Two Tears in a Bucket Read online

  Two Tears in a Bucket

  by Traci Bee

  Contributions from Darnell King

  Two Tears in a Bucket

  A soulful novel

  Copyright 2009 by Traci Bee

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of a brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any Web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re ready this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  ISBN: 13-digit 978-0-9791795-0-1

  10-digit 0-9791795-0-5

  To George Thomas Brewington, Sr.

  You encouraged me to reach for the stars.

  I caught a few and I’m still reaching. Can you see me, Daddy?

  This star, my book, and every other star I catch will forever be dedicated to you and your memory.

  I love you.

  Love, Traci

  To Dumas Brewington

  Greatness has many definitions. One of which is

  “a person who has achieved importance

  or distinction in a field.”

  Married 71 years to the love of his life with 15 children,

  48 grandchildren, and oodles of greats and great-greats.

  A true man of God, Granddaddy,

  you ARE the definition of GREATNESS

  in the field of life.

  It’s no wonder my dad was so amazing.

  In Memory of:

  George Thomas Brewington, Sr.

  Dumas Brewington, Sr.

  Ronald LeCount King

  Texanna Roberta Ferguson

  Clifton H. Ferguson, Sr.

  Michelle Evans

  Jermaine Denard Davis

  Special Dedications to:

  Michael, Tania, Donnell, Brandon, Monet, Kennedy

  And the Brewington Family

  And the innocent victims of senseless violence

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you, Father God, for not only blessing me with the gift of story-telling, but giving me the strength to persevere through so many obstacles. Without you, this would not have been possible.

  Natasha Small, Creative Writing Department of Prince George’s Community College; Michelle Chester of EMB Professional Edits; Monique D. Mensah of Make Your Mark Editing; Carla M. Dean of You Can Mark My Word Editing; Leona Romich of APOOO Book Reviews; and Tamika Newhouse of Delphine Publications and African Americans on the Move Book Club - all of you not only graced me with your various services, but you exceeded the call of duty by sharing your suggestions for the betterment of the novel. Unselfishly, you offered guidance in this unfamiliar territory, and for that, I sincerely thank you.

  Rally Point Studios, thank you for your awesome technical support and creations.

  Tracy Robinson and all the ladies at Salon Contour in Forestville, Maryland (winners of the 2009 Golden Scissors Award and Steve Harvey 2010 Hoodie Award for Nails), words can’t describe my gratitude. You ladies are the straight up all-of-it and I love you. Thanks so much for spreading the word.

  Michael Ashe, you uncovered talents that I never realized I possessed. Thanks for constantly challenging me to be better.

  To my Pocahontas mother, thank you so much for the breaks! There’s no way I would have gotten any of this done without the special services of “grandma.”

  Lachelle Brewington, Sabrina Sims, Geraldine and Nate Ford, Sr. - As I buried myself into this project, I sometimes lost track of the world around me. From the depths of my soul, I thank you for stepping in to make sure the important events weren’t neglected but exploded in celebration as they should have been.

  Alicia Byrd, Bettye Brown, Robin Erwin and Lachelle Brewington, you were with me from day one and still remain by my side, always down for whatever. You crave the success of the novel just as much as I do, and for that, I sincerely thank you.

  Starleta Sprately and Tina Benjamin - if it weren’t for the two of you, there probably wouldn’t be a Two Tears in a Bucket.

  To my beautiful kids, I love you. Thank you for granting me peace and solitude as I sat glued to the corner of the bed not wanting to do anything but write. You’re the reason why I write. Someday soon I hope and pray I can show you the meaning to that statement.

  To my husband Darnell King, I can still hear you walking around the house hushing everybody as I tried to write and rewrite. Thank you for your unconditional love, support and contribution to the novel.

  And finally to you, the reader. In a world saturated with wonderful works of fictions, you decided to read “Two Tears in a Bucket,”and for that, I thank you. I hope you enjoy…

  Part One

  “If you love something…”

  Chapter One

  1987

  Blood dripped from the gash in Ricardo’s head as he stood like a bull, in the middle of his living room. His chest heaved up and down as he fought to regain his composure.

  “You see what he did to me!” Simone cried from the floor, her face a swollen mass of blood and tears. “You gon’ just stand there and not do nothing?”

  Angela ignored her daughter’s cries and darted to the kitchen. She snatched open the freezer and filled the towel dangling from the refrigerator door with a tray of ice to address her husband’s wound. But Ricardo didn’t want her help, and he knocked the towel out of her hand.

  “Ricardo, you might need stitches,” Angela whined as she kneeled down to collect the ice cubes that had scattered across the floor.

  “I don’t need no got damn stitches. But I tell you one thing; her ass better be gone by the time I get back.” As his command settled on those around him, Ricardo turned on his heels and stormed from the house.

  “Ricardo!” Angela called after him, but her words fell on deaf ears as Ricardo jumped inside his pickup. Tire rubber screeched from the driveway as he zoomed from the concrete to the asphalt. Pounding the floor with her fist, Angela bolted past her daughter to her bedroom and slammed the door.

