His Woman, His Wife, His Widow Read online

  Instead of giving Shauntae a direct answer, I decided to try to assuage her curiosity for the time being. Just as I turned to her to buy some time, a crushing blow landed on the other side of my face, blinding me for a moment. I fell out of my chair and landed on top of my purse. I tried to get up and regain my composure, but the punch was so brutal I stumbled back down, barely missing the hole dug for the casket. I looked up to find Rhonda standing over me screaming like a crazed lunatic.

  “I’ve waited for too many years to get with you again. What makes you so special he had to marry you? Why do you think you are so much better than me? I was with Shaun when he didn’t have a dime to his name. I am the one that carried his first child!”

  That fool kicked and stomped at my prostrate body while she yelled her fury at me. “For years, every time you saw me, you turned your nose up at me. The only reason you got the best of me the last time we fought was because Shaun stood there with you. But now he’s gone. Now he’s not here to save you. I hate you, witch. I have always hated you and I will hate you until the day I die.”

  Rhonda had truly lost her mind. She was doing her best to inflict upon my physical body the same pain she suffered internally. Her emotional sadness powered her hands and feet as she came after me. While I rolled around on the ground doing my best to dodge her filthy feet and the hole dug for Shaun’s casket, I clutched my purse, making sure it never left my hands. My children were crying, swinging wildly at Rhonda and screaming for her to leave their mommy alone. Everyone else stood stark still, seemingly enjoying the performance. Not even the minister intervened.

  During the commotion, Shauntae frantically picked up the metal chair that I sat in and swung it at Rhonda. She connected with her back after several swings, momentarily slowing down my rival. Rhonda turned and looked in the direction of my baby still swinging the chair. She ceased in her pursuit of me and lunged for Shauntae, but the metal between them made it hard for her to get within arms reach of her.

  In a moment of unbalanced momentum, Shauntae lost her footing and stumbled violently. Rhonda used this opportunity to take the chair. She threw it to the ground and grabbed my baby by her hair, then raised her fist to punch her. However, before the blow could land, a loud explosion rocked the air. The noise sounded again. Then Rhonda landed face first, eyes wide open, at Shauntae’s feet.

  All movement stopped; all noises ceased. The motionless quiet in the air allowed me to actually hear Rhonda take her last breath.

  Finally, I stood up with the still smoking gun in my hand. I didn’t know Rhonda’s spiritual affiliation, so I could only wonder if she would end up in heaven with my Jesus. I wondered if the hate she felt for me, the hate that cost her life, the hate she said she would feel for me until her dying day, went with her into the ever after.

  PART I

  AND IN THE BEGINNING ...

  Chapter One

  March—1993

  For the life of me I will never understand why my mama makes me walk all the way to this silly store to do her shopping instead of getting in her car and driving herself here. It takes me twenty to thirty minutes to walk there and back. In her car, the whole ordeal could be done and over in about five minutes. This is just an example of her laziness and a total abuse of power.

  An even better idea would be for her to let me drive to the store. Her excuse for not doing that is I don’t have my driver’s license yet. Oh, big woo! I’m already sixteen, and I do have my learner’s permit. She knows I’m a good driver because she has been teaching me since I was fourteen. The only thing standing in the way of my being a legal driver is taking the actual road test, which I am scheduled to do in the next month. But she is sticking to her principles and not letting me drive alone until then. She always has to be so technical under the guise of being a good Christian.

  I can’t wait to get my driver’s license. Once I get that little piece of paper in my hot little hands, I, Lindsay Renee Westbrook, will never walk anywhere again. Not unless I have to do so in an effort to lose weight or something like that. I mean, I’m not fat or anything right now, but looking at Mama, I know the genetic potential for middle-age spread is there. Heck, for that reason alone, her balloon butt should be the one walking to the store. Not me.

