Wages of Sin

By Charlene Gage

Enduring the pain of her mother's murder, her father's rejection, and her grandmother's rules, Reva rebels against all positive influences. With an abortion behind her by age fifteen, Reva spirals from one bad decision to the next, with no guidelines to distinguish right from wrong.

Intentionally getting pregnant to lure the married man she thinks she loves, Reva constantly flounders to provide for the son she finally bears. Stability eludes her at every turn. Despite the pack of despicable characters doing despicable things, this novel focuses on how abuse and neglect affect Reva over and over again.

Her decisions ultimately lead to a juxtaposed life of luxurious living off drug money against the emotional and physical pain her choices create. With her youth stolen, Reva vows to not destroy her future and break the vicious cycle that started in childhood.

Reva's life mirrors that of many women who fight racism, poverty, incest, single parenthood, and drugs just to survive. As you read Wages of Sin, you'll be horrified by the actions that feel so real, yet be compelled to turn the page to see what happens next.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: May 7, 2008
• ISBN: 9780595877577

Charlene Gage

Born in Houston, Texas, Charlene Gage lost her mother at the age of seven. Shortly thereafter, she moved to Opelousas, Louisiana, to live with her grandparents. After graduating from high school, Gage returned to Houston to attend Texas Southern University, graduating with a bachelor?s degree in biology.

Book preview

Chapter 1

As I lay in my plush, custom-made king-size sleigh bed—Kyle had bought it for me from Noel furniture, one of the most expensive contemporary stores in Houston—the door squeaked as Christian slowly opened it. I heard his little footsteps trampling across my room. He climbed up the side of the bed, grabbed my neck with his sticky little fingers, leaned in, and smeared peanut butter on my cheek as he kissed it.

He placed a letter on my satin pillow and ran out of the room. As I read the letter that he had written to Kyle, tears began to fall from my eyes and my hands began to tremble.

Dad are you comeing home Yes or No

If you come home I will be happy. Do you know that I love you. Christian

Sadness filled my heart as I recalled my past manipulating ways and thought how my innocent son was the one suffering because of them. Christian would always be a reminder of how foolish I had been. The fine diamonds, gourmet meals, and lavish trips were gone; hugs and kisses from my son will be my everlasting memories. However, those luxuries came at a high price, and I had to go through some horrible things to get to my new wonderful life with my son, which is simple and deliriously happy.

As I lay in the bed, I thought of another stark contrast in my life as I reflected on my own childhood. A mother and child’s connection begins in the womb. No greater bond exists than that of a mother and an unborn child. Only by the blood of her body can the mother nourish her child. Everything she eats, drinks, or inhales, good or bad, becomes part of that growing child. So for nine months, I was fed and nurtured by my mother by way of her bloodstream. It was not until after a painful labor that I was delivered, disconnected from Mom’s umbilical cord, and became a part of this sinfully tragic world. If she could have carried me throughout my entire life, as kangaroos carry their babies, protected from danger and secure from fear, I think I would have been better off.

Even from an early age, I was more complex as a child than any adult could have imagined. My memories from early childhood started from about kindergarten. The classroom setting in my class was similar to that of a house. In the back was a miniature kitchen with a refrigerator, stove, washer and dryer, sink, and a dining table. We kids loved playing house.

For reasons unknown to me, and even perhaps them, my parents were unable to agree on anything. Whenever there was a problem, they could hardly be in the same room, let alone the same house, not even for the sake of giving me a family unit that included both a mom and a dad. Their union had created a child, and their eventual separation destroyed much of that child’s spirit. I always thought that it must have been heart-wrenching for them to destroy such a union, unless I had been born of lust instead of love, that is. During those times, I could have gone back to my kindergarten kitchen and broken all of those dishes and turned over the dining table in a violent rage. Maybe I should have let my feelings out instead of keeping them in but never knowing when I might explode into something adults would have called hitting puberty.

My dad visited some weekends and some holidays, just as I knew a disconnected, part-time father would, causing me to cling to my mother more and more. After my father left, I took his spot in the king-size bed beside my mother.

I must admit: I was a spoiled little brat. My mom had to spoil me; I was all she had. Plus, I had new responsibilities at home; including helping take care of her. But apparently this was not quite enough for my mother, and she began to seek comfort elsewhere. Soon she found a male companion, James, an old acquaintance of hers. The first time I met him, he had come to take Mama to a zydeco dance at our church. James sat outside, his car parked in the street, while he waited for my mom to come out. My cousins and I were playing outside. It wasn’t quite dark yet. The other children were teasing me about my mom’s new boyfriend. James beckoned me over to his car. I hesitantly went over. James was puffing on a cigarette. He smiled and began to talk. I graciously gathered as much saliva as I could in my mouth, forming a spitball. And I let him have it.

He was shocked. His smile suddenly turned to a frown. I swiftly ran away. James angrily flicked the cigarette out of the window. My mother was walking out of the house as James shouted, Angelle, that li’l girl spit on me!

