Color Me Grey

by Michelle Janine Robinson

  Jade had every intention of going back to her mother when she got out; even though it had been resolved that, as long as she was a minor, she would probably never be allowed to go back to her mother legally. But no one could do anything about where she lived when she turned eighteen. It didn’t matter to Jade that her mother was still addicted to heroin and hookin’ on Hunts Point. As far as Jade knew, her father could have been any one of the many johns her mother had encountered over the years. Yet, all she talked about was getting out of Mannersville Group Home and getting back to the Bronx. Over the years, she often tried to talk Bridget into escaping with her, assuring her that her mother would take care of both of them. When she was younger, it never even occurred to her that if her mother were truly able to care for her, she wouldn’t have ended up here in the first place. But, as time went on, Jade got tougher and stronger and her logic was that she didn’t need anyone to care for her, including her mother—she could care for herself. Fortunately, Bridget’s level head won out. She convinced Jade that running away would be the worst thing they could do. She assured Jade that if they ran, they would be running the rest of their lives and neither of them wanted that. Bridget’s mom had died of a drug overdose almost a year after Bridget was born. Her dad, a drug dealer, was killed not long after that by the people he was selling for, when he got caught sampling a little too much of the product. She had a grandmother who had visited her and tried on a couple of occasions to get her out of the numerous foster homes she lived in. But her grandmother had gambling and health problems and could barely maintain a stable home for herself, much less a small child born addicted to heroin. When Bridget was ten years old, the possibility of her grand- mother raising her was erased as an option. Her last remaining relative, her mother’s mom, Grandma Hilliard, died of complications related to diabetes at the age of 58, young by U.S. standards, but not so young when you’ve lived a lifetime in the ’hood. Bridget was allowed to attend the funeral and grieved as best she could for a family member that she barely knew.

  Bridget and Jade were as different as two people could be. But, Jade was the closest thing to family that Bridget had known, and she wanted more than anything to keep her safe. Bridget was afraid that, without her guidance, Jade was headed down the same road each of their parents had traveled. Bridget made herself a solemn vow that she would never, ever, be her mother, and neither would Jade be hers, if Bridget had anything to say about it. Bridget was eighteen today and, in six months, Jade would be eighteen as well. They would both be free.

  “Why you trippin’, Bridget?” Jade asked. “Buster ain’t so bad. He likes you.”

  “Buster is a grown-ass man. He’s gotta be at least forty. He’s old enough to be my father. He fucks around with some of these other girls, but I ain’t down with that. My shit is precious and I’m not givin’ it up to the first loser that wants it.”

  “You ain’t givin’ it up, period,” Jade whispered under her breath.

  Bridget heard every word she said.

  “No, I’m not, until I’m ready. I got plans and they don’t include being a pregnant teenage mother or selling myself short. I want more than that.”

  “Check you out, Miss Thang. I’m only tryin’ to help you out. Buster helps a lot of the girls here. I’ve heard he’s even been known to turn his head and allow girls to sneak out on occasion. And, if you’re nice to him, I’m sure he’ll be nice to us.”

  Bridget had heard through the grapevine that one of the many times Jade had run away, she had been able to do so after giving one of the workers at the home a blow job. She wondered if it was Buster. Not only that, Jade had shared with her countless stories of her sexual encounters with various foster parents and group home workers. She even thought she heard her say once that she worked the streets with her mother the last time she was home. Bridget often hoped they were simply stories that Jade had dreamed up to entertain her, but she suspected that at least some of these stories probably had a ring of truth to them.

  “I’ll tell you what, if you feel that strongly about it, why don’t you be nice to Buster for us?” Bridget offered.

  “One very important reason,” Jade answered. “He doesn’t like me; he likes you.”

  “I’m sorry, Jade, but there are some things I won’t do; not even for you. Besides,” Bridget added, “I’ve got much more important things to think about; like what kind of cake I want for my birthday.”

