Unholy Matrimony Read online

  At eighteen, Phoebe had seen one beauty queen after the other being propelled into the spotlight and she had become convinced that beauty contests were the only way to become popular and to bag herself a rich husband. It was the only way she could foresee that she could meet the right sort of people but her father had chosen that time to put his foot down about modesty and chastity.

  'No child of mine will parade on a stage half dressed to be judged like a heifer.'

  Phoebe rolled her eyes; if she had had the money then she would have done it, no matter what her father said. His Christianity was as seasonal as his jobs, and he always found the most inappropriate time to demonstrate it.

  These days he hardly went to church and when he did, he always managed to embarrass her by testifying about how poor he was but he was happy that God had blessed him with a beautiful daughter. His simple, child-like ways were always a source of discontent for her and she was always trying to disassociate herself from him.

  She tried hard to be normal with the church people, but she didn’t appreciate her less than stellar background being paraded around by her father in his heartfelt testimonies that were always filled with too much information about their life.

  She sometimes wondered if God was playing a joke on her— why he made her with such a beautiful face but put her in such a poor family. What lesson did he want her to learn? It was a puzzle to her—every pretty girl she knew was either pampered and happy, or pampered and rich.

  She looked at her mother, who was wiping down the kitchen counter after stuffing all the chocolate delicacies into her mouth.

  Her sighs of despair were loud enough for Phoebe to hear and the sense of unease that she always felt when she heard her mother's distress was creeping upon her again.

  It was a combination of guilt and gloom. She suddenly wished she had gotten Ezekiel Hoppings' number. She would willingly sacrifice all she had not to feel this way anymore, even feigning an interest in ‘the ugliest man in the world.’ She grimaced at the thought.

  “I am going to bed, Ma,” she said, heading to her room.

  “Sleep well,” Nishta said a heaviness to her voice. She barely glanced at Phoebe and continued wiping down the counter dejectedly.

  Chapter Three

  Phoebe woke up Sunday morning and stared at her water stained ceiling. She did her usual morning exercise of trying to make out the patterns created in the ceiling. This morning she could make out the shape of a man who was around a desk, typing, and a lady in a ballerina dress. The brown areas, where the water had settled on the ceiling, were widening by the day. It was one more thing on her list of house repairs to do and she was tired of it. Maybe one day she would wake up and find that the untidy ramshackle place she called home had crumbled around her while she slept.

  Her father had promised to repair the roof last week but that had been pushed back when he got another job. Now that he was injured she didn't know when he would be fit to tackle the roof again. Maybe never.

  Earlier in the morning, she heard him singing and then praying loudly. She had wanted to join him but she had cynically thought that his Christianity was back on and she wanted no part of it this time. When he was injured he was usually quite fervent about God and when he was healthy God usually took a back seat to work. Through the paper thin walls of the house Phoebe could hear him bribing God with promises of how faithful he would be when his back was straightened out again.

  Phoebe laughed inwardly. Her mother was an ardent non-Christian but even in her stubborn reticence, she struck Phoebe as the more genuine parent in her attitude toward God. Her mother had given up on God a long time ago and usually ignored her husband when he was fervent about praying. Only poor people love God, was her mother's reasoning, and nothing Phoebe said could convince her otherwise.

  She had almost convinced Phoebe of the same, but by then, she had genuinely loved going to the Three Rivers Church. The young people had incorporated her into their club and so she didn’t care what her mother had to say about God after that.

  She had proudly gone to church alone, year after year, even while her mother hemmed and hawed that 'your fascination with this church business is the reason why we are not rich'. Nishta would murmur, 'let down your standards a bit, wear some tighter clothes. You have nice legs flash them. You need to smile more and let others see those lovely white teeth. Rich men are as scarce as hen's teeth in church, start going to some of those clubs like Rotary and Kiwanis.'

  Phoebe sighed and dragged herself out of bed faster than she normally did on a Sunday morning, but the pigpen scent had her shallowly gasping and contemplating the day ahead. She wished she had somewhere to go to escape the house and its fetid stench.

