Breaking the Cycle (9 page)

Peggy defied them all, and delved even harder into the public assistance programs. That’s when she met Carl. He was a proud, tall, stocky, black man, who wore a huge Afro and vivid dashikis. He was a former Black Panther, who tirelessly worked in the boroughs and neighborhoods of New York, seeking change and spearheading protests. At their chance encounter, Carl was heading up a “Breakfast for the Kids” program in Brooklyn.

Even though Carl had never dated a white woman before, he was instantly intrigued by Peggy. Her naiveté and humble demeanor were appealing to his brusque, streetwise manner, and the diversity of their backgrounds was both appealing and confusing. For Carl, there was an underlying motive for brothers who got involved with white women. It was one way that the black men had of “getting back at the Man.” Even if it meant that it would cause further harm or danger to them, it was worth it. It afforded him the opportunity to antagonize “Whitey.” To really “stick it to the Man.”

Carl’s and Peggy’s paths crossed again when Peggy came to check on one of the children in Carl’s program, and their attraction was undeniable. For Peggy, Carl represented everything foreign and exciting. He was big, Black, dangerous and rebellious. To Carl, Peggy was a trophy. She was educated, humble and committed to a cause that even unnerved him sometimes. Theirs was an interesting union, one fueled by titillation, irony, passion, and anger. And Carl dominated Peggy, who willingly submitted to his wrath and contempt like she owed it to him. Or to his kind.

Despite the success Carl had working with the various community groups and social programs, Carl became increasingly discontent with the low pay, and sought greater status for his hard work ethic. He was a very bright man, and finished college at Columbia University, with honors. He continued working and even took an entry-level white collar job in the financial district as a data entry clerk. Peggy kept working as a social worker, while Carl went to school at night. Frustrated with his inability to advance at work, Carl took almost five years, but he graduated, with honors, from SUNY with his M.B.A., and was ready to take on the world.

Dawn was born on a snowy day: December 15, 1972. A beautiful complexion, with a head full of curly locks, Dawn was a gorgeous baby. Peggy became a full-time housewife, and the family moved out to Mount Vernon. Dawn was the apple of her father’s eye, and the older she became, the more he lavished his love and attention on her. Peggy became a withered, ghost-like figure, who bowed down to her little Dawn. Though Carl was becoming more successful in his career, it didn’t stop him from belittling, or beating Peggy. Dawn was his little angel, wings and all, and Peggy was the devil incarnate.

Even after Peggy gave birth to Dawn’s brother Paul, their life at home went from bad to worse. The pedestal Carl placed Dawn on elevated higher and higher, while the bowels of depravation he dug for Peggy descended deeper and deeper.

“You can’t ever do anything right, Woman!” Carl would yell at Peggy. Her mother’s pale, milk white skin had become ashen and gray, and she looked much older than her thirty-something years. The years of degradation had taken a toll on her; even as a child, Dawn felt like her mother wasn’t that close to her. And Dawn remembered not wanting to be close to her mother. It was quite confusing for the little girl when her father would shower her with praise, but in the next breath, call her mother “trifling” or “worthless.”

“I don’t know why I deal with your dumb ass, anyway, Margaret,” her father said. He always called her Margaret when he was getting ready to take her down a few notches. “You’re nothing to me. Nothing. You can’t do anything right. You can’t keep this house clean, and you damn sure can’t cook. This house smells like an ashtray. You can’t even get my shirts cleaned properly. The only thing you can do is host a damned cocktail party. I swear I don’t know why I married your sorry ass.”

Most of the time, Peggy would just listen quietly, as Carl vented at her. On rare occasions, she’d curse at him, in her thick, nasally accent, but that only served to make him angrier. He would surely beat her if she dared to say anything back to him.

Cowering and worn down, Peggy became a quintessential nanny to her children. She never questioned Dawn about any of her activities, just squired Dawn and Paul around while she became a chain-smoking, functioning alcoholic. Her mornings started with a huge Bloody Mary and a pack of Pall Malls. Lunch consisted of dirty, dry martinis and another pack of cigarettes, and dinner was a full bottle of wine, sometimes two, and another pack of smokes. After dinner was a stiff Scotch on the rocks and more 120’s. Dessert was usually a vicious beating from Carl over some minor infraction, followed by tears, more puffs of smoke and downed cocktails.

