Chapter 4
"Say-hey, Ginny Mae! what it is, gal?
Long tam no see!"
Ginny Mae looks at her step father in distaste.
He, however, is distracted by the large, muscular presence of Ralph, whom he did not see at first, crowding in behind her, arms bearing two worn suitcases.
"Jus' leave 'em there, Ralph."
"An' who might dis here fan young man-"
"Oh, knock it off, Willy! He just' hringin' me home is all."
"See ya 'roun', Ginny Mae," Ralph says. "Or mehhe not.
"An', uh, sorry things din't woik out h'tween you an de champ."
"Yeah, well, like, live an' learn, you know?"
"See ya."
And he is gone.
Quickly, Willy pulls the lace curtain aside. "Oo-ee! Dat sho' he one fan setta wheels dat dude he dravin'! "An' whuss this 'bout a champ? "What champ?
"Wheah you hin all dis tarn, sugah."
"Mom around."
"She woikin', babe."
"Yeah? You oughtta try that yourself sometime, Willy."
"Now don' y'all be comin' in' heah bussin' ma chops, chile.
"You needs a place ta stay, an' ah sees you do, hey, you welcome in ma home."
"Oh, knock it off, Willy! I know who pays the rent here.
"And buys the groceries too, unless things have changed since ah lef."
"Well, now, ah is woikin' on a few thangs, unnas-tan'.
"Ma invessmint po'tfolio ain't bin too healthy of late, ah ammits, but ah fully specks thangs'll straighten theyse'ves out sho'tly."
"Still pickin' the wrong ponies, huh Willy?"
He grins.
"Seems lak.
"But enough about me. "Teh me 'bout whut ch'all bin up ta lately. "We ain' ho id nuffin' turn you since you lef. "Yo' mama an' me, we bin worried sick." But he does not sound concerned. But then, why should he be? He married her mother when Ginny Mae was fourteen.
And Ginny Mae never knew her real father.
She looks Willy up and down as he sits there, big and fat and lazy, his handsome brown features beginning to melt into an excess of flesh that appears to have crept up from his belly and is invading his face from the bottom.
None of his fucking business is her first reaction.
But then, she realizes, she is going to have to tell somebody something, her mother if no one else.
But what?
What can she say that is not going to evoke a reaction of derision or contempt at her stupidity? She has to say something.
And she wonders that she could have been so benumbed by the sudden adverse turn of events that she has not realized this until now.
She looks at Willy, sitting there, expectant, and thinks, Why not?
Why not run it by this nothing, this zero, this loser?
Because she is incapable of doing anything that would embarrass herself in front of this piece of shit.
She could fart in his fat fucking face and not bother to say, "Excuse me."
"You really wanna know, huh?" He shrugs.
"If it don' be too much trouble."
"No trouble at all. I tried somethin' and it didn't work out, is all."
And she glares at him, challenging, adding, "At lease, ah tried!"
He shrugs, looking away, putting a hand to his mouth, as though wiping it. "Ah hoid dat."
"Well, here goes."
And she tells him the whole story, from Tony's picking her up at Burger King to her return here.
And Willy listens without interruption, looking attentive, thoughtful, even intelligent. And It is as though she is taking a shower. As though, by telling the tale, she is gaining absolution, cleansing herself of having done it.
And it does not matter that it is this piece of garbage in human form to whom she tells it.
It is as though the reality of the words, the act of telling, of saying them aloud, erases the deeds, canceling them out, negating them, one by one as she relates them.
So that, when she is done, she honestly feels that she is no better perhaps, but certainly no worse off than when she began her misadventure.
And Willy does not appear derisive, or contemptuous or amused or mocking when she has finished.
Rather, he seems bemused, as though lost in deep thought.
What can he be thinking? she wonders. Does he have a sympathetic side she has not suspected?
Is he actually overcome by her tale of woe? She doubts this.
She has not come across as all that pathetic.
He looks at her.
"You say you got paid fo' dis?"
And her eyes widen in anger.
So! she thinks. That's this mother-fucker's angle!
Did I get any money, do I have any money, and how much and how fast can he get his fat fucking hands on it!
And he sees at once what she is thinking.
"No, no, no! B'lieve me, chile! Ah don' want one cint fum you!
