Die with a Little Dignity: A Harlem Tale for the New Renaissance

By Leroy Mathis

A cautionary tale about Harlem. The only place in the world , that banker and vagabond live side by side. This book entails many back stories. The main theme is about a white woman who overcomes the dreaded enduramce of abuse; a parmount violation from a maniac. It questions the act of being religous, freindship without sexuality, gentrification, and a trip to the celestrial.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 25, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465357885

Leroy Mathis

I was born in Tuskegee, Alabama in 1948 to the parents of Leroy and Mildred Mathis. We moved to Kenilworth, NJ in 1950 and that’s where I spent my formative years. As early as the age of seven I knew that there was a difference between whites and blacks and it was disturbing. I was assigned to be less than and second place to the dominate culture. I remember the children that needed the National Guard to go to school in Little Rock, Arkansas. I remember the two that needed them to go to Ole Miss in the early 60’s. I remember the deaths of Martin, John, Robert, and Malcolm X too; they all took a piece of a fragile heart. I will fill in the blanks to this story when a feature my poetry. I have a great passion for writing and I have fallen in love with it. It has freed my soul from bondage. I write fictional stories that mention historical facts and all of my books have a spiritual thread that bind the stories together. So tired of the stereo types in society; I feature a white woman as the lead character in my book. This is what Martin’s dream has meant to me. This is how I see the world and present a mosaic that seems to be working and it is surely the future. We are all touched by the inter-dependency of all cultures in the world today. I love America and would rather not be anywhere else. I truly appreciate my freedom to express myself and am in love with the internet. I would rather be dead in America than live in a land of tyranny.

Book preview

1  

The Ordeal

The leaves were almost all red, orange, yellow, and brown; all were swirling in the autumn wind. Carrie pulled her house coat closed to block the engaging brisk wind. It was crunchy out, just as she liked it. The chill aroused her and made her feel alive. She couldn’t have asked for a better day to start the Halloween festivities. It was picture perfect— the pumpkins lined the streets and the wicked witches and goblins hung in the doorways and lattices. It reminded her of the Halloween parties they used to have in Minnesota. Although there, the houses weren’t as close together as they are in New York. The neighbors took turns throwing parties, because it was just too far to walk.

When she bent down to pick up the morning paper she noticed a middle aged man pushing a raggedy shopping cart down the street. She couldn’t help but wonder whether or not he lived in the neighborhood. What had happened to make people abandon half a neighborhood? She thought. As he approached he spoke. Good morning ma’am. She returned the gesture. In passing she also noticed his swollen hands. Then she knew he was a drug addict; polite but still, an addict. He was proof of a Harlem story, where millions of dreams had been bought and sold on these very mean streets. The eviction of souls was a common place occurrence and copious. The heroin sickness would awaken with the sun and misery in the face of temporary comfort would be their faithful companion. Hope was never to be found again and that was the reality etched in the lines on his face. For just a moment, she bore the yoke— the troubles of a weary neighborhood— but now it was time to go to work. She took the papers in hand and turned to go into her brownstone located at 144 W. 118th St.

Carrie made her way to the kitchen with hot java on her mind and was met there by Chauncey. Well, what’s up this morning? Carrie’s mind was still on that man she had just seen; she really didn’t hear or see Chauncey. In a trifle of a trance, she poured her coffee and went to take her seat at the table. To what do we owe this cameo appearance? Only then did she snap out of it.

Shawn left at five o’clock. What time is it now?

It’s about 6:15. He must have whipped that ass last night.

Yeah, baby. He whipped it real good.

Then Juanita came from the bathroom. Girl you should have heard this dirty whore. Chauncey was gushing. Quick to respond, Nita played the game. Well what did she say?

She said that Shawn whopped that thang good last night.

You should have heard them moaning and groaning. It almost made my nipples hard, said Chauncey.

You got your swerve on, huh girl?

I suppose I did . . . . . Well they say.—Do it ’til you’re satisfied! answers Carrie.

Man is this room spinning?—Boy, I have a vicious hang over, Juanita said while running her hands through her hair. She had sworn that she wasn’t going to drink with the customers again, but she always seemed to fall victim with the right one. Juanita had been without a boyfriend going on two years now and was quite thirsty for love, due to the human yearnings. Chauncey would always tease her about her man problems and this morning was no different. When was the last time you had some, girlfriend? asked Chauncey.

Since Curtis and I broke up. It were two years ago.

I know that thang is hot, mentioned Carrie.

Why I’m surprised you haven’t raped a man by now, Chauncey said sarcastically.

Chauncey was a flamboyant, drag queen and there was no telling what would come out of her mouth. So Nita decided to grin and bear it. It seemed the more outrageous she was, the more the other girls dismissed her actions as mundane. She was from Louisiana, and won a scholarship to NYU in the arts in 1996. She was born to middle class parents that gave their son a chance in life that some would give their right arm for. He wasn’t completely ‘out’ then, but they could tell, by his extreme tendencies, what would be his lifestyle. They were just waiting for the closet doors to open. This was a rather odd group to become roommates and friends. Upon arrival at college, Chauncey came out of the closet and portrayed herself as a woman. She was so beautiful, she was never challenged. What a combination— a transsexual, a black girl from the hood trying to better herself, and a white girl who was the symbol of a nerd—to have become roommates.

