Sex, Secrets and South Beach (9 page)

B
itter cold blanketed The Bronx. Desiree had
nowhere else to go but home; her friends from
functional homes were all eating dinner, those that weren't were
stealing time with their boyfriends. Unfortunately, her mother was
already at work on the third shift as an orderly at North Central
Bronx Hospital, but her stepfather, Ernesto, was home.

"Where you been, bitch?"
he called out to her, not really caring.

Desiree ignored him and
headed straight for the bathroom. She locked the door behind her
and turned the water faucet in the tub as hot as it would go. She
attempted to clear her thoughts as she let the near-scalding water
pelt her hair and body. She stayed there until the water ran cold.
As she headed to her room, Ernesto used his flabby body to block
her.

"Move out the way, Nesto!"
she told him. Nesto didn't budge. "I don't have the time to play
with you! I've got homework!" she snapped. Moving from side to
side, she tried to find a way around nasty Nesto. He remained
steadfast and began pumping his hips at her lewdly.

"You are such a loser!"
Desiree blasted Ernesto with a full dose of uptown attitude, hands
on hips, neck rotating in a circle. Nesto responded by attempting
to untie her bathrobe. She slapped his hand away, and he grabbed
her by the arm hard and pulled her close.

"Give Daddy a little
kiss," he growled through his yellow teeth, and then licked
Desiree's neck. She slapped Ernesto with all her might, causing him
to drop his ever-present can of Colt 45 Malt Liquor and stagger on
his weak, drunken legs.

"Stupid cunt," he muttered
as he bent down to recover the can that was frothing and foaming
all over the scuffed hardwood floor.

"If you touch me again,
I'll kill you!" She glared at him before slamming her bedroom door
and locking it. Desiree pulled out the butcher knife she kept
beneath her frilly pink bed skirt as protection from
prowlers.

"I swear I will kill you
if you ever touch me again," she vowed aloud as she inspected the
shiny blade of the knife before slipping it under her pillow. Then
she kneeled beside the makeshift tabernacle on top of her
nightstand. She lit a Blessed Mother candle, a red Jesus candle,
and a yellow St. Lazarus candle like she did every night. Then she
grabbed the rosary beads her father had given her for her first
communion and made novenas. After her prayers she crossed herself
and kissed the picture she kept of her father that she also kept on
the nightstand. That always made her feel better.

Desiree had faith that God
would look out for her and that her father was her guardian angel
who'd protect her. After all, when she was a little girl, he told
her that he would always protect her, that she could always count
on him, and that nothing, not even death, would change that. And
the Bible told her that she could always count on Jesus. She had to
believe that. It was the only thing that gave her hope.

That night and the night
after, Ernesto didn't try anything. Desiree assumed her prayers had
been answered. But she still got a nervous feeling when she walked
in from school and saw her mother getting ready to leave for work
two nights later. Ernesto was parked in front of the television,
drinking beer and scratching his crotch. He looked up at Desiree
and blew her a kiss. She shuddered with disgust. Desiree didn't
know who disgusted her more: Ernesto for being so foul or her
mother for acting like he wasn't doing shit.

"Mami, do you have to work
the third shift?" Desiree whined as her mother raced about the
apartment making sure she had all her belongings. She did this
anytime she left the house. If she would have cut down on the blow,
Desiree was sure she could have kept her wits about her, but
instead she always looked like a geekmonster. Cocaine had her on
ninety-miles-an-hour cruise control, 24/7.

"Desi, not now, okay?
We've already talked about this so many times. We need the money,
and unless I work at night, I can't finish college. You do want me
to be a nurse, don't you? You want me to keep making monkey money
forever?" Mami replied. She had managed to get herself in community
college. Desiree thought for a second that maybe her mother was
just using Ernesto until she got her shit together, but then it
occurred to her that Ernesto didn't have shit.

"I'll get a job, Mami,
since the so-called man of the house won't get one," Desiree
offered.

