The Ex Factor: A Novel

by Whitaker, Tu-Shonda

  Celeste looked around. “Who you talking to?”

  “You.” The cashier pointed. “Out my store!”

  “I asked you for a carton of cigarettes!”

  “Nasty, filthy wench! Everytime you people come in here you steal!”

  Celeste looked at the cashier and slapped the shit out of her. Immediately the cashier jumped on top of her, causing Celeste to fall back and hit her face on the corner of the metal shelf. “Not this time!” the cashier screamed, “I won't be robbed again! I promise you!”

  The store was in an uproar. One of the men watching the fight snatched the women apart. By now Celeste's negligee was in shreds and her breasts were hanging out. Celeste stood in silence for a moment as she watched the lady kick and scream. Thinking that she needed to get out of the store, Celeste turned away from the crowd and simply walked out. In the midst of all the commotion no one even noticed that she was leaving. She hopped in her car and took off. As she was driving home she pulled to the side of the road to see where the blood dripping in her lap was coming from. When she looked in the rearview mirror she realized that there was a large bruise covering the side of her face and a cut over her eye. I must've cut it when I hit the shelf, 'cause I know for sure that bitch didn't kick my ass!

  Celeste pulled up in her driveway and walked across her yard practically naked. As soon as she walked in her front door, she ran to the bathroom and looked in the mirror. She couldn't believe it: her face looked as if someone had beaten her with a bat. If I didn't know better, she thought, I would think that I had my ass beat!

  “Celeste!” Sharief called, “Celeste! Why the hell is the front door wide open and the car still running?” he yelled, storming through the house. Once he found Celeste he looked her up and down. She stood in the bathroom doorway in the tattered negligee, her titties hanging out, with bruises and cuts on her face. “What the fuck happened to you?” He frowned. “Who the fuck beat yo' ass? You been assaulted or some shit?”

  Instantly a lightbulb went on. Celeste took a puff off her cigarette. “You think I was assaulted? You really do? Well I got something for yo' ass then.” Celeste walked past Sharief and into the living room. She grabbed her cell phone, flipped it open, and hit 9-1-1. She smiled at Sharief, while he looked at her like she was crazy.

  Celeste pressed send on her phone and the operator picked up right away. “Nine-one-one, what's your emergency?”

  “Oh God!” Celeste screamed, “somebody please, come get me, my husband! My husband he's beating me! He's beating me. Sharief, stop! Please stop! He's trying to rape me!” Celeste placed her cigarette in the ashtray and started banging her fist on the wall.

  “Ma'am,” the operator said, trying to remain calm, “your address, please.”

  “Hang up that fuckin' phone!” Sharief snapped, realizing what was going on.

  The operator could hear him yelling in the background. “Ma'am.”

  Celeste could hear a little panic in the operator's voice, so she played on it and started breathing heavy. “I live at 555 Willow Clark Drive.”

  Sharief tried to snatch the phone. “What the fuck are you doing?” The operator could hear Sharief's voice escalate as she dispatched the police to their address. Celeste grabbed Sharief by the collar and tried to rip his white T-shirt off. When she saw she couldn't get it off easily, she jumped on top of him and started fighting him, causing the gash above her eye to reopen and drip blood all over Sharief's shirt.

  Sharief pushed Celeste in the center of her chest; she fell off him and slid across the floor. As he got off the floor and stood up, in rushed five police officers—one with a German shepherd, the rest with their guns drawn—and three EMT workers.

  Celeste was stretched out on the floor. The blood dripping from the cut above her eye slid down her face and dripped between her lips, giving her mouth the appearance that it was bleeding.

  “Get on the fuckin' floor facedown!” one of the officers yelled at Sharief.

  “I'm an officer!” Sharief screamed.

  “Stop lying!” yelled one of the cops. “Now get down!”

  Scared that the officer might shoot if he made any subtle movement, Sharief hit the floor, facedown. “Spread your legs apart! Stupid ass likes to hit on fuckin' women!” The cop placed his knee in Sharief's back while another officer pointed a gun at his head.