  Hurt by her mother’s abandonment and lack of concern, Simone pulled herself up from the floor and threw the ashtray she’d used to bust open Ricardo’s head across the room, disappointed at the dull thud it made as it landed on a cushy arm­chair instead of crashing to the floor in a riot of noise. Slumped on the sofa, Simone threw her head back, and cried.

  ● ● ●

  That cool Saturday in September of 1987 had started so perfectly. Climbing from her bed, Simone cracked her bedroom window and allowed the brisk morning air into the room. She nestled back under the warmth of her covers, where she planned to relax until her mother beckoned her with the never-ending list of Saturday chores.

  I know one thing; I won’t be cleaning this place after today. I’m outta here tomorrow. Just the thought put a smile on Simone’s beautiful, mocha-colored face. She couldn’t wait to see her mother’s expression when she told her she was moving. Only three people knew about Simone’s apartment—Lavon and Melanie, her t
wo best friends from junior high, and Thomas, her dear old dad, who wasn’t a fan of the idea.

  “Simone, you’re too young to be livin’ on your own. Hell, you just graduated high school three months ago,” he’d said. “The ink on your diploma is not even dry.”

  But there was nothing her father or anyone else could say to change Simone’s mind. The sooner she got out, the faster she could rid herself of her stepfather’s house and his stupid-ass rules.

  Simone heard the faint sound of Angela’s voice outside her bedroom door and buried herself deeper under the covers. Ah, hell... here she comes.

  “Simone, get up!” Angela yelled, barging into the room. “What, you gonna sleep all day?” She leaned inside, pressing her body against the open door. “I’m running around the corner to the store real quick. I’m taking Alicia with me.”

  Good, Simone thought, thankful she didn’t have to watch her stepsister, Alicia, Ricardo’s ten-year-old daughter from his previous marriage.

  “Is your husband going, too?” Simone asked from under her comforter.

  “No, he went to run an errand, but he’s coming right back. Now get up, Simone, and clean the kitchen while I’m gone.” Angela closed the door, but reiterated sharply, “Now, Simone. I’m not playing with you!”

  Simone sucked her teeth and glanced at the alarm clock on her dresser. Damn. Why is she buggin’? It’s not even eight o’clock. Hearing the front door close, she kicked off her covers, sat up in bed, and looked around her room. She needed to do a ton of things by tomorrow. Not a single item had been packed and the wicker laundry hamper in the corner of her room overflowed with dirty clothes.

  I may as well wash for free while I still can.

  With a frustrated sigh, she peeled herself from the warmth of her bed, stretched the kinks from her body, and popped Janet’s Control into her boom box. Home alone, she turned the volume up as loud as it would go.

  “Now this is how I’ll be playing my music in my place come tomorrow,” she said as she danced over to her hamper, singing with Ms. Jackson. A gifted songstress, Simone loved to sing. In fact, it was her voice that made her popular in school. If there was a talent show, school assembly, or any other function, Simone was often asked to serenade the attendees.

  Man, I shoulda been a Jackson, she thought. Or, Daddy, you shoulda been like Joe Jackson,she continued in thought as she scattered her dirty laundry out on the floor. She tossed her first load back into the hamper and headed to the unfinished basement to wash them.

  With the clothes in the machine, Simone pulled the cord dangling from the ceiling to turn off the light. She grabbed the hamper and headed back up the steps to clean Angela’s kitchen for the last time. Engulfed in her thoughts, she never noticed the shadow lurking in the stairwell.

  “Oh my God,” she gasped as she stared up at Ricardo. “You scared me,” she said, standing at the bottom of the steps in the midst of his large shadow. Ricardo loomed near the top of the steps, glaring down at her.

  “You can come down ’cause I’m coming up,” she said, her eyes on the concrete floor. She knew Ricardo sensed her uneasiness as she clung to her empty hamper, using it to cam­ouflage the parts of her that her oversized nightshirt left exposed.

  “Then come on up. And turn that mess down when you get up here.” Simone didn’t budge. “Did you hear what I said? I said come up,” Ricardo commanded again.

  Aww, he’s so fuckin’ stupid! Simone screamed inside as she marched up the steps one by one. How I’m ’pose to come up when you standing in the way?

  The stench of marijuana and Jack Daniel’s exploded from Ricardo’s pores. It wasn’t the first time Simone had smelled this foul stench on him or seen his blood­shot eyes. The funky smell of weed flowed from the basement vents and roamed through the rest of the house nearly every day.

  Three steps away from her stepfather, Simone stopped and waited for him to move.

  “Umm… excuse me,” she said. It killed her to be polite to him. She hated Ricardo just as much as he hated her.

  With a cynical smirk, Ricardo turned his body toward the stairwell wall. “Go ‘head.”

