GONNA LAY DOWN MY BURDENS
MARY MONROE
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com
With thanks to my super agent, Andrew Stuart;
my wonderful editor, Karen Thomas,
and the rest of the Kensington family.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I am extremely grateful to David Akamine for the lunches and editorial assistance and Maria “Felice” Sanchez for leading me to the best margaritas this side of Mexico. Special thanks to my friends Sheila Sims, Heather King, and Anita “Wuzzle” Sanchez. I am most grateful to Mom and St. Teresa for the pennies and the roses.
Contents
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
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
CHAPTER 57
CHAPTER 58
CHAPTER 59
CHAPTER 60
CHAPTER 61
CHAPTER 62
CHAPTER 63
CHAPTER 64
CHAPTER 65
CHAPTER 66
CHAPTER 67
CHAPTER 68
CHAPTER 69
CHAPTER 1
January 2001
I had just stepped out of my hot shower when a mysterious gust of ice-cold air blew against the left side of my face and made me shiver.
The small window above my shower, covered in steam, was closed, and it was warmer than normal for Alabama this time of year. There was no explanation for what had just happened to me. Looking back on it now, I think of it as the wind of misfortune that blew into my life that night. But even before that night, I had already lost my way.
Still shivering, I stumbled toward my living room, a large towel in one hand, my pink terry-cloth bathrobe in the other. My wet hair felt like vines against the sides of my face as I wrestled myself into the bathrobe, clutching the towel between my teeth, then wrapping it around my head like a turban.
I had been home from work for two hours and my telephone had not rung once. I couldn’t believe that during the ten minutes I had just spent in the shower, my answering machine had recorded six messages.
As I rubbed the spot on my face where the strange wind had assaulted me in my bathroom, my heart started beating a tattoo against the inside of my chest, and my head started aching on both sides. A large framed picture of a Black, woolly-haired Jesus on the wall directly above my big-screen TV offered a little comfort, but not enough to calm my nerves.
The only painkiller in the house was some leftover margarita in the refrigerator. I made my way to the kitchen. In the dark I drank straight from the blender, licking the last few drops as it trickled down the side of my trembling hand.
I returned to the living room. Before I could rewind the tape on the answering machine, the telephone on the end table next to my living room sofa rang again. I lifted the receiver with caution before the answering machine clicked on, knocking a stack of old Essence magazines off the end table to the floor.
Before I could say anything, a female voice whispered, “Carmen, he’s going to kill me…. Come get me.” Then the phone went dead. I had cancelled caller ID and I was too afraid to hit *69, but I had a good idea who it was. As soon as I hung up, the phone rang again.
“Carmen, did you get my messages? Where were you? I’ve been calling and calling!” Just as I had thought, it was Desiree Lucienne, my best friend and the one with the most baggage. That Desiree. She was a beautiful person inside and out. She was intelligent and her heart was in the right place, but she represented the dark side of the African-American dream. She was weak, self-centered, and foolish. Every time her bad choices got her in trouble, I was the broom she used to sweep up her mess.
“Desiree? What’s the matter?” I asked in a labored voice. The noisy neighbors in the apartments on both sides of me were blasting Whitney Houston. I heard a car backfire outside and then the scream of a siren. Peeping out of the window behind my sofa, I saw a dog running around in circles chasing his own tail under the yellow glow of a dim streetlight. A storm that had started right after I left work had intensified. The wind was howling and blowing the branches on the sumac tree outside my living room window against the side of my building so hard, I could barely hear Desiree, even though she was yelling at the top of her lungs.
“Carmen, Chester knows!” Desiree told me between raspy sobs. There was some static on the telephone line that made her voice seem even more irritating.
“Knows what?” The towel that I had wrapped around my wet hair had come undone. I took a deep breath, braced myself, and held the towel in place with both hands. I pressed the telephone between my shoulder and chin as I eased down on the sofa and crossed my legs.
“He knows I am