  Mama and I argue all the time because she says I think that I am so cute and petite. “Beauty fades with time, Lil’ Miss Thang. As the years go by, gravity will grab a hold of that tight little butt of yours and send it north, south, east, and west. Mark my words, Nay-Nay, you are not always going to have that thin body and that cute face,” Mama says.

  Then I constantly remind her that if a person takes care of themselves with exercise, they can outrun gravity for a long, long time. If I have my way, I’ll always be as fly as the legendary Dianne Carroll. It doesn’t seem as if she is the least bit afraid of gravity, so there is no need for her to run. I, like Ms. Carroll, will remain beautiful up to and through my seventies. Once I turn eighty, I don’t think I’ll care much about how I look anymore.

  It’s not as if my mother is jealous of me or anything like that. She just thinks she knows everything because she has the advantage of age on her side. She also thinks her funk don’t stink because she is raising me and my little brother without the aid of a man or the welfare system. My mother is a homeowner, not a renter, and we don’t live in the ghetto. Now if you ask me, the neighborhood we live in is only a stone’s throw from the ghetto. But hey, that’s the type of stuff she likes to brag about.

  Don’t get me wrong. For the most part, my mama and I are pretty tight. I love the fact that she is not always in my face about silly little things. Mama talks to me and not at me, and I appreciate that. We have a big sister-little sister type of relationship most of the time. But trust me, she can pull rank and become all Mama when she deems it necessary.

  My mother was only seventeen and a senior in high school when she got pregnant with me. She and my so-called dad married the week after they graduated. I guess one could call their nuptials a reverse version of the shotgun wedding. My father’s mother forced him to do the “right” thing. I was born two months after the wedding.

  My parents stayed together long enough to have me, then three years later, my little brother, Kevin Jr.; K.J. for short. Soon after Kevin started walking, my pops walked away, never to look back. We have not heard a word from him since he left over twelve years ago. I still speak to his mother sporadically throughout the year.

  Mama was always the breadwinner in our family. She was blessed to obtain the job as an assembly worker at Ford Motor Company. My father was only able to secure odd jobs here and there, never staying at any one position for too long.

  Once my father left, Granny, my mother’s mother, came to live with us for a little while. Mama needed someone to sit with us and help her around the house while she worked.

  My granny is so cool. She has this special knack for being on the side of both the plaintiff, which is usually my mother, and the defendant, my brother or me, at the same time. I don’t know how she does it, but she always manages to make both sides in an argument feel good. Granny moved out and into a great senior’s complex when I became old enough to babysit my brother. During the time she lived with us, she was frequently on my mother’s case about finding herself another husband.

  “Child of mine, these children need a daddy and you need a man. You young modern-day women kill me. You all are always talking about how well you can take care of yourselves or about how you pay your own bills. Well, let me tell you something, Ms. I-Got-My-Own; money does not keep you warm when you are all alone in that big bed of yours. And no amount of money is going to teach your son how to be a man.” This was the speech I heard repeatedly while Granny lived with us.

  My mother used to counter Granny’s complaint with, “Just because I don’t have a man smiling in my face twenty-four-seven, does not mean I don’t know where to go when I need the chill taken off, if you know what I mean.” That is what she would say before she
became born again. Now she says, “When God is ready for me to have a man, He’ll send me one.”

  Personally, I think things are cool just the way they are in our household. The last thing I need is for some man to invade our lives and start changing things in our home. I’m not crazy about all of my mother’s current rules, but I do realize things could be worse.

  One of my mother’s rules includes my brother Kevin and me attending church every Sunday with her. During the services, I usually just sit there, bored out of my mind. However, every now and then something will be said or something will happen that catches my attention and I find myself enjoying my time in church. I definitely believe in God, Jesus, and the Holy Spirit, but from what I have learned thus far, I think the latter of the three has missed me.

  In all honesty, going to church is not that bad. I actually enjoy the Lenten Journey and the Easter services. When I was younger, that time was always special because I could look forward to getting a pretty new outfit. Now it is about so much more. I get into church during this time because of how special I feel when I hear and learn about what Jesus did for me. I personalize Jesus’ death on the cross, realizing that He made such an extraordinary sacrifice for someone like me. That’s the kind of love I can get into.

