Somewhat Saved (26 page)

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Authors: Pat G'Orge-Walker

BOOK: Somewhat Saved
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38
Bea barged back into her suite with her fists balled and the arch in her back almost straightened. She hadn't remembered leaving her hotel room door ajar when she'd left. If Jasper was up she was gonna knock him back out. There was no way she was going to let him mess up Zipporah's life.
Sasha followed behind Bea with her cane raised. The two old women had left Sister Betty mentally whipped in her room and had headed back to Bea's.
Of course, Sasha had only returned with Bea to make sure that there wasn't anything happening between Bea and Jasper. She didn't care if Jasper was on his last legs, the Jasper she'd known for years would still try something.
The last thing Sasha and Bea expected to find in the room was security guards.
The last thing the security guards expected to find was two old women barreling through the hotel room door and commencing to whittle away at their manhood with nothing more than a pair of fists and a cane.
The noise brought some of the other hotel visitors on the same floor rushing from their rooms to see what was going on. It was the middle of the night and although Las Vegas was a city that never slept, they'd wanted to.
The two security guards, both well built and most certainly taller than Bea and Sasha, stood glued to a wall. Their uniforms were in tatters and one wore his flashlight dangling between his legs instead of from his belt. The other man looked as though someone had painted his lips with purple lipstick. Sasha had taken her cane and whacked him across the mouth each time he'd hollered, “Stop.” Perhaps if he'd said, “please,” she wouldn't have hit him so hard.
Chattering started almost immediately throughout the crowd of onlookers. Several had recognized Bea and Sasha from the day they'd arrived. So with cell phone cameras clicking away, it appeared that poor actresses Mother Love and Irma P. Hall would become innocent and mistaken fodder for the tabloids once again.
It took some time before the security guards were able to walk upright out of Bea's hotel room. They even apologized for doing their duty, hoping that the two old women wouldn't tell everything that had happened. As for Bea and Sasha, they completely forgot about finding Jasper. They were momentarily content to sign autographs for some of the onlookers.
“I knew I should've worn my shades,” Bea complained after signing the last autograph and collapsing into a chair.
“Oh, you looked fine,” Sasha complimented and smiled. “How did I look?”
“Like the little Smurf you are,” Bea teased.
“And you looked like an energizer raisin,” Sasha said with a wide grin. She didn't try to hide her snide remark behind an apology. She left it for what it was.
“I'm surprised none of that racket woke up Jasper,” Sasha added as she looked around the living room. “Where is his dying, cheating behind? Do you think he called security?”
“Wait a minute!” Bea hopped around like her butt was on fire. “I left him on this sofa.”
“What sofa?” Sasha asked. She certainly didn't see him stretched out on the one she sat on.
“Oh, ham and cheese,” Bea hollered.
“Oh, hell no!” Sasha didn't try to mince words.
They were so scared they even looked under the sofa, which was only about two inches off the floor.
“Are you two looking for something?”
They hadn't realized they hadn't closed the door completely. It wasn't quite morning yet and there was Chandler standing in the doorway.
“Can't two old women get some exercise in peace?” Bea complained as she struggled to stand.
“One, two, and three . . .” Sasha counted as she swung her tiny arms side-to-side. “Four, five, and six.” She continued as she, too, struggled to get up. “That's enough for me, Bea. I'm going back to my room and shower. All this exercising has made me sweaty.”
“Chandler,” Bea said with indignation, as she realized that their charade wasn't working, “what are you doing here at this unearthly hour?”
Standing in the doorway, Chandler folded his arms across his chest. He took a couple of steps forward. “Jasper Epps sent me.”
39
Zipporah paced around her hotel room suite. She'd gone from room to room and still hadn't calmed down. She looked at her watch. It was almost five o'clock in the morning. It was much too early to call anyone.
She'd promised Chandler, when he'd brought her back to her suite, that she'd try to relax. It took her another ten minutes to convince herself that she hadn't dreamt the whole thing up. Holding a cup of hot tea, she willed herself to sit. With every bit of concentration she could muster, she willed her mind to recall as much of her life as possible.
Zipporah remembered bits and pieces of what she'd always called a drifting childhood. She'd lived in the Amsterdam, New York, foster care system for most of her youth. The town was small back then and was mostly a Slavic community. She'd stood out like a sore thumb, being one of a few blacks living there. She stayed with a white family that kept several foster children of all nationalities. They were a kindly middle-aged couple named Doug and Mae Teabout. They lived on Main Street in a huge house opposite the Mohawk River.
But the happy home wasn't always happy. Mr. Teabout worked long hours running a furniture store downtown. Mrs. Teabout did her charity work and accepted the praises for “taking in the orphans,” six days out of the week. On the seventh day, when God ordered folks to rest, Mrs. Teabout drank. It was the town's secret that everyone knew and ignored. Even when the foster children started showing signs of abuse on the days she drank, the town people ignored it. After all, some would say, “She's taking care of kids nobody wanted. So what if she drank a little. Those brats probably deserved every beating they got.”
Zipporah ran away when she was thirteen. She was picked up walking along the highway and promptly placed in another system-run house in Scotia, New York. Same situation except it was a children's shelter. That only meant that she didn't get whipped as much because it would take time to get around to her. She wasn't a bad child. If anything she was a bookworm who sang herself to sleep. By the time she was fifteen, Zipporah had discovered that she could sing herself out of most situations.
If things weren't going well in whatever home she was placed in, Zipporah sang. She soon became a showcase. She'd sing at the church, she'd sing at the school, she'd even sing in the shower and in the front and back yards. The foster parent du jour would drag her through many talent shows to win a few dollars, none of which she ever got to keep.
As a teen, Zipporah still didn't know anything about her parents but was told by every foster parent she'd stayed with that her birth mother died, from a difficult labor, when Zipporah was born. “Your mother never had a chance to lay eyes on you.” She'd heard the story so often until she thought she was the blame.
While the Las Vegas sun rose, Zipporah's mind fought to retrieve some tidbit or detail to make sense of what was happening in her life. She finally dozed off with the strange man's belongings resting in her lap. Zipporah wasn't aware that what she sought was right there. Right there in her lap.
 
