Strong

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I would like to take the time to acknowledge all who have made my first book possible.  Without you all, I don’t know what I would have done, or if I would have even completed this novel without your continuous support.

My Grandparents.  Rosie Spencer (Grandma), you have always listened to me.  You taught me how to forgive others and not be so hard on myself.  You’ve always told me that God will be there for me and will carry me every step of the way. He has.  Ernest Spencer (Grandpa), I wish you could be here with us right now, but God has called you to a better place.  Thank you for showing me how important it is to be there for your family.  The fishing trips and your company Christmas parties that treated your children and grandchildren to stockings and a long list of good cartoons in a theater are cherished memories.  Thank you and I love you both.

To my love Tabitha Tapia.  You have never given up on me even through all we have been through.  If it weren’t for your confidence in my abilities I would have never started this journey.  As I wrote my very first chapter you were there, anxiously waiting to read it and every chapter after it.  You are my biggest fan and I love you for it.

To my friend and Author, Teresa Rae Butler.  Thank you for the push in the right direction.  Without your knowledge and wisdom, I probably wouldn’t have known where to begin.  I was lost, but you have shown me the way when I first started this book.  Your drive and determination are an inspiration to me.  You’ve showed me how to Go get it my friend.  Love and Light!

Mom!  What can I say; you’ve been there for me in so many ways since day one.  I know there are plenty of times that I haven’t listened to your good advice and have sometimes paid a serious price as a result.  But like most children, when you get older you begin to understand and appreciate the value of having a loving parent who is there for you.  I can’t begin to thank you enough.  Love you dearly!

To Shannon Roeglin.  We started out as co-workers and ended up as best friends after a trying difficult time we have both shared.  You have motivated me to keep going with my writing even though a part of me wanted to give up on everything.  You and your family were there for me in more ways than you can imagine.  Wing nights at Magoos will forever be lodged in my heart.  You are definitely one of the best people I have ever met.

To my son Damien Spencer.  Man, I’ve never thought a son could really teach a father anything, but you have shown me how to love and not give up on your loved ones.  You hung in there with me when I felt I had no one in my corner.  You cried with me when things weren’t looking so good, literally sharing my pain.  You have absolutely no idea how much that means to me.  Thank you son!  Love you.

To my daughter Victoria Spencer.  Thank you for helping me with the picture for the cover of my book.  I remember us walking around downtown Milwaukee, Wisconsin with Mom’s high powered camera, snapping shots of all kinds of alleyways.  Then with one shot from our Iphone and turning it black and white, we had what we wanted.  Thank you!  Love you sweetheart!

Diana Allen, Amanda Puckett, Ashley Kingham.  Thank you for helping me make this book make sense.  There are so many things to learn when it comes to writing a book and you all have taught me so much of it.  This book wouldn’t have made sense without you.  I appreciate that.

To Odie Pierre Brown and Moses Jones my boys for life.  Thank you for being there and supporting me mentally.  You both have always been good friends of mine, calling and checking up on me to make sure all is good.  Even when I am so engulfed in my situations and should have called myself, you both understood and never gave me grief for it.  You continued to show me the love and support I needed so I am forever grateful for it.

It has been a very long process.  Thank you again!

Table of Contents

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

About the Author

CHAPTER 1

Fast Food

Monday, June 12, 2000.

Okay--Okay . . . ya, I know! Victoria says with one arm across her chest, nervously bouncing from one foot to another. In frustration, she then presses the hang-up button and hurls the cordless phone like a football from the kitchen onto the living room couch.  She then immediately turns, forcing open the sticky cabinet doors and begins tossing cans of corn and pork & beans to the side--none of the items fitting the ingredients she needs to prepare his evening dinner.

Knowing her husband had requested his favorite concoction of spaghetti and chicken earlier that morning. . . .  But, it had slipped her mind by the time she arrived home late from her doctor’s appointment, at the time, thinking only of getting the house cleaned-up before he got home . . . the same mistake she had made months ago—

He had come home from work with his taste buds ready for his favorite flavors, sitting at the table and licking his lips like a starving black panther.  But instead of his desired meal, he was presented with leftover liver and mashed potatoes heated from the microwave.

She remembered how long she had to wear those large, bumblebee style sunglasses, until the black eye he’d given her disappeared.  That was a night she surely didn’t want to relive, and if she didn’t acquire the proper ingredients quickly, she feared it would definitely be in this evening’s agenda.

Shit . . . shit, shhhit, she mutters, shoving more cans to the side in search of the spaghetti noodles she thought were there.  She then wraps her boney dark fingers around the handle of the cabinet beneath her.  When it opens, an avalanche of old pots and pans crashes down around her feet.

