Put A Ring On It (30 page)

Collecting donations for her ministry was hard work. It took patience and cunning. And good common sense. It wasn’t in
people’s nature to tithe simply because it was the right thing to do. She had to play on their emotions and sensibilities to get donations for her ministry. And she had to select the right locations, targeting establishments with a predominately white clientele.

The woman didn’t bother to hang around establishments that catered to black people. Experience had taught her that black people didn’t feel the same kind of pity and subconscious guilt that white people did. When Caucasians saw her dark, disfigured face, they generally felt pity, guilt, and disgust. These feelings motivated them to dig into their pockets to relieve their discomfort—handing over a crisp twenty to make her go away.

“Thank you, Jesus. Oh, bless your merciful heart!” she’d shout with passion, holding her Bible up to the heavens. At this point in her routine, her contributors would extend a painful smile and then briskly walk away.

But high-falootin’ black folks didn’t feel anything but embarrassment when she waddled up to them. When she approached well-to-do blacks, they would stiffen, look straight ahead, and pretend like she wasn’t there, often muttering in anger as if her shabby presence was a disgrace to the race. Black folks were way too damn good at iggin’ her, so she didn’t waste her time trying to collect donations from them.

The woman had been doing quite well at this new restaurant she’d stumbled upon. The only problem was that management had chased her off, preventing her from posting up directly in front of their high-end establishment.

Pacing to keep warm, the woman stepped on the button that she’d discarded. She studied the button, and had half a mind to pick it up and put it in her pocket. She could sew it on her coat later.
Oh, the hell with that. I’ll get me a couple of safety pins to keep
this coat closed.
She kicked the worrisome button out of her sight. She glimpsed movement from the corner of her eye, and looked up. A couple had exited the restaurant. The woman was adjusting the scarf around her neck.

As hastily as she could, the shabby woman hot-footed toward the brightly lit restaurant.

It was difficult running with bad feet.
Oh, lawd. I done slipped up. Fuckin’ with that button might have caused me to miss some money.

She quickened her shuffling steps and then abruptly halted. She sucked her teeth in disgust when she realized that the well-dressed couple was black.
I’m having some fucked-up luck tonight. Them high-falutin’ Negroes aint gon’ give me the time of day.

The affluent pair stood beneath the overhead light waiting for the valet to bring their car.

The haggard woman felt irrational loathing for the couple who were cuddled together. She viewed them as selfish people who’d never known one day of despair. Instead of slinking back into the shadows she took a moment to glare at them, her mouth turned down in disdain.

Look at ’em, all hugged up and happy. I guess the world must be their oyster. Black motherfuckers get on my nerves. Acting like they better than somebody. Noses all turned up in the air like they shit don’t stink like everybody else’s. I’m out here in this cold, holding God’s Word in my hand, and they all snuggled together tryna pretend like they don’t see me standing right here, patting my foot, and waiting for an offering for my ministry. They got a lot of nerve, tryna igg me. I can’t stand fake-ass niggas!

The overhead lighting suddenly illuminated the well-heeled woman’s face. The woman with the Bible let out a tiny sound of surprise.
I know her! Well, I’ll be damned! I know that bitch!

Eyes narrowed, she took a few tentative steps forward. Then
she moved quicker, closing in on the couple.
Management can try to run me off if they want to…they better kiss my ass. I got me a live one right there, and I’ma get me some goddamn money!

Waiting for their car, Harlow stood outside the restaurant, cuddling next to Drake. She noticed the woman’s silhouette, and curiously lifted her head from Drake’s shoulder.

A bedraggled woman came into view. “I’m collecting donations for my ministry. Any offerings are kindly appreciated,” the scruffy woman said, wearing a smile that lacked warmth or sincerity.

“Oh, yeah?” Drake said, whipping his coat open as he reached inside his pants pocket. “What’s the name of your church, ma’am?” Drake asked, making polite small talk.

“Well, it’s my personal ministry. I’m an ordained minister, and I’m out here tryna get some funding to open a church.”