  She had tried reasoning with Mr. Roberts, her next-door neighbor, about the unpleasantness of the smell that the people in the neighborhood were subjected to, but he had laughed at her, patted her hand and called her a ‘pretty little thing.’

  The price for pigs was increasing every day and he had no intention of selling his pigs until he could fetch a premium for them. He also had no intention of cleaning the pen. Since he was immune to the stench in his backyard he figured everybody should be as well.

  She pulled on a faded red blouse and a paint-splattered cut-off-shorts and went outside. As usual, her glowing caramel skin and wavy hair had men slowing down and whistling as they passed the house.

  Phoebe leaned on the rusty gate with a far away look in her eyes. She usually ignored her neighbors, and they took her attitude as haughty disdain for them but Phoebe wasn't in the mood to care right now. She felt too discontent and unhappy.

  She barely registered when the sound of a sputtering bike drew up at the gate beside hers, until Charles Black cleared his throat loudly.

  “If it isn't Miss Phoebe.”

  Phoebe glanced over at him and smirked. “If it isn't the idle guy who lives next door.”

  Charles laughed and took off his biker’s helmet. He was dressed in a red shirt that highlighted his dark caramel skin tone. He was quite handsome: with a tall, leanly muscled physique and dusky pink lips. His hair was cut in a Mohawk style and he had a designer goatee thing going.

  Charles paused before he approached Phoebe at her gate. Usually he was pretty irresistible to women, but since he moved next door to the Bridge's, six months ago, he had been trying to get Phoebe's attention, to no avail. She looked through him as if he was invisible, and it was enough to give a guy a complex.

  He spent days trying to work out in his mind how he would get Phoebe to like him. He considered lying in front of her gate and begging her to pay him some attention but he feared she would just step on him as she went on her way.

  Yesterday he had gathered enough courage to introduce himself to her while she was hanging out her underclothes on the clothesline at the back of the house. He had popped his head over the fence and surprised her, but she had given him a look of such pure hatred that he wondered if he had done something wrong to her that he knew nothing about.

  Charles walked over to stand in front of the gate that Phoebe was leaning on and almost felt tongue tied when he gazed at her. She was even more beautiful close up. Her creamy honey complexion, the symmetry of her features, the curly tendrils of her hair, all culminated in quite a beautiful package.

  He mustered some of the courage that he had developed from his years of work as a tour guide at the Mayfield Falls, to face the most beautiful, forbidding woman he had ever tried to engage in conversation.

  He crossed his arms in a relaxed stance and grinned at her. “I know you know what my name is, Phoebe Bridge. I saw you hanging out your panties just yesterday morning and I introduced myself.”

  Phoebe gasped. “You are so crass and uncouth.”

  Charles laughed, his deep brown eyes, lighting up with mirth, “I'm not sure what you just called me but it sounds wonderful. You are the most beautiful girl I have ever seen and the words from your mouth are like music to my ears.”

&nb
sp; Phoebe kissed her teeth. “Sweet talk from a poor guy who rides a bike—not interested.”

  Charles cleared his throat and grinned cheekily. “I will have you know that I got a job at the Hotel Flamingo as an entertainment coordinator. I might be able to afford a bigger bike by next year.”

  Phoebe closed her eyes and sighed. “As I said, not interested.”

  Charles' smile slowly disappeared. “I play in a band.”

  Phoebe turned around to leave.

  “I play piano at church and sometimes guitar,” Charles said frantically. “You know the church—Great Pond. I saw you there when I just moved here...saw you there with a friend one night. That was my very first concert.”

  Phoebe looked back at him. “Congrats. Keep on playing your music.”

  Charles moved closer to the gate. “I also play for weddings and other social occasions. In fact, we are playing at a party in Bluffs Head tonight,” he said, talking faster now as he watched Phoebe's retreating back. “It is supposed to be some super-exclusive thing. One of our band members is sick; so you could come in his place.”

