Double Dippin' (2 page)

Marguerite dropped Tariq to the ground and began to drag him unmercifully.
“Mommy, I’m so tired,” Tariq cried, looking up at his mother with tears dripping from his thick lashes. Fleeing as if the hounds from hell were on her heels, Marguerite did not slow down or offer a word of comfort to her child.

Shane finally caught up. Sensing that his twin was in distress, he grabbed Tariq’s free hand and squeezed it reassuringly.

Bending his head, Tariq blotted one teary eye and then the other with his forearm. Putting up a brave front, he looked at Shane and gave his brother a weak smile.

It was a ninety-minute walk on foot. By the time Marguerite reached the safety of her father’s house on Preston Street in West Philadelphia, both boys were crying from fear and exhaustion.

Marguerite pounded on the door. Curtains at the upstairs bedroom window parted, but no one responded. She pounded for a full ten minutes before her stepmother finally opened the door.

Her stepmother stood in the doorway. She looked Marguerite up and down and frowned at her appearance and then her gaze traveled to the forlorn little children, but there was no sympathy in her eyes. “What are you doing out this time of the night? What’s wrong with you, Marguerite?” Her face contorted in disgust.

“It’s the demons, Miss Janie. They came back,” Marguerite said in a choked voice and inched forward as if expecting her stepmother to step aside. Janie remained firmly rooted in the doorway, defiantly blocking the path to Marguerite’s safety.

“Can we stay here until I can find us another place? Please!” She pulled the boys close to her as if appealing on their behalf.

Janie put her hand on her hip and reared back, waving a finger for emphasis. “Girl, you done lost the little bit of sense you had left. You know I ain’t got no room for all y’all to stay here.”

“What about the spare bedroom? The three of us could fit in there.”

“Hmph. I just put fresh wallpaper on those walls. I’d be crazier than you if I let y’all come in here and tear up my guestroom.” Janie propped both hands on her ample hips. “That room’s for guests—not pests.”

Marguerite let out a sigh of despair. “Is my father home?” She nervously
tied and untied the sash of her blue robe. The loose knot came undone and the robe fell open.

Janie sucked her teeth when she saw what Marguerite was wearing beneath the robe. “No he ain’t,” Janie snarled, tilting her head from side to side. “Probably sitting up in some speakeasy drunk as a damn skunk. And even if he was home, he sure ain’t got no say in this. This here is my house, left to me by my first husband.” Fueled by righteous indignation, Miss Janie took a deep breath before continuing her rant. “Your daddy’s here on a wing and prayer his damn self and if he don’t catch up on some of these bills, his ass is gonna be takin’ up residence at that speakeasy he likes so much. Shit, that’s where all his money goes; he might as well rent a cot there.”

“Miss Janie, please let us in.” Marguerite’s voice became shrill and desperate. “There was a whole lot of them demons this time. They were all up under the covers—pinching and scratching at me while I was trying to sleep. Some was trying to pull up my nightgown while the rest of ’em held me down.” Marguerite hung her head in despair. “They were trying to rape me,” she said in a whisper, looking down at her sneakers. “For real,” Marguerite added in a voice that cracked.

Wearing a smug smile, Miss Janie reached in the pocket of her bathrobe and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. “Was they the same demons that got you pregnant with these two while you was in that place?” Janie twisted her lips and sucked her teeth loudly before lighting a cigarette. “Ain’t no damn demons messing with you, girl,” she said accusingly, her words rushing out with a thick stream of smoke. “Hmph. If you took your medication like you was supposed to, you could get a decent night’s sleep.”

Miss Janie pointed at the twins, smoke curling from the fingers that clipped the cigarette. “Get these kids out of this night air and carry your black ass home,” Janie said and started to shut the door.

Marguerite pushed the door open. “Please, Miss Janie,” she pleaded. “It’s too many of ’em in my house. We can’t go back there; I can’t fight off all those demons by myself.”