“I see,” Drake said absently as he peeled bills from a large wad.

Harlow gazed at the beggar woman as she stuffed Drake’s money inside the pocket of her grungy coat. The woman had a horrible disfigurement on the left side of her face. But there was something oddly familiar about her. Nervously, Harlow shifted her eyes away.

Instead of moving on, the woman inched closer to Harlow, and said, “You look nice and cozy bundled up in all that nice mink.” The woman’s voice was filled with hostility.

It was on the tip of Harlow’s tongue to inform the so-called minister that her coat was faux fur, but before she could get the words out, the woman spoke again. “Don’t I know you?” The woman’s voice was chilled, her words sounding like an accusation.

Harlow smiled uncertainly, and then shook her head. “No, I don’t know you.”

Through eyes filled with cunning and calculation, the woman squinted at Harlow, sizing her up from head to toe. “Yeah, I know you.” She clenched her chin, pretending to try to place Harlow’s face, and then she pointed an ash-encrusted finger at Harlow. “Hey, wait a minute. Ain’t you Jody’s child?”

Harlow gasped, but didn’t reply. She couldn’t. Hearing her mother’s name…being tied to her past…constricted her throat and held her paralysed with cold, numbing terror.
Who is this woman? And what does she know about me?

With great relief, Harlow saw the valet pull up with their black Mercedes. “Our car’s here, Drake. Let’s go.” Harlow tugged on Drake’s arm. She didn’t know this frightening woman and certainly didn’t want to know her.

“Your name’s Harlow, ain’t it?” The woman chortled. “Looks like you done pretty good for yourself.” She paused. “All things considered.”

With wide-eyed amazement, Harlow regarded the woman. A sick feeling filled her chest. She could feel the color draining from her face.

Noticing Harlow’s look of distress, Drake’s attention sharpened. “Hey, what’s this about?” he asked the shabby vagrant.

The woman kept her attention focused on Harlow. “I’m Ronica,” she stated proudly, twisting her disfigured face into a horrific facsimile of a smile. “Remember me?” Her wide grin displayed chipped and uneven, grayish-colored teeth.

As if seeing a ghost, Harlow reeled back in horror.
Oh, my God! This can’t be happening.
Ronica had died in the fire, and the dead don’t rise. But there Ronica was, about fifty pounds heavier, and wearing an ugly smirk as she looked Harlow in the eye. One side
of her face was charred and thick with scar tissue, but it was Ronica, and she was very much alive.

Harlow suddenly had trouble finding words. She closed her eyes, wishing Ronica away.

“I know you ain’t forget about me, did you, Harlow?” Ronica asked, easing forward, eyes narrowed into slits, shoulders hunched against the cold wind, one hand grasping the Bible, the other clutching together her buttonless coat.

Ronica had once been rather skinny. She was pudgy now and barely recognizable with her burned face.

“I said, I don’t know you,” Harlow snarled, turning her back. There was no law that forced her to have to admit to knowing someone from her terrible past. Pulling Drake along, Harlow took a few steps toward the waiting car.

Ronica hobbled closely behind Harlow, her damaged face twisted in contempt. “Oh, you don’t know me now, huh? But I sure do know you.” Ronica’s eyes subtly shifted to Drake and back to Harlow. “And I remember your dead baby, too. I had to wrestle that thing out your arms…after you had that abortion. ’Member that? You was rocking and singing a lullaby to a corpse.”

Harlow froze, momentarily paralyzed. She released her grasp on Drake’s sleeve as her knees began to buckle. She managed to straighten up, and shakily progressed toward the car.

Waddling as quickly as the burned soles of her feet allowed, Ronica caught up to Harlow. She pinched the sleeve of Harlow’s coat. “Don’t run from the truth. I’m holding God’s Word! Atone for your sins.” With one charred hand, she maintained a grip on Harlow, and with the other she held up the Bible, raising it toward the dark and mournful sky. “I ask You to have mercy on this selfish and wicked girl, Dear Lord.” Ronica swayed from side to side as if imbued with the spirit of the Holy Ghost.

