Riddles

by Rhonda Crowder

  “Riddles, it’s like you said, it can’t bring KeKe back. But now I don’t have to worry about making ends meet.”

  “What about Peanut?” I asked. “Are you going to tell him about it?”

  “He left. Supposedly living with some young broad. For real, I’m tired. I vowed I was going to stop chasing no good men and be a better mother to my children, you know? Try to take care of them and raise ‘em properly. I don’t think I could stand to lose another one. I just didn’t know how I was gonna do it. So, I started going to church and praying. I knew there had to be a better way for me.”

  “That’s great to hear,” I interjected.

  She swatted away tears that fell from her eyes. “Then, you come in here with this.” She held up the envelope. “When you didn’t have to. A lot of people would’ve kept going, leaving me wondering, but you didn’t.”

  “God is good,” I said.

  “All the time.”

  I sat there with her, explaining all of the paperwork and how we had to get everything finalized before I left. She never thought a complete stranger would be so kind to her. I assured her there were some good people in the world despite the bad apples in the bunch.

  Epilogue

  “Wow,” said the older, bronze-colored man sitting next to me at the bar in my favorite coffee shop. Very eclectic in his appearance, he sported a long white beard and ponytail.

  “Sound like something you’d want to read?” I asked. I looked away from the man’s eyes and glanced up at the guy preparing a package for another customer.

  “No,” he said. “I don’t read contemporary works. Only accounts concerning ancient times. More fascinated by the past. But, from what’ve you told me-” He stopped mid-sentence to pick up his joint and take a few more puffs. “It sounds interesting. Just hope you wrote it in a way where readers don’t misconstrue the messages you’re trying to send. That happens a lot in,” he made finger quotes. “Fiction.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I get your point.”

  “So, what is the point?” he asked.

  “When I started writing it, I just need to tell my story. The murder became a real life plot twist. That’s when I decided to change it fiction, to show things and people aren’t always as they seem.”

  “I see that,” he said.

  “But, as I completed it I realized another underlining message.”

  “And what is that?” he asked.

  “That,” I explained, “when women decide to enter the sex industry, we are giving up way more than we’ll ever gain. Yes, I acquired money and other materials things but the price I paid for putting a cost on my sexuality is immeasurable. Look at how my decisions impacted my daughter’s life as well as Malibu’s.”

  “That is true yet I heard even more. At the core, you talk about a group of people who exemplify the “Talented Tenth” W.E.B Dubois spoke of during the turn of the last century. This group of African Americans was to be the beacon on the road toward better things while supposedly humanizing, improving, and instructing the least of the race. To a degree, they were, and had accomplished many amazing feats over the decades. However, too many became disconnected from the community as they assimilated more and more into the Western culture in the pursuit of the white man’s dream.

  I listened intently.

  “Instead,” he continued. “This group started to look at their own people with the same critical eye as the enemy. Now, I understand how one can be turned off by your dishonesty. But, imagine your daughter’s life had that family embraced you two instead of shooing you away. You wouldn’t be telling this story. That divide among us is real. It’s not just others who judge us and discriminate against us. Our own do too.”

  I remembered Otis Lawrence Graham’s book, how it helped me come to my resolve about Emerson’s decision to reject us and said, “We’re not their kind of people. We’ll never be.”

  “Until we stop thinking like them, we’ll never get ahead,” he continued. “Maybe your book will be one that brings it to light. No one talks about it.”

  “Who knows,” I said. His words resonated. “But, thank you.” It felt good to find another individual able and willing to speak English. I just wanted to talk more than anything.

  “So, now what?” he asked.

  “Already sent it to an agent,” I said. “He’s been shopping it around. I’m waiting to hear back from him any day now,” I bit my lip. “Hopefully, I will. And who knows where it could go from there. Maybe Oprah. Regis and Kelly. The Today Show. Then a permanent number one spot on the New York Times. You never know?” I giggled. “I never really thought too much about it. Just needed to get that story out my system. Now it’s done, I guess those are the most logical moves.”

  “Hope you fulfill all your heart’s desires,” he said and smiled. “Wish you well. I’ll be on the lookout for you.” He stood up and stepped away from the bar leaving just as swiftly as he entered. My eyes followed him. Once outside, he made a sharp right and easily blended in with the many other people walking through an alley leading to the largest, oldest red light district in the world.

  I took a deep breath.

  I looked at my watch, then around the coffee shop to see if my favorite table on the upper level near the window had become free. There seemed to be more people than normal, and it seemed everyone appeared anxious. I could understand why. The world awaited the United States elections to close, to see if Barack Obama would become the first black president.

  When I stood to move toward my spot, I noticed the old man left a business card. I picked it up and looked at it. “An archaeologist.” I smiled and stuck it in my back pocket.

  I sat in The Jolly Joker coffee shop, as I did every day since I settled into Amsterdam. After getting Markie off to school, I went there to write. Even though I vowed to never do coke again and stopped smoking marijuana, I liked the smell of weed while I worked. It stroked my muse as well as tested my willpower.

