True to the Game I, Page 2

  Wondering if he should drop her ass too, he pointed the Uzi straight at her head and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. He tried the shit again. The clip was empty. The thought went through him, Yeah, dis is her lucky day. He threw the gun on the floor of the caddy and sped away.

  Gena sat there shaken and confused. She’d never had a gun pointed at her before. She just knew her beauty saved her. Little did the simpleton know, she had almost become a statistic. Her heart was pounding like drops of hail on a windowpane. Talking her hands into obedience, she wrapped her shaky fingers about the steering wheel and instructed her right foot to come back to life and ease up on the brake, moving slowly toward the exit. She carefully looked both ways before entering onto Fifty-second Street. She drove in silence, creeping down the street, not even listening to the radio.

  She couldn’t believe what had just happened, and she kept checking the rearview mirror to see if anyone was behind her. Man, her mind was playing tricks on her. The burgundy Cadillac was so clear in her mind and the license plate tag, Mafia-23, was even clearer.

  Reaching her favorite parking spot between the two trees in front of her door, she noticed Jamal’s—her boyfriend—Pathfinder parked down the street. She looked close and couldn’t believe it. Jamal was sleeping in his jeep outside her door!

  She walked over to the jeep and knocked on the glass window. Jamal jumped out of what looked like a very uncomfortable sleeping position.

  “Where the fuck you been?”

  Gena just looked at him, as if she didn’t know what he was talking about.

  “I spent the night over Sahirah’s, Jamal.”

  “Oh, that gold-diggin’ bitch with the matching hat and shovel?” Climbing out of the jeep, he continued, “I thought I told you I didn’t want you hanging around her!”

  “I know what you told me, Jamal, but this is a free country and I can do what I . . . ” The words were lost as her body made its way to the pavement with the force of Jamal’s backhand. Then he picked her up and began his accusations.

  “I know you been with another man, bitch. Ain’t no way you was sleeping with Sahirah unless you and Sahirah is fucking each other. Shit, I been out this motherfucker all night, waiting for you!”

  The tears had already begun. “I wasn’t with nobody.”

  “You’re a motherfucking liar! Why you got to lie?” The question was stressed with another pop upside her head, causing her to spin around and fall into some bushes.

  Deciding it was best to remain in contact with the earth, she pleaded with him, “Jamal, I wasn’t doin’ nothing.” She looked up and saw Ms. Gladys looking out her third floor window, watching everything. Rising to face him, she said, “Jamal, I’m sorry. I won’t go out with her anymore.”

  “Where the fuck did you go?”

  “I didn’t go nowhere.” Slap was the sound that could be heard as he hit her again.

  “Gena, don’t make me kill you out this motherfucker. Where you been? I said where the fuck you been all night long?”

  Too scared to say she had gone to a party in Harlem, she just looked at him.

  “I’m getting tired of your shit.”

  “Jamal, I don’t want to fight with you. I’m hungry, and I’m tired.”

  “That’s because your trick ass was out in the street all night.”

  The accusations gathered storm clouds to her eyes. “I’m not no trick, Jamal.”

  Focusing directly on his right eye, she realized at that moment any feeling she had for him was gone and she was ready to kick him in his nuts and run for safety, as usual. The nigga was crazy; it was in his eyes. If he walked away and she never saw him again, it would make no difference to her.

  Jamal had been in her life now for a year and a half. He was possessive, controlling, and basically a nuisance. She’d met him down in North Philly on Twenty-second and Ridge in a pool hall. He was real sweet and nice in the beginning—nothing like now. The day they met was dreary and it had begun to rain. He offered her a ride home. He asked her if she would like to get something to eat. She said yes. Gena didn’t miss no free meals.

  Next day, he was at her door.

  “Hi! What are you doing here?” She was dressed in only a towel and shower cap.

  “Get dressed. I’m taking you shopping.”

  They visited every boutique and shoe store that came to his mind. This all made Gena very happy. What luck, she thought. They reached her apartment and, indeed, he was more than welcome to come in. Only way she could get all her bags in the house, anyway. Once she was finished poring over her purchases, hardly remembering buying any of it, and putting everything away, she realized she was happier at that moment than she’d ever been, but didn’t know why.

  Jamal had rolled a joint, which he referred to as a spliff for the two of them and lit it as she collapsed onto the sofa. “I’m so tired. Jamal, why’d you take me shopping and buy all this stuff for me?” She really looked confused about the whole thing; the weed was taking effect. “I mean, you don’t even know me.”

  “That’s okay. You’re gonna let me get to know you, right?”

  “Right.” Anything you say, she thought, looking totally satisfied at her diminished closet space. She passed the spliff back to Jamal after choking half to death and decided she had enough. For no reason, she jumped up and shut the mini blinds. Jamal realized she’d become paranoid and he became determined that he wouldn’t miss his chance before she was too far gone. Through a short tirade, he tried to chill her out and before she even knew what happened, they were on the floor kissing, Jamal pulling at her clothes.