  Each of the children at Mannersville got their choice of birthday cakes every year. Bridget’s favorite was chocolate chip cookie dough. It was Sunday, June 15, 1991. The sun was shining, the birds were chirping, and it was her birthday. She was eighteen today! Bridget was especially excited this year, because she would finally leave the numerous “temporary” homes she had lived in and get on with the adventure of living her life. Over the years, she had felt as though she were living in limbo; never truly belonging to anyone, or anything. That is, until she had met Jade. Even though Jade would not be leaving for at least six months, since her birthday was not until December 29, Bridget had no intention of forgetting about her best friend. She had it all planned out. She had already gotten her diploma last year, thanks to her dedication to her studies, and she was fully prepared to get a job working as a typist or secretary. She had taken typing classes and transcription classes, preparing for her new life. She was going to get a job and a place where they both could live, which would be waiting for Jade as soon as she left Mannersville.

  Jade, on the other hand, fully expected Bridget to forget about her as soon as she left, and obsessed over it night and day. She had been a horrible student and would be lucky if she could get a job at McDonald’s when she got out of there. Bridget was hoping to go to law school one day and she had fine-tuned her researching skills by finding out all that she could about the emancipation laws of New York City. However, Jade had done everything she could to discourage Bridget from attempting to leave at age sixteen. But, there was nothing she could do now that Bridget was eighteen; she was leaving and that was that.

  Bridget was looking forward to this birthday more than any other she had ever had. It seemed to her that a world of possibilities was waiting for her, like an open door. She gorged herself on lots of cake and ice-cream and opened her presents. Jade told Bridget there was a present for her in their room, but that she should wait until they got back there before she opened it. Bridget agreed. Lights out was typically at ten, but Mama Dixon, the operator of Mannersville, allowed them to stay up until eleven on birthday nights. Bridget and Jade headed back to their room around ten-thirty. Bridget couldn’t wait to open her present.

  “Go on, open it,” Jade urged.

  Bridget ripped open the modestly wrapped, ninety-nine-cent store paper from the package. Inside there was a small, burgundy, velvet jewelry box. When Bridget opened the box, she was surprised to find a beautiful gold, heart-shaped necklace, with what looked like diamonds encircling the heart. Bridget assumed it was gold-plated and that the stones were cubic zircons. After all, there was no way Jade could afford such an expensive necklace, if it were real. She loved the necklace, no matter what it was made of, because it came from Jade, her sister-friend; the only real family she had ever known.

  Tears welled up in Bridget’s eyes.

  “Now don’t go startin’ that shit,” Jade said.

  Bridget wrapped her arms around Jade and hugged her with all of her might.

  Between the excitement of the birthday party and all the cake and ice-cream, Bridget was asleep in no time. At about three in the morning, Bridget was stirred awake by light filtering through the open doorway. Someone had entered the room. She assumed that it was Jade coming back from the bathroom or something, but she quickly discovered that it was not. The person crossed the room and sat on her bed. It was Buster and he reeked of alcohol.

  “Buster, you know if Mama Dixon finds out you’re in my room after lights out, you’re going to be in big trouble.”

  He sat there, leering at
her. Bridget suddenly became aware of what she was wearing. She was wearing an extremely transparent white T-shirt, no bra, and a pair of sweats. Her blanket was covering her up to her waist, but her upper body was noticeably uncovered.

  “Whatcha’ talkin’ about Mama Dixon for?” Buster slurred. “I came to give you the rest of your birthday present. Three o’clock on the dot; like you told me to.” Buster waved in the direction of Jade’s empty bed and the clock on the bedside table.

  Bridget tried to maneuver herself out of the bed, but Buster had to weigh at least two hundred-sixty pounds and he was sitting on the blanket, almost on top of her. Bridget stared at the door to the room, waiting for Jade. Where on earth could she be? Maybe she’s in the bathroom, Bridget thought to herself. Yeah, she was probably in the bathroom, which meant she would be back any minute now. She didn’t think Buster was dangerous, but she rec ognized the look; she had been dodging that expression in one foster home or another for most of her life. When you combined that with alcohol, the end result could be unspeakable. Many girls (and boys) she had known through the years had fallen prey.

