¡Cállate!” The man who shot her father screamed, grabbing her by her hair and tossing her frail body aside. She felt something crack in her back as she hit a wall inside their small, tin roof shack.

  “Lourdes!” her brother Benicio called out to her, then took off charging at their father’s killer. Benicio was only two years older than her, but Poppy had taught them that, no matter what, even if it meant death, family always stuck together.

  Benicio growled, his small fists flying out in front of him trying to connect with any body part on the man who had assaulted his sister and killed his father. The other man, the one with the eye patch, grabbed Benicio around his throat and hoisted him off his feet like a ragdoll. Both men laughed, making the fine hairs on the back of her neck stand up. Benicio’s legs pumped feverishly, like he was pedaling a bike or running an invisible race. His arms swung like the blades of a windmill too. The man holding Benicio by the neck squeezed harder and harder, choking off his oxygen, until his little legs finally slowed to a halt and his arms dropped at his sides. The color had faded from his face and his eyes rolled up until all his sister could see were the whites.

  Fear had a stronghold on her now. Her stomach muscles clenched so hard she wanted to drop, but she stood there seemingly rooted to the floor.

  “¡Basta ya!” her father’s killer had screamed at his one eyed partner. At that, the one eyed man tossed Benicio’s limp body down to the floor. The men obviously took amusement in their work. She watched in horror as her brother jackknifed onto his side, wheezing and coughing until the color started returning to his face. She trembled, not able to help the tears leaking in steady streams from her eyes. She couldn’t understand why they were here or what they wanted from her family.

  Before she knew it, the men turned their attention to her. She felt the cold kiss of a pistol against her temple.

  “Su padre ya no llevar esto ... esto …Yo No Coopero Con La Dictadura,” Your father will no longer lead this…this…I Do Not Cooperate with the Dictatorship. The man growled as he pressed his gun harder into her skin. Her bladder released all over her feet as she sobbed. She knew her father had been what they called in Cuba “revolucionarios civiles,” but she had no idea his activities would result in such a violent end.

  She had always been proud that her father spoke up about their oppressive living conditions. Her father had been a prominent figure in their poor village, helping those who were wronged by the government or whose breadwinners had been jailed on trumped up political charges. She was too young to fully understand the brevity of her father’s activities. Now, she just wished he had been more careful.

  “¡Cállate! No habrá llanto por los muertos! Si lloras. Usted va a morir!” Shut up! There will be no crying over the dead! If you cry. You will die. The shooter barked, grinding his gun into her forehead even harder. Standing in a fetid mix of her own body fluids, she swallowed her cries sending them tumbling down her throat like hard marbles. The men laughed maniacally, amused by the fear in her eyes. The two circled her like vultures over a rotting animal carcass.

  “Ahora. Vamos a intentarlo de nuevo.” Now. Let’s try this again. The man with the gun hissed as he turned his aim once more on Benicio. “Nunca llorar por los muertos. Sólo los débiles hacen.” You never cry for the dead. Only weak people do. The man said heartlessly. She shook her head slightly. Then he blew Benicio’s brains out.

  “No!” she shrieked, her legs giving out as she collapsed. But no new tears fell this time. She would never cry for the dead again in her lifetime.

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  “Oh my God, no! JB! Oh JB!” The deep, guttural screams snatched Summer out of her nightmarish memory. She blinked her eyes rapidly, focusing on the source of the noise.

  “Can you believe these bitches?” Caralina whispered in Summer’s ear. Summer checked her shades to make sure they were in place.

  “Who is that?” she asked evenly as she watched a kitschy dressed woman with a bad weave throw herself onto the casket and scream over Jesse’s picture. How fucking disrespectful of this bitch to be crying over a man that is not hers. Summer fumed silently. She was very good at remembering faces and she’d definitely seen this slut before, she just couldn’t remember where at that moment. “Your guess is as good as mine. There’s been a whole bunch of bitches here screaming over JB today. They probably exes that wish they could be you…the legally married wife,” Caralina placated.

  Summer did not appreciate her friend’s running commentary during the funeral services. She filed that away in her mental Rolodex.

  “How many?” Summer asked, her eyebrows arched at Caralina.

  “How many what? Exes? Or bitches crying over him in general?” Caralina asked, her voice faltering. Summer gave her friend a hard stare.

  “Uhhhh….I’ve seen about three or four so far. But don’t quote me on that,” Caralina replied, her voice jumpy. Summer watched Scrap move the screaming hoochie away from Jesse’s casket.

  “Nah ma, we ain’t having none of that in here today. Keep it moving,” Scrap said brusquely as he guided the woman towards the exit.

