One Taste (13 page)

A
bell rang persistently. The sound was muted, but annoying nonetheless. A loud pounding started. Was it in her head? She felt disoriented, couldn’t make sense of what was happening. Then the pounding stopped.

Male voices murmured in the distance and then grew stronger. The pounding began again, grew more insistent—
bang, bang, bang
. It seemed like someone was pounding on her head, but she couldn’t move her body or turn her head. She couldn’t stop the pounding or the aggravating
ding dong
sound that seemed to alternate between poundings.
Oh God, make it stop
, she moaned.

“Regina Wheeler!” a male voice shouted from somewhere in the distance. “Delivery for Regina Wheeler!”

Shuffling, unsteady footsteps approached from behind, responding to the racket, she presumed. Good. Somebody would take care of it. Make it stop. But there was more noise. A blood-curdling scream. “Onika! What the fuck happened?” Puddin shouted and kneeled down to get a look at her friend. “Oh, shit! Who fucked up your lips?” Puddin covered her own mouth in horror. She quickly tried to pick up the chair that Onika was taped to, but Onika was dead weight, resistant to her friend’s effort to lift her. Puddin accidentally dropped the chair and screamed again when
she heard Onika’s head bang against the protrusive edge at the bottom of the refrigerator.

“Ohmigod! I’m sorry, Onika!” Puddin blurted.

A deep gash opened on the side of Onika’s head; blood gushed and sprayed Puddin’s neck and the front of her T-shirt.

“Somebody, help!” Puddin jumped up and ran screaming to the front door. She swung it open and yelped, shocked that two men stood on the other side of the door.

Startled, the two uniformed men, wearing shirts that read Vanity Furniture jumped when Puddin appeared in the doorway. They gawked at the blood-spattered woman. Taking several steps backward, one of the men, a clipboard in hand, said in a shaky voice, “Delivery, ma’am. We brought your furniture. Is everything all right? Are you Regina Wheeler?”

“Regina who?” Puddin shook her head and waved her hand impatiently. “Look, fuck all that. Somebody tried to kill my best friend. Call an ambulance and call the cops. She’s in there dying right now!”

Later, the police took a statement from Onika. She didn’t provide them with Nazier’s name or whereabouts—doing that would involve court and testifying and risking retaliation from Nazier’s peeps. So she claimed she’d been raped, robbed, and brutalized by an unknown, masked assailant.

The hospital treated the burns to her lips and stitched the head wound that had bled profusely but was actually a minor injury, and then released her. But terrified of returning to the apartment and meeting Nazier’s wrath again, Onika convinced Puddin that they both needed the protection and drug treatment
that the Recovery House offered. Onika was lucky to be alive. She figured after surviving the horror of being duct taped, and after having her lips seared together with a fiery knife, she damn sure deserved a second chance. After the ordeal she’d gone through, there was a strong possibility she’d take her butt to church and turn herself over to the Lord.

Her body ached from head to toe. She thought about getting high one last time, just to dull the pain. But she changed her mind when she thought about the strong possibility of running into Naz. So with Puddin’s assistance in holding her up, Onika, the prodigal daughter, limped back to the Recovery House, where both young women were welcomed back into the fold.

Other than a quick head nod, the public defender ignored Matthew Wheeler. He placed his battered briefcase on the table and began to pull out papers. Frowning, he silently glossed over the paperwork, and then gave a huge sigh and turned his focus on Matt.

It was bad enough that Regina wouldn’t post bail for Matt, but to find himself looking in the face of an indifferent public defender instead of planning his defense with an aggressive, highly paid, hot-shot attorney was as preposterous as it was for Matt to be behind bars.

“Borrowing a phrase from the street thugs I usually have the honor of representing,” the public defender said in a voice thick with sarcasm and arrogance, “that loaded nine-millimeter Glock they found in your possession had a couple of bodies on it.”

“Excuse me?” Matt didn’t know what the man was talking about. How dare he expect Matt to interpret the language of street thugs. Matt thoroughly detested his lawyer. He intended to dump the
incompetent city-paid employee the moment he made bail and could maneuver within the legal system without having to rely on his scornful wife.

“It’s been determined that several men were murdered with the gun you had in your possession.” The public defender cleared his throat. “Well…that gun is being tied to you. I hate to be the bearer of such bad news, but in addition to the other charges—illegal gun possession, drug possession, and trafficking—you’re going to get charged with a murder rap. I have to warn you that your bail is going to be much higher than the original set bail and from the looks of things”—the attorney scowled down at the papers—“you may be standing trial for at least two counts of first-degree manslaughter.”

