Author Bernice McWilliams: Book Excerpt: A Quiet Storm Book I

Chapter 1

Monique arrived at the weary and worn apartment complex and dashed up the stairs, taking two steps at a time while blindly fumbling for her keys. She panted outside the door, hesitating before entering in order to regulate her breathing and ascertain whether any sign of life was roiling on the other side.

There was nothing to suggest Malcolm was home. She breathed a sigh of relief and cautiously turned the key, pushing the door slightly ajar just as the knob was suddenly torn from her hand. Before she could cross the threshold, she was greeted with Malcolm’s slap that propelled her face down onto the apartment’s tattered linoleum. Dazed, she was barely able to comprehend his screams ridiculing her ineptness. Apparently, her mother was off visiting a friend and planned on spending the night. She realized that she would be home alone with this volatile individual and his blistering wrath. Resigned to this fate, she reasoned dejectedly that she would have to bear out the storm.

Her jaw ached when she moved her mouth from side to side to account for all of her teeth. He eclipsed her like Tanzania’s Mt. Kilimanjaro and loomed menacingly over her in height and girth—a burly man of six feet and a weight easily approaching two hundred seventy-five pounds. Monique attempted to lift her body from the floor, but Malcolm raised his foot to press its expanse across her chest and pin her against the wall.

“You ungrateful twit, do you think I’m supposed to cater to your every need while mine goes unmet?” He lifted his foot from her chest to do his war dance before her. He shuffled left and right and then right to left, ranting at her. “You and your sorry-excuse-for-a-mother better start making adjustments, or the both of you can make other living arrangements. I’ve had my fill with the two of you. Now, get up and fix me something to eat, and make it quick.”

Monique did his bidding. If she dared engage the airwaves between them with her voice in protest, the pain throbbing in her chest and jaw made her think otherwise. She staggered to the kitchen, wondering if she might have any broken ribs and was surprised she didn’t have a concussion and wasn’t unconscious. On the other hand, an unconscious state would have been more welcomed than the hellish onslaught.

This life was weighing on her spiritually, mentally, and physically. She never conceived the day’s promise would lead to such an ending. A change was imminent; if not of a transformational nature, it would be one of finality, because she could no longer live like this, tortured and frightened. The sole consolation was the one big step she took hours earlier to open the door to her escape.

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Monique quaked inside as she waited patiently for her turn at the mic. Am I good enough? Will they like my sound? My look? My stage presence? Everything I’ve ever hoped for rests with this single moment. Her nerves, her clacking knees, and her accelerated heartbeat betrayed her faux bravado.

The room was filled with other hopefuls who appeared just as anxious or unnerved as she. Monique closed her eyes and took deep breaths to regulate her breathing. The added imagery of successfully finishing the song spiritually centered her. Calmed by this, a smile slowly engaged her face.

She mostly dreaded the “powers that be” telling her with disdain to stop mid-way through her performance, the way she’d seen so many times on television with American Idol auditions. She grimaced and then vacillated, thinking about that and envisioning herself working at the grocery store while living out her days on earth with Roberta and Malcolm. She cringed at the thought and re-affirmed why this opportunity to sing was so important: Not only did it mean a venue to showcase her talent, it also meant economic freedom and a new life.

She counted down from ten, which once again enabled the flustered singer to center herself.

The facilitator entered the room and shouted, “Number two-hundred fifty, you’re up!”

Monique inhaled one last time and slowly exhaled as she gathered her belongings and followed the facilitator. Although their trek was in complete silence, arriving at their destination, he opened the door and offered a friendly, “Good luck.”

“Come in, come in, time is of the essence,” wryly greeted her from within the room.

Monique placed her items on a vacant chair and stood before three men and a woman, all of whom appeared as eager to get through the process as she, albeit for obviously different reasons.

After reviewing her bio sheet, one of the men, looking more like a by-the-book professor than a music industry professional, queried matter-of-factly, “So, Monique, how long have you been singing?”

“All my life.”

Another male who emitted an air of cool while sporting—indoors nonetheless—the latest Versace shades was unable to mask his intense curiosity. He asked, “Where have you sung professionally?”

“Most of my singing experience has been in church.”

The lone female, the only one to offer a smile, inquired, “What will you be singing for us today?”

“I’m going to sing Wishing on a Star.”

His interest piqued, leaning forward, the third male stated, “Well, let’s hear you.”

Monique nodded and readied herself to let out an a cappella rendition of the song. To her chagrin, nothing came out. Terror set in while they looked on in disbelief. Could it be that yet another wannabe wasted their time? Had she forgotten the words? There was no way she could have forgotten them. They were streaming through her brain, but nothing was coming out of her mouth.

This couldn’t be happening to her. Not now. Not here, she thought urgently. She began again but nothing. I was just speaking, so I know my voice is fine she reasoned. Somehow her brain wasn’t configuring the necessary signals to get her vocal chords going. Monique looked down at her hands and saw that they were shaking uncontrollably. She steadied her nerves once again by inhaling and exhaling quickly.

“Ms. Thompson, thank you for coming.”

“No, please—I can do this. Please give me another chance,” she begged fervently.

The judges looked at each other before the one at the head of the table said, “Okay. We’ll give you another shot.”

The female judge, with a consoling smile, gestured to a pitcher on the table and offered sympathetically, “Would you like some water?”

“No, thank you. I’ll be okay in a minute.” I can’t believe this is happening to me! It was the classic dream situation where you’re standing before a bunch of people in the nude or forever falling off a cliff without hitting the ground. You feel entirely exposed and vulnerable. For Monique in that instant, she believed she hit her bottom. She shook her body and hands, attempting to stave off any new bouts of fear determined to settle in. She took one last deep breath, exhaled and declared, “I’m ready now.”

“Please proceed.”

Her lips quivered only slightly but not enough to prevent the words from coming out. With each verse, she sounded more confident. The formerly displeased quartet settled back to catch her vibe.

She finished the song and waited as the judges conferred amongst themselves. Mere minutes seemed unbearable extended fractions of time to Monique while they rated her performance’s worthiness.

Finished with their deliberations, the gentleman from whom everyone else took their cues stated, “Okay, Ms. Thompson, you’ve earned yourself a place at the auditions this Friday.”

“Thank you. Oh, my goodness! Thank you sooo much.”

“The facilitator will give you all the pertinent information.” As Monique turned to depart, he called out, “Ms. Thompson …”

“Yes?”

“Next time, please leave your nerves at home.”

“I will. Thank you.” She rushed to the chair to gather her stuff and was handed a paper with the information for Friday’s auditions.

Elation consumed her. She finally conquered her fear. All was right with the world—until she caught a glimpse of the time on a storefront clock. It can’t be! Has that much time really gone by? Malcolm was sure to beat her home, and if that were the case, she would be in a shit-load of trouble.

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