They all graduated and found work in their related fields. But fate would take them to Harlem to take advantage of the real estate bonanza. It netted them a restaurant, forty rental units and a four family brownstone. Carrie put up most of the money, but the other girls put up their hard earned bucks too. They did their part in the New Harlem Renaissance; a multi-cultural and en vogue experience.

Carrie snapped out of her daydreaming and re-entered the conversation. As she was leaning against the kitchen counter, she offered Juanita her commiseration and then added. Girl I know that thing is about to explode.

Yeah, but I’m trying to have a second virginity or something like that.—Do you know what I mean?

Oh wow. You’re waiting for a Knight in shining armor for a second time.—I don’t know about that one.

Oh. No honey! No she isn’t.—You only get one of those. No girlfriend, I’m sorry, but you are waiting in vain. You better catch one of those construction hunks. —At least he can rock your world if nothing else, said Chauncey.

Juanita turned in her seat and spoke softly to Chauncey. Maybe he won’t be riding a white horse. —Maybe he’ll be on a jack ass—I’m just saving my love for the right person, explained Nita. Chauncey paused for a moment and then rebutted.

Well does it have to be a college man?

No, that’s how I always messed up before, by putting pre-qualifications on love. Some people ask for a rich man, a man of humor, tall dark and handsome. I just want a good man. That’s all.

Carrie nodded in affirmation and said, So you want to settle down and get married.

Yes I do.—My biological clock is ticking and running out of ticks. I don’t plan on being left out.

What about you, Carrie? Don’t you love Steven enough to marry him? Nita asked.

This topic had obviously been bothering her because she seemed forever prone to choose the wrong men. She wondered, was Carrie choosing wrong also? Maybe she was just attracted to the wrong type and she needed some help —desperately.

Carrie has become hip and I think that she’s digging for a little gold, blurted Chauncey.

Listen, child. Shawn doesn’t have the money that Carrie has. He’s broke I tell ya, said Nita.

You better get your facts straight before you run off at the mouth, said Carrie.

Oh wow! I’ll be damned. I thought that Shawn was loaded, said Chauncey.

You had better watch those rum and cokes in the evening. You must still be a little toasty sister, added Carrie. Chauncey put her hands on her side and snapped two fingers up and said, You didn’t have to go there, home girl. —No, that wasn’t right. The girls would have a similar conversation on every morning without fail. It was the way they chose to communicate and Carrie had learned how to play the dozens. Across the table sat Juanita, nodding and daydreaming about the new neighborhood.

They owned prime real estate and business was good and growing fast. Every time someone would finish a renovation, new customers were visiting the café. Harlem was getting a face lift and CJC’s was a vibrant part of it. But not every one felt that way and no one knew that better than Carrie. Now and then a drunk would come into the café, carrying on about how white folk were coming into the hood and moving black folks out. The truth about the matter was that blacks let their own neighborhood decay. In the 70’s the mayor of New York had offered the buildings for a mere dollar. All that was required was that they had to fix the building up slowly, but there were only a few takers. ‘Gentries’, as they are called, are smart business persons. They were upwardly mobile, educated, and entered a bear real estate market.

The money they spent downtown would be better spent on a renovation uptown of a three or four story brownstone, with a back yard. Is it a coincidence that most of the people were white or is it some kind of ridiculous ‘mojo’? Should Carrie be harassed for a wise investment with black partners?

Well I think gentrification has its good points and bad points. The bad part is real estate prices sky rocket as the area builds up.—That affects people on fixed incomes and welfare recipients, said Chauncey. That remark shook Nita out of her day dream. Well I feel like its too bad people are too lazy to educate themselves.—Even the mentally challenged can learn and do a trade, remarked Nita bitterly.

Carrie had a look of surprise on her face. Juanita, you’re so cold and cruel. —Don’t you empathize with these people? I’m a firm believer in low income housing, percentage wise, to offset the gentrification effects and to preserve the ethic integrity of the neighborhood— But you can’t legislate, a decent human being.

Nita was fidgeting in her seat and then offered. That’s alright, but they should do some sort of drug testing to qualify for this type of housing.—There are too many dragon hunters around here.

What’s a dragon hunter? Carrie asked.

Home girl, that’s a cris—zack head, answered Chauncey.

Yeah, but you have to look at the history of Harlem and the policies that were asserted to that community.—There was no war on drugs. There was a war against black people by the mob with police protection, which allowed them to sell drugs. —Are we not a Christian nation and are we not our brother’s keeper?—And how do you blame a people for being vulnerable to a covert attack on the spirit and soul? —A nation is judged by how it treats its poor and down trodden, preached Carrie.

Chauncey started shouting, popping fingers and dancing. Hmm, a very eloquent declaration!—I forgot your college major was in Urban Politics.