“Looka here, Marguerite…I’m not putting up with your shit tonight. Do you realize what time it is?” Janie asked, puffing on the cigarette impatiently.
“It’s after midnight and I gotta get up and go to work in the morning. Now get off my porch, go home, and take your damn medication!”

Standing on opposite sides of their mother, the exhausted twins rested against Marguerite. Tariq wrapped an arm around his mother’s left leg; Shane pressed into her right. They burrowed their teary faces into the warmth of her soft thighs, and despite Miss Janie’s loud bickering and their mother’s urgent pleas, the boys dozed off.

They were jarred awake by the sound of the slamming door followed by locks turning and creaky sliding bolts.

Hugging herself, Marguerite hung her head and let the tears flow.
Lord help me, what am I gonna do now?
She bit her bottom lip hard to stifle the screams that wanted to escape. Panting, she lifted her head. Just as she turned to descend the steps and head into the night, Marguerite heard the sound of the door being unlocked. Miss Janie had a change of heart.
Thank God!

“One more thing…” Janie said with her head cocked and wearing a sour expression, “The front of your robe is soaking wet, so I guess you’re still breastfeeding them boys. They four years old and you got them sucking off your nasty tits. Now, that’s a goddamn disgrace. If you don’t give them kids some regular milk, I’m gonna call them people at Children and Youth and make sure they take these children away from you.”

The door slammed in her face before Marguerite could open her mouth to explain that she had to breastfeed her boys because she was certain that store-bought milk was poisoned by the CIA.

A
n hour later Marguerite and the twins trudged into Washington Square Park and curled up together on a bench. The boys were tired and hungry. She pulled Tariq onto her lap, opened her robe, and pulled up her top. Too tired to nurse the twins separately as she normally did, she slid Tariq over to her left thigh and then yanked Shane up by his arm and roughly plopped him onto her right thigh. Leaning against the park bench; Marguerite closed her eyes and relaxed while her twins breastfed.

They were lucky to find an empty bench, for during the late-night hours the park was inhabited by homeless people who used the Seventh and Walnut Street location as a communal bedroom; the benches serving as beds. Old newspapers or rags blanketed the weary bodies of the displaced persons.

Since the recent closing of Byberry State Mental Hospital, the homeless and mentally ill had invaded downtown Philadelphia. Their presence was usually preceded by a stench so strong it parted crowds of center-city wage earners who ambled along Market, Chestnut, or Walnut Street during their lunch hour. If not hit by the odor, workers were often assaulted by the shopping carts (filled with cans, rags, and all manner of trash) that the homeless often wielded like weapons as they zigzagged through the throng of working people.

Marguerite recognized her own kind; she spoke the language also. The verbal communication of the insane was often angry utterances or frightful gibberish that would keep a sane person at a distance.

A slovenly dressed man with a dark-brown complexion, high cheekbones,
and prominent nose marched as straight as a soldier down the paved path that led inside the park. Instead of wearing shoes, his feet were wrapped with rags.

Tall, lean, and naturally muscular, the man had probably been considered handsome once upon a time. If cleaned up and on medication, he could most likely still turn a few heads. But at this moment, he looked like a dangerous madman—a scary figure. His hair was long, dusty, and matted together, giving the appearance of a crown of angry spikes.

With crazed, recessed eyes, he assessed the bench situation. Finding nothing to rest upon, he saluted the fortunate bench occupants, clicked together his shoeless heels, and let out a litany of coherent cuss words before rapidly switching to the other language—a low-toned gibberish. The language of the insane.

Marguerite gazed at the deranged man with great interest and felt a profound letdown when he clicked his heels again, gestured a farewell salute, and marched out of the park.

However, when he returned a few minutes later, lugging a huge cardboard box, her spirits were lifted. How he’d acquired the portable house so quickly was anyone’s guess.

As if beckoned, Marguerite removed her sons’ sucking lips from her breasts, pulled her top down, and rose from the bench and glided toward the box. She didn’t need an invitation to join the stranger and her children didn’t need to be told to stay put.

