Celeste picked up Sharief's cup of coffee and slapped the shit out of him with it, causing the cup to shatter and the hot liquid to splatter on the right side of his face. Some of it flew over his head and ran down his left cheek. Quickly Sharief took the palm of his hand and wiped the steamy coffee off his face.
After making sure the coffee hadn't burned him, Sharief reached across the island and grabbed Celeste around the neck. She flung her arms and knocked the hot grits off the stove as Sharief dragged her over the countertop. She tried to grab the edge of the island but couldn't grip it fast enough.
Everything seemed to be moving too fast. Not knowing what else to do, Celeste grabbed the butcher knife out of the multi-knife holder and swung it; immediately the top of Sharief's hand popped open and blood started running everywhere. “Awwwwwl shit!” he screamed, knocking her off the counter. “I'ma kick yo' fuckin' ass, bitch!”
Celeste regained her balance and jumped up with the butcher knife in her hand. “Let's roll, ma'fucker!” With the knife in one hand, Celeste picked up Sharief's plate of food with the other and threw it at him. Sharief ducked, the plate just missing his head.
“I hope that bitch is worth it!” Celeste picked up the coffeepot and threw it at him. The glass shattered and coffee splattered all over the wall, the steam still rising from it. If Sharief hadn't seen the pot coming it would've burned him in the face; instead it caught a small portion of his forearm. “What the fuck! You want me to kill you?”
“Kill me?” Celeste completely lost it. She threw what was left of the grits at him, breaking the kitchen window. “Kill me? I'm already dead, ma'fucker. I can't find shit that I like to do. I can't even remember what I wanted to be when I was a little girl. I've been reduced to staying home and being hidden in this goddamn house like I ain't shit while you pick yourself up and come and go as you please. You don't even fuck me anymore!”
“Fuck you?” Sharief screamed. “I wouldn't fuck you if your pussy was glued to my dick! This shit is a wrap! It's over!” Blood dripped from his hand as he grabbed a kitchen towel and wrapped it around the cut. Instantly blood soaked through the towel. As he tried to walk out of the room, Celeste ran in front of him and blocked his path. She still had the bloody butcher knife in her hand. She swung it and Sharief ducked.
“What the fuck!” Immediately Sharief drew his gun and pointed it at Celeste. “Now put that shit down!”
Celeste swung the knife at his head again. He ducked and cocked the gun. “I swear,” he said, his finger on the trigger, “I will shoot you, bury you, and fuck a bitch this afternoon if you swing that fuckin' knife at me again!”
“You don't want me, Sharief? Just say it!”
“Why are you a glutton for punishment? I told you this wasn't working out before we left Brooklyn.”
Celeste stood motionless with the knife still in the air. Flashbacks of him telling her how he wanted to just take care of his kids and leave the marriage ran through her mind. “How could you do this to me, Sharief?” Tears ran down her face.
“Put the knife down, Celeste.” Sharief spoke as calmly as he could. The side of his face felt sore as he twitched his lips. He slowly moved his finger from the trigger.
“Celeste!” Monica called out, turning the knob on the unlocked front door. “Did you hear me ringing the bell over and over again? I've been out here”—she walked into the kitchen— “for ten minutes.” She blinked and dropped her purse on the floor. It took a few seconds for her to register what she was seeing. She spoke slowly: “What… the hell…is going…on here?” As if she were under arrest, she slowly placed her hands in the air.
“Put the knife down, Celeste,” Sharief said. Moving the barrel from her chest to her leg, he placed his finger back on the trigger, and the blood from his hand started to drip on the floor. “Please, Celeste,” he begged, “I don't want to hurt you.”
Seeing Sharief bleeding brought Monica out of shock. She put her arms down and slowly walked toward him. “What happened to your hand? Oh my God, look at all this blood, you need to go to the hospital!”
“Fuck that! Put the knife down, Celeste,” Sharief ordered, cocking the trigger. “I will shoot you!”
“Celeste, sweetie,” Monica said calmly, “please put the knife down. Please.”
“I swear I should kill you,” Celeste spat at Sharief. She took the knife and threw it on the floor. Sharief stepped on it as Celeste moved from in front of his face. Instantly his eyes locked with Monica's. Realizing that the gun was now pointed at her, Monica backed up. “Put that shit away!”