It doesn’t have anything to do with what happened in real time and space, barked Carrie. She had spoken the truth, because there was no war on drugs and King Heroin reigned supreme in the streets of Harlem. There was dope in every block and only the strong survived. Hands were swollen, with ulcers that festered and the eviction of souls was an every day experience. The emergency room was overflowing with overdoses and dreams were DOA in the Valley of the Dragon Hunters. Most of Harlem’s people were in competitive suffering blaming the man.

The dragon hunters were clamoring in emergency rooms trying to find out where the victim had copped, so they could buy his temporary dream.—Just one more moment of peace!

Heroin reigned until the Queen arrived to the general public in 1983. It took just five years for it to ravage the entire community. It made sons fight their mothers and mothers sell their children. It finished taking what dignity that was left in Harlem, as despair became the mortal enemy of hope. So, now, it was time for Harlem to heal. It would survive to a point.

Now, Carrie. I have listened to your liberal interpretations of the status quo and history of Harlem.—I think that regardless to the circumstances of the drugs.—They all made a choice . . . . I’m not asking them to disregard those responsible, but what I am asking, is that we stop using it as an excuse for deviant behavior. It’s time to step up to the plate and swing even if we strike out, elaborated Juanita brilliantly.

Chauncey was so anxious to talk, her mouth filled with saliva. Well, I like the delivery of the short speech. —But it seems to me the gentries cause a domino affect. Society is constantly changing and the people must learn to adapt to those changes, if they expect to survive. It’s just that simple enough. Why do people claim to want independence, yet they do nothing but attach themselves in dependent government roles?

Carrie continued to sip her coffee and then rebutted. Yes, the real and the ideal are polar extremities. Their application becomes somewhat confused by so many variables and the object is therefore aborted. What people want to do and what they actually do are two different events.

Juanita sat wide legged in the chair and pulled the sides off her house coat up in her lap and said, Are they not as little children?—Do they feel too inadequate to compete?—Have they lost their will as a people to fight for a better way of life? They all thought a moment, but said nothing.

Well ladies if we are not at work pretty soon, we’ll be on the welfare, said Chauncey. —And all of them started getting up from the table.

I wouldn’t be surprised if you weren’t getting a digit, ya know, Nita said.

Child, now you know better than that, said Chauncey.

Who is going to open up this morning. asked Carrie.

I believe Barbara or Carol. One of the old standbys will.—One or the other, noted Chauncey.

What’s that burning? Nita asked.

Oh it’s just that old toaster.—Carrie let her bread burn in that old raggedy thing. Open the window and let some fresh air in this palace of smoke, said Chauncey sarcastically. That’s alright I’ll do it myself. and went over to the lattice, opened the gate and let the window up. Carrie got rid of the burnt toast and swore never to use it again. Then everyone went to their respective rooms to get ready for work. Two of the girls had showered the night before, but of course Carrie believed in showering in the morning. It was a white thing.

Chauncey was a flaming sissy of epic proportion and her beautiful long hair was real. After she finished putting on her uniform, she stood in the full length mirror and carefully applied her make up, and puckered her lips when she was finished. By now she was very comfortable with her homosexuality, but her boy friend was deep in the closet and didn’t want to ever come out.

As for Juanita, her relationship had fallen on hard times. She just couldn’t find the right man. She couldn’t kill anything and nothing would die. But one thing was for sure, they had each other and they were die-hard workers, as well as best friends.

Juanita, are you ready yet?

Coming right now.

Carrie went and jumped in the shower. That was the treat of the morning and it was very appreciated and refreshing. She was the major partner of the three, so this was just one of her perks. She would always be the last one to get to work. The girls didn’t mind, because it was like taking one for the team, so to speak.

While in the shower she was easy with her coochie, because Shawn had whipped it until it was sore.—A good type of soreness! The time had come for the girls to go to work and they stopped by the bathroom door and shouted. Hey Carrie we’re out of here, don’t forget to close the kitchen window before you leave.

Alright—alright I know —daaaaa! The girls were finally on their way and Carrie got out of the shower whistling a popular tune. She dried off good and put on her robe. As she walked to her bedroom, she thought she heard a noise and stopped.—But she dismissed it as nothing. As she reached for the door knob she began smelling alcohol and cigarettes which seemed to be coming from around her room. But she also dismissed this as a mistaken smell of the burned toast that had permeated the air in the house.

When she opened her bedroom door, she disrobed and walked naked to the dresser to get her lace underwear. The intruder was in the closet enjoying an erotic peepshow for free. His eyes were unlatched gates; saliva was building in his mouth as his fetish piqued. She had a beautiful body with legs that were long and shapely. Her buttocks were rounded and firm. She was rocking a real shapely figure. Drool was coming from his lips uncontrollably as he grinned insanely, watching attentively. She pulled a red panty and bra set out of the drawer. She then walked over to the bed and ever so slowly put the panties on. He was within a few feet and it seemed to him that she should have been able to hear the sound of his breathing. His palms were sweating and his blood pressure rose as his Roman oar was activated, bulging out of his pants. It was aching and bleeding for her abyss of love, so divine. He placed his hand around this oar and began to fondle himself—being very careful not to make any noise that would impede his show. There in her closet lye a degenerate of the lowest form, exalting himself with a sinister skill of guile.