  Bridget tried talking to Buster as calmly as possible; even though she was getting more frightened with each passing second.

  “Buster, what are you talking about? Three o’clock? I didn’t tell you to meet me here.”

  “Yeah, you did. You said three, and it’s three now.” He glanced at the clock. “It’s past three; it’s three-thirteen, and I got something real special for you.”

  Buster moved the covers out of the way and fell on top of Bridget’s body. He was like dead weight. He started pulling at her breasts; pushing his hand between her legs and fumbling with the waistband of her sweat pants, trying to remove them.

  “Buster, stop! Just stop it! Please stop, Buster! If you leave now, I won’t say a thing to Mama Dixon! Just leave! STOP!!!!”

  While he was busy nibbling her breasts through her T-shirt, Bridget tried to scream, to no avail. Buster covered her mouth and no amount of struggling could free her from his grip. His hand against her mouth was like a great big slab of beef, imprisoning her. He forced her sweat pants down to her ankles before he invaded her chaste soul, pounding into her again and again, while he muttered through the horrible stench of his alcohol-induced breath, “Happy birthday, baby. Happy birthday,” punctuating every word with violent thrusts that Bridget thought might literally tear her apart. He took from her the one thing she felt separated her from the ugliness of the world she was born into. He stole her most precious gift, one she planned to hold in reserve for someone she loved and who loved her in earnest. Grandma Hilliard always told her she might not have a pot to piss in, but she had her chastity and her dignity. Now, in Bridget’s mind, she had lost both. Buster Williams had seen to that. Then, suddenly, it was over. Within a matter of minutes, her life had been irrevocably changed.

  He climbed off Bridget and stood up. He reached down and wiped the tears that were streaming down her face, and looked at the blood-stained sheets, remnants of the innocence he had deprived her of. Bridget couldn’t understand why he looked so confused, or was it regret at the monstrous thing he had done. Maybe that was the look she had recognized.

  “What’s wrong, baby? I wanted to give you the rest of your birthday present, like you said. What did I do wrong? Is it because it was your first time? Don’t worry; it’ll be better the next time.”

  In that split second, Bridget was like a person sleepwalking through a horrible nightmare. All she heard through her haze were the words “the next time.” She leapt out of bed and picked up the desk chair in the corner of the room and began hitting Buster with it over and over again, until he fell to the floor. The element of surprise and the alcohol worked against him. He was powerless. She hit him so hard that the chair leg broke off in her hands, revealing several large rusty nails. She used the protruding nails to beat Buster Williams in the chest until he lay there motionless.

  Bridget was soaked in blood, and in shock, when Jade returned to the room. Jade walked in and immediately noticed Buster’s prone form. She quickly spun into action.

  “Bridget, we need to leave. Now! Mama Dixon and the others will be looking for Buster soon. Bridget, you’ve got to snap out of it. We have to leave right now! ”

  Bridget stared off into space, mumbling, “Never again.”

  Jade decided Bridget would need a shock to set her “right,” so she did what she had always seen people do on TV. She slapped Bridget across the face and, amazingly, it worked. Bridget snapped out of it. She looked around the room, suddenly aware of her predicament.

  “Oh my God,” she shrieked. “What have I done?”

  Jade scrambled around the room, picking up this and that. She grabbed both of their duffel bags from the closet and began throwing things in them at random; her clothes, Bridget’s clothes, anything her hand could get a hold of and that would fit into the bags. Then she reached down and started going through Buster’s pants pockets.

  “What are you doing, Jade? Don’t touch him!”

  “We have to, Bridget. Otherwise, what are we going to do for money? He obviously doesn’t need it anymore.”

  Bridget stared at Buster’s body, dumbfounded. She couldn’t believe that she had actually taken another life. She had killed someone; a person she had lived with every single day of her life for the last six years, yet knew so little about. Bridget was suddenly consumed with the thought that if she knew something about him, somehow that would lessen the blow; absolve her of her sin. Maybe he truly was evil.