Oh my God—I can’t believe this shit! she shrieks, quickly shoving all of the battered, well-used items back into the cabinet, slamming the door shut.  His ignorant ass is always stressing somebody out and can’t put shit back the way I had it.  Motha-Fucka needs to pay attention to keeping his damn job and stop worrying about what the fuck I’m doing all the time.

Profanity spewed from this petite five foot three inch, twenty-eight-year-old black woman’s lips like a geyser when she was upset, and only slightly less when in a good mood.  All who knew her were aware that when speaking with Victoria, you were definitely in for an earful.  Some of her associates even avoided going places with her, especially after a recent burger-joint incident in which the boy working the register gave her cold fries (she hated cold fries!).  The cool expired l shaped potatoes had triggered a release in her of several contaminated sentences that widened eyes and caused the ears of children to be covered, ultimately resulting in the manger permanently removing her and her friends--never again to enjoy the juiciest, tastiest burgers Milwaukee has to offer.

Okay, if I hurry I can do this, she says, checking the clock on the microwave, then looks outside the window to make sure the weather will allow her journey to the store.  She grabs a clean glass from the dishrack and fills it with water to swallow one of her newly prescribed pain pills.

While looking out of her third story window, she frowned like a parent who had opened the door to her son’s filthy room, disgusted at what she had seen.  The alley was filled with overflowing trash bins, cracked pavement riddled with potholes, shack-like garages framed with doors so broken they were now more of a suggestion than an actual barrier and some with no doors at all.  The surrounding apartment buildings were just as weather-beaten and old as the one she stood in.  Boarded windows dotted the vertical landscape like portraits of virulent vacancy separated by signs of substandard life--apartments that barely met code regulations, having balconies with chipped paint and warped wood, unfit and too dangerous to stand on.  The only pleasant view she had was the occasional clear skies and warm rays of sunshine.

Her ghetto surroundings didn’t prevent her from keeping her apartment immaculately clean, wiping and disinfecting every corner of it daily, as if she suffered from Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.  Everything had its place, from the TV remote on the corner of the coffee table, to the Jet magazines fanned out in the middle of it, all accompanied by expensive rental furniture, giving off the false impression that they had enough money to afford luxuries.

Victoria often dreamt of the day she would own her own home with a private backyard, surrounded by friendly neighbors.  The simple thought of going to her own mailbox without worrying if some dope-head wanted to be let in, or, if the landlord was stalking the front entrance, waiting to pounce on tenants who were late on rent, brought a smile to her face.

Making her way to the closet next to the front door, she removed the phone from the couch, put it back in its cradle, and straightened the TV remote neatly in its usual spot on the coffee table.  Then throwing her hair into a ponytail, she stopped just long enough to inspect her face in a mirror for flaws.  Satisfied, she grabbed her keys and raced out of the door, staring at her cell phone as if it alone held the answer to her trepidation.

(3:05 p.m.)

Damn, ten minutes went by that fucking fast? she says while shoving her cell phone into her side pocket and lightly jogging through the back alley as a short cut.

As she comes out of the alley to a side street, the attention of a young man is attracted.  From his car window he watched as her plump, round butt packed in tight, back pocketless jeans bounced with every step, causing her shirt to rise, revealing her smooth, chocolate skin at the small of her back.

Slowing his car to her pace, he leaned out of the window and perversely licked his lips, enjoying the amplified bounce of her quick pace. Where you going to in such a hurry, little lady? he asks.

Victoria’s pace slowed abruptly as she gave him a hateful look, hoping the boy in the car would get the hint that she wasn’t interested and would continue passing her.

Unconcerned with the traffic behind him, the boy presses his brakes and slows even more. Aye, I said where you going to in such a hurry?  You need a ride?

"Hell no--.  I’m doing just fine, thank you.  What the fuck I look like?  --jumping in yo car?"

Damn!  You ain’t gotta be like that!  I’m just tryin’ to be nice and offer my assistance, he says.  Then, changing his posture, he tries again, Can I ask where you goin’?

Beans, up the street, if you must know. . . .  So you ain’t gotta slow down, ‘cause I’m almost there, she says, picking up her pace once again.

No need to be mean, baby--.  Just tryin’ to help out.  But, whateva’ though. He speeds off, waiving his disapproving hand in her direction.

As the black, pimped-out Honda Accord drives away, she notices two others in the car.  She could barely see them through the dark, tinted windows, but in the back seat were two male-like silhouettes.  She chuckled at the Wisconsin license plate that read, LDYSMN.

The transition from the ninety-degree heat outside to the cool, air-conditioned grocery store was refreshing; but she had no time to enjoy it as she bee-lined to each item she needed, running through every long aisle searching for that next ingredient, while checking the time on her phone periodically.