She walked back to the dresser and pulled her panty’s up in the crack of her ass. His eyes followed as a periscope appreciating her freak body treasure. Then she fastened the bra around her backwards and turned it the other way. The red coloring of her nipples highlighted the sweet melons of pleasure; an Irishman’s delight and the devil’s desert —ripe for the pickings. He could hardly stand it. —The anxiety levels had risen to epic proportions.

His emotions climbed like a roller coaster climbs to a crescendo in anticipation of decent and the release of white water upon climax. Then she went next to the dresser and gazed at her body in the full length mirror. She then started putting on a black garter belt ever so slowly. This raised his eyebrows to a distinctly shaped edge. His lips watched like a hungry child as she slipped into her black fish net stockings.

Then sweat began running down his face and chest while his oar jumped— while releasing drops of pre—adventure. He had to explode, but he must keep on watching—for peeping was the primary element of his fetish. She looked exactly like his mother and she was the vehicle that drove his fetish onward into complete domination.

She picked up her brush and started to stroke her hair and he was further stimulated and his fancy was tickled with joy. She had the long flowing hair of palomino horses. Lastly, she started to apply the crimson lipstick.

That was the straw that broke the camel’s back.—Out of the closet he lunged, grabbed her, and wrestled her down to the bed. His oar was leeward and bleeding for love, as white water dripping and yearning for the cave of humanity.—He used one hand and pulled his .38 from his coat pocket and put it to her head. Scream and I’ll kill you. Then he wiped the sweat from his forehead. It must have been one hundred degrees in that closet and the entertainment made it even hotter.

He pressed his oar against her buttocks and it was gratifying. She was lying there with the gun against her head trembling. I don’t have much cash, but I have an ATM card and you’re welcome to the pin number.

He then let out a sinister laugh. Oh no lassie, I don’t care for money. —I’m here for the betrothed and a short honeymoon.

She was breathing very hard and gasping for air as she tried hard to speak. But I don’t want to get married.

You dirty whores are all alike.—You want to fornicate and fuck, but you don’t want to be married.—I get angry when I’m rejected. Then he spit in her face and that was the ultimate humiliation. Now she knew where that smell was coming from. The man reeked of alcohol and cigarettes and it turned her stomach. But she had to control it for fear of reprisal!

Lying in the prone position, he ran his hand through her hair and then down to the orifice of love. His fingers parted the gates of life and he ran them in and out of it until it was wet with the dew drops of sweet mercy. Now moist and lucid, it was making sounds that drove the transmission of his insanity and strengthened his resolve to rape. The love sounds were humming a tune of rhapsody’s composition.

She asked with her voice cracking from humility, Please be gentle with me.

Your boyfriend wasn’t gentle to you.—You took all of his measure and you’ll take mine too.—And let me remind ya, I have lots to give, he said in a deep Irish accent, while laughing insanely.

But how did you know about Shawn?

I watched him screw you all night long. While I had to beat my oar off many times.—Now it’s my turn, so let’s get on with the marriage ceremony so I can hump you legally.

She appealed to the man crying and was deathly afraid. Please don’t rape me mister—please.

He pointed the gun to her head and said. It’s too late, and now the ceremony.—Do you take me for your lawful wedded husband? Too have and to hold, until death do we part. She was sobbing uncontrollably as he applied pressure to her head.—And finally she answered. I do. —Yes I do.—Now let’s start the honeymoon. Out of his pocket he pulled a bottle of baby oil and prepared to sodomize her tightest abyss.

He turned her on the stomach and ripped her panties off. She tried to cover her buttocks with her hands, but he twisted her arm and so she refrained. Don’t worry, I’m going to take there place. He laughed at his own joke jovially.

Now the terror, abandonment and loneliness were the feelings that consumed her. For the relief from the pressure she would just close her eyes and pray. Her face was tightening from the anticipation of the pain from the anal abuse about to take place.

Her feelings were ambivalent as she worried about survival and then about whether or not she would catch an STD. He removed his coat and pulled his trousers off and stripped down to everything, but his socks, because he was superstitious. She noticed his oar protruding and as hard as barbarian steel. He was panting heavily as he slid his oar up and down the grand canyon of eternal pleasure. The heat from the friction was driving him into another dimension of ecstasy and collateral moans of joy permeated the room’s air.

Now all you will feel is just a little prick and from then on it will be smooth sailing. She was squirming as she let out a loud gasp as she felt the head of his oar entering her abyss.

You can have my body, but please not so rough.

All the whores ask for mercy, just as my mother did.—But you’ll live if you do what I want and fuck me hard.—You were begging for more last night and all I could hear was endless laughter.—Just like my mother and her many friends did.

He was humping her with a reckless abandon and it seemed as though he would hump her forever. But, then he started to moan and pillow talk. You know that I was afraid as a child.—I wanted to sleep with you mother, and fuck you—Ah it’s so good.—Isn’t it good baby?—Oh yes, yes I wish that I was fucking you in a dark alley way.—You fuckin’ whore you.