  Phoebe slowed down and looked back at him. “Did you say Bluffs Head? Where the richest of the rich people live?”

  Charles nodded earnestly. She was actually talking to him. “Yeah, you could come. They are expecting seven of us. I could take you in Brad's place. They won't know the difference and you could attend a nice party. I won't be able to talk to you much though since we'll be playing most of the time...my friend Darren won't mind. He is the one who set up the gig and is the band leader.”

  Phoebe came closer to the gate, her mind ticking overtime. Bluffs Head was seriously exclusive. The only people who found themselves up there were the rich, and the service people who tended to them. She could get a taste of that lifestyle, see how they lived, rub shoulders with the best of them, or find herself a rich guy who would be interested in her. It was perfect.

  She looked at Charles with new interest. “I'll come. What sort of party is it?”

  “Uh...er...I guess elegant.” Charles stuttered. Phoebe was smiling at him benignly and he suddenly felt blessed, like he had been conferred a great honor by a queen.

  “Okay...” I could probably wear that black slip dress that I had been saving for ages to go somewhere nice, she thought, and then looked at Charles again, a beatific smile spreading over her face as she thought about the evening ahead. “What time should I be ready?”

  “About five,” Charles said relieved that he had found the key to having Phoebe talk to him. “We have to set up; do mike checks, that sort of thing…the party starts at seven.”

  “So I'll have to sit around until the party starts?” Phoebe asked, suddenly put off. She could just loudly state that she was a service person. Nobody would mistake her for a guest.

  Charles' smile deflated. “Setting up is still fun.”

  Phoebe frowned and then finally she sighed. Who was she kidding? Here was her only chance to see the inside of a Bluffs Head mansion, and she was put off by going there too early? She must be mad to even think of turning down this wonderful opportunity.

  “I'll be ready.”

  “Can I get your number to call you in case of anything?” Charles asked trying to keep a casual look on his face before Phoebe figured out that he was jumping for joy inside.

  “Oh sure,” Phoebe said and gave it to him without a thought. She was so caught up in the possibilities of the night that she hadn’t even registered that Charles was still leaning on the gate with a puppy dog look in his eyes while she headed inside the house.

  Chapter Four

  Phoebe mumbled the whole way to Bluffs Head. It turned out that the black-slip dress that she had hoped to wear had several white spots on the front and looked like a polka dot horror—her mother had accidentally ruined it with bleach. It would have been perfect to wear to an elegant party, and sophisticated enough to help her fit in.

  Instead, she had to settle for a red velvet textured dress that shouted low income. She was in the process of tugging down the hem when she looked up to see five pairs of eyes watching her intently.

  She had chosen to sit in the very back of Darren's bus to avoid sitting beside any of the guys. She had jammed herself beside a guitar and a box with long cords coiled up in it. The bus smelled like bubblegum. The eyes were still regarding her with interest.

  “Shouldn't you be facing forward?” she asked them while she struggled to sit straight as the bus took a sharp corner.

  “Is she real?” one of them asked Charles, completely ignoring Phoebe's question and looking at her, awestruck.

  “Yes,” Charles said gleefully. He was wearing a red satin shirt and black pants like the rest of them and Phoebe suddenly realized she was in red as well, the exact shade of red that they were wearing.

  She groaned. “I feel like Gladys Knight with the Pips.”

  “Our band is called the The Perfect Number,” one of them said, his eyes fastened on her steadily. “We are usually seven guys but Brad got food poisoning from eating oranges. Can you believe it?” He laughed nervously and made a honking sound.

  Phoebe closed her eyes and tried to ignore them. She didn't even remember their names. Charles had introduced them when he had stopped at her gate, promptly at five, but all she heard was Happy, Sleepy, Sleazy, Grumpy, and Dopey. She already knew Charles and the one driving was Darren.

  When she opened her eyes again, Sleazy asked Charles, “Are those her real breasts?”

  “Forget that,” Dopey said, “are those eyelashes real?”

