Allison Mullarie

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Mystery and Crime  |  House: Booksie Classic
Allison Mullarie is a suburban housewife in Southern, California, married to Brandon and African-American man. Her sister Irene comes to visit, but his ex-wife is taunted by Allison on an unannounced visit. Irene takes advantage of the situation once a confrontation with the ex-wife leaves the couple helpless. However, the love of the couple prevails over Irene's agenda and her checkered past.

Submitted: September 16, 2012

A A A | A A A

Submitted: September 16, 2012



Allison Mullarie

A Troubled Woman and Troubled Life”

written by James L. Adams Jr.

©1981, All Rights Reserved.

“I don’t see what all of the hoopla is about?” said Irene Mallory in her low-pitched contralto voice accompanied by a Southern twang while peering into the nautical horizon of the Pacific Ocean from the upstairs balcony at her younger sister’s beach house. ‘Sis, you really need to loosen-up a bit, we are not in Mississippi anymore.’ Irene impaled Allison with piercing green eyes of resentment. ‘Don’t you ever mention our home again! You don’t deserve the right to say such a word!’ Allison stroked her strawberry-blond hair before sitting down in the patio chair at the table across from Irene. ‘I understand that you’re still angry’ said Allison in a soothing tone before being abruptly interrupted.

‘You’re damn right I’m angry!’ snapped Irene before clasping the Copolla wine bottle and forcefully pouring the last drops into the stemware glass. ‘Mother was at home dying and you got your ass living the high-life out here!’ exclaimed Irene with a resounding bitterness. ‘Maybe I did not handle things right in certain instances, but I did all I could for her.’ Irene choked as she attempted to rebut her comment. ‘Bitch! You left us down there in squalor to pursue the dream of being a California Girl.’ Irene gestured while using air-quotes. Allison gracefully lowered her head as her pencil-like copper-toned fingers with French-manicured-tips covered her oval-shaped face. ‘Shit! You should cry… leaving us and then coming out here to become a colored gal. Momma and Daddy would roll over in their graves if they knew you were married to a Nig..’ Suddenly Allison pointed her index finger directly at her older sister with her sky-blue eyes redden and tear-drenched and replied, ‘So help me if you use that word in this house I will put your ass out on the street!’ ‘Roe’ said Irene with a an awkward but half-broken smile.

Allison’s rose-colored lower lip trembled. ‘Maybe a hotel would better suit you for the remainder of your visit.’ A sense of shock from the suggestion elongated Irene’s pale age-lined face. ‘Allison glanced at her sparking diamond-latent Piaget watch and mentioned, ‘It’s about 4pm and I’m sure that rooms are available at the Day’s Inn.‘ ‘Some family, I tell you… If mommy and daddy was alive thangs would be different.’ scolded Irene.

‘Honey?’ called out a deep baritone voice from inside the house as the door opened. Irene and Allison locked eyes briefly. ‘One insult and your ass is out of my house.’ whispered Allison under her breath. Irene rolled her eyes and perched her acute-triangular nose upward as streaks of gray hair danced in the gentle breeze.

A strikingly hand-some black man about six-feet tall, well-built, with mustache and goatee opened the balcony door. ‘Afternoon ladies…’ he greeted with a flawless smile. ‘Hi Honey, said Allison cheerfully while bouncing into his arms while desperately wiping away the tears. ‘What’s wrong?’ ‘Oh, we were just talking about ole family memories.’ Irene shifted in her seat and nodded toward him. ‘You must be big sister Irene.’ ‘Just Irene.’ she replied dryly. ‘How was your trip?’ asked the gentleman.

‘I’m so rude…’ chuckled Allison. ‘Brandon, this is my sister Irene she’s going to be with....’ Irene rose with her glass of red wine extended and casually said, ‘I’ll take you up on the Day’s Inn offer’. She walked past Brandon without acknowledging him. ‘Give me a minute.’ whispered Allison to Brandon.

Inside the spacious and swanky living-room lined with exotic abstract oils replete with a huge portrait of Allison and Brandon looming over the fire-place, Irene grabbed the handle of her gray Samsonite suit-case while finishing the last sip of wine. ‘You want Day’s Inn? You’ve got it.’ scolded Allison as Brandon trailed behind her. ‘What is going on between you two?’ he asked.

Allison turned abruptly to Brandon, ‘It’s a racist Southern thing!’. Irene opened the front door and shouted, ‘Let’s go!’. ‘You need me to go with you?’ asked Brandon. ‘Nope. Hun I got this...’ Allison kissed him on the cheek and left briskly, tapping her shoes across the marble entrance.