Luckily, the 12 Items or Less line was short--which gave her hope of actually accomplishing the impossible, since this was her halfway point. As she stood impatiently waiting for the slow clerk (who happens to be in deep conversation with a woman about coupons), someone walks up directly behind her in line.  The stranger’s breath warms the back of her neck while their lower half lightly bumps up against the bubble of her butt.  She moved forward, placing her items on the checkout counter, hoping the intruder will keep their distance.

"Well hey . . . you look even better up close," the voice says from behind suddenly.

Looking over her left shoulder, she immediately recognizes the space invader.  It was the same baby-faced boy that had attempted to offer her a ride--with his loud-red custom tee that matched his equally loud shoes.  His blue jeans completed the conspicuous ensemble, hanging off of his waist and held up by a belt that was firmly buckled around his thigh area.  This is what these boys call Saggin--which, in her eyes, was a proper description, being that the word spelled backwards accurately identified the persons normally displaying this style.  And according to her, the fact that his clothing seemed to be at least two or more sizes larger than he was, clearly showed his age.  The arrogant look on his face, biting his bottom lip while rubbing his chin, gave her the impression that this BOY assumed he was God’s gift to women.

Oh, hey, ‘Mr. Lady’s Man,’ she says with slight sarcasm.

My name is Clarence, but my friends call me ‘Clay.’

I was referring to your license plate; but alright, ‘Clarence.’  Do you mind not standing so fucking close to me and give a bitch some space?  I got a lot of shit I need to do and I don’t have no time for any adolescent bullshit right now.  Besides . . . Victoria concludes, while clicking her wedding band with her thumbnail, displaying to the boy her marital status.

"What!  . . . adolescent?  Girl, I’m nineteen--ain’t nothin’ adolescent about this.  And what? . . .  He ain’t got to know."

"Who said it was a he?" she says, looking back at him with a quick smile as she hands the clerk her money.

Now smiling at the clerk, she grabs her things and gives Clay another quick glance before heading out of the automatic doors.  He stands in line, staring as she walks out--his confident expression reduced to one of rejection and disappointment, as if someone had called him ugly for the first time in his life.

Just then, another young man approached Clay from behind (eating a bag of chips he had not yet paid for) with a smirk on his face.  So, you get dem digits? he says with a mouthful.

Clay ignored his friend’s joking and playful nudges to his shoulder, and at the same time paid no mind to the clerk--who kept repeating, Did you find everything okay?  Instead, Clay watched Victoria briskly walk through the parking lot heading back in the direction she had come earlier.

She stops for a moment to sort through her bags of spaghetti noodles, sauce, chicken and corn meal to evenly distribute the weight in each bag for a more comfortable walk.  Then fumbling to find her cell phone, she checks the time once more.

(3:45 p.m.)

Awww . . . shit!!  Picking up her pace, she puts away her phone again.  After a block and a half of walking, one of the bags splits, spilling groceries to the ground through a small tear that had been growing with her every step.

Damnit! she declares, as she kneels down and inspects the unbroken jars of spaghetti sauce, then scrambles to pick up the rest of the spilled products--wishing she had double bagged them like she normally does; but in her haste to get rid of the bothersome little boy, she had forgotten.

The sound of a car racing down the street grabs her attention.  She watches the pimped-out Honda pass by her quickly without the driver neither stopping nor making any eye contact with her as he did before.

Truthfully, she could have cared less, since she was on a mission and time was ticking away.  In fact, the only thing on her mind was the telephone call from her husband that had instigated this mission.  As she turned and walked up the alleyway getting close to her destination, that conversation with Will replayed in her mind:

I hope dinner is almost ready, ‘cause I’m hungry as hell and should be coming home early, if things work out right, he said.

Oh, I thought you was working late . . . usually when you work late you get somethin’ to eat before you get home.

How the fuck am I supposed to get somethin’ to eat when I gave you the last money I had to go shoppin’ for food?  We talked about that this morning before I left, Vee!  And there’d better be something there when I get home.  What the hell you been doing all day?

I am sorry, baby, the conversation slipped my mind and I lost track of time because of the late doctor’s appointment . . .

Vee, let me come home and you ain’t got my food--.  You know Imma be pissed girl.

Okay--Okay . . . ya, I know!

She frowned.  It was his fault she was late.  She went to the doctor’s office, complaining of abdominal pain.  Her claim to the doctor that she had fallen was typical of most women who were physically abused.  And judging by her doctor’s doubtful expression, she didn’t buy it.

Victoria also reminisced about the good times she had spent with William Strong--when his touch was softer