  “What are you doing?” She knew she should stop him. “Don’t you think we should get to know each other? Don’t you think you should wear a condom? We don’t really know each other all that well.” He silenced her with a kiss and she knew her struggles were in vain; before she knew it, he was inside her.

  “Doesn’t it feel good?” he whispered. She could only think, You’re fucking a stranger, and you need to get him off of you. But for fear that he would get mad and take back all he’d bought her, she got in the groove and, before it was all over, he was asking her, “Who’s pussy is this?” And she answered, “Yours.” After dinner, Jamal dropped her off. For the third time, she looked over her new clothes, then took a bath and slipped into one of her new nightgowns. She no sooner sat down to begin calculating the total of the price tags when the phone rang.

  “Hello?”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Nothing. I just finished taking a bath and I’m wearing the Victoria’s Secret nightgown you bought me.”

  “Gena, I can’t sleep.”

  “Why? What’s the matter?”

  “Because I can’t. I’m coming to get you.”

  “When? Are you joking me?”

  “No. I’m on my way.” Before she could protest, Gena heard the dial tone.

  Hmm. Can’t sleep without me, she mused. My shot is the bomb.

  In twenty minutes Jamal was ringing her bell. She was dressed, packed, and ready to go. Thereafter, Jamal refused to sleep without her. He wanted her there morning, noon, and night. He took her to school and picked her up. It got to the point where, if she went to the bathroom, he was there, sitting on the edge of the tub. Watching her. My, how things changed. Now, he was beating on her in the middle of Chancellor Street. Gena wiped the tears from her eyes as Jamal got into his jeep, belittling and demeaning her verbally. Looking at her hands, she saw blood from where she fell in the bushes. She noted the neighbors as she walked to the steps of her house, watching them all standing on their porches and peeping out of windows. “Nosey motherfuckers. And didn’t nobody help.” Inside her apartment, Gena went straight to her mirror. She looked horrible, her face was red, her head was pounding, and she was hungry. Her pale skin, all sore and scratched, throbbed an achy pain and the tears returned. She had to break away from Jamal.

  It was like he owned her. She knew it too, but what could she do about it?
How could she break away from him? Without him, she had nothing. With him, she was miserable with money. She needed a plan. On the one hand, she knew that if she tried to stop seeing Jamal it might cause her more harm than good. On the other hand, eighteen-year-old Gena wanted to have some fun.

  Entering her bedroom and turning on the television, she laid down on her bed. So tired, she was falling asleep when she heard the news bulletin. An anchorwoman was standing at the very restaurant she had just left. Behind her sat a navy blue swiss cheese MPV in the parking lot. Three people had died at the restaurant on Fifty-second Street, one was listed in critical condition. If not for an empty clip, she’d have been one of those statistics.

  Gena offered a prayer to God, thanking him for his many blessings.

  RECOVERY

  Waking from a peaceful sleep, Gena immediately dialed her neighbor’s phone.

  “Hi, Markita.”

  “Hey, baby, I heard what happened. You all right?’’

  “I’ve felt better.”

  “I been calling you and calling you all damn day.”

  “I was sleep. You got anything over there to eat?”

  “Girl, please. You know it’s the first of the month. You want some dinner?”

  “Is it dinnertime?”

  “It’s 6:30 PM Gena, you slept all day.”

  Markita brought Gena pork chops smothered in gravy, mashed potatoes, and cabbage.

  “Damn, Kita, you know I don’t fuck with no swine. Why you bring me this? You might as well brought me a plate of shit.”

  “I can take that food home, sister. You don’t have to eat it.” Gena sat there hungry as hell, looking at the food as if it were something a diseased yak left behind. Her mind was telling her one thing, but her stomach had a more urgent message. After a very short debate, her stomach won, and she ate the potatoes and cabbage after removing the pork from the plate. Markita had to tell her to slow down.

  “Gena, I want to talk to you about that man of yours, honey. If it’s one thing that I do know, if he beat you up once, he’ll do it again. Gena, you don’t need no man like that in your life. You are young and pretty and you could do better for yourself.”

  Gena listened while she finished eating her food. Markita would have to go, ’cause she wasn’t about to listen to some shit she already knew. Suddenly, there was a knock at the door.

  “Damn, what if that’s your loony-tune-ass man?”

  Gena headed for the door. “You got my back, right?”

  She relaxed when she peeked out the peephole and saw who it was. “What’s up?” Gena said, opening the door for her cousin Gary.

  “What’s up? Damn, what happened to your face?” He shook his head in disbelief already knowing Jamal had hit her again.

  She told him the story, waiting to hear Gary say he was gonna go hunt his ass down and fuck him up for her. Instead, he reminded her that he had warned her about him when she first started seeing him. He also reminded her that the boy was large.

  Gary didn’t know what to do. He wasn’t trying to fuck with Jamal like that.