He started moving faster and faster and the alcohol and cigarettes were busting his chest, but then white water ran like a river overflowing; he was relieved at last. She felt the hot water deep inside of her and also felt his drool running down the back of her neck. It was turbid water, running as a waterfall down her shoulder.

She was shivering and shaking as he lay there trying to catch his breath. The smell of alcohol and cigarettes reeked from his body pours and she put her hand over her mouth desperately attempting to cut off the fetid air. Her cavity was flooded with semen and it covered her buttocks and running down her legs. She was crying and she knew this was only round one of the fetish he had released inside of her.

After he finished resting on her, he rolled over and asked her. Wasn’t that wonderful?—After I catch my breath I’m going to fuck you in the canyon of true love. (voice raised) There will be Roman oars in deep hot water, with fire on the high seas.—I may be tempted to give you a love child on our first engagement.—Jack be nimble, Jack be quick, Jack wants’ a wife without a miff.

Then he let out a loud insane laugh as he amused himself. She was wheezing and asked for her asthma pump on the dresser. Don’t you move? He rose and fetched her pump and she thanked him for his decency. This was all a plan to employ as many carefully measured statements as she could, without looking too obvious; a strategy to insure survival.

Although she was frightened out of her wits, she was resident enough to try and establish a line of communication with the rapist.—With her virtue being spilled all over the room, she tried valiantly the better part of valor in perspective. She made small talk trying to cool the savage beast inside of him. Although, the oxygen had seemingly disappeared from the room, she was determined not to pass out.

He was kissing her all over and her skin crawled from the stubble on his face. The whiskers were like tiny razors scraping her neck and face; the odor from his breath was dense, repulsive, and putrid. She had to concentrate on her old rag doll that she owned as a youngster and that would let her hang on to her sanity.

After laying there for a few minutes his thirst had been refueled and he turned her from her side onto her back. Her melons stuck upward as the Guns of Navarone. He started fondling them and sucking the nipples, as he ran his hand inside the canyon of love divine. Soon he was as hard as barbarian steel and is ready to strike his oar. He began salivating in anticipation of her freak body treasure; so wet and so easy to find. He went to the dresser and brought back the crimson lipstick. His eyes lit up and his fancy soared to the pinnacles of his desire. He marveled at the color a while and then he revisited his mother in bed. This was her first encounter with pain and pleasure; how confusing and contemptuous.

Here put this on and put it on slowly.—I want to kiss you . . . . . and my mother. The thought of the lipstick was sickening and detestable, but she did as instructed, even smiled, as if she enjoyed it. For a little while, he marveled at the strongest part of his fetish. Then—he laid her down. He opened her legs wide, kissed her violently and then struck his oar. Thoughts rocketed through her mind of contracting HIV, but she couldn’t worry about that now, because she had to survive. The only consolation was she had taken the pill that morning and couldn’t get pregnant.

In the midst of his savage moaning he asked her. Don’t you like it baby?—Don’t you just love me? She was recalcitrant and didn’t answer until he pulled a hand full of her long, blonde hair.

Yes—yes, she said, as he placed his hand under her buttocks and pushed his oar furiously, until she screamed. Yes I love you.—Oh yes I do baby.

This revelation exhilarated him to the point of ejaculation. Within a few minutes of constant humping, he was in extreme ecstasy, unleashing his damn, overflowing. He lay there limp as a rag doll as two thirds of his fetish had been realized. She was hoping that this was the end of him, but little did she understand, the hormones of a sexual predator.

The paramount question surfaced at this junction . . . . Was she going to live? Waiting for freedom was a task in itself.—A minute seemed like an hour and this was the longest day. He withdrew from her—still leaking white water as a damaged facet.—He had the look of a conqueror fixed in the lines on his face, as if he had drawn them there. He was so grand and victorious. She was so small, timid, and defeated.

The self esteem she had gathered in college with the girls’ help, had vanished— as a thief in the night; —hope became mortal enemy of despair. Her image was destroyed and left wounded in this den of iniquity and her vanity was fading from recollection.

The fetish was almost complete now, so he rose from the bed and put his trousers on. She hoped this was a sign the rape was over, but really she didn’t think so. She pulled the covers over her naked body to conceal her shame. It felt like she was a trash receptacle and she wanted to pull the covers over her head. But it was out of the question, because she must be ready for the unexpected.

His eyes scanned the room until they became fixed on a lamp on the night stand in the corner. It deserved his strict attention! He moved quickly to it and violently ripped the cord out and she responded by coiling in fear up against the headboard. His eyes were that of a mad man and he stared intensely at her.

You whores are all alike . . . You can’t be faithful.—If I let you live you’ll go straight to the coppers and ruin our love.

Please believe—I love you—can’t you see?—I won’t tell. He moved towards her with the garrote rapped tightly in both of his hands.