  Summer sat like a queen in the first row designated for family and close friends. A woman’s statuesque frame emerged from the crowd, dressed in a black silk pants suit that fit her like a glove. Summer watched the woman gracefully saunter up to Jesse’s casket. The woman’s hair was pulled back in a classy chignon and her blemish-free cocoa skin gleamed under the funeral home lights. Her features were model-like—high cheekbones, pouty lips, and dark, intriguing eyes. Summer instantly felt a pang of jealousy. The beautiful woman was holding the hand of a small boy, no older than three or four years old. When they stopped at the casket, the woman shuffled the little boy in front of her and pointed to Jesse’s image. She kneeled and whispered something in the little boy’s ear. The little boy looked up at the portrait and then at casket with confused eyes. He was clearly too young to understand. The woman roughly swiped away her own tears, her jaw firmly set like she had wired it shut to keep from saying to Jesse’s image what had intended to tell Jesse when he was alive.

  Bat-sized flutters rippled through Summer’s stomach. She quickly averted her eyes from the little boy’s chubby face. He was still a baby, but his features were shockingly familiar.

  “C’mon baby. It’s time to go now,” the woman whispered to the boy, grabbing his hand as she got to her feet. When they turned to exit, the woman looked down at Summer through hooded eyes.

  A cold chill shot down Summer’s spine. She instantly hated the woman whose faced she would never forget her.

  “Who the fuck was that? She is fucking beautiful and the kid…too damn cute,” Caralina whispered, making matters worse.

  Summer buried her face in her one good hand, trying to keep her composure.

  “What’s wrong, Summer? Did I say something wrong?” Caralina probed, not entirely heartless.

  Anger welled up inside of Summer like hot lava threatening to erupt. If Jesse were alive at this moment, she would probably have killed him herself.

  Summer knew Jesse was a good guy. In fact, that was one of the compelling reasons for marrying him. During his brief life, Jesse had given back to the community where he was from, donating generously to help folks pay their rent, send their kids to school, buy clothes, and even get a lawyer when necessary. Summer wondered if the people Jesse had helped showed up to the funeral because they were truly grateful or because they wanted to continue to tap into the Jesse Banks money tree posthumously.r />
  Representatives from charitable organizations also attended to offer their condolences. Summer heard their real underlying intentions in their words. Let’s stay in touch. Let us know how we can be of service. Jesse was a regular hood Robin Hood.

  According to Jesse’s lawyer and Caralina, her husband not only ran Banks and Reid Imports, but he also operated an illegal enterprise that included millions of dollars in drug and possibly human trafficking. Of course, most of the information Summer had came from Caralina and the news reports, but Summer planned on doing some verification of her own.

  Another screaming hoodrat sashayed up to Jesse’s casket, looking like she was heading to the club afterwards.

  “These bitches are ruthless!” Caralina whispered harshly.

  By this point, Summer was physically and emotionally drained. She summoned Mitch to get her driver. She wanted to go home. She didn’t think she could handle going to the burial. Besides, she wanted to be alone with her own memories of Jesse, not all of these people forcing their opinions and memories on her.

  Summer tossed two Percocet into her mouth and stepped out of her heels as she waited in the lobby of the funeral home. Caralina stood next to her, running her mouth, but Summer tuned her out.

  “Lina, I’ll call you in a few days. I just need some time,” Summer said to her friend solemnly as she stepped inside the Suburban. Caralina’s eyes went dark and flat.

  “Okay, but you are not alone. You don’t have to be so tough. You’re allowed to cry for your husband, you know.”

  “I know,” Summer murmured, parting with a halfhearted smile. Settling into the back seat, she closed her eyes and let out a long, exasperated breath. Suddenly, she felt a body abruptly slide into the seat next to her. Startled, Summer inched her body into the corner, preparing for an attack.

  “You scared me!” she wolfed when she saw that it was just Mitch.

  “Didn’t mean to do that.” He didn’t sound very genuine.

  “Why are you here? I need to get home,” Summer said with a frown.

  “Did you really think I was going to send you home alone?” Mitch answered sternly.

  “You’ll probably need to get permission to take a piss until we feel shit is safe. You do realize your husband was just shot down in cold blood and you were shot too.”

  Summer sighed and rolled her eyes. She needed a damn break from everything and everyone. Aside from the ride over, she hadn’t had a minute alone to breath or sort out her next move for that matter. Why are they watching me so closely? What do they want? Her mind raced; paranoia was getting the best of her. It had been a natural defense mechanism since childhood. She was always suspicious of people and their motives. Everyone seemed to have an agenda these days, even Jesse.

  “You don’t have a problem with us looking out for you, right?” Mitch asked, interrupting her thoughts. Summer didn’t answer.

  “Well if you do, then I’m sorry. This is how we roll baby girl, so get used to it,” Mitch told her.

  Summer turned her face towards the window. The only constant Summer knew in her life had been change. And Summer knew firsthand that was never easy getting used to.

  Chapter 4 Picking Up the Pieces

  “So Miss Cuban Not Interested, tell me about yourself,” Jesse joked, flashing a gleaming, perfectly white smile. Summer blushed. It was their first official date and she was still embarrassed at how rude she had been during their first encounter. After all, she had been the one to hit Jesse’s car. Jesse had been kind and generous enough to pay for the damage to Rex’s car, so Summer felt obligated to give him her number. She felt even more obligated when he sent three dozen huge, pink, white, and red roses to Rex’s office for her along with an invitation to dinner. The entire place had been abuzz with speculation about the secret admirer who’d sent Rex’s personal assistant those gorgeous flowers. Rex wasn’t very happy about it either. He could be quite territorial at times.

