Kitty-Kitty, Bang-Bang Read online

  “’Cause a muhfucka was thinkin’ ’bout you; that’s why. You gotta problem wit’ that?”

  “Do you,” I state, goin’ through the E-Z Pass toll for the Verrazano. “I got more pressin’ shit to be concerned wit’, than you tryna stalk’a bitch.”

  “Oh, yeah? Anything you wanna talk about?”

  “No, I’m good. Thanks.”

  “Well, the offer stands. If you change ya mind, I’m all ears.”

  I laugh. “Yeah right, muhfucka. You just tryna get some pussy.”

  “Yo, chill wit’ that. I’m dead-ass. If you need someone to talk to I got you.” On the real, I don’t know if the nigga’s kickin’ some live shit or not, but it sounds good. I thank ’im. “Oh, no doubt, ma. So, what you gettin’ into tonight?”

  “Not you,” I say, speedin’ down the Belt Parkway toward Brooklyn.

  “Yeah, aiight. That’s ’cause you too scared I’ma have you dick whipped. But you need to let me come through and help you take ya mind off shit.”

  “Nigga, puhleeeeeze, that’s what you want’a bitch to be. But, trust. I ain’t’a weak bitch, so it’s gonna take more than a big, black dick to get me whipped.” I take another pull off my blunt. “So take that dumb shit onto the next trick ’cause I ain’t the one.”

  He starts laughin’ again. “Let me stop fuckin’ wit’ you, ma. Like I said, I was thinkin’ ’bout you so I wanted to hit you up. If a muhfucka is outta pocket for havin’ you on the brain, let me know.”

  I shake my head. “It’s whateva. It’s all good.”

  “I bet it is,” he says all low ’n sexy. “What you got on?”

  “Clothes, muhfucka,” I snap, veerin’ off onto Linden Boulevard. “Look, can I hit you back lata? I’m kinda in da middle of handlin’ sumthin’.”

  “Yeah, aiiight. No doubt. Go handle ya business, ma. I’ll get at you.”

  “Cool,” I tell ’im as I make a right onto Amboy Street, then pull into the parkin’ garage. I find a parkin’ space up on the third level, pull in, then sit and finish smokin’ my blunt. I check my face ’n hair in the mirror, then get outta my whip, clickin’ the alarm.

  As I’m makin’ my way through the walkway to the hospital, my cell rings again. It’s Chanel. “Wasssup, tramp?”

  “Shit. What’s good wit’ you?” For some reason I don’t tell ’er I’m in Brooklyn; that I’m en route to see Juanita. I lie and tell ’er I’m out on a date. “Oh, shiiiiiit,” she snaps, soundin’ all amped ’n shit. “That’s wassup. I’m glad you finally are cummin’ to ya senses and goin’ out to get you some dick.”

  “Whoa, slow down, cowgirl. It’s not that deep. I’m in ’n out; that’s it.”

  “Whateva, ho. Stop neglectin’ that pussy of yours and let a nigga bust that dusty-ass hole open. Damn.”

  “Bitch, please. Ya trick-ass does ’nough fuckin’ for the both of us. I ain’t beat to have my shit lookin’ like da inside of a garbage truck. No thank you, ma’am.” She cracks the hell up. “Look, ho, I’m out.”

  She continues laughin’. “Yeah, aiight. Give me a call when you’re finished doin’ e’erything else ’cept waxin’ a dick. Divine’s somewhere doin’ what he does and I’m here alone for the week. Come through so we can smoke and you can give me all the details.”

  “Cool, cool,” I tell ’er as I approach the information desk. We talk a few minutes more, then disconnect. The pasty-faced, redhaired chick at the desk—with her splotchy- ass skin—tries to give me feva ’bout the visitin’ hours and whatnot, but a bitch like me ain’t havin’ it. She gives me the info I need and I pop my hips toward the elevator.

  “HELLO?” A TALL, DARK-CHOCOLATE MALE NURSE ASKS, STOPPIN’ me as I make my way down the hall, passin’ the nurse’s station. He has a hint of a Caribbean accent. And the muhfucka got the nerve to be aiight lookin’. “Can I help you?”

  “I’m here to see someone,” I tell ’im, glancin’ his way.

  “I’m sorry, but visiting hours are over. You’ll have to come back during our regular visiting hours from eleven a.m. to eight p.m.”

  Nigga, you betta check my credentials, I think, stoppin’ in my tracks. “’Scuse me?” I snap, twistin’ my lip up. For some reason, I feel myself ’bout to spazz the fuck out on ’im for tryna disrupt my damn flow. But, surprisin’ly, I catch myself and keep it cute; take a deep breath. “Listen,” I say, sighin’. “I was told my mother is lyin’ up in here on life support. And it’s been hard on me.”

