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lf-cold eggs into his mouth. Paris placed the scraped slices on a napkin, then offered them meekly.
“Goddammit!” William flicked his wrist, knocking the toast from her hands. “What you tryin’ to do? Poison me? You make me sick! Don’t know your titties from your toenails and can’t cook worth a damn!”
It’s Tuesday, Paris thought, and squatted down to scoop up the scorched slices of bread. It’s Tuesday. “I’m sorry, William. I’m—”
“You goddamn right, you sorry! If your trifling ass wasn’t all the time downstairs finger-painting like some idiot, you could make sure there was food in the house! Listen here.” William breathed. “When I get back tonight, I wants something decent to eat, so you best get your ass out there and make some groceries ’cause tonight I wants you to call my mama and invite her and Ralphie and Terri over for dinner. I wants you,” he went on, “to fix us a few steaks, some taters, and one of them big ole tossed salads Terri always likes. And then I wants you to bake me and my mama a German chocolate cake.”
Forgetting her fear, Paris stood. “William,” her words came out in a hot rush. “Today is Tuesday. My paintings are going on sale at Jerel’s gallery at noon and I’ll be gone all day. How about we take Mama and them out to dinner tomorrow night, huh? We could go to that rib place down on Sutter that Ralphie likes so much. Terri could get her a salad there, too—”
William’s fist hit the counter so hard the dishes rattled in the drain. “I didn’t say shit about tomorrow, so what fuckin’ part of tonight didn’t you understand?” He moved in on her. “Know what, Parrot? Make that two chocolate cakes and some nana puddin’, too.”
What? Paris wanted to scream. Fuck you and your mama! Instead she scampered out of the kitchen without another word. Anything she said at this point would only send him soaring into pisstivity, and that was exactly what William was looking for.
Any excuse to kick her ass.
As she tucked her hair under a clear plastic cap and stepped into the shower, Paris bit down on the insides of her cheeks until it hurt. William ought to bake his own mama a damn cake. She lathered her body and carefully washed her privates with a soft loofah sponge, wincing as the soap swirled between her legs.
Paris was country, but she wasn’t stupid or without talent. Thanks to Jerel Morrison, owner of the Village Art Express, she’d finally taken her painting to a new level. After falling in love with samples of her artwork that had been displayed at a local college, Jerel had offered to feature ten of her selections in his Fifth Street gallery, and the public bidding was scheduled to begin today. Paris knew how important it was to make a good impression on her prospective customers, and a fresh manicure, a bumping hairstyle, and the perfect outfit were all mandatory indulgences.
She’d taken the day off from her job as an accountant with Jackson Hewitt to have enough time to prepare herself. Now she’d barely have time to get through her morning facial before hurrying to Mozelle’s for her weekly hair treatment. If she had any chance of fitting everything in, she’d have to hit the grocery store last, and then come back home to get dressed for the showing.
Paris replaced the sponge on its hook and frowned. Goddamn nana puddin’. And he wanted the pudding made from scratch, too. Instant from the box just wouldn’t do. She stood under the spigot and rinsed her light brown skin. There was no way she could get to Pathmark and still make the showing on time. If there was any hope of getting to the gallery before her customers arrived she’d have to shop at the supermarket right next to the beauty parlor and have the groceries delivered to the house.
She’d have to shop at RICHARD’S.
Stanley Summers zipped the fly of his starched brown uniform, and buttoned his shirt all the way to the top. After pulling on his heavily scuffed dark-brown brogans, he stepped back to admire himself in the splotchy mirror that hung over the back of the employee lounge’s door.
Hah! he thought happily, his broad grin revealing twisted stumps of decaying teeth. I done pass my probationary period and dey done gived me my uniform jes lak dey promise!
Stanley carried nearly three hundred pounds of hard-earned muscle and his frame was easily the width of two average-sized men. A thick scar ran along the line of his right jaw; a thinner scar bisected his bottom lip and crawled all the way down to the mound of his Adam’s apple.
He rubbed his meaty hands across his chest and felt the embroidered RICHARD’S patch on the left, and his own name stitched in script on the right. Grinning crazily at his reflection, Stanley was pleased. Not only had they given him an extra pair of slacks, they’d even stenciled his name and social security number inside each waistband.
This would be Stanley’s first experience working inside of a building instead of outside in the elements. His cocoa-colored uniform made him feel like a security guard—but without the gun. As big as he was, guns scared Stanley shitless but he could get loose with a knife.
Stanley’s good friend Eddie Johns had finally talked the manager of the produce department at RICHARD’S Supermarket into giving him a job. For five months, Stanley had wandered the 149th Street subway station begging passersby for spare change. Ruddy complexioned and obviously able-bodied, the pedestrians had little sympathy for him and he scarcely collected enough money to fill his gut.
Prior to falling down on his luck, Stanley had worked for a family-owned scrap metal company. Twelve months a year he hauled and stacked large, heavy pieces of metal, and during the summer, he also kept the yard swept clean. For seven years, Stanley sweated for the Lambert family, lifting and dragging the cumbersome iron and metal sheets to the commercial ovens to be melted down and sold for scrap. He’d been a good worker, too, always polite, never late, and in seven whole years, he had never missed a single day of work.
But did the Lamberts appreciate him? Nooo, Stanley thought, with a hint of residual anger clouding his simple features. Nooo, they were mean and ungrateful. A bunch of hood-wearing crackers who had treated him like so much black shit.
It had taken all five of the Lambert brothers to knock Stanley down. They’d swung two by fours and iron pipes at his face and head, leaving him semi-conscious. Those honkies had even grabbed jagged pieces of metal and pulled down his pants to slash at his privates. The oldest Stanley brother had tried to castrate him. He got three of his teeth kicked out for his trouble.
Ain’t that jes’ lak a honkie? Stanley thought. Tryin’ to take ever’thang away from a black man, even his dick? And they din’ even wanna gimme my lass’ week’s pay!
All because he had a small problem. Not even a really big one. Just a leetlil’ one. Shit. Stanley chuckled. I cain’t hep it if I got that smell, the one that makes bitches wanna pull off dey panties and go straight to da’ bone! Mistah Lambert shoulda unnerstan’ cause he gived off that same odor ‘round that twenny-two-year-old stock gal I catched him fuckin’ in the storage room!
“I oughtta let them kill your retarded ass!” Tyrone Lambert had hissed as he and his younger brother took turns pulling his five sons off of Stanley.
Retarded? Stanley had thought as hot blood filled his mouth and agony exploded in his busted scrotum. Who da fuck he callin’ retarded?
“You better disappear, Pervert! Dis-a-fucking-pear, or I swear they’re gonna find one big, black, dead nigger in this alley tonight!”
The memory of the beating threatened to roast Stanley from the inside out. It weren’t even my fault! he whined to himself. Mr. Lambert’s niece was the pervert, not me! They shoulda’ kept her outta my face! All the time flouncing by me in those lil’ tiny skirts wit her ass hangin’ out ever’whare, fat white titties jigglin’ in those halter-tops! I din’ bother none wit her; it was she who was riling me! Anyways, she old enuf ta’ know what she want. She see a man what’s big ever’whare, and likes what she see. Like most wimmens, she go for it! Shit, fo’teen is old enuf to lick and to split!
Slow but not stupid, Stanley had immediately split the scrap metal business. He spent the next six months sleeping at the Y and panhandling on the streets until Eddie was able to hook him up with a job in the produce section at RICHARD’S.
Stanley checked himself in the mirror one last time. He posed with his hands in his pockets, then at his sides, and then again in his pockets.