  I opened my laptop and booted it up, then scrolled through my manuscript.

  I enjoyed rereading the words. Often, I found myself amazed at the power they exuded from the pages on the screen and could only imagine their radiance once printed on paper. Even more shocking, they were drawn from within my soul. I knew I had done some wrong things in my life, made some bad decisions, but ultimately possessed a good heart. And, all I really wanted was some inner peace. I had come to learn that one must dig deep down inside to discover it.

  By the time I reached the end of the document, it seemed like all the words flowed together the same way those five canals merged outside a window in Diablo’s flat. He turned out be a good friend, allowing me to stay there as long as I liked.

  I could believe I’d been there more than a year.

  Markie adjusted well. I knew I needed to be in her life every day. There was no amount of money in the world that could compensate for the moments I missed. At the same time, I didn’t regret choices I made behalf on her because she’s been afforded extraordinary experiences.

  I heard church bells ringing. One by one, I counted each chime. I knew it was time to leave, but I sat there, reading my words over and over. I had been through the story a million times just to make sure it read well, and all points were clear. I sighed.

  I’ll just check my email before I go.

  Just then, my cell phone rang. I looked at the Caller ID and smiled.

  “Marc,” I said with excitement. “What’s the word on my book?”

  “Just spoke to the editor I told you about. She couldn’t stop reading it. They want to publish. One thing. They think you should change the title to from A Senator’s Socialite to Riddles.”

  He paused.

  “Yes. I love it!” I screamed without a care in the world. I almost dropped the phone but regained my composure when I saw everyone looking at me. Marc promised to keep me posted.

  Feeling very European like, I walked out of The Jolly Joker and climbed onto my bike. As I rode off, heading
west along the narrow banks of the canal, I couldn’t believe my life had taken me from the inner city of Cleveland to an international hub of creativity. I concluded that I’m fortunate, my life must have purpose because a lot of women never make it out of the business.

  I wanted to be a voice for them.

  As I steered, I considered my existence and thought about the new title. I giggled. Riddles.

  I took a deep breath as I peddled, thinking a book I wrote is about to be published. Although enthused, I knew I would always have to hide behind it. Oprah and all that stuff, just talk. I signed an agreement to never publish a book about my relationship with Emerson. And, even though I believed I did a good job at creating a fictionalized account, surely his lawyers would find resemblances and sue me for everything I owned if they discovered my association. That’s why I decided to release under Buttercup’s real name, Rhonda Crowder, and give her all of the proceeds as if she wrote it. I owed her as much. She did, in fact, save my life.

  Hopefully, Riddles would save Rhonda’s, I thought.

  Acknowledgements

  If you don’t know me and you’ve come this far, I thank you from the bottom of my heart. I hope you’ve enjoyed the story so well that you would be so kind to leave a review on Amazon or any of my social media channels.

  In order to keep this short, I will start by giving all the glory and praise to my Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. I would also like to thank those I have encountered on this journey of becoming an author. I can write another book if I begin naming everyone.

  It is especially important for me to acknowledge my mother, Cloggie Crowder, my big sister, Robin, and her children, Kenny and Keayna, for the unconditional love they provide. Can’t forget my Uncle JD as well as all the entire Crowder and Dotson family.

  To my oldest and dearest friends, Tamela “Ko Ko Brown” Bridget, and Tina Valentine. You guys are truest, the best. Thank you.

  I thank my CP family, particularly the Russell Walker for allowing me to keep him from work to talk the story out, Kevin “Chill” Heard for actually reading it as well giving it a stamp of approval, and Felicia C. Haney for continued support. Gezus Zaire, you know you’re a God send.

  I would be remised if I didn’t thank authors Venesha and Jessica A. Robinson, the best clients an editor can ask for, in addition to every other author who has trusted me with their story. I also thank Ms. Vicki Stringer for opening the literary door for me.

  To my editors: Dr. Maxine Thompson, Shonell Bacon, Jan Ridgeway, Shondra Longino and Khloe Cain, your keen eyes, insight and advice kept me revising and re-writing until I shaped and molded this manuscript into one I can be proud to publish. I could not have completed this project without your expertise. To all who have read Riddles and provided feedback, thank you!

  Last but certainly not least, Wayne Dailey. You are truly a blessing.

  About the Author

  Rhonda Crowder is the owner of Rhonda Crowder and Associates, a boutique communication firm that provides content creation, graphic design, fundraising and media relations services. She serves as the associate publisher of Who’s Who in Black Cleveland and worked as general assignment reporter for the Call and Post Newspaper for more than a decade. She holds a bachelor degree in English with a specialization in creative writing, editing and publishing. Rhonda resides in Cleveland, Ohio. Riddles is her debut novel so she looks forward to hearing from readers and writing more prose. To learn more visit www.rhondacrowder.com.