  “Why couldn’t you just go down the steps?” Simone mumbled through tight lips as she squeezed past him. Before her foot could grace the next step, she felt the roughness from Ricardo’s dry hand reaching under her nightshirt. Shocked by his touch, Simone missed the step and stumbled. She caught her balance and threw the empty hamper at Ricardo as he marched down the steps, chuckling.

  He touched me! Simone screamed inside as she slammed the door and secured the lock. Her heart thumped she rushed into her room across the hall from the basement door.

  “He touched me. He fucking touched me,” Simone repeated out loud as she threw on a pair of jeans from the remaining pile of dirty clothes on the floor.

  The basement stairs creaked. She froze as footsteps echoed from the stairwell. Ricardo was on his way up. All hell would break loose when he realized Simone had locked the door. She ran a trembling hand through her hair, pacing back and forth. The door knob turned.

  “Simone!” Ricardo screamed. The house began to shake as Ricardo threw his 280-pound frame violently against the door. “Simone!” he roared.

  Petrified, Simone bolted from her room. She had to leave. I’ll go to the neighbor’s house.

  The sound of splitting wood echoed through the tiny rambler as Ricardo burst through the basement door, ripping it from the frame. Inches away from the front door, Ricardo snatched Simone’s 125-pound body back like a rag doll.

  “Don’t you ever lock another fucking door in my house! You hear me!” he yelled as he threw Simone into the wall.

  She tried to flee his wrath but he yanked her up by the collar of her nightshirt, choking her. Unable to scream, she clawed at Ricardo’s hands, trying to pry them from her neck, but he tightened his grip.

  On top of the entertainment center, next to Simone’s senior class picture, sat Ricardo’s crystal ashtray, loaded with ashes and cigarette butts. Scared of his drunken rage, Simone reached for the heavy glass and busted open the back of Ricardo’s head.

  “What the fuck?” he mumbled, releasing his grip as blood oozed down the back of his neck. He reached behind his head and dabbed at the fresh wound. His face turned red as the devil, shocked by the blood on his fingertips. His chest inflated as he inhaled strength. With the back of his hand, he slapped Simone across her face and knocked her to the floor.

  Angela and Alicia entered the house. Their grocery bags crashed to the floor.

  “Oh my God, Ricardo!” Angela cried.

  Ricardo pointed his stubby finger at his stepdaughter and snarled at his wife through gritted teeth, “I want this piece of shit outta my got damn house tonight!”

  Chapter Two

  “It don’t make no sense for one person to be that damn fine,” Gwen shared with her girlfriend, Tammy, as they stood in front of the apartment building watching Kevin, the handsome lova-lova thug, pimp down the sidewalk.

  “Girl, stop drooling over that damn boy and ask him to come help. I’m not standing out here with you all night,” Tammy said. The three-inch pumps she’d worn all day had her feet throbbing. “It’s damn near nine o’clock, and my feet hurt,” she said, stepping from her patent leather heels.

  Gwen cleared her throat. “Excuse me,” she hollered out, waving her hand to get Kevin’s attention. He glanced Gwen’s way.

  “I’m sorry.” She twisted her shoulder-length hair around her finger like a bashful school-girl. “Can you come here for a second, please?”

  Agitated, Kevin turned and headed in Gwen’s direction.

  “Mmm, mmm, mmm. That boy is fine. Look at them hazel eyes,” Gwen mumbled under her breath, not caring that Kevin was young enough to be her son.

  “How you doing, sweetheart? I’m Tuffy’s mother, Gwen, and this is my girlfriend Tammy,” she introduced.

  “Okay,” Kevin said with a shrug.

  “You know my son, right?”

>   “We know of each other. Why, what’s up?”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to bother you. I’m locked out of my apartment. I know Tuffy’s in there. I’ve been banging on the door for I don’t know how long, and I can’t get him to answer it.”

  Kevin stood silent, having no idea why any of that pertained to him.

  “Umm… I was wondering if I could get you to climb through my window and maybe open the door for me.”

  Kevin thought he saw Gwen pass him a seductive glance. He hoped not. She was old… too bold… the mother of a fellow thug… and not at all his type.

  “Naw,” Kevin said, irritated. Although he’d never had an altercation with Tuffy, Kevin didn’t know him or his mother well enough to climb through their window, especially at night. “What you tryna do, set me up for your son or something?” he asked, suspicious of anything out of the norm.

  “No, Kevin!” Gwen frowned, insulted. “I don’t play games like that, baby. I’m a grown-ass woman.”

  “She’s telling the truth,” Tammy spoke. “Her dumb butt really is locked out.” But her words meant nothing to Kevin. Neither woman had any credibility with him.

  Kevin studied them both. They appeared clean-cut, dressed in their casual work attire. Shit, thought, as his mind screamed hell no. But his heart took him back to the days when he was barely five, watching his father beat the mess out of his mother, Beatrice, while she lay helpless on the floor. From that day forth, every damsel in distress tugged on his heartstrings and transformed into his mother.