Shocked, Matt stared at the attorney, speechless. Then, the enormity of his words sank in and Matt sprang out of his seat and leaned across the table. Seething, he reached out and collared the smug attorney. “Manslaughter! Are you crazy?” Matt was so furious, he could hardly speak. Spit spewed from his lips as he tried to gather the words to express his shock and rage. “They think I’m a murderer? I don’t own a gun, never carried a gun in my life, and I most certainly never killed anyone. Some young punk stole my van and left that gun, the drugs, and any other crap they found in it. The person who committed those crimes is still out there on the loose.”

“Guard!” the public defender shouted while trying to break from Matt’s iron-clad grasp.

Guards immediately swarmed around Matt. They tussled with him and quickly overpowered and cuffed him.

Kicking and thrashing as he was dragged out of the interview room, Matt bellowed, “Call my wife! I’m being railroaded and I want a real attorney. Do you hear me? Call my wife!”

C
ochise fiddled with the radio, scrolling past head-pounding rap music until he found a station that featured R&B and classic soul. “Aw, that’s my jawn,” Cochise announced, settling back in his seat when smooth male vocals poured from the speakers.

Regina found herself mesmerized by the style of the vocalist. He reminded her of a modern-day Marvin Gaye. “Who’s that?” she asked Cochise.

“That’s Raheem DeVaughn. That track is called
Believe
. If I could blow, that’s what I’d be singing to you.” Cochise smiled and then became quiet so Regina could hear the lyrics.

When the love song concluded, Cochise turned the volume down. “My man was putting it down. He said everything I wish I had the nerve to tell you.”

She couldn’t help from blushing. It was flattering to know that Cochise was interested in a long-term relationship, but a million unsettling thoughts ran across her mind. “Cochise, there’s something I need to ask you.”

Giving Regina his undivided attention, Cochise turned the volume down. “Ask.”

Regina felt uncomfortable getting all in the man’s business, but
if she was going to be involved romantically or professionally she would be remiss in not finding out everything she could about the younger man. “What’s your addiction, Cochise? How did you end up in the recovery program?”

“I’m addicted to alcohol,” he said without hesitation. “Wine, whiskey, beer. You name it, if it could get me drunk enough to numb the pain, I drank it.” Sadness softened his tone.

“My girl—my
ex
-girl, Tierra,” he went on solemnly, “she wanted to get married. I told her I wasn’t ready. She got upset, said I didn’t love her. We broke up.” Cochise bit down on his lip as if pained by the memory. “It was cool, though. I wasn’t ready to make a lifetime commitment. But then I started missing her like crazy. I caved in, called her and told her I was willing to get married if that’s what it took to get back together.

“She started planning a big, elaborate wedding. Preacher, church, family and friends, the whole nine. But I wasn’t with all that. Being stubborn, trying to have my way because I felt like I was being forced into something I wasn’t ready to do, I told her if we didn’t have a small, private ceremony at City Hall, then we could just call the whole thing off.” Cochise paused and lowered his head as if he were too overcome with emotion to speak.

“If this is too uncomfortable…”

“No, no. It’s cool. I need to talk about it,” he said, nodding. “Tierra wanted to get married so bad she went along with it, but on the day we were supposed to get married, she insisted we drive our separate cars. She didn’t want me to see her in her wedding dress, said it would be bad luck.” Cochise inhaled, drawing in a deep breath, gathering himself before he continued. “Tierra never made it. She was killed in a car crash. A head-on collision. Blaming myself, I started drinking. I drank so much, I was hospitalized
for alcohol poisoning. And that’s when I finally realized that my drinking was going to kill me. I decided I wanted to live. The social worker at the hospital told me about the Recovery House.”

“How long have you been sober?”

“A year and a half. But I’m not gon’ hold you, it’s still a struggle. Every day is a struggle.”

Regina thought about her addiction to designer bags. Unlike a drug, alcohol or gambling addiction, her spending was controllable. She didn’t neglect bills or go without food. But she could relate to the need to numb the pain of loss with some form of overindulgence.

Stopping at a red light, Regina reached over and touched Cochise’s hand. When the light changed, she pushed down on the gas pedal. “Matt and I lost our son,” she said softly, keeping her eyes on traffic. “His name was Devon.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. How long ago?”

“It’s been ten years now.”

“What happened? Was your son sick?”