  “I’m really sorry, Miss…” He pauses, waits for me to fill in the blank.

  Ohmiiiiiiiiiimuthafuckin’Gaaaawd, this tight-ass muhfucka. “It’s Katrina. And I really need to see my mother, tonight.”

  “Okay, Katrina. I really wish I could help you. But you’ll have to come back in the morning; sorry, policy.”

  I blink. Pull in my bottom lip. In a split second I’m ’bout to shred the shit outta this nigga for bein’ a goddamn asshole. I take a deep breath; steady my ’tude. “Nooooo, wrong answer. I don’t need to come back durin’ regular visitin’ hours. I need to find her room, now, so I can see this wit’ my own eyes. I flew all the way here from California. I’m stressed and exhausted. All I’m askin’ for is a few minutes; that’s it. But, obviously that’s too much for you to consider. Thanks for nuthin’.” I go to step off, but he stops me.

  “Hold up,” he says, changin’ his tone. He reaches for a clipboard, then shifts through the pages. “What’s ya mother’s name?” he asks. “Oh, Missus Rivera in room six-ten.” Oh, puhleeeeze, I think, starin’ at ’im, that ho-ass bitch wishes she was somebody’s missus.

  “She’s not married,” I correct. I peep how this horny-ass nigga starts eye-ballin’ me and decide to bat my eyes a bit to get what I want. “Listen, umm,” I pause, glancin’ at his badge, “nurse Lewis”—I lick my lips, lookin’ him up ’n down—“I know you’re only doin’ your job, and I realize it’s really late, but if there’s anyway you can bend the rules just this once, pleeeeeeease,”—I hit ’im wit’ a sexy grin—“I’d ’preciate it. I really need to see her. I’ve been worried sick.” Lies, I know! So the fuck what!

  He glances at his watch, lookin’ ’round the nurse’s station. “Okay, but you’ll have to do something for me.”

  I raise my brow. “And what’s that? I know you not ’bout to ask me ta suck ya dick or some other nasty shit like that.”

  He chokes, coughin’ back a laugh. “No, no; nothing like that.”

  “Oh, ’cause I was ’bout to say,” I tell ’im, shiftin’ my handbag from one hand to the other. “You tryna get a fist upside ya dome.”

  He laughs harder. “You a feisty one. But, no, I’d like to get ya number; maybe meet up for dinner sometime; if that’s okay with you.”

  This pussy-hound muhfucka, I think, starin’ into his hazel eyes. I decide to play ’im close; keep the nigga on my hip in case I need ’im for sumthin’ pressin’.”

  I grin, fishin’ a pen outta my bag. I reach for his hand, then write my number in the palm of his hand. When I am done, I sign KAT underneath it. He smiles. Tells me his name is DeAndre; that he’ll hit me up tomorrow.

  “I’ll be waitin’,” I tell ’im, walkin’ off. I stop, turnin’ back to face ’im. “Ummm, before I go see ’er, do you mind tellin’ me exactly what happened to ’er?”

  He tells me that she was found unconscious in the bathtub naked and badly beaten. Tells me that she suffered serious injuries to ’er face and head. That whoever did this shit beat ’er in the head numerous times, then bit her face causin’ permanent disfigurement. Ohmymuthafuckin’Gaaaawd, what kinda muhfucka would bite a bitch in ’er face? I blink, knowin’ the answer. Still, what kinda animal is that no-good muhfucka for doin’ some shit like this? He then tells me the police are still lookin’ for the muhfucka. Puhleeze, this nigga’s still out on the loose ’cause muhfuckas ain’t really tryna look for ’im. Juanita may not be shit to me, but ain’t no way, a bitch gonna front like she’s cool wit’ this nigga gettin’ awa
y wit’ this shit. Once again, I gotta handle another one’a this bitch’s battles. That nigga gotta get it. I may not like the bitch, but what this muthafucka did, this time, is…unthinkable. I feel my nose flarin’. I ask how long she was unconscious before she went into a coma, then went brain dead.

  “She was in critical condition for over a month before she slipped into a coma and stopped breathing,” he continues, slowly shakin’ his head. He takes me in. I guess he’s waitin’ for me to respond. I don’t. “She basically has no brain function. She’s being kept alive on a respirator.”

  “And ya’ll are keepin’ her on life support becauuuuuse?” I ask this already knowin’ the answer, but I play stupid. There’s a part of me that is hopin’ the shit isn’t true; that she isn’t really knocked up.

  “To save her unborn baby.”