Carl was known to take a drink or two of alcohol also, but for the most part, he remained sober. There was never any clear indication of what fueled his frustration with Peggy. He was just so irritated with her, that his verbal abuse was ever present. Caustic and relentless, he would annihilate Peggy with his inhuman words, and then he would wink at Dawn, and tell her that she had the best of both worlds. She was beautiful, and she’d be smart, like him. Not a waste, like her mother. And those words rang in Dawn’s ears as loudly as they did that day, years ago. “Daddy loves you best. And Daddy will always love you best, as long as you grow up to be a fine, young lady. A good girl. Not like your mother.”

“I promised not to grow up like my mother, Precious. And, unfortunately, I have. And the sad part about it is that I’ve turned you into me.” Dawn sighed to her sleeping child.

“I grew up hating my mother. I thought that she was weak and incompetent, and just plain sorry. She couldn’t make my daddy happy, and he was a good man. He really loved me. And she wasn’t good for him. She didn’t know how to give him what he needed. But, I knew that I’d grow up and be happily married, because I’d know what to do. I’d know how to make my husband happy. And now, I realize that I haven’t been able to do that. I can’t believe that I’ve failed so miserably,” Dawn said, her voice drawn, but filled with resolve.

“But, I promise to make it right for you, Asia. I do. I can’t have you growing up hating me. I just can’t. My mother and I were never close, and even after your grandfather died, I blamed her for not being a better person. A better wife. A better mother. I can’t have you feeling the same way about me.”

Dawn couldn’t believe how her life had become a near mirror image of her mother’s. The sight of Todd and Asia interacting brought those memories flooding back to her. As a little girl, she idolized her father, and ignored the humiliation and degradation he subjected her mother to. She never gave her mother credit for anything, and though her mother might not have been perfect, she was her mother. And her mother never abandoned her, even if she wasn’t the mother Dawn wished she could have been.

Dawn sighed again, and stroked the back of her little girl’s head. Her arm was getting sore. She looked over at the nightstand, and noticed her bottle of pain pills. Sliding out of bed, Dawn went in the kitchen to get a glass of water. She stood at the sink and filled her glass from the tap, nearly overrunning it. She absently walked back into Asia’s room, where she quietly sat on the edge of the bed.

Instead of reaching for the pills, Dawn picked up the cordless phone and dialed it. After several rings, someone finally picked up.

“Hello?” The woman’s deep, raspy voice was slightly slurred. Dawn looked at the clock. It was only eight-thirty, and her mother was three sheets to the wind already.

“Hello, Mother,” Dawn said, and immediately wondered why she had called her.

Her mother coughed, a deep, hacking cough that reminded Dawn of the fact that Peggy was now battling emphysema, too. “Dawn? Is that you?” Her voice was still thick with that Boston accent.

Dawn wondered how a mother couldn’t recognize her own child’s voice. Dawn realized that it was the alcohol talking.

“Yes, Mother. I was just calling to see how you were doing.”

Her mother hacked again. “I’m doing okay, Dear. How are you?” She finished the sentence with a long wheeze.

Dawn sighed, and just wanted to hang the phone up. “I’m okay, I guess.” She hesitated, and caressed her throbbing arm. “Mother, I really need to talk to you.” She paused, searching to find the right words that screamed from her heart. “Why did you allow Daddy to treat you like he did?”

Peggy hacked again, and Dawn could hear the phlegm rising in her mother’s throat. Dawn also heard her mother take a long swallow. “Whawhat are you talking about, Dawn? Your father was a good man.”

The denial echoed in Dawn’s ears. “Good man? To whom?”

“To you, Dear. You were the apple of his eye, or don’t you recall?” Peggy asked, and Dawn overheard the sound of ice clinking against a glass.