An hour later Irene wrestled the key into the door of the hotel room. ‘Thanks for the room now you can leave me be.’ said Irene after pulling her suitcase inside. Allison stood in the doorway with hands firmly on her hips as Irene slammed the door without looking up. ‘That ungrateful bitch!’ scolded Allison before stomping down the walkway toward her 1981 red BMW 320i Coupe. Upon starting the car, she noticed the curtains opening in Irene’s room as she stood stone-faced in the window like a defiant villain. Allison turned away and sped off onto the Pacific Coast Highway. ‘Good riddance Damn Nigga’Lova!’ mumbled Irene under her breath.

When Allison arrived home she noticed a black Mercedes 280SEL parked in her parking spot next to Brandon’s Porsche Carerra Turbo. ‘What is she doing here?’ thought Allison aloud. Quickly, she parked behind the Mercedes. Determined, Allison hopped from the car and paced up the cobblestone drive-way and entered the front door. ‘Why is she here?’ shouted Allison hurrying into the living-room where an attractive black woman in her mid-forties and cloaked in black from head to toe sat on the sofa across from Brandon in an arm-chair. ‘I thought the agreement was that you would not come unannounced’ scolded Allison with her index finger pointed. ‘Brandon, please inform your wife about what has happened.’ ‘What? You two?’ Allison began to tear-up. ‘Veronica and I are going to sell the sporting goods shop.’ Allison froze in shock. ‘I hope you didn’t think I wanted Brandon back?’ asked Veronica in a rich smoker’s voice. Relieved, the wrinkles of concern on Allison’s forehead relaxed but not her concern.

‘I need to know… Are you still sleeping with my husband?’ Veronica’s brown eyes squinted in resentment. ‘Not since our divorce last year before you two married.’ “Remember, you slept with him before our divorce was finalized.'” Allison crossed her arms and leaned against the entry-way into the living-room. ’I don’t believe you!’ Veronica rose from the sofa, clutched her purse and stood inches away from Allison’s face. ‘Remember, he left me for you.’ Brandon attempted to interject. ‘Now let’s not get…’. ‘What? ‘You just get the fuck out of my house,,, Now!’ Veronica glanced toward Brandon as if he was the weakest man alive. ‘Well Brandon you have it all, a house in Orange County, white trophy wife, and …’ .

Suddenly, Allison pushed Veronica in her back toward the front-door. ‘Outta’ here bitch now.’ Veronica quickly composed herself straightening her wide-brim hat and matching Ray-Ban sunglasses. ‘This will cost you both dearly.’ Veronica slammed the door shut.

‘You have some fucking nerve bringing that bitch into my house unannounced!’ scolded Allison. ‘Your house?’ exclaimed Brandon. ‘As I recall the deed has my name on it only and it was purchased when I was married to Veronica.’ ‘That’s it!, I’m leaving.’ Allison stormed out the front door with Brandon in hot pursuit. She ignored Veronica starting the Mercedes hopped into her car and sped-off recklessly. Veronica rolled down the window and motioned for Brandon to come toward the driver side car window. ‘I don’t know what to say.’ ‘There is nothing to say, God granted your wish remember?’ Veronica shifted the car into reverse and slowly glided backwards into the street and drove until vanishing down Mac Arthur Boulevard.

Two hours later, Allison and Irene were laughing about the good times they shared in Mississippi over a couple of bottles of Jack Daniels. Briefly, the tone turned serious, ‘So what is it really like?’ asked Irene in a drunken slur. ‘What are you talking about?’ ‘You know…Is it true about those Ni.. I mean black guys.’ Allison shook the ice-cubes in her shot-glass and slurped her drink as Irene anxiously waited for an answer. Allison bobbed her head as if to say yes. Irene’s eyes went upward toward the ceiling. ‘It’s the sex’ mumbled Irene. Allison agreed. “The first and best orgasm of my life.”

Irene's face went blank. “Might rightly, I would not know what one of them feels like.” she said in a broken tone. “I have always envied you... You were prettier than me, smarter than me, more daring than me.” Irene cracked the veneer and sobbed like an errant child. Allison was lost in her efforts to comfort her. “I'm sorry Sis about everything...”. Allison embraced her as Irene smile suspiciously over her shoulder.

The LED clock in the living-room above the sofa read 3:45 am when the two ladies entered the living-room with luggage in tow. The house was dark, silent, and unusually quiet with only the lapping of the waves hitting the beach in the background. Briefly, Allison leaned backwards out the door to notice that Brandon's Porche remained undisturbed. Irene reached her hands along the wall until flicking the light-switch. “Oh my God!” she screamed. Allison looked past her sister to see Brandon's bloodied body stretched-out on the floor in front of them. “Brandon!” screamed Allison as he moaned in searing pain as his eyes turned upward. “I thought that you would return.” said a familiar voice descending the stairway. Veronica was dressed in a white satin robe, matching corset, a white laced thong, white thigh-high hose and matching house shoes. Allison caressed Brandon as Irene stepped back slowly into the shadows. “I have a problem with you taking my shit.” said Veronica as Allison looked up and got a glimpse of the nickel-plated 357 Magnum pistol in her hand. “Why did you do this?” asked Allison before kissing Brandon as his eyes fluttered close. “I could care less about his ass, I can find a black man anywhere! But the lifestyle is irreplaceable.”