At that very moment, a voice called out Carrie’s name loudly. It was Floyd. She let out a loud scream for her life—I’m in here.—In here— help— help! The man panicked, because he thought someone was in the house. He had to leave fast and bolted to the window’s lattice and climbed out of it. Carrie ran naked to the front door and collapsed. Floyd used his house key to get in to find her on the door laying there injured.

Oh my God what happened? Immediately he went to the kitchen for a cool cloth and took a blanket up out of the closet. He then covered her shame and took her into his arms, while applying a cold compress to her head. In a few minutes she came around and she pointed to her pocketbook on the table. Floyd guessed that she needed her asthma pump. Gently he leaned her up against the wall and went and fetched the pump. He brought it back, handed it to her and she took four puffs. She was able to talk seconds after inhaling the medication.

What happened to you Carrie?

I was raped.—He got in through the kitchen window.

Oh my God— Jesus!—Let me call the police.—Can you walk alright?

I’ll need your help. So Floyd walked her into the living room and sat her on the sofa. He dialed 911 and they took a few seconds to answer.

Police!—What is your emergency?

A woman has been raped at 144 W. 118th St. Send an ambulance.

Is the woman still alive?—Is she bleeding?

Look Miss, that’s enough of these silly damn questions. Just send help. He hung the phone up and sat down on the sofa next to her. Then he put his arms around her and held her tightly. Don’t worry I’m here now.

Floyd, I want to wash this dirt and disgusting feeling off of me.

You’ll have to hold on a little while. —They have to perform a rape kit on you.—Just try and be patient . . . I’ll take a change of clothes for you and then you can shower in the hospital.

I can’t stop crying.

You’re not supposed to stop crying for a while yet.

Go ahead; get it out of your system.—You’ll have the tears of a smiling clown for a long while, said Floyd. There was silence for a few minutes and then she raised her head from his tear soaked chest. What did I do, why me?—What have I done to deserve this terrible thing?

That’s just it. —You haven’t done anything, —You would think that bad things happen to bad people, but they happen to the innocent too, explained Floyd.

It’s not fair. God knows it’s just not fair.—Now everyone will know.—I feel so dirty and ashamed.—Why must everyone know?

Yes, your friends will have to share your pain.—They have a right to know when you’ve been hurt. —You can’t keep a thing like this from them. —Let’s just wait for the police, okay? It was a good thing that you came down that alleyway when you did, Carrie thought. He was the hero of the day. Finally being an ex-police Sergeant had paid off. He was on the Special Victims Unit out of the 28th precinct. In 1999 his wife was raped and they never found the perp. The incident severed the relationship from his soul mate.

The job had become stressful and he suffered from acute combat fatigue. At least, that was the assessment of the department psychiatrist. He was broken hearted and at the lowest point in his life and retired when Carrie befriended him. She gave him a job, an apartment in the basement of their house, and she made him super over all of their properties.

It’s a good thing that I came along when I did," Floyd reiterated.

You can say that again . . . You saved my life and I am forever grateful—Can I ask you a question?

Sure why not.

Did your wife ever get over that ordeal?

"No, see died searching through crowds for his ugly face.—But she never found it . . . . She was waiting for the back of a head to turn around—So she could ask him why? She kept re-living the rape over and over in her mind. The reflections of his unshaved face, his stinking breath and his hips surgically removed her virtue, proved to torment her.

I hope that I don’t end up like her.—I pray that I don’t.

I pray that you don’t either.—You’re a very special person.

Why don’t you call her by her first name? Carrie asked.

It’s much too painful.—So I refer to her in the third person. Then she closed her eyes and put her head on his chest. Nobody is ever going to hurt you again.—I promise you that." Then he squeezed her tightly in his strong arms. It had been a long time since another human being needed him. There was a big empty hole left in his chest by the memories of his dear wife. This was a chance for him to feel again, fill that void to help himself as well as another person as tears ran down his face he held onto her for dear life.

He just couldn’t deal with this misfortune that seemed to find him at every turn. Questions of why he couldn’t catch the rapist entered his mind and he considered himself impotent. Thoughts of revenge soon replaced the thoughts of his insufficiency. How could he sit back and watch his dear friend suffer such an indignity. Some one had to pay for this atrocious crime and due process hadn’t been the answer, therefore this evil had to be met with an evil veracity. He would be stealth, sinister, and stalk his prey as they did. Then a flight back to reality was taken for he had visited the dark caldrons of his mind; somewhere lying waiting in the darkness.

These savage and lurid acts were eating away at his decency and trying the souls of men. There seemed to be nothing sacred in the world; the innocent were caught in the fangs of evil. The police couldn’t do there job, but he surely could. He had suffered his last woe and now all he would be to bide his time.

He heard the sirens screaming outside of the brownstone. The police and ambulance had finally arrived. He awakened her from her brief moment of solace. I could use a drink.—There’s a bottle of scotch in the bar.

I’ll get it. He went over to the bar and poured her a hefty drink and brought it back to her.

I could use one myself, but I’ll pass.—Someone has to keep a level head. Then there came a thundering knock on the door that upset her. He went to answer it. It’s the police.—Open the door in the name of the police.