  “You lowdown stupid son-of-a-bitch!” the officer with his knee in Sharief's back yelled. “You like to beat on women?” He pressed Sharief's head to the floor with the palm of his right hand while he took his left hand and slapped the handcuffs on him. Then he started searching Sharief while the other cops looked around the house.

  “I didn't fuckin' hit her!” Sharief clinched his mouth tight.

  “You gettin' tough, niggah?” the cop said as he found Sharief's gun on the side of his hip. “Look at what we got, boys!”

  “That's mine,” Sharief said as the cop pressed his palm harder into the side of his face. “I'm a detective. Look—look around my neck you'll see my badge. I swear to you I didn't put my hands on her. I didn't hit her! I don't know how she got beat like that but I didn't do it. That's how she looked when I got here!”

  Celeste, whom the EMT workers thought was unable to speak, started screaming, “He attacked me! Whenever he has a bad day he does it! I try…I try so hard to be a good wife and nothing is ever good enough!”

  “You know I could lose my job over this bullshit!” Sharief screamed, tears running down his face. “You know if I lose my job I won't have shit!”

  “You're really a cop?” the officer took his knee off Sharief's back and the palm of his hand away from his face, but he left the handcuffs on. The officer with his gun pointed at Sharief's head withdrew it and helped Sharief stand up. They could see Sharief's sterling-silver badge clearly now.

  “Yes. I'm a detective in Brooklyn, New York,” Sharief said. “My captain's name is Kevin Lassiter.”

  “Oh God!” Celeste screamed. “I know you gon' let him go! I know he's going to kick my ass again! I knew as soon as you found out that he was a cop that you would let him go! That's why I never said anything before, but I can't take him beating me anymore. Please I can't take it! Please, help me!”

  “Celeste,” Sharief said, “are you having a nervous breakdown? Why are you doing this? You got these people thinking I'm fucking crazy and that I beat you when I didn't touch you!”

  “With all due respect, Detective,” the officer interjected, “we have you on a nine-one-one tape struggling with her, and we saw you throw her into the wall. You're under arrest.”

  “I can't fuckin' believe this shit!” Sharief said as one of the officers grabbed him by his arm and started walking him toward the door. “You fuckin' set me up,” he screamed at Celeste.

  The EMT workers placed Celeste on the stretcher and carried her out the door after the cops marched Sharief outside. It seemed as if everyone in the neighborhood stood outside watching. Sharief held his head down and slid into the backseat of the police car. The police started the blaring sirens and took off.

  Tears rolled down Celeste's face and she did what she could to fight back her smile. She lay in the back of the ambulance and listened to the sirens that were sounding like music to her ears. Good fo' yo' ass, she thought. Now let's see how well you sleep tonight.

  (Monica)

  “ISWEAR TO GOD, Sharief,” Monica screamed into the voice mail on his cell phone as she sat in her car in the ob-gyn's parking lot, “I don't care if Celeste is checking your messages, I'm not fucking with yo' ass anymore! Don't call me, don't nothing!” Her head felt like it was going to explode. Her doctor's appointment was over; she was officially four and a half months pregnant, and if the surprise of that wasn't fucked up enough, Sharief wanting her to give the baby up was. Why, Monica, she thought, why do you keep playing yourself ? She started recapping his conversation with her this morning and suddenly it felt like her body was shutting down. Remembering that her body was needed to support
the baby, she started backing her car out of the parking lot. As she went to make a left into traffic, her phone rang.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey dere, gurl.” It was Listra. Monica knew that Listra was either mad or listening to reggae music since her full Trinidadian accent was in effect.

  “Hey, Listra,” Monica said with a drag.

  “What's wit' de attitude? First I call Mummy and she attitude nasty and now you. But what de hell?” Monica could hear Listra taking a pull off her cigarette.

  “I'm just pissed off with Sharief.”

  “Why?”

  “He doesn't want the baby. He wants me to have an abortion.”

  “Well, he wasn't that damn drunk after all. We finally agree on someting.”

  “I gotta go,” Monica snapped. “The last thing I need to hear is a buncha smart-ass shit falling out of your mouth. Please!” She hung up.