“No.” Driving through traffic, Regina was catapulted back in time. Taking in a breath, she composed herself. “He drowned,” she said in a monotone, detaching herself emotionally in order to speak the unspeakable. “Devon drowned when he was seven years old. His father bought him a fishing rod and promised to take him on a fishing trip. Matt cancelled when his job offered him overtime to work the weekend. Devon was so disappointed, he had a tantrum. Cried and wouldn’t go outside to play with his friends. I felt like I was being punished by his constant crying, whining, and moping around the house all day Saturday. By Sunday, I was so weary of his sullen disposition and so angry with Matt for leaving me to deal with it, I yelled at Devon and insisted
that he go outside and play in the backyard. Every fifteen minutes, I checked on him. But when I called him in for lunch, he didn’t answer. After scouring the neighborhood looking for him, I gave up and called Matt. He came home and we called the police. Devon’s body was found in a nearby creek. He’d secretly taken his fishing rod out of the backyard shed and decided to go fishing by himself.”

Surprisingly, Regina didn’t cry. Speaking of the tragic details of her son’s death was therapeutic. And for the first time, she no longer pointed the finger of blame at Matt or herself. Neither could have known that their decisions that weekend would alter their lives forever.

Regina and Cochise made the rest of the trip to Chester in silence. No radio, no conversation. The mood, however, was not tense. Regina and Cochise were both pensive—silently in awe that two wounded souls had found each other, knowing that together their wounds would heal.

Matt’s alleged drug trafficking and the murder charge were hot topics in the small town of Chester. The story made the front page of the local newspaper, Cochise discovered when he dropped off the vouchers at the Recovery House. There was, however, a bit of good news. Mr. Faison had his medication and was doing fine. And he’d heard that Onika had returned to the womens’ Recovery House, vowing to stay clean.

Most likely, the story wouldn’t hit the bigger newspapers in Philadelphia, so Cochise kept quiet about Matt’s situation being splashed on the front page of
The Delaware County Daily Times.
That
information would undoubtedly upset Regina, and what she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her. Right now, he wanted her to focus on getting the costly equipment out of the job site and safely to her home.

After Regina rented the truck, Cochise drove the U-Haul, picked up the equipment, and returned it to Regina’s home.

Back at the Wheeler household, Cochise and Regina pored over Matt’s records. There was one alarming discovery after another, the first being that Matt was several months behind in payments to numerous cleaning product suppliers. Each had sent threatening letters with dates when the account would be suspended. Also startling was the fact that over four thousand dollars in furniture had been charged to one of Matt and Regina’s joint credit cards. But the most shocking discovery of all was the sight of Matt’s signature on the lease to an apartment in Chester.

So stunned was she by the depth of her husband’s deception, Regina was too numb to feel any emotion. However, when the fax machine in Matt’s office began spitting out a slew of cancelled contracts, Regina was finally able to feel something. Fury!

“Apparently, Matt’s troubles are public knowledge. How could he allow his affair to get him into such a mess?” She stared at one of the faxed pages and handed it to Cochise. “His drug-related legal troubles are in direct violation of his agreement with the Recovery House; all the businesses he contracted with have pulled out,” she added as she watched Cochise peruse the faxed messages. “I just can’t believe Matt has gotten himself into such a terrible financial mess, not to mention the criminal charges.”

“I don’t think Mr. Wheeler is guilty of those charges. I didn’t want to upset you, but everybody’s talking about it at the Recovery House…that gun they found on Mr. Wheeler was used in a murder—”

Regina mouth dropped open but not a sound came out. “Murder?” she finally asked.

Cochise nodded. “I don’t want to lose you,” he said softly, “but if you still love your husband and want to stand by his side, I definitely can understand it. The things he did—cheating on you with Onika, splurging on dumb stuff when he should have been handling his business, well…that shit was slimy, but I don’t think he deserved to take the fall for crimes he didn’t commit.”

“After twenty years of marriage, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t care about Matt.”

Though he maintained an impassive expression, Cochise’s heart was beating fast as he listened to Regina, waiting to find out the fate of their relationship.

“I’m furious with Matt, but I’m not letting my anger determine my actions. I’m going to help him. I’ll take out a second mortgage on the house if that’s what it takes to afford a good defense attorney, but I want a divorce. I’m not in love with my husband. Our marriage was over years before he began the affair with Onika. Our marriage started dying when we lost our son and neither of us knew how to revive it.”

Regina looked so sad, Cochise embraced her. “You know I’m here for you. Just tell me what you need.”

Frightened, exhausted, and love deprived, Regina looked up at Cochise. “Right now, all I need is you.”