 
With the demonic twins gone Sister Betty had finally dozed off. She hadn't quite made it to the bed. Right on the sofa, with her feet up and resting on the coffee table, and her head thrown back with her mouth gaped and snoring, she'd slept. A damp towel covered her forehead. The towel had only cooled down her head but as usual had done nothing for the headache.
Her suite looked a mess. There were empty tea cups and candy wrappers strewn around. After she'd tossed Bea and Sasha out, she'd acted as though she'd finally lost her mind. It wasn't an act. She'd drunk more hot cayenne pepper tea and gorged on the expensive chocolate candy bars from the minibar. All the concoction did was make her edgier and send her to the bathroom, several times. By the time she'd gotten her wits together she was exhausted and collapsed on the sofa.
It took Sister Betty a few seconds to come out of her self-induced coma. She still felt as though she'd just closed her eyes. The knocking on the door and the ringing of the telephone, at the same time, just didn't seem real. She leaned forward and almost broke her legs from doing so. She'd forgotten her legs were resting on the coffee table because they'd fallen completely asleep, even if she hadn't.
“Come back later,” she yelled. Sister Betty didn't want to see a maid or anyone. She started rubbing her legs trying to get the blood to cooperate but the knocking persisted. “I said I don't need my room cleaned now!” That was her first lie of the day.
“It's me, Godmother.” Chandler rapped harder on the door. “I need to speak with you now!”
The sound of Chandler's voice brought Sister Betty completely around. By then the blood flow had returned to her legs and the telephone had stopped ringing. She looked over and saw the little flashing red light and decided she'd check the message later. “Hold on, June Bug.”
Chandler showing up at her door was a ray of sunshine to Sister Betty. He was probably the only person in Las Vegas who could make her feel better. She walked to the door hoping that whatever happened earlier in her room was just a dream.
Sister Betty opened her door wide and found Chandler surrounded by two old nightmares.
And that's when Sister Betty did her Esther Rolle impression: “Damn, damn, damn.”
 
 
Zipporah slowly replaced the phone in its cradle. It was still early but she'd hoped to speak with Sister Betty. Somehow being around that old woman gave her comfort. Perhaps, Sister Betty would return the call when she heard her message.
Zipporah's clothes felt clammy. They should have. She hadn't changed or showered since the night before.
She wrestled with whether to go through the man's belongings or to get cleaned up. Somehow going through a stranger's possessions didn't feel right, so she decided she wouldn't. She'd just return them to the front desk or whoever was in charge of such things. And, then she remembered that the man had Mother Blister's and Mother Pray Onn's hotel rooms and telephone numbers on the yellow sheet of paper. Knowing there was a possibility that the sick old man wasn't totally alone suddenly gave her a little peace. She decided to shower and rest up. When Chandler returned later, she'd give him the items to give to the women.
 