My escape plan was interrupted as my mother grabbed my arm. Before she could say a thing, I tried to lie, which didn’t work. She spanked me on my rear end as I pleaded for her to stop. I did accomplish something; I delayed her date, but only briefly. My mom rode off with James while I stood in tears by the curb. I didn’t want her to leave me. I was the result of the joining of two people, so by right, my dad should not so easily be replaced, especially if I had anything to do with it.

Nothing I did, however, prevented my mom from keeping her male friend. One date turned into multiple dates; visits turned into sleepovers; sleepovers turned into James becoming a permanent houseguest. There went my spot in the king-size bed. I had literally been forced out. Ooh, but I put up a good fight. I cried like a wounded cat outside my mother’s door until she felt sorry for me and allowed me to sleep between her and her new lover. When they thought I was fast asleep, I was very carefully moved to the side so they could carry on with their adult business. My mother would moan and groan as the bed vibrated. I would just lie there and cry silently, finally falling asleep.

Without understanding why, I despised another man being with my mom in the same way my father had been. My parents’ connection had been a special one. It created me, and now it was destroying me. It wasn’t that I didn’t want my mother to be happy. Even in my innocence, it was very clear that allowing a new man into our lives definitely decreased the chances that she and my daddy would ever reconcile. And this was very painful.

As time went on, I began to adjust to not having my father around and accept my mother’s new boyfriend. But that didn’t prevent me from being rebellious at times. It’s funny looking back on some of the things I did for attention. Once, Mama dropped me off at school, as she always did. I discretely left campus and returned home. I knew my mom’s pattern. After she dropped me off, she would go back home to get ready for work. Her Ford station wagon was the perfect hiding place; she never thought to look for me in the back of the car, where I lay quietly as she drove. As she approached her job, I jumped up and startled her.

For some strange reason, she wasn’t mad; she must’ve known I only wanted to be where she was. Perhaps she understood what I was going through more than I realized, but she didn’t know how to speak to me at a child’s level. Therefore, we would carry on with our daily routine, leaving many words unsaid, stories untold, and questions unanswered, and second-guess our decisions as we traveled through our path in life. In life, we have only the Holy Bible to look to while searching for understanding and peace in what has happened in our lives. But since Mama and I didn’t follow the Bible’s guidance, our journey became only foggier.

Once I was playing at a neighbor’s house. My friend was a little younger than I was. Can you imagine a little black girl visiting her white neighbors and the perfect, Carol Brady-like, white mom catching this visitor on top of her precious, blonde Cindy Brady, humping her? Oops, no more visits to that house. I was sent home, never to return. Lucky for me, Mom never found out the curiosity she had created in me to find out what pleasure there was in that moaning and groaning. After being banned from my friend’s house, I decided not to play this game with anyone else. Better leave those games to the adults. Besides, my mother’s response to her boyfriend was nowhere near that of Carol Brady.

And then, one cold, dreary night, my life changed forever. My cousins and I were playing inside when my great-aunt Leola made a horrifying announcement. She threw her hands in the air and exclaimed, Yall moms are dead!

For a moment, silence filled the room. Then a thunder of crying arose. All of us kids were weeping and hugging each other. Shortly after, my daddy arrived, cuddled me in his arms, and then took me home with him to meet his new girlfriend. All night I cried. The next morning, news continued to spread. As it turned out, my mother was the only one who had died. She had been stabbed fifteen times in the back with an ice pick. She died instantly. Her sister had been stabbed in the back five times, but she survived.

No stranger committed this violent crime; it was my mother’s brother’s wife and her sisters. Can you imagine sitting around a dinner table during the holidays, eating with someone who would someday wash their hands with your mother’s blood? We always expect strangers to be the ones to do us harm, so we let our guard down, only to be betrayed by those closest to us. It makes me sick to my stomach that my aunt, whom we welcomed with open arms into our family, destroyed it. I can remember as a child kissing and hugging her. Now when I revisit that memory, I can taste my mother’s blood and feel that ice pick stabbing me as my aunt kisses and hugs me. The thought of my mother’s death sends chills up and down my spine. How close are we really to death at any given time?

All I remember about my mother’s funeral is that I couldn’t even touch her. I was told that she died with her eyes open, and if I touched her, her eyes would pop open. Apparently, after she was stabbed in the back, she had turned over with her eyes open gleaming through the thick white clouds as her soul departed her body. She was watching God, I believe, and that alone let me know that she hadn’t feared death. That brought me the only happiness I knew during this terrible time. The funeral was at Our Mother of Mercy Catholic Church in Grand Coteau, Louisiana. The Mass began as mourners filled the church. The funeral home staff had opened the casket for mourners to have a final view of my mother, dressed beautifully, hair dressed, eyes shut tightly. Colorful flowers were layered on each side of the casket and lined on the floor near the casket. An arrangement was placed atop the lower portion of