  “Stop acting like you've never seen a girl before,” Charles said to his friends in frustration.

  “Never seen one like this,” Grumpy said, “except in music videos and magazines. Is she photo-shopped?”

  Charles sighed. “Garwin, shut up. She's real.”

  “And lives beside you?” Dopey asked incredulously, “in Flatbush Scheme?”

  Phoebe couldn't wait to get to the party, and pretend like she didn't know them.

  The vehicle was climbing the hill and advancing through a middle class neighborhood. The houses were well kept and the lawns manicured. Phoebe couldn’t help but notice how much the view improved and the land space between the houses widened the farther they went up the hill.

  They passed an imposing mansion, which had exquisite cut stonework on the front and some beautiful flowers in the yard.

  “Wow,” Phoebe said, totally impressed.

  “That's Chris Donahue's house,” Charles said, enjoying the fact that Phoebe was impressed with their date so far, even though he had nothing to do with it. “He goes to your church.”

  “It's nice,” Phoebe said struggling to close her mouth and act blasé.

  Charles laughed, the others giggled too and then Phoebe realized that they had stopped at a gate. The imposing wrought iron gate had a security booth at the front. On a nameplate in the stout cut stonewall, was the name Lion's Head.

  Wasn't this the mansion, Erica said belonged to Ezekiel Hoppings? She hadn't been able to see, from the road, what the house looked like when she had coerced Erica to drive by, just a few short months earlier.

  Was she gate crashing Ezekiel's party? What if he recognized her?

  Phoebe felt a shaft of fear grip her. She couldn’t stand embarrassment. She couldn't deal with the humiliation of being called out as a poor imposter who had to resort to pretending to be a service person to attend a high-class party. She wanted to go back home. Her confidence had taken off down the hill and she wanted to run after it.

  “Step out of the vehicle please.” The security guards surrounded the van as if prisoners were in it. Everybody filed out of the vehicle. A pink-faced Phoebe followed behind Charles.

  “Who is she?” one especially fierce looking guard asked when Phoebe stood a little behind the boys. His name was Bryan; she could see it on his ID, which was clipped to his shirt pocket.

  “She is...she...er...” Darren was stuttering like he was
guilty of something.

  “She is replacing Bradley on the list,” Charles piped up to help his friend.

  The security guard looked at her hard, as if she was a criminal.

  “State your name, occupation and address on this paper.” He shoved a piece of paper, under Phoebe's nose. Phoebe felt so humiliated. Why would anyone need to be treated with such cold disregard before entering a party?

  She scratched down her information, her hands trembling.

  The security guard took the paper from her and glanced over it; another security guard went into the van with an instrument and another searched the van thoroughly. There were four of them, all of them massive, and serious-looking. One of them ran a scanning device over the group members one-by-one and then stepped back. Another returned with her red purse and handed it to her.

  “Please open your bag Miss so that we can verify that its contents aren’t contraband.”

  “Contra...contraband?”

  The security guard didn't even nod; he gazed at her coldly.

  Phoebe opened her purse. They glanced at her phone, her lipstick, and pack of gum and then nodded.

  “You need to give us the phone.”

  “But...but why.”

  The taller security guard standing behind him smiled with an even scarier look than his serious expression and said gruffly, “We do not allow instruments on the compound that can take unauthorized pictures and videos. That was on the list of rules for the service people. You should have told your friend, here,” he said looking at the boys; they were awestruck and looking at the security guard fearfully.

  Charles muttered, “Sorry Phoebe.”

  He took Phoebe's phone and said, “When you are leaving you will get it back. I also took your recorder,” he said, staring at the guys. “When you are leaving you will get it back as well.”

  He waved them on, “Have a nice party.” The four guards once more took up defensive poses as the group trooped back into the van and watched the iron gate slowly open for them. Phoebe's dreams of waltzing into the party, as a much revered beautiful woman, died a slow painful death as she sat down and heard her red dress make a ripping sound.