  “Man, just stay the fuck away from him.” As an afterthought, he asked, “You want me to tell Gah Git?” Gena thought of her grandmother, Gah Git, who raised her since she was four, when her mother died. It was Gary, Gena, Bria, and Brianna who all came up together, all first cousins, all grandchildren. Bria and Brianna were two years younger than she was and Gary was a year older. The years were hard and rough on her grandmother, who had raised four boys and three girls, then at one point had three of her children and their children, a total of twelve, in a three-bedroom project unit. So, she fussed a lot and prayed a lot. But her propensity for sending her grandchildren to the store night and day because she “Gotta Git” this and “Gotta Git” that earned her the nickname “Gotta Git,” which progressed naturally into “Gah Git,” their grandmother.

  “Tell Gah Git? Hell no, don’t tell her. Please, whatever you do, don’t tell nobody in the family ’cause they’ll run right back to Gah Git and tell her.”

  “Don’t worry, Gena. Shit gonna be all right.” Handing her a couple hundred dollars before he left, he advised her, “Just stay away from Jamal. You hear me?”

  Markita went outside on the porch while Gena listened to her answering machine.

  Hollering outside, Gena announced, “He called!”

  “Who called?”

  “This guy I met last night.”

  “See, that’s why you got your ass kicked.”

  “Shut up before I don’t let you catch this.” Since she started fucking around with Jamal, Gena had developed a habit. She’d reached the porch again and began rolling a spliff.

  “Okay, but that’s still why you got your ass kicked.”

  The sun went down, but the sky was still orange. Markita and Gena sat out on that porch and smoked the spliff, talking about Jamal and the ass kicking he gave her.

  “Was the neighbors looking?”

  “Girl, the Vietnamese people were watching. Everybody was rooting for you though, especially when he knocked you into the bushes. Shoot, Tonya said she thought you was gonna kick him and run, like before. Girl, that was some funny shit, the last time y’all was out here.” Gena and Markita sat there laughing and telling jokes about Jamal. Meanwhile, everybody who walked by them asked Gena with intense sincerity whether she was all right or okay.

  Markita just laughed at her. “I told you all these nosey motherfuckers got out their beds this morning to watch you and tune time out this motherfucker.”

  Gena went inside to answer the phone.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello. Is Gena there?”

  Not recognizing the voice, she asked, “Who’s calling?”

  “This is Quadir.”

  Gena beamed. “This is she.”

  “Why didn’t you call me back? I left a message on your machine.”

  “I’m sorry. I was just about to. So, what did you do today?”

  “I slept all day long. You were the first thing on my mind when I woke up.”

  “You say the sweetest things. Or do you just say that to all the girls?” she prompted.

  “No, baby doll. You’re the first girl I woke up thinking about.”

  Oh, she thought, smiling from ear to ear.

  Quadir continued, “So, what’s up with you for the night?”

  “Nothing. I’m just gonna take a nice, hot bath and climb into bed.”

  “I thought we were going to Atlantic City.” While Gena was trying to come up with an answer, not remembering anything mentioned about A.C. last night, Markita came running into the bedroom like a wildcat with its tail on fire.

  “Gena!! Jamal just pulled up!”

  “Did you lock the door?”

  “Yeah.”

  Quadir asked her, “Who are you talking to?”

  “Oh, my neighbor. She fed me dinner tonight.”

  “I would have fed you.”

  “Oh, you’re so sweet, but I got to go now.”

  “I’ll see you in a few.”

  “You don’t know where I live.”

  “Yes, I do. Sahirah is here. We’re on our way over there.” Then he hung up the phone.

  Chickens couldn’t have made more feathers fly. Gena looked from the phone to the door. The phone had a dial tone and the doorbell was ringing. “I am not going out there, Markita!”

  Her friend’s mind searched for solutions. “Hide in the bed or something. I’ll answer the door.”

  She headed for the front door as Gena jumped in the bed and pulled up the covers. “Motherfucker ain’t gonna hit me,” Markita swore as she picked up the Ginsu knife from the counter on her way.

  “Who is it?” Markita stood ready with her trusty Ginsu.

  “You know who it is. You seen me pullin’ the fuck up when you ran in the house and shut the door.”

  “Don’t be getting smart, okay?”

  Ignoring her admonishment, he demanded to know, “Where’s Gena?”
/>   “She’s sleeping.”

  “Well, I want to see her.”

  “She don’t want to see you, and you lucky I wasn’t home this morning ’cause I’da came outside and kicked your ass, Mr. Big Man wanna beat on women.” Kita was looking out the window at him now.

  “Here. Give her these.”

  Kita looked at the boxes he had in his hands. “Leave them on the porch.”

  Kita waited a few minutes and when Jamal was gone, she opened the door and picked up the five boxes and took them into the house. In each, Gena found twelve long-stemmed roses, each box containing a different color. Red roses, pink roses, yellow roses, white roses, and white roses with pink edges.

  “What the hell this motherfucker buy all these flowers for?”

  “I don’t know but you can give me some of them flowers, if you don’t want them,” she said, munching on a cracker.

  “You can have them.”

  “Gena, that nigga done brought all these flowers over here feeling guilty. That’s how women beaters are. They always say sorry. Shit, don’t mean nothing and neither do these flowers.”

  “You want them you can have them.”

  Leaving the roses in their boxes, she walked away from them. Thinking about Quadir, she felt her power return.