  She looked through his jacket pockets, searching for evidence of his monstrous existence, and found his wallet, hoping to find something, anything; and that she did. She found a picture of herself. She had given that picture to Jade over a year ago. Jade’s mother had cleaned herself up and had petitioned the court to have Jade come and live with her. After much effort, the court was convinced that she was capable of caring for Jade and she went to live with her. Bridget hated being separated from her, but she knew how much Jade wanted to be with her mom, so she had tried to be strong. She gave Jade a picture of her and told her to keep it so she wouldn’t forget about her. It lasted all of six months before Child Protective Services brought Jade back to Manners ville. Buster must have stolen the picture from Jade. Also in the wallet was a receipt for $375 from Lazlows Jewelers. Was that all his life amounted to; some unhealthy obsession with her, a lone jewelry receipt and some meager cash? Jade grabbed the cash out of Bridget’s hand and counted it.

  “Good,” Jade said. “Two hundred forty-eight dollars; enough to get us to where we have to go.”

  Jade took the ring of keys off of Buster’s belt and quietly snuck out of the room, with Bridget in tow. Jade had it all figured out. They would quietly exit the building, get to Buster’s car, and drive out of there, straight to her mother’s place on Westchester Avenue. They were in Middletown. It would only take them about two hours to get there.

  The great thing about Mannersville was that there was very little security besides Buster and a few other workers. All they needed was a car; and Jade was sure Buster’s brand-new ’91 Honda Accord was parked somewhere outside. She seemed to remember him mentioning that it was red. They would have to get outside and find the car before anyone realized they were gone. Otherwise, it would be too late.

  Just as Jade predicted, Buster’s car was in the parking lot. She took the keys and started the car.

  “Jade, I think I should turn myself in. Buster raped me. I could tell the police what happened and nothing would change. I’ll be leaving here in a couple of weeks anyway. We could go back to the way things were. And eventually we can put all of this behind us. Just forget.”

  “First of all, sweetie, you’ll never forget what happened tonight. It was your first time. No one forgets their first time. And, second, what makes you think anyone is going to believe Buster raped you? He’s an employee of Mannersville Group Home and you’re just one of its throwaways; a throwaway who
killed one of the people in charge of maintaining order at the home. They’ll fry you. No, they’ll fry us. Because, like it or not, I’m now a part of this. I escaped with you; I stole a car. I’m an accessory after the fact. And, if you go down, I go down with you. Are you prepared to take responsibility for that?”

  Bridget hadn’t thought of it that way. She didn’t want Jade to get into trouble because of her. Maybe she was right. No one would believe her. She was what Jade said; a nobody, a throwaway.

  “Okay, Jade. I’ll do whatever you think is best.”

  The angle Jade was sitting at didn’t allow Bridget to see the smirk on Jade’s face when she heard Bridget give in. If she had, she might have run from that car, straight back to Mannersville and given herself up.

  It suddenly occurred to Jade that this might be easier than she thought. That’s how scared Bridget was.

  “We’re going to go to my mother’s and lay low for a while. They may come looking for us there and they may not. You have no relatives and my mom is my only relative, so if they look at all, that’s where they’ll look. So, we won’t stay long—just long enough to get our shit together.”

  “What do you mean, if they look at all? Of course they’ll look. I killed a man.”

  “Think about it, Bridget. Buster was a lowly, minimum wage-earning group home worker. He was one step up from a janitor. And, he was black. The New York City Police Department ain’t lodging some city-wide manhunt for his killer. After a couple of months, Buster Williams will be a distant memory and his death will join the ranks of other unimportant, unsolved cases.”

  It was 7:00 a.m. when they arrived at Chantal Smith’s run-down Westchester Avenue apartment. Jade knocked on the door. She used to have a key, but she had lost it a long time ago. She knocked hard, in case her mom was in one of her many stupors. She wasn’t.

  As soon as Jade knocked, she could hear her mother yell. “Who the fuck is knockin’ on my door this time of the mornin’; like they ain’t got no goddamn sense?”