  “Was that such a hard question?” Jesse followed up, when he saw the blank look on Summer’s face. She jumped a little.

  “I’m sorry, what? And my name is Summer. Please stop calling me Cuban Not Interested,” she chuckled, batting her eyes flirtatiously. “Well, there’s not much to tell. My life is pretty boring. I mean, I am here in New York working for that monster Rex McKenzie while I attend Columbia University. I work and go to school more than I enjoy my life. I have nobody here except a few people that I’ve met and I don’t really consider them friends,” Summer said, telling half-truths. Columbia University was far from her what she had been doing with her time in New York. The only school she had attended since leaving Cuba was the school of hard knocks.

  “Now, your turn. Tell me about the big, bad businessman Jesse Banks.”

  “Well, clearly you’ve done some research on me if you know that I’m a big, bad business man,” Jesse repeated her trite assessment of him. They both laughed. “I have a company that mainly brings goods here from overseas. I’ve done pretty well for myself over the years. I’m currently single, with no prospects of a girlfriend, unless, of course, I am sitting across from her,” Jesse said smoothly, also telling half-truths. Summer blushed again.

  “How come a good looking man like you wearing those big watches and a pinky ring that’s been blinding me all night doesn’t have a girlfriend?” Summer asked, balling up her toes in her borrowed stilettos. She tilted her head and took a good long look at Jesse. He had the most gorgeously dark eyes. His dark hair hugged his scalp in tight curls that complemented his dark chocolate skin. She had often fantasized about a man like Jesse being hers, but never thought it possible given her history.

  Jesse seemed to contemplate her question for a few minutes. “Honestly, I’m not impressed by many women. The ones I meet bore me to death most of the time. They’re all the same to me—dying to be rich, dying to wear the latest fashions, dying to spend money to look like someone they’re not, and dying to have a baby as a come up. Over and over, I meet the same person, just in a different body with a different name. Not impressed at all by most of them. Not impressed enough to make any of them mine,” Jesse said honestly. “I could ask you the same question. No boyfriend as beautiful as you are?”

  “Same answer for me. I’m not impressed by most men I’ve met. I work hard and it seems like here in New York men don’t expect to find a woman who works hard and is not just after their money,” Summer said candidly. She couldn’t exactly tell him that she didn’t trust most people, especially men or that she was working to pay debts owed back in little Havana and in Cub so she could one day be reunited with her family. She couldn’t tell him that every night she prays for her family and every day she works towards the goal of one day seeing them.

  Jesse lifted his wine glass and took a gulp. He liked this girl’s honesty. It was refreshing.

  “I know you won’t like me saying this, but you look more Puerto Rican than Cuban. You’re almost as light as a white person. All the Cubans I know are darker than me,” Jesse whispered, leaning in to the table so he wouldn’t offend any of the restaurant’s snooty white patrons.

  Summer twisted her lips. She’d heard that comment about her fair skin so many times before. “You mean you think I’m too light to be a poor Cuban? Of course, most people think that in Cuba the darker you are the worse off you are. Americans are so skin prejudice. There are light and dark people in every country in the world, even Africa,” Summer replied with attitude. She was one hundred percent Cuban and proud of it. She had the scars and nightmares to prove it too.

  “And your family?” Jesse probed. “You said you were here alone. I mean, everybody comes from somebody. Do you have family nearby?”

  “My parents are dead. My grandparents raised me. I have siblings still in Cuba. I have lost contact for now,” Summer said, her tone turning icy. She immediately wanted to kick herself for revealing that much. She didn’t know this smooth operating stranger and she was not ready to divulge her dark secrets just yet. Nevertheles
s, her mind wandered to her baby brother Juliano and her sister Carrera. She ached just thinking about them. She missed them dearly. They were the only reminder of her parents she had left. She hadn’t seen her brother and sister since she’d left in the thick of the night on a smuggling boat that had taken her to America…the land of the free. Summer shuddered. Her freedom had come at a very steep price.

  “I’m sorry,” Jesse said, touching the top of her hand.

  She pulled her hand away like a snake had bitten her. Jesse’s eyebrows shot up.

  “For what?” Summer snapped, her voice quivering. Jesse’s eyebrows furrowed.

  “About your parents. It seems like you got upset thinking about them and about Cuba. I’m sorry I brought it up.”

  Summer exhaled. This was their first date and already she felt like he was probing too deep. Summer shifted in her seat, uncomfortable with the direction of their conversation.

  “What about you? Where’s your family?” Summer switched it up. She had always been good at thinking quickly.

  “My family consists of all dudes. No living mother, she died of cancer ten years ago. Never had a father. My business partners are my family. I consider very few people my family,” Jesse replied sincerely. Summer nodded. Impressive. A self-made man.