"Even you was ta offah, ah wouldn' touch it!"
"You can't touch it, you fat fuck!
"Ah nevah cashed de fuckin' checks."
"No shit?
"But den you mussa put 'em in de hank, so it he de same thang, right?"
Impatient, still angry, at him, at the world, she plunges a hand into her purse, clutches, and pulls out a fistful of crumpled checks.
"Here!
"Here's the fuckin' money, numh nuts! "Paper, thass all!"
He stares at the wad of checks, incredulous. "But don' choo worry none! "Soon's Mama gits home, ah'll discuss wit' her what she he needin' an' we take care of it."
"Hmmm. Mehhe not."
And she sees a crafty look come over his face. "Whut choo he tryna pull, fool."
"Now, wait a minnit, wait a minnit, chile. "Cashin' dem checks may not be de way ta go on dis one."
"What? Whut choo be talkin' 'bout."
"Jus' wait a minnit now. "Stay cool. Heah me out, okay."
"You got money fum de champ, right."
"From Tony. From the organization. "Robinson Enterprises, see?" She shows him the checks. "Put dem away. Don' wanna see 'em." And he looks away, holding up a big hand, fending off the sight.
And she sees he is making a genuine effort t fight temptation.
Slightly puzzled, she puts the wad back in h purse.
"What's up?"
"Comin' ta dat.
"Stay wif me on dis, okay?"
"Teh me wummo tarn 'bout whut choo an' d champ did tagethah."
"Waddayou, sick? Not gonna sit here talkin' di ta you. Ah done tole you arready whut we done."
"No, no. Jus' wanna be sure ah unnastan's whut went down poifeckly."
"He fucked me every night, okay?
"An' thass all I got ta say on that subjeck."
"Sometimes ... two, three times a night?" Willy persists.
"That too," she sighs. "Now can we talk about somethin' else."
"Sho' can.
"Le's talk patrimony suit."
"Say what."
"Patrimony.
"You know. like you havin' his baby."
"Ain' bin that fuckin' stupid, Willy.
"Bin onna pill since ha' schoo'. "
"Yeah? Then how's come you nevah-"
"An' nevah will, suckah! You don' put choor fat han's on dis bod, pal! "Not now, not evah."
"Okay, okay. Not impawtint anyways. "To continue.
"Now, de fack dat choo bin', uh ... wif him dat many times leaves consid-rable room fo' gittin' yo'se'f knocked up."
"You got a hearin' problem, Willy.'"
"Ah said-"
"An' ah hoid joo, okay?" he says, holding up his hand, cutting her off. "But ain' no method safe, hunna p'cent.
""Specially widda virile stud lak de champ.
"You heah me, what ah'm sayin'? "
"You talkin' jive, niggah. Read ma lips.
"I! Am! Not! Preg! Nint!"
"No, but you could be."
She looks at him a long moment.
And then bursts out laughing.
"Man oh man!" she manages to say, at last. "You somethin' else, Willy, you know that?
"You musta stayed awake nights thinkin' on how you gonna git into ma panties!"
"Hey, baby, I ammits ah's hot fo' yo' body.
"Ain' no secret about dat.
"But no way could I of planned this one!
"Think on it, babe!
"If de champ done gone an' knocked you up, wif whut he can affawd, is dey any doubt a-tall but whut choo gon' end up rich."
"Yeah, but he didn't so ah ain't."
"When's de las' tarn he socked it to you."
"Las' night."
Said without hesitation, not telling him that he really socked it to her all right, right up her keister. Still, the night before-
"An' bein' wif chile ain' de same thang as punchin' no tarn clock."
"How would joo know 'bout punchin' a tarn clock, you lazy fuck?"
He ignores the insult.
"Point is, give or take, say, a couple weeks, ain' no way de champ or anabody else ta be absolutely sure he couldn't of done it, tam-wise."
She lapses into deep thought.
Two weeks.
Two weeks for the chemistry of the pills to work its way out of her body.
Two weeks for her to ovulate and be fertilized.
And it will take a lot of luck.
And a lot of fuck, to make sure.
And even then, it might not work.
But then again, it might.
And what does she have to lose.
She will let it depend on one thing.
She closes her eyes tightly.
