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“You black and ugly too then!” Chanel hollered. “Look in the mirror, Ma! We’re twins!”
That remark stopped Bacardi dead in her tracks. Her? Ugly? In her day she had her choice of the biggest ballers in Brooklyn. Everyone lusted after Bernice. And she was hardly black. In Bacardi’s eyes she was ‘brown-skinned’—imaginary shades lighter than her daughter.
Bacardi let out an egotistical snicker. “Chanel, I’m gonna keep it one-hundred wit’ you ’cause you too stupid to see the truth wit’ your own eyes. I don’t know where you came from. I think you got switched at birth like that other li’l black child on the news. You don’t look like me, and you damn sure don’t look like your father. There’s some other family out there missing a troll ’cause my pussy only pushes out dime pieces and that, you’re not!”
“My black is beautiful, Bacardi, and if you don’t think so then your mind is still stuck on a plantation! You Uncle Tom turd!” Chanel had been doing her homework. She was ready.
When Bacardi heard “Uncle Tom,” she finally lost it. Her strong fists beat mercilessly across Chanel’s arms, head, and back. The punches were solid, quick, and unforgiving. She pulled globs of hair from her daughter’s head—just ripped out bundles of hair from the roots. Chanel refused to cry out and got some slaps and punches in too.
“Eat my Twinkie again, bitch!” Bacardi continued to yell as she wailed on her third-born. She needed to make this about the Twinkie, then skin color.
Chanel broke free and ran into the kitchen with Bacardi right on her heels. A butter knife was the only weapon she could grab. She missed the serrated steak knife by an inch.
Chanel wildly swung the knife at her mother as Bacardi blocked each blow with her forearms. The dull butter knife only left scratches and long welts, but the message was sent. Chanel was no longer easy prey.
A drunken Butch was able to pull the two apart. But things were growing so ugly in the Brown household, Chanel thought there were only two ways for her to escape it—run away or commit suicide.
Chapter Eight
It was late March and the weather was looking warm and breezy. The trees in the neighborhood were gradually going from a mess of unruly branches to greenery dotted with buds. It was a sunlit morning, and the sky held a soft blue glow. There were flowers blossoming, and the days were becoming longer because of daylight savings. Everyone welcomed the fresh new season—a needed change from a cold and brutal winter.
Bacardi, Charlie, and Claire were all dressed in their finest attire. It was an important day for them. They had a court date to appear in front of a judge to find out their fate. With the help of one of the best criminal attorneys in Brooklyn, all three ladies felt optimistic about the outcome. With God’s help, they were able to afford the lawyer fee, and since January, criminal attorney Wendell Gilliam put in work to either have their charges dismissed or reduced to disorderly conduct.
For once, Bacardi was sober and looked decent in her long skirt and blouse. She stood by the door and shouted, “C’mon, let’s fuckin’ go! It’s getting late and our cab is waiting outside.”
Charlie and Claire rushed from their bedrooms looking like schoolgirls. Each girl wore a pastel dress and looked like the epitome of innocent and educated. They hurried downstairs and piled into the idling cab.
All three ladies were nervous. They met their attorney at the courthouse to go over today’s proceedings. Wendell Gilliam stood in front of his clients dressed sharply in a dark blue Brooks Brothers suit. His black skin was smooth and flawless, and he had salt-and-pepper hair with a matching goatee. He was a handsome and distinguished black man in his late forties, witty and charismatic. Bacardi found him to be perfect. In fact, she wanted to fuck the man if he would have her—Claire too. But Wendell made it crystal clear that he was a happily mar
ried man and he was only about business with his clients.
The group stood at the steps of the courthouse. Before entering, Bacardi uttered to everyone, “Let us pray first.”
It took everyone by surprise. Pray? They never went to church or spoke of or practiced any religion. But now Bacardi wanted to say a small prayer before they went before the judge. Bacardi gathered everyone closer, and they held hands in a small circle and lowered their heads.
Bacardi began with, “Dear Lord, we pray to you today to help us with this case. We are good people, we’ve done no wrong, and we pray you end this injustice against my family, and I’ll owe you one, dear Lord. Amen.”
It was a tacky prayer, but Bacardi felt proud and confident about it. She was sober and ready to get this over with. Together with her daughters, she waltzed into the courtroom with her head held high and feeling like she was ready for anything.
Two hours later, Bacardi emerged from the courtroom ecstatic. The charges against Charlie and Claire were dropped. Keisha didn’t testify. Bacardi had to plead no contest and was sentenced to six months of probation. If she didn’t get into any trouble, then the case would be fully closed. Their lawyer did an exceptional job. It had been a long two months. Finally, everyone could breathe again.
Bacardi, beaming with joy, exclaimed, “I need to get high, high, and high! And thank you, God!”
Tonight, they planned on celebrating—nothing too crazy, just a few drinks and some weed. Bacardi needed to remind herself that she was on probation for six months.
***
“Chanel, wake up. Wake up,” Mecca said gently, nudging Chanel in her side and trying to wake her friend up as she slept in her comfortable bed.
Chanel was sound asleep and looked very peaceful.
“C’mon, Chanel, get up. It’s getting late,” continued Mecca.
Chanel finally opened her eyes to see Mecca looking down at her. She rose up and uttered, “Oh shit, what time is it?”
“It’s almost eight.”
“At night?”
