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  Sticks quickly put his 150E Class in drive and made his way to the bus stop where Daisy was. He opened the passenger-side door from inside the car and waited for her to get in.

  “I sure am glad to see you. You just don’t know, my feet is killing me.”

  Fuck your feet—I got problems, Sticks thought to himself, and he did; big, big, problems.

  “You gonna rub them for me?”

  Is this bitch serious? he thought to himself, looking at her, pretending to wear a smile. But he dare not say it. “Of course, baby, of course. You know I got you, Dais. Anything you need, you just let me know.”

  Really, I ain’t heard no nigga talk like him in all my life. Anything I need, just let him know. “Well, right now, all I need is a hot bath, something to eat, and my feet rubbed down.”

  “Baby, come on, I’m gonna get you something to eat and we going to the Inn of the Dove and you can take a hot bath in one of them Jacuzzis and I’ll rub on your feet.”

  “For real, you gonna do all that?”

  “Yup, but I need you to do something for me,” he said as he thought of the unfortunate situation he had somehow managed to get himself into, all because of Nard’s dumb ass. He should’ve let them motherfuckers have the fucking coke, what the fuck? Simon Shuller could count that shit up as a loss. And he really felt that serious about it. Truth was, he was supposed to be there that night looking out. Had he been there, on his job, Jeremy and Lance would never have made it through the bathroom window, Poncho wouldn’t be dead, and Nard wouldn’t need no alibi. And Simon Shuller wouldn’t be telling him to fix the problem or else.

  “So, what you need me to do.”

  “Well, it’s like this, my man, he done got caught up in a little situation, you feel me. And right now, we got to help him out.”

  “Help him out, how?”

  “Well, he needs someone to say that he was with them, that you saw him at the bar and he was in there with you. I just need you to tell an investigator for me that he was at the bar in the Honey Dipper and you remember him there all night. I’ll pay you one thousand dollars if you can do that for me.”

  “One thousand dollars?” Daisy screeched.

  “Make it two,” said Sticks.

  “Two thousand dollars? That’s a lot of money, Sticks.”

  “Yeah, I know, I really need you to do that for me, though.”

  Not seeing the forest for the trees, Daisy agreed. She needed the money, bad. Two thousand dollars—she barely made that in a month working for Calvin at the Honey Dipper. All that dancing and everything else she had to do, you would think she was making good money. But she wasn’t. Calvin was too greedy and too narcissistic. He thought he was the main man on top of the pimp and ho game. And truth be told, he was. He had them girls right where he wanted them, bent over. The funny thing was, he never touched the girls that worked in the club. He’d sometimes call them into his office individually and look them over as they stood naked in front of him. Everybody had to pass his “better be sweet” smell test. If he fingered you and you wasn’t smelling right, he’d send you over to Dr. Nelson’s office. But, no, no, no, he never touched them with his penis. Well, actually, every now and then he might be in the spirit of desiring sexual pleasure, but for the most part, his penis was a little too good for a whore to even suck on. Seriously, to him, his penis was special, so special that he wasn’t passing his wiener around. And when he thought about it, he didn’t understand how men slept around with a bunch of women. No, that just wasn’t his style and yes, he was a pimp or at least he thought so. No, in his crazy mind, his job was to merely sit back and watch his girls get fucked and then fuck them out their money; that was Calvin Stringer.

  The next morning, after a night of sexual bliss, Sticks and Daisy left the Inn of the Dove. Sticks promised her that the investigator would be calling her that day, and after she spoke to him, she’d be two thousand dollars richer. Daisy couldn’t wait. She had plans, big plans for that extra two grand.

  “Momma, come on, I need you to put on one of your overcoats,” said Daisy as she rushed around the apartment trying to make it spiffy.

  “What I want an overcoat for?”

  “Because, Momma, I got this investigator man coming here and I don’t want your titties hanging all out, come on. I need you to put something on.”

  “You don’t need to worry about my titties hanging nowhere. You need to worry about yours. And an investigator; what you got an investigator coming in here for?”