“I'm sorry.” Sharief took the gun and placed it back in the holster on the side of his hip. “I swear to God,” he went on, wiping the sweat from his forehead, “if you ever in your life pull a knife out on me again, I will arrest you!”
“You gon' arrest me?” Celeste snapped. She opened the cabinets above the sink and started throwing the dishes at him again. “Fuck you! Arrest me, ma'fucker! Do it! All this for some bitch in the street? Why did you marry me if you were going to cheat on me! I was fine all by myself!” Dishes were flying past Monica and Sharief like Frisbees.
“Celeste!” Monica screamed. “Stop it! Stop it!”
“Move, Monica, because I'ma kill him!” As Celeste said this one of the dishes shattered against the wall, and the flying pieces almost cut up Monica's face. Monica fell face-first trying to get out of the way. When she looked back up her nose was bleeding.
Sharief walked over to Celeste as she continued to throw dishes at him, blocking the hits with his arms. He grabbed her by the neck, lifting her slightly in the air, causing her to drop the dish in her hand. He squeezed the veins on the side of her neck so tight, she felt like her esophagus was being crushed. “What did I tell you? You think this is a fuckin' game?” He slapped her on the side of the head. “You think I'm playing?” He mushed her in the forehead.
“Sharief—Sharief.” Monica got off the floor, holding her nose with the palm of her hand, some of the blood dripping between her fingers. She grabbed a dish towel off the counter. She was desperately trying to stop her nose from bleeding and her sister from being choked to death. “Come on,” Monica pleaded, grabbing Sharief's arm, trying to loosen his grip. “Please let her go.” Celeste was starting to cough as her tears rolled over Sharief's hands. “Sharief, just let her go! Let my sister go!” She ran and grabbed her purse off the floor, opened it, and shook all the contents on the counter. “Take my keys.” She ran back over to him and stuffed her house keys in his side pocket; they were the same keys that he'd thrown at her earlier. “Just go.” She wiped her nose, the blood starting to clog. She touched the bridge to ensure it wasn't broken.
“I came to get my children.” He was still holding Celeste by the neck, blood dripping from his hand.
“Go get them. Are they upstairs?” Monica was desperate: Celeste's eyes were half closed.
“Yeah,” he said, never taking his eyes off Celeste. “They're sleep.”
“They're sleeping through all of this?” She looked around the kitchen. “Sharief, please, stay in New York tonight. Visit your mother and father, do something, because if you keep staying here like this, right now, somebody's going to die.” He dropped Celeste to the floor. Celeste grabbed her neck and started coughing. Never taking his eyes off Celeste, Sharief started backing out of the kitchen. Monica ran over to him and grabbed his hand. She unwrapped the dish towel and looked at his cut. “You're going to need stitches.”
“Look,” Sharief huffed, “I know you mean well but I gotta get outta here!”
“Shut the hell up!” Monica screamed, tears running down her face. “Don't you need your hand to fuckin' work, Detective, or do you want an infection to seep in and lead to amputation?”
“Yo, I don't give a fuck right now. I gotta get outta here before I kill her. I'm straight!” Sharief snatched his hand away and briskly walked out of the room.
Celeste was crouched in the fetal position on the floor, and Monica stood t
here looking around. She had a bloodstained kitchen towel in her hand and a bloody butcher knife on the floor; every dish in the house was broken with the pieces scattered on the floor. There was coffee everywhere, eggs all over the place, and all of the cabinet doors were swinging back and forth. “Have you lost your fuckin' mind?” Monica looked down at Celeste. She wanted to kick her ass but thought better of it. “Do you hear me, Celeste?” she screamed. “Are you fuckin' crazy?”
“No! I just can't take it. He's cheating on me and I know he is!”
“So you try to kill him? You can't just leave or divorce his ass? You wanna go to jail?”
“I don't care!”
“You don't care? And who's going to take care of those three li'l grown asses you got? Get off that floor acting pitiful! If he didn't want your ass when you were sane, you think he wants you now when you're acting crazy as hell?”
“Monica—”
“Celeste, I don't even want to hear it. We are supposed to be having a bachelorette party for our mother and you don't have one fuckin' dish in the house, you look a hot-ass mess, and nothing is cooked. Get off the floor!”