  I take in a deep breath; try to steady my nerves. “Why? The bit…I mean, she’s dead. Shouldn’t ya’ll be givin’ her an abortion or sumthin’?”

  “That’s not our call.”

  “So whose call was it?”

  “Her next of kin,” he tells me.

  I blink, blink again. “And who was that?”

  “There’s no living will that the family was aware of, so the decision to keep her on life support was made by her mother.” I roll my eyes. “The doctors would have taken her off of life support and declared her dead if it wasn’t for her havin’ family support and being pregnant. Besides, she’s too far along.”

  What the fuck?! I swallow back my disgust. “’Exactly how far along you talkin’?” I ask, bracin’ myself up against the counter.

  “She’s in her twentieth week.”

  OhmyGaaaawd, the bitch is five months’ pregnanat. “And she’s dead,” I add for effect. “And probably carrryin’ some kinda bubble-head alien with no arms ’n shit.”

  “On the contrary. From what the sonogram showed three days ago, she’s carryin’ a healthy baby, kicking and moving about in her womb with all of its limbs.”

  I feel myself gettin’ nauseous. A film of sweat forms over my neatly arched brows and it starts to feel like I’m standin’ on balls of fire in these Marc Jacob six-inch pencil-heels. I wipe my forehead. Shift my weight from one foot to the other.

  “And how long do you plan on keepin’ her tubed up?” I ask, lettin’ my handbag drop down from the crook of my arm to my hand.

  He tells me for at least another five weeks; that that’s the earliest a premature baby can be delivered and survive. Tells me the longer they are able to keep her on life support and the baby inside ’er, the greater its chances of survival. That bringin’ it into full-term at thirty-seven weeks would be the preference. But keepin’ a fetus in the womb for that long would be a greater risk. That it could expose it to a host of infections. I feel my knees gettin’ weak. I don’t wanna hear shit else.

  “Thanks,” I say, walkin’ off; my heels angrily stabbin’ the white-tiled floor wit’ each step. I feel his eyes on my ass so I glance over my shoulder and bust ’im starin’. Niggas!

  I stop in front of ’er door. Take a deep breath. Steady my nerves. Then step into the dimly-lit room to face my past. A woman I have fuckin’ hated for most of my life, but still—like a silly, stupid ass ho—once yearned for something she was incapable of givin’—love. The only light in the room is comin’ from outta the bathroom. My eyes adjust to its dimness. And there she lay; hooked up to a ventilator and other machines. IV tubes run through her body. Her face and head is wrapped in gauze. The bitch looks a mess!

  I step closer to ’er bed. Study e’ery inch of the woman who pushed me outta her pussy, then pushed me outta ’er life. Ignored me; neglected to nurture me and love me. Unexpectedly, starin’ down at ’er makes a bitch’s heart ache. I block out the hummin’ of the machines in the room. My eyes burn wit’ hate toward this woman.

  As I lean in, I grit my teeth, blink back painful memories of bein’ abandoned by this fuckin’ heartless bitch. “You no-good, selfish bitch,” I hiss in ’er ear. “All my life you’ve done nuthin’ but think ’bout ya’self, bringin’ no-count niggas and drama in ’n outta your life, and into mine. When you were gettin’ ya ass beat, you neva gave’a fuck ’bout how that shit affected me. E’ry nigga you let disrespect you, you let disrespect me. But you was too dick-whipped to see that shit. When two’a ya muhfuckas was comin’ into my room and I told you how da niggas were creepin’ in my room, you had da muthafuckin’ audacity to blame me for da shit, or act like I was makin’ da shit up. And ’cause of you, you dick-dumb-ho, I had’a take matters into my own hands…”

  I take a deep breath. I’m fifteen, again; back in that darkened, piss-stained stairwell holdin’ a gun. It’s cocked and aimed at the nigga who constantly beat Juanita’s ass and snuck in my room suckin’ on my titties and diggin’ his nasty-ass fingas all up in my pussy. I pull the trigger, empty the clip. Blood and brains and chunks of skull are splattered against the cement wall. I squeeze my eyes shut, then reopen them, bringin’ my attention back to Juanita.

  I clench my teeth. “…Not once, bitch, did you eva consider how your fucked up ways and choices hurt me; that my own mother turned ’er muthafuckin’ back on me; chose ’er niggas ova me. I fuckin’ hate you for that shit, bitch. All my life you’ve hurt me one way or another wit’ your neglect and bullshit. And, now, even in death you fuckin’ come wit’ drama. All I want is to be free from you, once and for all.”