  “Momma, please, why you asking me so many questions?”

  “ ’Cause, you don’t know what you doing. You just so fast, that’s what’s wrong with you now.”

  No she’s not, no she’s not getting ready to start with me about how I make my money.

  “Messing with all these crazy men, and you talking to private investigators. It ain’t nothing but trouble. You need to get your life together, Daisy Mae. You need Jesus. Jesus saves, did you know that?”

  “Yes, you’ve told me before.”

  “Well, you need to let him save you. And what you got an investigator for? You looking for a missing person or something?”

  “No, Momma, I’m helping out a friend. It’s just a favor, that’s all.”

  “Favor, favor, ain’t no helping here if I got to talk to no investigator. What kind of mess you done got into now.”

  “Nothing.”

  “Well, then don’t do it. Don’t say nothing to no investigator without getting yourself a lawyer first. They got commercials now. I think you better call ’em.”

  “Momma, I don’t need no lawyer, I ain’t in no trouble. Come on, put this robe on, please.”

  “Mmm-hmm, I don’t want to. I want to go in my room. I don’t want no investigator looking at me. Next thing you know I’ll be some kind of suspect and all messed up. No, sir, I’ll go in my room and close my door.”

  Daisy’s mother stood up but looked as if she was about to fall back down. Daisy grabbed her right arm, holding her up.

  “You okay?” she asked.

  “Okay, as okay can get, but I still don’t want you getting in no trouble.”

  “Momma, I ain’t getting in no trouble, please don’t worry about me. Did you take your medication?”

  “Yeah, but I been feeling a little funny. You know, just feel like I’m out of myself, like my body’s over there and I’m somewhere over here looking for it. And my foot’s been sleeping all day. I tried to shake it, but it still got them pins and needle feeling in it.”

  “Don’t worry, when I’m done with the investigator, I’ll come in and rub you down.”

  “Yeah, you good at them massages. At least you good for something. Now, that you can do,” said Daisy’s mother as Daisy helped her sit on the edge of the bed. “You just be careful, Daisy. Just be careful, baby.”

  “I will, Momma, I will.”

  Just then the buzzer to the downstairs intercom rang. Daisy closed the door behind her mother, spoke into the intercom, and buzzed in the investigator. To her surprise it was all quite simple. The investigator simply showed her a photo of Nard and asked was she sure he was in the bar with her. She answered yes, gave him a simple time frame, and signed a witness statement. That was it. After he left, she paged Sticks, and sure enough, within twenty minutes he was downstairs sitting in front of her building in his green E Class. He counted out two thousand dollars, handed it to her, and told her he’d call her later. Daisy couldn’t believe it. It was like somebody else had been blessed and passed it on to her.

  She thanked Sticks and hurried back upstairs. She opened the apartment door.

  “Momma, it’s me,” she yelled out and then went into her room. She closed the door and counted out her money again. Boy oh boy, the sun sure will come out tomorrow. With two thousand dollars in her pocket you could bet your bottom dollar and hers. Daisy sat there making a mental list of all the things she could do. It didn’t dawn on her that her mother hadn’t responded. Daisy was too preoccupied w
ith all that her small fortune would be doing for her—hair, nails, clothes, maybe even a new microwave and a TV for her room. Two thousand dollars was just so much money and she needed it so bad right now. It really was a blessing.

  “Momma, guess what?” said Daisy as she made her way down the hall. “I’m gonna get you something special, Momma. You hear me?” she asked as she flung open her mother’s bedroom door.

  “Momma, you okay?” she asked as she walked over to the bed. “Oh, Momma, no.”

  Her mother was lying still, her mouth open, her eyes open, and her face wearing a look of shock.