He opened it immediately and surprising enough it was, Det. Rosado, of the Sex Crimes Task Force, his old unit. Rosado had a tall woman with red hair accompanying him. He couldn’t help, but do a double take at his voluptuous partner. Floyd had never dated a white woman before, but she stirred his fancy— for a moment. She was gorgeous by anyone’s standards.

Yeah she’s hot.—Now, what do we have here?

We have a 259, with an illegal entry. Fleming went directly to her to comfort her.

Hmm— a rape huh?—Show me where he gained entry from, ordered Rosado. Floyd walked him to the kitchen and showed him the open window. Why was it left unlocked?

Someone burned some toast and they were airing the place out. —They forgot to lock it when they finished. He must have been stalking her for a while, the way it looks.

Oh, we have a peeping Tom who likes to rape. Damn pervert, added Rosado.

Lt. Fleming and the EMS worker where attending to Carrie, while Rosado and Floyd were inspecting the crime scene. Hey Murphy! See if you can get some latent prints from the window lattice over here.

I’ll get right on it.

Where did the rape take place in the house? Rosado asked.

According to the victim, he entered in here (pointing at the window) and made his way to her bedroom while she was in the shower.—The freak hid in the closet and watched her put on her under garments and then after the show, he attacked her. Her room is directly across the hall from the shower, stated Floyd.

As he watched her putting on her panties, I guess he jerked off.

Yeah, probably so! —You know how these fuckin pricks are.

As Rosado looked through the room he noticed a red pair of panties on the bed. He picked them up with a pencil and examined them and handed them to Murphy to bag them for evidence and check for DNA.

Those must be the underwear she had on.—Look, they’re torn. —The freak must have ripped them off of her, analyzed Floyd. Murphy was bagging the sheets and everything else he figured the perp might have left to identify him.

There is sure to be DNA on those sheets, you know, said Floyd.

This is just like the old days, huh Floyd? He took exception to that statement, but didn’t comment on it.

They finished the bedroom and walked back to where the EMS boys were taking care of Carrie. Fleming was consoling her while the EMS was administering oxygen and a mild sedative to calm her nerves. Lt. Fleming, did you get a good description of the perp? Rosado asked. Yeah I have an APB out on him as we speak. Then the boys walked out in the hallway to take a break.

You know I do this job everyday, but I can never get used to it.—The things human beings can do to one another are astounding.

Yeah, I never got used to it either. Back inside, the EMS workers were ready to transport Carrie to Harlem Hospital. Fleming came out into the hallway and asked Floyd, to get her a change of clothes. He agreed and went to Chauncey’s room and picked out a sweat suit and sneakers, which were the same size. While he was in the room, he called Nita and told her about the news and where they were taking her. She said that they would meet her in the hospital in an hour. He told them that he could handle things and not to come.

2  

Harlem Hospital

Floyd was standing outside the entrance to the emergency room. He wasn’t too much of a smoker, but he brought a couple of ‘loosies’ from a hospital worker that was also smoking outside. It was times like these that made anybody smoke, he thought. He felt compassion for the humiliation she would suffer during the examination. The same questions would be asked over and over again, as if she were the perpetrator. But he knew first hand that it was a necessary evil that had to be done. There is no easy way to humiliate someone, because the extrication of truth is arduous and tedious. This incident had opened up a cancerous wound inside of him.

It was the second time that rape had made him an unwilling victim. Another helpless person caught up in a web of anxiety— spinning with no end in sight. But much of his anger was directed towards himself, because he was helpless. He thought of himself as a loser, to say the least. Reflection’s of his wife’s played over and over again in his mind with no answer and no escape. His imagination was always giving the rapist a new face and a different look . . . . in his mind.

All he could see were the lances of Hannibal entering his wife and drilling a cord of undeserved passion. The experience left her catatonic and thus estranged from him forever. After reliving his hostile past, he become emotionally and physically drained. He had to relax his mind— take evasive action fast, before his head exploded. So finally, he decided to get a magazine from the concession stand.

As he began walking back inside the emergency room, a car pulled up and Chauncey jumped out. "Floyd, I’m so happy to see you.—Where’s Carrie?’

I told you not to come. It’s better that she see you in a normal setting, not in the hospital.

How do you expect me to function with my sister in trouble?

Well the doctor is still examining her and she’s also being processed by Lt. Fleming.—It’s rather routine, explained Floyd.

How did he get in the house with all that security?

Remember the window that you all left open in the kitchen this morning.

Oh sweat, Carrie forgot to close it, retorted Chauncey.

Apparently he was watching Shawn and her last night through the blinds in the bedroom window.

My God, a damn pervert! —Why, did he have to do this to the sweetest person in the world? She started weeping for her friend and cursing aloud. He embraced and tried to console her. Carrie had already been in the ER for about three hours now and he started to get a little stir crazy. The waiting seemed to never end, the coffee was lousy, and the conversation was repetitive.

They were almost at wits end then Carrie appeared with Lt. Fleming. She seemed to be very fragile the life had been drained from her body. In times like these it was impossible to find the words trenchant enough for the situation. So, they said nothing and just hugged her to show their love. When Chauncey came within distance of her eyes, she noticed the sadness. Those eyes that were once filled with life were now quiet and empty.