  I glance down at her protrudin’ belly beneath the white sheet. Another fuckin’ life ruined. “I hope you rot in hell. I feel like punchin’ you in your fuckin’ stomach. You couldn’t be a mother to me, and now your stupid ass is lyin’ here dead, carryin’ anotha child you’ll never be a mother to. Another child you’re ’bout to abandon ’cause your stupid, trick-ass couldn’t stay da fuck away from fucked up muhfuckas. You’re a fuckin’ bitch,” I say, fightin’ back tears. “Do you really think I’ma let you bring an orphan into this world?” I ask, pausin’ as if she can hear me. “Oh no, sweetie, I will have that thing that grows inside of you gutted out, first, before I let that happen. I’d rather see it dead along wit’ you.”

  I have the urge to slap the shit outta ’er bandaged face and spit on ’er. I clench my hand shut. Glance ’round the room, then bring my eyes to the machine that pumps air into ’er lungs. I stare at the cord that connects the ventilator. Follow its length to the outlet. Wit’out a doubt, I know ’xactly what’a bitch has’ta do. “Sweet dreams, bitch,” I say, walkin’ out the door.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Lights out…da party’s ova…nuthin’ to be confused ’bout…no use in sheddin’ tears…bankrupt ho had ’er run…wasted ’er years…lettin’ niggas steal ’er worth…drain ’er senses…empty out ’er heart…now she’s laid up on ’er deathbed…poor thing…bitch died a long time ago…walked among the livin’ dead…no use hangin’ on…I already know why da caged bird sings…

  “Pull da plug,” I tell the doctor. It’s nine o’clock in the mornin’, and I made it my business to get back to the hospital to let ’em know what it is. I can tell I’ve shocked ’im. But I don’t give a fuck. I want Juanita’s ass put to rest so I can get on wit’ my life. He stares at me; pushes his rimmed glasses up over the bridge of his stumpy nose.

  “Excuse me?” he asks, blinkin’ his wide brown eyes.

  “You heard me. It’s time to put that bit…my mother, outta her misery.”

  “It’s not that simple; she’s with child,” he tells me like I don’t already know this shit. He tries to convince me to reconsider; to think on it a few more days. He tells me she’s carryin’ a healthy baby that can be safely delivered in another five to six weeks.

  “I know all that,” I tell ’im. “Still doesn’t change my mind.”

  “Miss Rivera, if you’d just hold off for a few more weeks. Then the fetus will be viable outside of the womb.”

  After seein’ her last night, then talkin’ to that nigga DeAndre afterward, I’m well aware of my options as
her daughter, and next of kin. I let ’im know this. If I wait too long, like ’er hittin’ her third trimester, then it’s a wrap. A judge can step in ’n block shit. “I’m not interested,” I say, gettin’ up. “I want the plug pulled today.”

  He calls for a social worker who tries to talk me out of it, then in comes the on duty charge nurse and the hospital administrator. All three, white bitches wit’ a buncha pressed powder on they faces. They are all lookin’ at me like I’m fucked up for wantin’ to shut shit down.

  “And what about the unborn fetus?” the skinny social worker bitch asks.

  “What about it? It has no rights.”

  “But it’a life,” the nurse states.

  “Wit’ no rights,” I repeat. “And no damn say.”

  The administrator threatens to get a court order to protect its rights. I laugh in the bitch’s face. Little do they know I sat up and kicked it wit’ that nigga DeAndre for almost two hours last night and got put onto what’s what.

  “Bitch, I don’t give’a fuck ’bout no court order. Like I said, it has no rights. As long as Jua…my mother is not in her third trimester; no judge can tell me what da fuck to do. There is no livin’ will. And there is no other parent to step up to speak on its behalf. And if there was, his ass would be en route to prison for doin’ what he did. So da only one in this matter who has rights would be Juanita Rivera, but since she’s incapable of makin’ any decisions that leaves me. I’m her daughter. And that makes me her next of kin and guardian, no?”

  “Yes. But, Miss Rivera, please. Take some time to think about what you are asking us to do. All we ask is that you reconsider and think this through.”

  “I’ve thought it through, and I’ve made my decision. So, this discussion is ova. Pull the goddamn plug.” I get up to walk out, then turn to face them. “If you won’t, I will. So go get the priest, pastor or whoever so we can get this done. I’ll be—”

  I’m interrupted by a buncha commotion comin’ from outside the door. The door swings open. “Where da fuck is that, bitch, hunh?! Where is she?!” It’s Rosa, wide-eyed and wild. My aunt Elise is right behind ’er. Obviously one’a these cream-puff bitches in the room called ’em. “Bitch, who da fuck is you wantin’ to pull the plug on my sista, hunh? How dare you wanna kill her and her baby. You crazy-ass bitch!”