  “Mommy, please no, please god, no. Momma, please, you’re all I got, Momma, please don’t leave me.” She rushed over to the side of her mother’s bed. She sat on the side of the bed next to her mother’s body. She closed her mother’s eyes, and then kissed her open mouth. She rubbed her silver hair from her mother’s face and patted her hand. She realized that she was all alone, and for the first time in her life, she felt afraid. At least, no matter how bad things got, she had her mother and the feeling of being truly loved by someone, but without her mother, there was nothing, nobody and no reason, no reason to even live. For the longest time, that was how it was, just Daisy and her mom. Ever since she was a little girl that was the only family she had to fall back on. Somewhere out there in Murfreesboro, Tennessee, she had an aunt and a cousin, but other than that, no family to tell of.

  Her mother, Abigail, had been born in Murfreesboro in 1927 and was fifty-nine years old. She was the elder of two. Her sister, Matilda, was six years younger than herself. Times were hard for her family, as for most, but the Wrights had established their land and their farm. People might not think of a cow or a mule as being as precious as a diamond or gold, but in those times, they really were valuable, and John Wright kept his shotgun handy at all times. Wasn’t nobody taking his cow, his mule, his chickens, or his pig. That was all he had, and without them animals, his family would starve. Without the cow, no milk or cheese, butter or cream, and he needed his mule for plowing. The family lived in a house not yet equipped with electricity and running water. They had a well that they lowered buckets down into on a rope so they could pull the water back up from the earth. There was no bathroom, only an outhouse, no tub, just a large washbin to sit in from time to time. And of all the things he wished for, he most wished for a horse. If I only had a horse. If I only had a horse. His head sang that song for a long long time. Millie was all right, but if she cut short on a trip, decided she was tired or whatever else was ailing her, well then the trip would just be cut short. He couldn’t get her to move. That was one thing about them mules, once they decided to stop, they stopped. Not even a rattlesnake would get a mule to flinch. A horse will run like the dickens in the wind and pay no mind to where it’s running to, and you could be on it. A horse to draw his cart to town was a luxury he could not yet afford. He was still working with Millie. It was okay, too, because in a way, he had more than a lot of others. Not a lot, but enough for him and his family to survive. Growing up, Abigail and Matilda lived the typical Little House on the Prairie life. Her pa worked the fields and her momma did all the work inside the house. The two sisters had their routine as well, a typical load of chores for a small farm. That meant up at 5:00 A.M. to fetch fresh water from the well to wash up and to cook with, collecting chicken eggs to make breakfast, milking Bessie, the family cow, feeding their four chickens, their one hog, Kirby, and Millie the mule. Didn’t sound like much, but it was a lot. School wasn’t far, only a little over a mile. The girls walked the road, as did most of the children. The school wasn’t more than one room, with an outhouse behind it. Wooden logs made long benches and the children sat doing their lessons at long wooden picnic tables. When Abigail didn’t have school, she would have to help her pa with plowing the field. Matilda was still too young to work the field. The family worked hard and barely made it by. Scraped and scrounged to get through the Great Depression of the 1930s. It wasn’t easy, but the family survived through hard times. And just when things seemed to be getting a little better, they just got worse.

  “What do you want me to do, Arhris. We ain’t got no choice. Roosevelt has declared war. Pearl Harbor is gone, the Japs just blew it off the map. What do you want me to do? America is going to war. What if I get called to serve my country? I have to serve my country. Who’s gonna help provide for the farm until I get home, you? Are you nuts? You’re gonna need to hire a hand, you understand. If I sell Bessie, you’ll have nothing. I’ll be gone. I’m doing this for you and Matilda. Abigail is fourteen, come on. My daddy would have got her moved on.”

  “John, please, John, not Abigail, please. There has to be another way, John. She’s too young, she’s not old enough, she’s not even got her period. We just can’t.”

  “We can, Arhris, and we will, and that’s that, dagnabbit. Just because she’s slow with breeding don’t mean nothing, she’s ready. She’s a grown woman, for Pete’s sake, she’s gonna end up pregnant, then what? You see them boys staring her down when we go to town. We don’t got no choice. Winter’s coming, Arhris, you’re gonna need wood for fire. I can cut Kirby up to get you through the season, and there’s the chickens, but you’re gonna need Bessie, Arhris. Abigail is just another mouth to feed. Besides, Mr. Fothergill says he’ll give us a pretty penny for her, a pretty penny, and he said he’ll take good care of her. His money will help you run this farm and cover you while I’m gone, don’t you understand? He’s gonna make sure she gets to finish her schooling and what not. I made sure of that. And, she’ll be close by, only a few towns from here, less than a hundred miles. I just don’t see no other way, just don’t.”