If, when she opens them, that fat fuck is staring at her with a shit-eating grin, sucking his teeth so he won't drool, then fuck him and all bets are off.
Because there is no time.
No time to think, to decide.
If it is to be done, then it has to be now.
Technically speaking, she should already be pregnant.
So it all comes down to luck, to chance. And, since it comes down to that, let it begin with luck, with chance.
If he is leering and drooling, then it's no. If not, then yes.
And she tries to convince herself that she is indifferent, that she is leaving it strictly up to fate.
Ginny Mae opens her eyes.
He is staring at her intently, his expression anxious.
And yes, there are beads of perspiration on his forehead.
So that he is not merely jerking her around.
He is serious, and about something far more important, more far-reaching in its implications than getting into her drawers.
She nods slowly, once.
And he understands.
And she gives herself one last chance to back out. One rebel yell, nigger, and watch how fast I'm outta here. Instead-
"Now, don't say nuffin' 'bout de checks to yo' mama, chile.
"Put 'em in a safe place wheah she ain' gon' fine 'em an' wheah you kin git at 'em fas'.
"All goes well, de nex' one gon' see 'em be yo' lawyah."
"What am ah gonna tell Mama?"
He shrugs.
"De troof, chile. Onlies' thang, it cain' be de whole troof.
"Jus' leave out de part wif de money.
"On'y ones need know 'bout dat is you an' yo' lawyah.
"Hell, de champ hisse'f din' know 'bout de money 'til you was all thoo, right."
"Right."
"So don't choo be worryin' none.
"Me an' yo' lawyah, which, by de way, ah got someone in mine fo' de job, we gonna come up wid somethin' you not gon' be-leeve.
"Impawtint thang heah bein' dat a jury will."
And now he grins at her.
But it is benign, reassuring, avuncular.
"Whin Mama be home?"
"Mmmmm, usually, she come 'bout six, she don' hafta stop de mahkit fois', pick up a few thangs fo' suppah."
Said as though he is an outside observer, not personally involved.
And the flood of misgivings, of resentment comes hack over her for a moment, so that she is once again ready to chuck the whole thing and walk out, cursing him for a lazy turd and her mother for the fool who puts up with him. But the plan is too good.
And it is something she would never have come up with on her own.
No, it takes a lazy, cunning, devious mother-fucker to come up with something like that.
And Willy meets the requirements to perfection.
She loathes him.
She despises him.
But then, at the moment, she could say the same about the champ.
And she grins at the thought of the two of them-Willy and the champ-killing each other, Willy slashing the champ to ribbons with a switchblade as the champ beats Willy to an equally bloody pulp.
If that could happen, then she would think this the best of all possible worlds.
But it will not.
Any more than she will ever have white skin, blue eyes, and flowing blond tresses.
And now, in her mind, she builds on Willy's plan, expands it.
Yes, short range, she will follow his every direction.
Until judgment day.
That settled, Mama will have a choice.
Come with me and the hahy and live in luxury or stay with this hum. Those will he the options.
She, Mama and the hahy to luxury condo paradise, Willy to the gutter where he belongs.
And now the plan sits even better in her mind.
Because now vengeance-not the ideal, bloody grand finale she would like, but the real thing-is at hand.
And it is delicious, complete, perhaps even better than the ideal.
Because she can savor it, month by month, year after year.
She has read about such things, about settlements with celebrities.
And now, contrary to what she told the champ, she hopes that the champ beats Spike.
She hopes he wins and wins.
Because she knows this much, which is that she can go back to the court, again and again, to increase his payments to her, each time his income increases significantly, each time he wins.
Yeah, Champ, she thinks, I wish you a long and healthy life.
May you reign forever!
Because she will have every day to look forward to.
And special nights, nights that are better than fucking, nights on which she will sit in front of her (wide screen) TV and watch him get smashed around "as she sips a cool drink and knows that a piece-an ever larger piece-of the purse has got her name on it.
And she smiles as she thinks of what is going on in this neighborhood at this moment.
As the welfare mothers queue up at their tenement mail boxes, looking for the welfare check that will be late, the child support check that will not be there at all.
Yes, they will be playing the loser's game, without hope, without future, condemned forever to a life of squalor and misery.
While she, she! will go onward and upward and never have to work another day in her life.