  There’s another rule of my mother’s that I don’t particularly enjoy. That rule is my midnight curfew. I constantly try to convince Mama that I’m old enough and responsible enough to stay out until 1:00 A.M., but she is not even trying to hear it. That’s a perfect example of when she is all Mama.

  Another example of how my mother pulls rank is by making me walk to this store. This is no short little jaunt. We live on Pierson, just two blocks north of the infamous Seven Mile Road in Detroit. The grocery store is on Evergreen and Seven Mile. Evergreen is about one-half mile from Pierson. So to and from the store is at least a one-mile walk. Can you tell how much I hate having to do this?

  Living near Seven Mile is the best part of our neighborhood for me. Hanging out on the “Mile” is an adventure all its own. Shyanne Kennedy, my best friend, and I have had some of the best times on Seven Mile.

  Shyanne and I have been friends forever; nine years, actually. We met in school on our first day of second grade. Shyanne and her family had just moved into the neighborhood and this was her first day at McKinney Elementary School. She and her mom were at the school awaiting the doors to open so they could enter the building. I was with Granny who wanted to meet Mrs. Green, my new teacher. While standing and waiting for the morning bell to ring, Shyanne and I made eye contact. Then I looked down at her hands to find that she carried the exact same Barbie book bag that I owned. This girl had taste.

  When we finally entered the building, I noticed that we all were headed in the same direction, and eventually to the same classroom. My grandmother and I entered the classroom first, and while Granny helped me to find a seat and make myself comfortable, Shyanne and her mom talked to Mrs. Green. When they were done talking, Shyanne sought me out and plopped into the seat next to mine, commenting on our identical book bags. We have been as thick as thieves since that moment. Shyanne lives four blocks from my home on Fielding Street. I know for a fact that no matter what goes down, she has my back and she knows that I have hers.

  Whenever we end up outside of our neighborhood or around people we don’t know, we tell people that we are cousins. Folks usually believe us without too much convincing because we kind of look alike.

  I am considered light-skinned by most people, and Shyanne is about two shades lighter than I am; her pigmentation courtesy of her Caucasian maternal grandmother. Shyanne has beautiful gray eyes and medium length reddish brown hair with natural blond highlights. I know females who would pay top dollar to have their hair streaked like that. Shyanne is about five feet seven inches tall and weighs approximately one hundred thirty pounds. She is an absolute beauty.

  I’m not so bad either, even if I do say so myself. I own a caramel brown complexion, long jet black hair, and honey brown eyes. My eyes often change to hazel depending on the season. I am about five–foot–four inches in stature and also weigh in at one hundred thirty pounds. My hips and butt are thicker and rounder than Shyanne’s, courtesy of my big behind maternal grandmother.

  What Shyanne is lacking in her lower region, also a gift of her granny, she more than makes up for it on the top half of her body. Shyanne carries a solid D-cup. I barely need my B-cup bra.

  Shyanne and I are both juniors at Henry Ford High School. Though we may not be amongst the best dressed or the most liked females, we definitely rank in the top five of the prettiest girls in school. The fact that we don’t curse and we do our best to act like ladies also adds points to our appeal. It separates us from the females who want to act hard and tough.

  Now we do have a reputation for getting ghetto when provoked by jealous females. We may be Christians, but people shouldn’t test us because they will lose. The guys find these multi facets to our personalities intriguing. They are on us like black on tar.

  Neither of us have a man right now, but we are regrettably no longer virgins. I lost my virginity halfway through freshman year while I dated this knucklehead named Byron. We went together for six months before we had sex, and the relationship only lasted one month beyond that. I’ve had a few other boyfriends since then, but I have not been with anyone else sexually.