Dawn sighed again, and grabbed the painkillers. Now was the time for her to take a deep swallow as she tossed in two of the capsules and washed them down with the lukewarm tap water. “I recall. But, I’m not talking about me. I’m talking about you.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Dawn. Are you okay?” her mother asked, the avoidance and denial in her voice rising.

“You don’t know what I’m talking about? How could you not know? The way he used to talk to you. The way he treated you. How he used to hit you. Beat on you. Is that bringing back any memories?”

Carl had been dead less than two years. Surely Peggy could not have forgotten the years of abuse she suffered, but she remained adamant about it. In her eyes, Carl was a saint.

“I’m not sure where you’re going with this, Dawn, but this subject is closed. I don’t feel like traipsing back down memory lane with you; especially if I don’t have the same so-called memories that you do. Now,” Peggy said, her speech even more slurred. “If you have something more pleasant to talk about, we can. Otherwise—”

“Otherwise what? The conversation is over? Mother, please. For the first time in my life, why don’t you talk to me? Don’t you realize how important this is? But this is always how you’ve been. Out in la-la land. In an eternal state of denial. Sucked down in a bottle of booze. You were never there when I needed you.”

“What are you saying? I was always there for you, Dawn Lynn. Always.”

“You never protected me,” Dawn said, as she struggled to keep her voice quiet, but the rage was escalating her tone.

“Protected you from what? Your father never did anything to you. He never touched you. Never.”

“Oh, so you remember that. That’s not the point. He never did anything to me, but you let me see him do everything to you. You don’t think that damaged me? Huh?”

“Oh, please. How could it? You were perfect. You were Daddy’s little girl. How could that be such a bad thing?”

“It was, Mother. It was. It made me feel like you were worthless. That you were incompetent. And it made me despise you.”

Peggy’s line grew quiet, and Dawn heard the sound of ice cracking. She realized that Peggy was pouring more liquor into her glass.

“So, you’ve been carrying that around all of these years? So, you despise me, huh?” Peggy asked.

“Yes, I did. I hated you for not protecting me. And for ultimately turning me into you.”

Dawn clicked the off button, and slammed the receiver down. Tears flowed down her cheeks as she stormed into the living room, where she ransacked the cabinets in the wall unit until she found a bottle of Stolichnaya Vodka. She tucked it under her injured arm, then picked up an old-fashioned glass. Through a tear-filled haze, she stumbled back into Asia’s room.

“Thank you, Mother. I guess I have completely become you,” Dawn said as she poured the clear liquor into the glass until it kissed the rim. She wiped the tears and snot from her face, and carefully sat down on Asia’s bed. She patted her daughter on her back, and noticed that Asia’s breaths were slow and shallow. “Don’t worry, Baby. Mommy’s not going to fail you. You’ll never grow up hating me, nor will you turn out like me. I’ll take care of that, Baby. I promise.” Dawn sniffled, reached over and kissed the back of her baby’s head.

Then she picked up the bottle of Dalmane. It was half-empty because, earlier, she had taken out ten tablets, crushed them, and mixed them into Asia’s chocolate sauce. Dawn poured the remaining pills into her mouth, and held them until they slightly dissolved. She placed the glass of Stoli’s to her lips, and forced the bitter concoction down her throat.

She nestled back into bed with Asia, and placed a loving arm around her only daughter. “Mommy loves you, Asia. I never want you to be like me. Never. Never.” And slowly, Dawn’s words turned into her second favorite lullaby.

“Hush little baby, don’t you cry…”

VICTIM OR VICTOR… SOMETIMES NEITHER PREVAILS.

Collen Dixon is the author of
Simon Says, Behind Closed Doors… In My Father’s House,
and
Every Shut Eye.
She has just finished her fourth novel,
Relative Secrets,
which completes the
Simon Says
“quadrilogy.” An avid reader, Collen enjoys Feng Shui and tending to her bonsai trees, collecting art and automobiles. She also enjoys “viewing the world from two wheels,” skiing, traveling and entertaining. A huge movie buff, she recently successfully underwent treatment for an addiction to online auctions. She and Chadwick, her fur-faced little boy, currently reside in Mitchellville, MD. Her motto is “Always be grateful, never be satisfied.”