So that, in the end, it will have worked out for her, her time spent with the champ.
If.
If she can get pregnant. If Willy can get her pregnant in time. And now, Willy sees her looking at him. And he sees her expression of vague distraction, as though she is looking right through him. As though seeing him in a new light? As though-can it be?
And he resists the tendency to let his face break out in a broad smile of triumph. This bitch is hot for my body! he thinks. She is going for the whole ball of wax.
Hook, line, and sinker.
And he tells himself, I shoulda been a pimp.
Because, the way he always thought Ginny Mae felt about him, if he could turn her around, then he could turn any of 'em.
But this will be better than being a pimp, he thinks.
This is a direct pipeline into a fortune.
And it is a fortune so vast, with such tremendous potential, that others will be able to get fortunes out of it.
Some others, that is.
Or perhaps just one other.
But that is fine.
That will do very nicely, thank you. So long as that other is one William Chatsworth Washington II.
"Just enough for three days, Juanita. "I mean, I can't have it appear as though I'm moving in with him, lock, stock, and barrel."
"Jes, Meez Seent'ia."
"You don't think I'm being presumptuous, do you, Juanita?"
"Oh, no, Meez Seent'ia." And Cynthia is reassured. Because Juanita is so definite, so very sincere.
And why not?
For one thing, she has no idea what presumptuous means.
"And I'll take the pink jogging suit as well.
"And don't forget the matching headband, dear. It's over in that top drawer.
"Oh, and the pink Reeboks."
"Escuse me, ma-am, I gotta go get some plastic bags from de keetchen for de choos."
"Go, go, go.
"Now, let me think.
"What else?"
And she rummages through the three suitcases on the bed, checking, envisioning the events of the immediate future in her mind, relating them to wardrobe and accessories.
And yes, this is good enough for that particular scenenario, but what if we do that instead?
Easy, girl, she tells herself. Don't let's go overboard.
Because she already has two suitcases of "what if clothes, incorporating everything from horseback riding to tennis, although Rufe has been singularly unhelpful in his inability to confirm the existence of horses or tennis courts at the champ's training camp.
Really, she finds his ignorance appalling.
After all, the champ is one of his people and a credit to his race.
Don't these darkies ever talk to each other?
After all, those jungle movies are simply loaded with message drums.
Which have to be much less efficient than the telephone.
Ah, well.
When one is on safari, she supposes that one must accept a few informational lacunae.
What would an adventure be without surprises, anyway?
And now, Juanita is wrapping shoes in plastic bags, one per bag.
"Oh, and I shall need all my straw hats, Juanita.
"Do see if you can get them down without causing an avalanche, won't you?"
"Jes, ma'am."
And Juanita stands on a chair in her stocking feet, carefully extricating hat boxes from the closet shelf, hopping up and down, moving the chair, as she goes from compartment to compartment.
And making a mental note to write identifications on the outsides of the hat boxes.
"I certainly hope what's-his-name, Teddy, appreciates all the trouble I'm going through, Juanita."
And Juanita wonders how he possibly can, since he is not yet aware of her existence.
"Oh, and don't forget the little black deerstalker as well, Juanita.
"And my riding hoots.
"It's no use my packing jodhpurs if I don't have the hoots to go with them, is it?"
"Joo wan' de red jacket too, ma'am?"
"No, no, no! We're not riding to hounds, I don't think.
"That is, unless-where is Rufe."
"Joo sen' heem home to pack, remember."
"Oh, that's right, so I did, so I did. "No big loss there.
"Really, for a sport at which his people excel, you'd think he'd be more knowledgeable about what goes on in those training camps.
"You wouldn't happen to know anything about them, would you, Juanita?"
"No, bu' joo shoul' axe me abou' de boolfights."
Cynthia pauses, thinking that one over.
"Some other time, perhaps.
"Oh, and bring me another suitcase, please.
"I really could use a steamer trunk, but that's only proper for ocean voyages, I believe.
"Honestly, I utterly despise packing.
"Because I just know that, no matter how much I take with me, I will utterly guarantee you I've forgotten something essential.
"Just lay the rest of those things in that one, Juanita.
"There! That will have to do it.
"Teddy Robinson, you had better be worth all the trouble I'm going to, is all I can say."