THE COLOR RED | DALLAS WINSTON

xix. PAINT IT BLACK

CHARLOTTE STARED AT HER TELEPHONE. No phonecall. Nothing. Radio silence. Then... it did. Charlotte sprang to answer then counted to five so she didn't seem terribly desperate. "Hello?"

"Char, oh my God." Brooklynn. "Remember that case that's been going on for days on end? The one about Bob?"

Charlotte sighed, riddled with disappointment. "Yeah, it's all anyone wants to discuss."

"There was a shooting last night. The kid who stabbed Bob died. Then Dallas Winston, who was like, his best friend robbed that store on Fifteenth Avenue. Got himself shot by a bunch of cops-"

Charlotte dropped the phone, her blood becoming the Arctic's icy waters. A scream was lodged in her throat. Shaking like a chihuahua, she bent to pick up the receiver, hearing Brooklynn frantically call for her.

"Are you okay? What happened? Who's there?"

"I- I'm okay." She stuttered, her voice caught up in the developing scream

"You sure?"

"Yeah... yeah. Is that all that happened? Is he dead?"

"Nothing official's been released, but if you're in a shooting with the fuzz, you're dead meat."

Charlotte gripped the plastic, flames growing in her stomach. Brooklynn went on about how no girls in Tulsa would ever have to worry about him. How no little kids would have to be afraid. How maybe it might not have been such a shame he was dead. All Charlotte could do was imagine him gunned down, crumpling in the damp streets. What were his last thoughts? Did he think of her? Johnny? Did he regret it?

All those wonderings ended with a drunken Alice walking in. She was a mellow drunk but Mrs. Porter was close to collapsing. "Charlotte?" Brooklynn asked once more, shocked she didn't hear the usual hum of agreement

"I gotta go." The artist replied hurriedly, almost a growl. Charlotte hung up and went to her mother, immediately inquiring where in hell that woman was.

"Out with friends." The aging woman replied, shutting the door with her foot. "I thought I told you to paint the door."

"Slipped my mind." 

"Forgetful, just like your daddy." Alice giggled, patting her daughter on the cheek. She removed her patterend coat dress that had a hole in the front pocket. The hole was new and as the coat flopped about, marijuana and a bundle of ones fell out of it.

Disregarding the devil's lettuce, Charlotte led her mother upstairs, helping her lay down and tucking her in like a toddler. "Where'd you get the money?"

"Friend from work."

"Who?"

"George Greene."

"What does he do?" Charlotte asked, removing her mother's heels

"Pimping." The middle aged woman chuckled heartily, shutting her eyes

"Became a prostitute, Mom?"

"Pays the bills, feeds you, buys you all that damned paint." She sighed, "Besides, selling'll make more money. I can buy you a car."

Charlotte could only nod. Dallas was dead and her mother was a whore. Alice soon fell asleep, it was only a matter of time. And so, Charlotte cleaned the hall bathroom, desperate for distraction. She looked in the mirror, filled with anger. He was dead, her mother was hardly a mother. Couldn't that woman get a job like everyone else? A real, honest 9 to 5.

Then it hit her. She almost rushed to her room, forgetting she was in mourning. Charlotte grabbed a bucket of paint along with a rolling brush. Alice wanted that door painted? Fine.

Charlotte looked at all the other neighborhood doors, all painted red. So she dipped the brush into the paint, staring hard at the chipping paint. No more red.

She saw that red door and painted it black.