  “There has to be another way.”

  “Well, there ain’t. There ain’t no other way. Mr. Fothergill said he’d be here later this afternoon, so… be best if you go on now and get Abigail packed up.”

  “But…” said Arhris, pleading with her husband.

  “Woman, I say the law,” said John Wright, flexing his suspenders, ready to strike her down for being disobedient. “Now, she’s going and that’s that. Mr. Fothergill’s fixin’ to marry her and take care of her and you need to have her ready. You hear me, Arhris?”

  “Yes, John, I can hear you, you’re hollering at the top of your lungs. How can I not?” asked Arhris, in the tone of a child, then mumbled under her breath as she watched John turn his back to her and leave the room.

  “Is that some kind of backtalkin’ tongue-lashing you mumbling about?” he asked with his left eyebrow raised.

  “No, I’m just humming, that’s all… if it’s all right wit’ you,” she said, cursing him silently under her breath.

  “I reckon it’s not, if I can’t understand what you’re saying,” he commented before walking away. “Don’t need to hear you or understand you no way. Don’t even know why you speak at all. Just a waste of air if you ask me,” he told himself as he closed the door behind him and walked down the hallway, continuing his personal conversation to himself.

  It was the saddest day of Arhris’s life to see her daughter sold away to some stranger, but she had no choice or say in the matter. What could she do? She was a woman, and unfortunately, in the 1940s a woman was nothing more than property and was just not allowed to disobey.

  Abigail seemed to sense something wasn’t right, walking up the dirt path from the main road. She saw a strange man standing next to her pa. He looked at her and her sister and smiled kindly.

  “Who’s that?” asked Matilda.

  “I don’t know, Tildie,” said Abigail as she watched her father counting out what looked like a lot of money.

  As they got closer to the house, Abigail saw two pieces of luggage on the porch. I wonder where Pa is going?

  “Abigail, come on over here and let me talk to you. This here is Mr. Fothergill.”

  “Hello,” said a young smiling Abigail.

  “Hello,” said a middle-aged, tall, medium-built man with a receding hairline, wearing pan
ts, a clean white shirt and a matching suit jacket.

  “Um, well, Abigail, this here is Mr. Fothergill and… um… well, he done come to take you on home with him. He’s gonna marry you, you understand.”

  Abigail looked at her father standing tall and firm. He had the look of a cat who had just swallowed a canary.

  “I don’t understand, Pa.”

  “Well, um… Mr. Fothergill here, he’s gonna take care of you and you’re gonna go live with him.”

  “But, I don’t want to live with him, I want to live here, with you and Momma and Tildie. Daddy, please, don’t send me away. Please, I’ll milk Bessie every day, Pa, and I’ll do all my chores. And you don’t have to do no plowing, I’ll do every lick and I’ll wash all the clothes for Momma, hang ’em on the line, nice and neat, and I’ll cook, Pa. I can cook…” But the more she spoke, the more she knew she was wasting her breath. The more she spoke the more she knew she was already leaving. The more she stood there pleading with her father, the more she realized that the money he had been counting was the money Mr. Fothergill had paid for her. The more she spoke, the more Mr. Fothergill realized he was getting his money’s worth. Hell, she’s barely a child, and she can cook, too. She looked at Mr. Fothergill with pleading eyes full of tears.

  “Don’t mean no harm, mister, but please don’t take me from my family.”

  “It’s gonna be okay, I’m gonna take good care of her,” said Mr. Fothergill as he took Abigail by her arm. She tried to pull away, but his grip was too firm.

  “Ma, please, Ma, please don’t let him take me. Pa, please…” she began to beg as Mr. Fothergill dragged her on over to his horse-drawn carriage.