"Desiree, your job is to
get a proper education so you don't have to struggle like me. Get a
good job with benefits so you won't have to count on a husband or
some other man. The good ones never stick around, and, well, the
other ones . . ." Mami looked over at the unkempt Ernesto and
rolled her eyes. She used those exact words practically every day.
Desiree didn't know why her mother didn't practice what she
preached.

"I can get a job and still
be a doctor when I grow up," Desiree asserted. She needed to stash
some money so that as soon as she was old enough to leave home,
she'd never have to come back.

"You ain't smart enough to
be no doctor," Nesto interjected, slurring. "You'll be lucky if you
get knocked up by a doctor!" he belched, and then laughed heartily
at his own ignorance.

"You are such a pig!
Nobody was even talking to your broke ass anyway!" Desiree sneered.
Why did he have to talk to her like that? Why didn't her mother
check him?

"Watch how you talk to
your father!" Mami snapped. "Show him some respect!"

Desiree cringed. She hated
when Mami referred to Ernesto as her father. Her father was gone,
and no deadbeat like Ernesto would ever take his place. Her father
had been a real man. Having a fucked-up stepfather was worse than
having no father at all.

"How you gonna say that,
Mami? You not gonna check him? He's not my father! He'll never be
half the man my father was!" Desiree yelled. Here her mother was,
acting like her real dad had never existed.

"No argument there," Mami
remarked dryly. She looked at Ernesto and frowned up in disgust,
then grabbed her keys and pocket-book and walked out the
door.

She doesn't
care
, Desiree thought.
She doesn't care what happens to me. All she cares about is
herself and that punk-ass Ernesto.
It was
obvious to Desiree that for whatever reasons–love, fear, or
loyalty, Mami had made her choice. And it wasn't her
sangre
, her blood; it
was the man who mooched off of her and tried to violate her
daughter.

At about 3 a. m. Desiree
was awakened by a scratching sound at her bedroom door. Not moving,
she squinted, attempting to see through the darkness. The
scratching grew louder, and then there was the click of the
tumblers in the lock and the turning of the door knob. Desiree
reached for the butcher's knife, found it, and waited in a
heightened sense of awareness.

Nesto was clad in only
boxer shorts, his flabby chest and back covered by a disgusting
layer of hair. His erection poked through the flimsy material of
his skid-mark-stained shorts. He crept silently toward Desiree. She
appeared to be fast asleep and unsuspecting. He stopped a foot or
so away from the bed and bent over to remove his underwear. Desiree
took a peek to see him fondling his tiny penis as he approached the
bed. When he bent over to remove the comforter from her body with
his free hand, Desiree, seized the opportunity, springing to life,
asking no questions, saying nothing, only plunging the blade of the
knife deep into his flabby gut.

She was scared shitless.
She gasped for breath as she waited for the body to drop. But it
didn't. It wasn't like in the movies when you shot someone or
stabbed someone and they died instantly. It was like one of those
horror flicks where the killer keeps on coming and coming no matter
what you do. Nesto was wounded, but more than that, he was angry.
He pimp-slapped Desiree, causing her to fall back on the bed.
Ernesto was nude, his overabundant body hair slick with blood and
matted to his tanned skin. It was a sight almost too ghastly for
her to behold, but there was no way she was going to let this
pathetic excuse for a man take her virginity.

Ernesto lunged at her,
overcoming her with his body weight. He ripped her underwear off
and roughly began to fondle Desiree's privates. All she kept
thinking to herself was,
Not like
this
. Her first time was supposed to be
with someone that she loved. She even thought she would wait until
she was married or at least engaged.

"I'm gonna get you, you
little bitch!" he gurgled, blood spewing from his mouth. Desiree
was horrified but determined to escape. She squirmed and kicked to
no avail. Ernesto wrapped both of his hands around her neck and
began to squeeze as he attempted to enter her. She struggled to
break free. She felt piercing pain and then light-headedness. She
gasped and struggled for breath as Ernesto heaved on top of
her.