  In an effort to not think about the bullshit that had now become her life, Monica turned the radio all the way up and started singing.

  By the time she got home her face was drenched with tears. She parked in front of her house, walked inside, lay down on the couch, and closed her eyes. Trying desperately to remember what she liked to do before she started fucking with Sharief, she opened her eyes and turned on the TV to see if her favorite show, American Justice, would still interest her since she hadn't watched it in months. She turned the channel only to see that cable had switched the networks around and A&E was no longer channel 23. Instead channel 23 was HBO, and they were premiering a new movie, Flip Side of the Game. Humph, Monica thought, sitting up, now ain't this some shit?

  … … …

  MONICA GOT OFF the couch and stretched. What the fuck am I doing? she thought. No matter how hard she tried, Sharief clouded her every thought. She sat back down and flicked through the TV channels again. Hell, if she was forced to think about him, then she needed to think about how to let him go… and how to breathe without him… and how to piss, shit, sleep, and just be without having to see him, feel him, or fuck him. It was two o'clock in the morning and she was miserable. “So Ms.,” she said in an animated and deep voice, holding the remote control to her mouth like a microphone, “you are officially a part of the ex-factor, so tell me how does it feel? Is he still the bomb or what?”

  As soon as she went to answer her own question the telephone rang. “Hello?”

  “Monica?”

  “Sharief,” she said as calmly as possible, “let me inform you. Sorry will not work and your lick-and-stick game ain't that great. I'm what you would say… sick of yo' shit—”

  “Monica—”

  “I'm four and a half months pregnant and I cannot have an abortion.”

  “Monica—”

  “Did you hear me?” she yelled.

  “Monica… shut…the… fuck up! This is not about your selfish ass, for once, goddamn!” he said, exasperated.

  Sensing the panic in Sharief's voice, Monica immediately switched gears. “What's wrong?”

  “Celeste had me arrested.”

  “What? What happened? What do you mean arrested? Where are you?”

  “At the police station. The cop let me use the phone at his desk. But she had me arrested for assault.”

  “Oh my God!” Monica couldn't believe it.

  “Monica, baby, I swear,” he started to get upset, “all I did was walk in the house and she was beat the fuck up and shit. But I never touched her. I asked her what happened and the next thing I knew she was callin' nine-one-one and the police ran in the house like a fuckin' SWAT team!”

  “I don't understand.” Monica was confused. Her heart started to race and her palms started to sweat.

  “Listen, baby, all I know is that I didn't touch her. I'm being held at the police station. I want you to come and get me before they move me to the county jail. My bail is ten thousand cash. I keep my checkbook locked in the glove compartment of my truck. I need you to get down here this morning. Go by my house and my truck is parked out front. Get my checkbook, and write yourself a check for ten grand so you can pay my bail.”

  “And what if Celeste is there?”

  “She won't be.”

  “Where is she?”

  “In the hospital.”

  “What? My sister's in the hospital?” “Oh, now you're concerned. She's in the hospital because she lost her fuckin' mind, not because of anything I did. Please, baby, I need you.”

  “I'll be at the bank as soon as they open.”

  … … …

  “I'M SORRY, MISS,” the teller said, “but we can't cash it. Insufficient funds.”

  Monica's heart stopped. “What?”

  “Insufficient funds.”

  Before she could respond, her phone rang. It was a collect call from Sharief. She was thankful that her call forwarding worked. She pressed 2 and accepted his call. Instantly she began to cry. “Sharief, you don't have any money in the bank.”

  “Calm down, baby, now what did you say?”

  “You don't have any money. I'll just spend my money and come get you.”

  “No … don't do that. Where the fuck is my money?” he mumbled. “Okay, baby, something is not right. Walk over to the MAC machine and check my account's balance. Inside the pocket in my checkbook is a duplicate MAC card, my code is zero-four-one-one.”

  Monica got out of line and walked over to the MAC machine. She checked Sharief's balance. “Your checking account is negative.” She started to get upset again.

  “Baby,” he took a deep breath, “I gotta get the fuck outta here. Check my savings.”

  She checked his savings. “It's two dollars left.”

  Sharief pounded his fist. “What the fuck!”