Wiping their mouths, Shane and Tariq watched their mother slowly disappear as she crawled inside the box with the scary man. Cuddled together, and comforted by the sight of their mother’s black sneakers sticking out of the box, the boys drifted off to sleep.

The twins were fast asleep by the time Marguerite’s sneakers began to writhe beneath the madman’s cloth-covered feet. There were the sounds of rustling and muted moaning as the two tormented souls engaged in a macabre horizontal dance inside the cardboard box.

With the rising sun, the city came to life. One early riser, a woman out walking her dog at dawn, spotted the sleeping children. Assuming they’d been
abandoned, she called the authorities. The boys were roused by the crisp voice of a social worker. “Wake up, boys,” she said, her tone infused with cheer.

Startled, Shane and Tariq rubbed their eyes. “My name is Mrs. Fluellen and this is Officer Falcone,” she said, smiling as she pointed to a police officer. “Oh, look at you two little angels; you’re such
pretty
boys,” she said, awed by the physical attractiveness of the twins. “Can you tell me your names? Don’t worry; we’re taking you to a very nice place,” the social worker assured the frightened children before they could respond.

The twins looked at the woman suspiciously, and then jerked their heads in the direction of the cardboard box. “Mommeee,” Shane and Tariq wailed in unison.

Marguerite scrambled out of the box. With her teeth bared and screaming like a banshee, she rushed toward her children. Her companion instantly popped out of the box behind her. Armed with a broken bottle, he advanced toward the child-snatchers. He made a hissing sound as he waved the bottle around like a swashbuckler wielding a sword.

Officer Falcone drew his weapon and without the slightest hesitation, opened fire on the homeless man. The force of the gunfire lifted the man’s body. A split second later, the man came crashing to the ground. The glass bottle shattered against the concrete.

The social worker gasped and clamped a shaky hand over her mouth to stifle a scream. She then collected herself and turned toward her two charges. She used her body to block their view—to protect them. But she was too late; they’d seen it all. Terrified, both boys cried out, “Mommee! Mommee!”

Ms. Fluellen tried to pull Shane and Tariq out of the park to the waiting police car, but the boys resisted. They screamed hysterically as they battled for freedom, kicking, clawing, and biting her. Unable to handle the twins, the social worker yelled for Officer Falcone to assist her.

Momentarily stunned, Marguerite gave her fallen comrade a quick, curious glance and then dropped to her knees and fell forward. Lying on her belly, she gave an anguished cry as she beat the bloody ground beside the man. Then her body became rigid as she stretched out her arms, fingers splayed. Nonsensically, her hands opened and closed as she gripped and released dirt and pebbles.

Cautiously, his gun still drawn, Falcone crept forward.

Marguerite sprang up; somehow, she’d gotten hold of a rock, a dangerous-looking rock with several jagged edges. She curled her lips angrily and took off, whizzing past Falcone with unusual speed. Frantic to retrieve her stolen babies, Marguerite drew back her arm and hurled the rock at the social worker. The rock missed the woman and struck a tree instead.

A series of bullets fired from Officer Falcone’s weapon.

The sudden blast of gunfire stilled the thrashing twins—silenced them as they witnessed their mother, back arched oddly, but still sprinting toward them.

Hope lit their tear-stained faces.

That hope faded at the sound of more gunfire. Marguerite stumbled, her body lifted slightly, twisting at an impossible angle. And then she fell face down. The red stain that spread on the back of the blue flannel robe she wore over her white top seemed to take the form of a bird with its wings spread. In flight.

P
retty boys
. Those words were frequently uttered as Shane and Tariq drew stares of admiration from just about everyone who encountered them. Their great-aunt Mazie usually puffed up with pride and would cast an appreciative smile at the person who’d bestowed the compliment.

But not today. Fuming mad, Mazie ignored the whispered compliments from passersby. Holding the hands of the six-year-old twins, she walked as fast as her swollen feet would allow.