We’ll get through this.—Just wait and see!

If you say so, answered Carrie.

Are you finished with her Lt. Fleming? asked Floyd.

Yes, now we have to wait for the DNA to try and get an ID.—If not, we’re in for a battle. What Fleming meant was it would be difficult if CODIS didn’t get a hit on the semen. The perp may not be in the governments system. He was a rapist, but he wasn’t stupid.

Floyd took his jacket off and wrapped it around Carrie. Thanks for your support.—We’re taking her home. Floyd said to Fleming, and she shook her head in the affirmative. They walked her to the car gingerly for the long ride home. What a Halloween! What else would the somber skies give these troubled people? They would never forget that day.

He parked the car in front of the house and they all got out and walked in. I’m not dead! Would somebody please say something?

We’re sorry—We didn’t want to say the wrong thing and upset you, that’s all.—Floyd would you check all the entrances ways and windows in the house please?—We have to get some more security in here, said Chauncey. He agreed and set out on the task. You just sit here on the sofa and take it easy and I’ll put on some hot chocolate.

I think that I want something a little stronger than that?

How about a double scotch?

Now you’re talking my language.—I think that I’ll get drunk, said Carrie.

Well I can’t say that I blame you. —You go right ahead and do you. She went and got some ice out of the refrigerator and brought a glass and the bottle to her. She poured the drink and went to put the bottle back. Leave it.

You got that baby.

Her nerves were shot and a drink wouldn’t solve anything, but it would let her relax for a while. Why me?—Why was I picked for such evil?—I’m not that attractive.

Well rapists have freakish fetishes and you must have fit his profile.—I know one thing. He must have spent some time sizing you up.

So I was just a piece of meat for him; a pussy cat that allowed him to spill my virtue all over this house.

Don’t be so hard on yourself?

Floyd checked the house out and came to the conclusion they needed more cameras to cover all angles. He came to the living room and gave the girls his assessment of the house.

I’m going down to the electronic shack in the morning and get the cameras.—I’m also going to put a monitor in my house and that way you’ll feel better.—I’m also putting motion detectors around the house.

That sounds good, said Chauncey.

It was after three o’clock and the kids were out of school. It was time to dress in costumes and trick or treat. Carrie, do you want me to put a sign out saying that we are not handing out any candy? asked Chauncey?

No, I was a kid once and Halloween meant a lot to me and I don’t want to spoil their fun.—Besides I brought plenty of candy the other day.—It’s in the cabinet over the stove.

Well I don’t mind if you don’t, said Chauncey. She went into the kitchen and got ready for the Halloween rush hour. Floyd took a seat next to his buddy on the sofa.

You know there’s such a thing as turning the table.—Where the hunter becomes the hunted.—I have something in mind for you, but now is not the time. —Do you understand?

Yes Floyd.—You know the bastard promised not to kill me.—I’m getting so I can’t trust anyone.—You saved my life and I’m forever grateful to you for that.

Well they are all liars you know. She was surprised at herself for being so naïve, to believe that! She swore that she would never be duped again— in life. She was a long way from the suburban safety of Minnesota.

Carrie poured another scotch and began sipping it slowly. Floyd.—How do you see me now? She said in a slurred voice.

Floyd hesitated, I see as you as sweet and innocent Carrie.—You are a beautiful young lady who has been my best friend in times of need.—You helped me in the darkest hour of my life.—I see you as a woman who has been treated unfairly, but you have survived.—And you can bet that you will surely recover from this if I have anything to do with it.

She took another sip of her drink and said, Do you know what I see Floyd? He looked up at her attentively. I see a very small and empty person who has lost her virtue and I don’t know where to find it.

It’s locked up now, in your heart and soul and you must find the key again.—But you have to forge a new key to open it.—The material is still there. It will take some time but, I’ll be with you every step of the way. She took his hands in her’s with tears trickling down her face.

I trust you Floyd, but right now I’m sort of lost.—I don’t know whether I’m coming or going but, I do trust you completely.

Floyd tightened his lips and grimaced. I’m glad you do.

All she could think about now was the New Harlem Renaissance had become meaningless to her. But she couldn’t be mad at Harlem, because it was one of her own who committed the atrocity against her. In her mind she heard the poetic doggerel he rendered over and over again:  . . . . Jack be nimble, Jack be quick and Jack wants a wife without a miff . . . After that played; it was Roman oars in hot deep water with fire on the sea . . . She pictured herself as a sex slave of a perverted Roman Captain, locked deep in the hull of a Spanish Galleon of yester year. She was spurned and abused by the conquering hero with no relief in sight.

Inside of her mind she was attempting to make the surreal a rational event. She was trying desperately to make sense out of the senseless; looking for honor, when honor was lying dead on the battlefield. She was left there to rot in the sun for the vouchers to dine in style at a festival in Harlem proper.

Her entire life had been turned upside down in a matter of minutes. She tried to make believe it was just a dream, but reality had shone a light on the situation.