This can't be
happening!
Desiree thought. She said Hail
Marys and silently begged the Lord to deliver her. She was ready to
die, because she really couldn't imagine living through something
this awful. Besides, she believed that Jesus wouldn't let her
suffer like that. He would take her up to heaven, and that would be
the end of her pain. Her mother would be free to start her life
again. Then Ernesto began choking. He tried to breathe, but his
breaths were shallow and forced. He stopped moving and slid from
Desiree's body onto the floor.

Gasping, she ran out of
the room, not stopping until she was out of the door and down a
flight of steps, where she banged on the door of the building
supervisor, Mr. Lopez.

"Coño! Quién es?"
Mr. Lopez muttered as he stomped to the door.
There was the sound of what seemed like a million locks being
opened.

"Mr. Lopez!
Soy yo, Desiree! Ayudame!
Oh God, please help me!" she screamed hysterically while
banging on the door.

Mr. Lopez flung open the
door and nearly jumped out of his skin. He clutched his heart and
gasped at the sight of Desiree: her hair was all over the place,
her nightgown was ripped, and she was drenched in blood. With
trembling hands he pulled her into his apartment. He locked the
door and then flew into his bedroom, returning in a split second
with a cocked and loaded .380 Saturday night special in hand. Mr.
Lopez stood cautiously with his back to the door listening for
motion, like the cops on TV shows did, then peeked through the
peephole. He saw no one and could detect no movement. Mr. Lopez
uncocked the gun and placed it in the waistband of his pajama
pants.

By this time Desiree was
hiccupping and sobbing uncontrollably. Mr. Lopez led her to his
prized La-Z-Boy recliner and made her sit down. No one ever sat in
his recliner, whose seat cushion was practically molded to the
shape of his ass. At first she refused.

"Don't worry about the
blood, Desi," he told her. He sat her down and flipped the lever to
lift her feet before going into the kitchen, where he dialed the
police; then he called Desiree's mami at the hospital.

Mr. Lopez poured Desiree a
tiny glass of sangria and handed it to her. "Here.
Tómalo
. It's the sangria
you like to sneak and sip at my domino games when you think we
aren't looking. It'll calm your nerves." She took the glass and
gulped down the sweet wine through her sobs.

"What happened, Desiree?
Who did this to you? Was it Ernesto?" Mr. Lopez observed the hand
prints around her neck. The mention of that pervert's name made
Desiree cry even harder. She shook her head as if to say yes, then
grimaced in pain, holding her midsection and rocking back and
forth.

Mr. Lopez needed no
further explanation. He knew Ernesto was a loser, but he had no
idea he would stoop so low as to violate a child. Mr. Lopez took
the steps two at a time. He walked through the open door and called
out to Ernesto.

"Where are you,
cabrón
?" Lopez demanded.
Then he screamed, "Oh my God!" Almost immediately, he was back in
the apartment, his normally gleaming tan skin looking gray and
dull. He went into the kitchen again and grabbed the bottle of
sangria. He poured Desiree another glass, then downed the rest of
the bottle himself.

"Please tell me you got to
him before he got to you," he pleaded, his eyes full of tears.
Desiree just looked down at the floor. Mr. Lopez crossed himself
and began to pray reverently, crying the whole time.

Desiree's mami finally
arrived at the tiny apartment, which was swarming with detectives
and paramedics. She saw the blood covering her daughter and a sheet
being pulled over Ernesto's cold, lifeless body. She snapped. She
screamed like a banshee, cried uncontrollably, and tried to climb
on top of the body on the floor. A cop pried her away from the
corpse.

"Your daughter needs you,"
he told her, leading her toward Desiree. Her mami hugged her,
holding her so tightly she thought her ribs would crack.

"I'm sorry, Mami. But he
... he raped me. He tried to choke me," she sobbed in her mother's
arms.

Abruptly, her mami held
Desiree at arm's length from her body. "This is all your fault!"
she told Desiree as she shook her by the shoulders. "You killed
both my husbands! You little bitch, I hate you!" Mami spat in her
daughter's face, then slapped her hard. A homicide detective
stepped between them.