Celeste got off the floor and started crying hysterically. “What does she have that I don't?”
Monica picked up the knife off the floor. “Who, Celeste?”
“The woman that he's with. Why is he choosing her over me?”
“You don't know if the man is cheating,” Monica said as she put the knife in the sink. She grabbed the broom and began sweeping the floor, doing her best to avoid eye contact with Celeste. She bit the inside of her jaw. “Stop assuming.” Shaking her head, she felt like shit.
“He told me he didn't want me,” Celeste said. “Do you know the last time that he fucked me?”
“Look at how you're acting. Would you fuck you?”
Celeste didn't know what to say. She wiped her eyes, grabbed a sponge, and started wiping off the kitchen walls where the coffee, grits, and omelet had splattered. Half an hour later Sharief came down the stairs with the girls following behind him. The twins were both dressed in the same outfit: pink denim shorts, white baby-doll tees, and Dora the Explorer sandals. Kayla had on a white one-piece velour short jumpsuit with the matching visor. Sharief looked at Monica; his eyes told her that he loved her. Then he looked at Celeste. His eyes said nothing. “I'm out.”
“Wow! Mommy!” Kai screamed in excitement. “You had a food fight!”
“Yuck!” Kayla frowned. “I heard yelling but, humph, this is nasty.” She looked over and saw Monica. “Aunty!” She ran and hugged her around the waist, Kai and Kori following suit.
“Hey, Aunty's babies.”
“Aunty,” Kayla said, “when can we go shopping? Can I come spend the night with you?”
“Yes, next weekend, maybe. We'll see, okay?”
“That's a long time.” Kayla pouted. “No it's not. Now you get going with your daddy and Aunty will see you later.”
“Bye, Mommy,” the girls said, going out the door.
Monica turned to Celeste as Sharief and the girls left. “Let your children be the only ones that bring you to your breaking point. Understand? Men come a dime a dozen. Period. If Sharief doesn't want you then fuck him. But right now you need to get yo' shit together!”
“Monica—”
“Save it, Celeste, Ma'll be here any minute.” Monica walked over to the refrigerator and opened it. “Where's the food for the party?” she asked.
“I didn't have a chance to get any.”
“What? Why not?” Monica slammed the refrigerator door. “What did you do with the money I gave you?”
“I borrowed it. I needed to pay for my part of the flowers.”
“And…how were you going to get the food?” “I figured I could use my credit card and buy some ready-made platters from Costco.”
Monica peered at Celeste. “I could slap the shit out of you! Does anything besides your unfaithful-ass husband run through your mind? Why would you use my money without asking? And on flowers? I paid my half for the flowers already. If you couldn't afford to help pay for this damn wedding then you should not have volunteered. Mommy could've taken her happy ass to the VFW! Shit!”
“I have children to take care of.” Celeste looked Monica up and down. “Something you know nothing about. And I have a husband who is the only one who works.”
“Then get yo' lazy ass a job!” Monica flopped down in the kitchen chair. “This is ridiculous. Where the hell is Costco? Let's go.”
“It's an hour away,” Celeste said nonchalantly, searching the ashtray for a decent cigarette butt.
“Why are you smoking cigarette butts? Just go get a damn cigarette!”
“I only have one pack left,” Celeste said, lighting the butt, “and I'm saving it until tomorrow.”
“Whatever,” Monica said dismissively. “Wait a minute… Costco is how far away?” She looked at the clock: it was fifteen minutes before the first guest was due to arrive, and Starr was due shortly after. “I can't believe this! I really can't. The next time save your Desperate Housewife–Lorena Bobbitt attempt, because now everybody's affected by the shit! Now what are we supposed to do?”
“I don't know.” Celeste blew out the smoke. “You figure it the fuck out. Shit! I can't do everything.”
“Everything?” Monica screamed. “You don't do shit but complain!”
“Don't worry about me complaining. I've always had to do everything under the sun while you and Imani got to live your lives, so hell, I fuck up this one time and the world is coming to an end?”
“You are so selfish, Celeste. You were supposed to get this food days ago. I called and left messages for you.”