 
“Don't even try to look innocent!” Sasha declared as she used her cane to push Chandler aside and enter Sister Betty's suite again.
“You're in it, too!” Bea added her accusation and almost broke Chandler's hip as she knocked him against the side of the door frame when she entered.
“Heavenly Father,” Sister Betty whispered with her hands raised. “Why, Lord?” Esther Rolle was gone and she was back.
“Look at her,” Sasha said to Chandler, who was still glued to the entrance. “She's trying to act like she's got God on speed dial.”
“That's right,” Bea chimed in. “Just last night she was talking about murder.” She turned to Sasha and nodded for confirmation before turning back to Sister Betty. “Hypocrisy is such an ugly thing.”
“You tell her, Bea,” Sasha said as she sashayed her tiny hips to a chair to sit. “Tell June Bug, again, what she done.”
“I am.” Bea stopped and turned to Sister Betty and said, “I'm gonna use the bathroom, first. Make sure you don't lie and try to make Sasha and me look bad while I'm gone.”
Sister Betty didn't respond. She waved Chandler in and as he closed the door, she went to the other table. She opened her pocketbook and retrieved a small plastic bottle of blessed oil.
Suddenly, Sister Betty started squirting the oil everywhere and on everyone. She started anointing chairs, windows, the sofa, and the minibar. “I rebuke you, Satan.”
She raced toward Sasha squirting the oil as she went. “Be gone, Devil.” Sasha started screaming like the evil witch that melted in
The Wizard of Oz.
Chandler raced over and grabbed at his godmother, and she squirted him, too. “Back up!” she yelled.
Bea had barely gotten into the bathroom when she heard the noise and dashed back out, with her drawers still around her ankles. She couldn't get out of the way so she received a blessed-oil drenching, as well. “Back to the pits of hell, Devil,” Sister Betty screamed as she chased Bea.
Almost tripping, Bea dashed back toward the safety of the bathroom. By then, she'd hopped out of one of the drawers' legs, which had twisted and was about to bring the reality of busting one's behind to a whole new level.
By the time Sister Betty finished, there wasn't an oil-free spot or person in her suite, including her.
And, of course, security was frantically knocking on her door. “Open up! Security is here! Open the door, now!”
Chandler had barely opened the door when the security men rushed inside with their flashlights raised, ready to battle. They came to a total stop when they saw Sasha and the mess that surrounded her. It was like déjà vu. They never said one word nor took their eyes off the little oily demon with a bun and cane that stood before them. They just backed out of the room and fled.
Fortunately for her and unfortunately for them, they were the same two security guards she'd just beaten up about an hour before.
It'd taken all the soap in Sister Betty's suite and two bottles of seltzer water from the minibar to get most of the blessed oil off them. Sister Betty never apologized for the inappropriate baptism. Instead, she sat in a corner of the sofa with a second bottle, ready to repeat that morning's baptism if necessary.
Moments later, Chandler still sat fascinated as the story, or different versions of it depending on who was speaking, poured out from the old women. The one thing each of their tales had in common was Zipporah.
As Bea and Sasha bickered, again, over who was the worst slut when it came to cheating, Chandler sat trying to figure out the next move.
“As I see it,” Chandler said, interrupting round ten of Bea and Sasha's championship bout, “there's only one thing that you can do.”
“And what's that, June Bug?” Bea said, smiling innocently. She wasn't aware that she still hadn't put in her dentures or whether she'd put her drawers back on. Her mouth looked like a cosmic black hole every time she said a word.
Chandler wanted to grab the bottle of blessed oil from Sister Betty's clutches. He promised himself he would if either of them called him June Bug once more.
He pushed the thought to the back of his mind and continued. “You have to tell Zipporah the truth. And no matter how much of a dog you feel her father was—”
“Still is,” Sasha hissed.
“—or is,” Chandler agreed, “she deserves to know her father and he certainly needs to know his child.”
“And,” Bea hissed, “you deserve a straitjacket if you think we're gonna let that old buzzard hurt our Zipporah!” Her smile had slid away quicker than an avalanche down a mountain.
Sister Betty leaned forward with her hand on the oil bottle trigger and aimed it at Bea. Nobody talked mean to her godson.
Bea fell back before Sister Betty went to squirting again. “I'm just saying,” Bea mumbled. “That's all.”
“Well, since she's actually my niece,” Sasha interrupted, “I think all of you should butt out and let me handle this.”
“Aren't you the main reason for this whole mess?” Chandler challenged. “By your own admission, you are.”
“DNA—has anybody thought about that?” Sister Betty had finally spoken up but she hadn't relaxed her trigger finger. “If y'all are so set on butting in on this woman's life with news like this, you'd better be sure.”
The room became eerily quiet as they turned toward Sister Betty.
“All of you are willing to turn this child's life upside down and the only proof you have is a matching leaf-shaped birthmark and Sasha's word.” Sister Betty nodded toward Sasha. “Again, I say, only Sasha's word.”
Chandler stood. He took the yellowed paper from his pocket along with two other items he'd not shown Bea or Sasha. He went over and placed them in Sister Betty's lap. “What about these?”
Bea and Sasha leaned forward but couldn't make out what Chandler had given Sister Betty. And, from the amazement on her face, they weren't about to ask, yet.
“My Lord.” Sister Betty's eyes kept darting across the paper and the two pictures in her hand. She lay down the spray bottle to get a better look.
“DNA may not be necessary,” Chandler said as he took the items from Sister Betty's hands. “But telling Zipporah is. She deserves to know her parents.”
Sasha couldn't bare it. It took every ounce of sweetness she could gather to say the words. “What is that you're showing your godmother, Sweetie?” She should've gotten an Oscar.
Chandler looked toward Sister Betty, silently seeking her permission to share what he knew with Bea and Sasha.

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