Irene stepped backward out the front-door completely clearly out of the line of sight of Veronica descending the stairs. Without hesitation she did not look back and fled to the home next-door. The posh home with a neatly manicured lawn and matching navy blue Jaguars in the driveway intimidated the country girl missing a couple of front-teeth wearing an counter-style floral-print dress.

Inside the living-room Brandon gasped for air. “What do you want?” “You can have it all, just leave us alone!” pleaded Allison. Veronica stood over the couple and pointed the pistol at Allison. “I look good in your lingerie? Huh?, We're the same size.” asked Veronica. Allison looked up toward her as Veronica aimed the gun-barrel toward Brandon's crotch. “And just think without his cock he is worthless to you. Is that all you white girls want with our men anyway?” asked Veronica. Allison pleaded, “Please don't hurt him anymore.” Veronica laughed, “So you actually love this fucker?” “Yes! With all my heart!” shouted Allison. “Huh! Well at least I know why he left me instead of the straight-hair, colored-eyes, and lighter-skin.” as Veronica cocked the revolver.

Irene was greeted warmly by the affluent lady of the house next-door. She was on the phone with the police when five shots pierced the serene silence of the community. The lady held her chest and Irene shook nervously as the banal of the 911 operator became jibberish. Within minutes multiple police cars arrived and the street was illuminated like a Christmas tree. The lady and Irene stood on the front lawn behind the yellow crime-scene-tape in front of a couple of detectives probing for statements. Irene witnessed the paramedics taking out Allison on a gurney and screamed “Allison!”. Brandon was next to come out with them pumping his chest. And finally, Veronica was taken out in a black body-bag. The tears in Irene's eyes failed to come.

Months after Veronica's body was cremated after autopsy, Brandon had made a full recovery from a gun-shot wound to the abdomen. However, Allison was placed on life-support after suffering three gun-shot wounds to the chest. Irene, moved in with Brandon and they would visit a barely conscious Allison. The bills mounted and Irene was faced with the irony of making a life-altering decision. One day while Brandon was away handling the final details of the sale of the sporting-goods store, Irene arrived in Allison's room and stood at the foot of her bed, wearing the designer-line clothes that she used to wear. The country-girl persona had died for a more sophisticated woman with dyed blond hair, augmented breasts, and a new full set of porcelain veneers encasing her smile. “Mommy and Daddy would be proud of us.” she said before signing the directive to take her off of life-support.

Irene walked out of the hospital in locked arms with a young black man in his early twenties as she made a call on her cellular phone. “Brandon, you are a free man now, I signed the forms right under your signature.” “I will expect a check for my efforts.”

Inside a hotel room, Brandon hung-up the phone as a host of detectives and technicians listened in on the conversation. “I think that we have our suspect in your extortion case.” said one of the detectives. “She has a wrap-sheet a mile long back in Mississippi and remains a suspect in the suspicious deaths of her parents.”

A year later the sting operation was over and Brandon had liquidated all of his assets on Allison's continued care and rehabilitation. Since the day of signing the directive, Irene was under the impression that Allison was dead. On the day Michael Jackson's Thriller album was released, Irene sat in a court-room facing charges for extortion and fraud for using Allison's credit and identity with extradition pending back in the state of Mississippi. Brandon wheeled Allison into the court-room with her hand firmly clutching Brandon's arm. A quaint smile appeared on Allison's crooked face as the verdict of guilty was read by the court clerk.

Throughout the years, Irene would write Allison form the Central Mississippi Correctional Facility for Women. Brandon would sit on the balcony and read her letters as Allison shed tears but refused to write her back. Paralyzed from the waist-down, Allison assumed the appearance of an angry disenfranchised white woman that felt as though life had done her wrong. Even though intimacy was difficult, Brandon never stopped loving his wife and Allison mis-directed her anger toward him much like Irene did initially.

A sense of uselessness was the motivation for Allison to crawl out of her chair and attempt to hoist herself over the balcony. Fortunately, Brandon caught her ankle just before her motionless body went over the rail. He pulled her into his arms and she wept like a child. Within a week they put the home up for sale before the bank could foreclose and moved to Fontana, California where they currently reside much poorer, but far more happier than the life they had before.


© Copyright 2018 Jausan. All rights reserved.

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