  “I'm coming to get you,” Monica insisted.

  “No, I'ma need your help with an attorney.” “Are you sure Celeste is still in the hospital? Did she come and get the money outta the bank?” Monica asked.

  “Look,” Sharief said, ignoring her, “come down here and wait for me. I'ma call my captain and see if he can call in a favor to the judge to get me the hell outta here.”

  … … …

  MONICA LEFT THE bank and drove to the Somerset County police station. Once inside she walked over to the processing officer's desk. “Excuse me,” she said, “I'm here for Sharief Winston.”

  “One moment, have a seat, ma'am. I'll check for you…Excuse me, are you the one pressing the charges against him?”

  “No.” A voice floated over Monica's shoulder. “That would be me.”

  As Monica turned around, Celeste, Starr, and Red were standing directly behind her.

  “What are you doing here?” Starr asked Monica, her eyes moving from Monica's face to her stomach. “And don't lie.”

  “I-I-I…”

  “You were what, Monica?” Celeste said, with a bandage over her eye and a large bruise covering half her face. “You were what? You fuckin' slut! How could you take and sleep with my husband! How could you! I trusted you!”

  “You didn't trust me, you don't even like me!” Monica screamed.

  “You're my sister!” “And whose fuckin' problem is that? You know what, Celeste”— Monica pointed her finger—“you got fat and fuckin' miserable. You cut all your damn hair off, looking like a man. You! All he tried to be was a good man to you and all you did was go from project shit to trailer-park trash—”

  Before Monica could go on, Celeste slowly lifted her hand in the air, bit her bottom lip, and hauled off and slapped the shit out of her; Monica stumbled, almost falling to the floor. “You tryin' to play me crazy! This fat bitch will kick yo' ass!” Celeste screamed, placing her hands on her hips.

  Monica put her hand over her mouth. “I can't believe that you just did that.” She made eye contact with the officers who were walking up on them. “What's the problem?” the officer asked.

  “None of your damn business!” Celeste screamed.

  “I'm sick of this!” Monica screamed. “I'm sick of this pret
end shit! Pretend-it's-all-grand shit. Well it's not! And I'm glad you know because now I can move on with my life and my man!”

  “Ya man!” Celeste lunged at Monica. “That's my husband!”

  Red grabbed Celeste's arms and pulled her away from Monica. “Monica—you better hold ya roll,” Red insisted. “You can't go around violatin' marriage vows. You ever heard of a jezebel? I need a Bible right now, somebody need to pray for you!”

  “The Bible?” Monica said. “You just found the Bible. So be quiet!”

  “Oh wait a minute now,” Starr said. “I ain't Celeste. I'll beat yo' ass over my man!”

  “And that's all you've ever been concerned about was your man. So you know what,” Monica spat, “I don't have time for this. Sharief didn't do anything to Celeste. She's lying. I know she's lying. And I hope she burns in fuckin' hell. And if you're here to help her press charges then to hell with all of you.”

  “Monica—” Starr couldn't believe it.

  “No, fuck that!” Monica stormed away and started walking toward a bench. As she sat down, she spotted an officer escorting Sharief.

  “Have you been released?” Monica asked, running toward him. Sharief nodded and walked closer to her. Once he stood next to her, he yoked her by the arm and pulled her back toward Starr, Red, and Celeste. “What the hell is going on here? I could hear you all the way in the back. This is ridiculous!”

  “You got a lot of nerve,” Starr growled at him. “You fuckin' both of my daughters? You wreck my family—”

  “He didn't wreck anything, Ma. Monica is grown!” Celeste insisted. “She's the home wrecker.”

  “Pussy don't fuck alone, Celeste,” Starr reminded her.

  “Pussy don't fuck alone? This ain't about pussy, this is about her being my sister!” Celeste screamed at the top of her lungs. Tears flooded her face, and her vision was blurry. “Here I was asking you for advice. Asking you what you thought, if he was cheating, if it was me, was it this and was it that, and here you were suckin' his dick and fuckin' him.” Celeste reached for Monica but Starr jumped in the way. “Move, Ma, 'cause I'ma kill her.”