  Shyanne’s initial sexual experience came during the first month of our sophomore year. Her lover’s name was Troy. She met him the summer before their sexual encounter at a backyard party we attended on the east side of town, which is a pretty jaunt from where we live. This is why it was easy for Shyanne to start and maintain another relationship that she began three months after she met Troy.

  My girl had it going on for a while until Troy decided to surprise Shyanne with a visit and busted her kissing her secret lover good-bye on her front porch. Needless to say, she’s not with either of those guys anymore. Guys just aren’t as forgiving about infidelity as we girls are.

  I don’t think that Shy will be single too much longer though. There is this senior named Antonio she is interested in and the brother is a cutie. He’s six–foot–three inches tall, has skin the color of a Hershey Bar, and short silky black hair. His brush waves are beautiful. He’s also the star forward for the Henry Ford Trojans’ basketball team. The problem is Antonio’s girlfriend.

  What had happened was, Tony stepped to Shyanne about a week ago at McDonald’s trying to holla at her. Tony told Shyanne that he had seen her around school and he thought she was really pretty. He sounded as sweet and sincere as an aspiring politician. Couple that with the fact that brother man was fine, and Shyanne found herself almost duty bound to exchange phone numbers with him.

  A couple of days later, Shyanne and Tony were standing in the hallway at school between classes talking and were accosted by this chick. Homegirl got between the two of them and started yelling at Shyanne.

  “Who are you, smiling all up in my man’s face? I’ll whoop your skinny, high yellow tail like it ain’t ever been whooped before!” She screamed so loud that everyone in the hallway turned to see where the commotion came from.

  I quickly made my way down the hall to make sure the tail being whooped that day did not belong to my girl. She had so little tail to spare. Shy has a very quick temper, so I knew it wouldn’t be long before blows were exchanged. When I arrived on the scene, Shyanne already had her finger wagging and her neck rolling.

  “You better back up off me, and quit spitting in my face. I don’t know anything about this guy being your man. That’s between you and him. So if you have a problem, it’s with him, not me!”

  “Who are you frontin’ on, tramp?” the girl yelled, and then took an open handed swing at Shyanne. She was unaware, however, that I was standing behind her, and before the blow could land, I was able to grab her arm. That gave Shyanne the opportunity to punch the girl square in the face. The fight was on.

  We beat and dragged that gi
rl up one side of the hallway and down the other until one of the teachers came to break it up. During the scuffle, not one person came to her aid, not even her so-called man.

  All three of us received a three-day suspension for the fight. Shyanne and I also received a verbal warning that if we were involved in any more disciplinary incidents, we would be expelled for good. That was the second time this semester that we had beat a girl down. Jealousy can be very contagious.

  After school that day, Tony stood outside waiting for Shyanne. He explained that Tracey—the cow we beat up—and he used to talk on occasion, but they were never boyfriend and girlfriend. He apologized to Shyanne for his part in the ugly incident and asked if he could still call her.

  “If Tracey was not your woman, you should have said something before the fight started,” Shy told him. “I’ll call you if and when I decide you are worth the effort.”

  I knew all along she would definitely call him again. Shyanne was just spitting game. I ended up grounded for an entire week. In addition, Mama made both Shyanne and I start attending the weekly Bible Study class for teens at our church. She said spending a little more time with the Lord would help us to calm our spirits and drive out the devilish, violent impulses.

  My punishment probably also has something to do with my mother enforcing this slave labor on me. Now that I’ve finally made it to this funky store, I am in a hurry to get in, get her crap, and get back to my long hike home. I have a Donald Goines novel on my bed calling my name. But little did I know I’d find myself in no hurry at all once I saw what was waiting inside for me.

  Chapter Two

  “Hello, sexy. Are you with your man, or are you roaming through this big old store all by your lonesome?”

  I turned away from the shelf that housed the tomato sauce my mama sent me in search of and into the face of a totally stunning male. I swear ’foe cheese and biscuits—I cannot remember ever seeing anything more beautiful than this man in my whole entire life.