“Messages? Oh please, what messages, the one you left on Sharief's voice mail? The one that said, Sharief, tell Celeste to get the food… and I got some Audio Two concert tickets… blah… blah… blah? Oh yeah, I meant to ask you, did Chauncey ask you to marry him that night or what?”
“You've been listening to Sharief's voice mail?”
“Of course, wouldn't you?”
“Why… would you do that?”
“Oh please, you are not that naïve. So did you tell Chauncey no? And if so, why? You need to go ahead and get married…do something with yourself besides layin' down and shackin' up with no-good niggahs. Humph, I was beginning to wonder if that threesome you had with your ex-boyfriend turned you out. I never looked at you the same after that. Sex with a man and another bitch, yuck! Does that shit make you a dyke?”
“Wait a goddamn minute here!” Monica slammed her fist on the kitchen counter. “I'm not a fuckin' dyke, you crazy bitch. And why should I get married? Who's setting the example, you? Oh honey, spare-fuckin'-me paleeze. And then you're listening to Sharief's voice mail? I should tell him. I can't believe this! You desperate fuckin' lunatic! You are certifiable.”
“I'm certifiable? I'm not the one who needed Zoloft after she'd been left by a niggah.”
“I didn't need Zoloft, bitch, that was your father when Mommy left his ass. Oh excuse me, he didn't need Zoloft. It was crack he turned to. Don't break bad with me, 'cause you will never win! You used to talk a buncha shit that made me cry, but not now I got somethin' fo' ya ass. Now try me.”
“I don't have time to argue with you.” Celeste mashed the cigarette butt in the ashtray. “Save the bullshit.”
“Whatever, do you have anything in the refrigerator that can be thrown together quickly?”
“Yeah.”
“What?” Monica got up and opened the refrigerator. “Celeste,” she batted her eyes, “ain't shit in here but some damn breakfast food and Kid Cuisine.”
“Well, there's some Care Bears fruit snacks and Oodles of Noodles in the cabinet.”
“Oh…my…God…”
(Starr)
“HONEY-CHILE, I ain't had no reefer in about twenty years. For real—for real.” Starr took a pull, the wet tip of the long and skinny joint glued between her lips. Relaxing her shoulders, she lay ba
ck in the recliner and crossed her ankles. “Buttah, this is the best wedding gift anyone could've given me.” Starr was in her glory sitting in her living room, shooting the shit with her senile and soon-to-be mother-in-law, Mama Byrd, and Starr's oldest and dearest friend Buttah-Ann Askew.
“You know I had to get my home girl something,” Buttah said, “and what better than a dime bag of smoke.” Buttah placed the joint between her lips and pulled. “I just can't believe you getting married.”
“I know.” Starr blushed. “I've been engaged three times.”
“Damn,” Mama Byrd spat, “what the hell you tryna prove? We already know you a old ho.”
Starr was offended. “How you figure?”
“Hell, all ya kids got different last names.”
“Hush,” Buttah snarled at Mama Byrd. “Lawd knows yo' senile ass is always talkin'.”
Mama Byrd pounded her chest and stood up. “Make me shut up then, you so bad.”
“Oh, don't get it fucked up.” Buttah stood up. “I fights old ladies.”
“Bring it then.” Mama Byrd swayed from side to side. “Wait a minute now,” Starr said, getting between them. “Calm down.” She turned to Buttah. “Now, Buttah, why you lettin' Mama Byrd get to you? You know she senile.”
“You right,” Buttah said, calming down. “I'm sorry, Mama Byrd.”
“What you sorry for, baby?” Mama Byrd looked around. “And why is we standin'? We getting ready for the bachelorette party?” Mama Byrd smiled. “I hope they got a dancer who knows how get his grind on. 'Cause this seventy-five-year-old coochie need a fire-cracker!”
“Mama Byrd, be quiet.” Buttah rolled her eyes, sitting back down.
“Bachelorette?” Starr's eyes lit up. “Is that what you said?”
“Sho'nough. And Buttah the one 'spose to be bringin' you.” Mama Byrd sat back down and reached for the joint. She took a pull off the tip and spoke through the smoke. “Them niggahs say somebody gettin' married.” She snapped her fingers as the burning weed hung from between her lips. “Who that is, who that is?”
The Ex Factor: A Novel Page 7