Drake stepped forward. “Are you crazy? Take your hands off her.”

Harlow tugged away from Ronica and hung onto Drake. “Get me out of here!” Her voice came in the high-pitched tone of a frightened child.

Drake put a protective arm around Harlow. “Take your hustle somewhere else,” he hissed between clenched teeth.

But Ronica would not be deterred. “You got a lot of nerve, tryna snub me, Harlow. I’m the one that helped you while your momma was getting high inside her bedroom. I got rid of that dead baby for you.” She paused, letting her words sink in as she eyed Harlow resentfully. “Yup, I sure did take care of that problem. And this is the thanks I get? If it hadn’t been for me, you probably woulda been sittin’ there rockin’ that dead thing ’til it got funky and turned rotten.”

Rattled by that horrific memory, Harlow grimaced and covered her mouth. She could feel the vibration of the scream that was trapped in her throat.

Satisfied with Harlow’s reaction, Ronica grinned manically, and then shuffled off into the gloom of the night.

“Baby,” Drake said. “Are you okay?” With concern in his eyes, he reached for Harlow and pulled her into his arms.

The sound that Harlow finally emitted was a low, guttural cry. She wrenched free from Drake, shoved him aside, and then broke into a full run.

I
mpulsively, Harlow fled without a plan or any particular destination. Sprinting in heels on ice-encrusted pavement was absurd and challenging. Though she was slipping and sliding, her instincts told her to keep moving, to run from her sordid past. But it didn’t take long for Drake to catch up with her. Crazed and irrational, she fought Drake like he was an attacker in the night. Snarling and growling like something wild, she kicked at him, swung her arms, and tried to claw him with her fingernails.

“Stop it, Harlow. What’s wrong with you?” Having no choice, Drake jerked Harlow roughly, and then subdued her with a bear hug from behind. But Harlow still struggled, screaming like she was being viciously maimed.

Mouth stretched wide, she released ear-piercing screams that she’d bottled up inside for most of her life. “Let go of me!” she screamed in the way she’d wanted to scream when she was a little girl who was forced to keep her mouth shut while being violated.

“Harlow, it’s gonna be alright. Calm down, baby,” Drake cajoled.

“Don’t touch me!” She struggled savagely, delivering back-kicks, and wielding blows with balled fists held over her head.

She screamed, releasing the rage that had been reduced to a squeaky whimper when Ronica took her baby away. She screamed and screamed against the betrayal of a mother who should have protected her but had instead rented out her tiny body like it was a seedy hotel room.

Taking notice of the tussling pair, motorists began slowing down. “People are looking at us, baby,” Drake whispered in a calm tone.

“I don’t care!” she shrieked, her face sculpted in fury. “Get the hell off of me! Leave me alone!” Her next scream was like a siren, loud and long, but Drake’s steely embrace tightened.

He whispered directly in her ear. “You’re gonna get me locked up tonight. If that’s what you want, so be it, but I’m not letting you go.”

Harlow’s gut-wrenching screams began to soften into in-consolable sobs. Depleted, her body sagged, and then she collapsed to her knees. Holding her tight, Drake dropped with her, his body cushioning her fall.

On the cold concrete, Drake cradled Harlow. “Baby, what’s this all about? Who was that woman?”

“She was…” Harlow didn’t finish the sentence. She sniffled and wiped tears from her face. “My life was so fucked up, Drake. Horrible things happened to me,” she said weakly.

“Did you get hurt when you were in foster care?”

“No,” she said in squeaky whimper. Of course Drake would assume that anything awful that happened to her would have been done while in the custody of virtual strangers. But that wasn’t the case. An image of Jody formed in her mind and tears streamed down her face.

“Baby, come on. Get up. We can talk about this in the hotel.” Drake moved her out of his arms and stood. He reached for her hand, and pulled her to her feet.

“We’re gonna get through this. I’m your man, Harlow. I love you and I’m going to protect you.” His face became hard. “Nobody’s ever gonna hurt you again.”