Crave (19 page)

She hadn't gotten to the scratches on my arms and back when she slammed the bottle of alcohol down and charged into the living room. “I'm going over to Vonne's,” she yelled at no one. I pulled up my pants and grabbed for Momma's arm, afraid of what would happen once she too disappeared into the night. “Please don't go, Momma,” I cried. “I'm okay.”

Mr. Tony met her at the door, wrapped his hands around her arms and held her against the wall. There were no jokes being hurled from his mouth and his eyes didn't look as if they were searching for an opportunity at pointless laughter. He looked hard, determined, and he spoke right into Momma's face as he said, “Lois, I'm not letting you out of here until you calm down.” Momma struggled, looked into his eyes, then back at us. Her arms relaxed and she placed her forehead on his shoulder.

“I'm going to call Vonne and then we're going over there.” Momma ordered us into the back room as she grabbed the phone. I could hear, “Why?” and “Did you see what you did?” but the total conversation between Momma and Aunt Vonne was a mystery to us all. Mary sat close to me as I pointed out the marks on my arms and legs. Soon after, Momma stopped talking and I heard the front door close.

I imagined Momma and Mr. Tony driving along that dark street to an even darker one leading to Aunt Vonne's home. I'd never seen Momma that upset before. Secretly, I was afraid she'd anger Aunt Vonne and get the same type of beating I had. Aunt Vonne was the bigger sister and, in my mind, big sisters always beat little sisters, so I prayed for her. I prayed Mr. Tony would be strong for her, that laughs wouldn't be his number one priority, that keeping
Momma safe and calm would own his will. I wanted him to be the man that had held Momma on the wall, that had transferred his calm to her so she could focus on what was most important. I prayed hard until an hour later when Momma walked into the house.

There was no yelling, just quiet, heavy talking until Momma called me into the living room. “Your Aunt Vonne said she wants you to come by the house tomorrow.” I waited for Momma to say she was going with me, that she would protect me from another beating, but she did not. I'd have to go alone.

I would go to Aunt Vonne's the next day to check on Tricia and our friendship, which I knew must be stronger because of my sacrifice, but that business was for
tomorrow
. That night belonged to me and Momma. As she pulled me into the bathroom and commenced to dabbing alcohol soaked cotton balls on the tattooed lines Aunt Vonne had left behind, I watched Momma's eyes, darting from one line to another, dainty fingers holding white balls ever so slightly, her even breathing, pausing only when she touched my skin. Silent gasps escaped pursed lips as if the wounds belonged to her as well.

I had been angry at Aunt Vonne for beating me in the way she had and I was even a little angry at Momma as I anticipated another lashing on the way from Queen Street, but there, in the bathroom, with Momma's quivering hands hurting as they healed, I loved Aunt Vonne and was thankful for her brashness. What she had damaged was being healed, what had been damaged years before was being healed. Momma was my doctor. I was her patient and the piercing stare emanating from her eyes, the way her lips curled in determination, showed she was intent on fixing what was broken.

Queen Street was in a bustle the next day. Tricia's friends wanted to know the details of our adventure and even asked if I had a new boyfriend I was running to. I raised my hand, lifted my chin into the air and walked past their questions. While I enjoyed the attention Tricia's and my lawlessness had provoked, I wanted
to get to my cousin. I stepped onto the porch softly, with hopes of not alerting anyone but Tricia to my presence. I knew I'd have to see Aunt Vonne again, but I feared she'd be at the door with a fistful of switches, ready to finish what Momma had not. I tapped on the door and strained to see who'd answer my taps through the slits of the curtain. I heard trudging toward the door. With small curls pressed close to its head and curves, I knew the figure belonged to a woman. Whether it was Aunt Vonne or Tricia, I was unsure and that uncertainty made my hands, the backs of my knees, and neck sweat.

As the figure grew closer to the curtain's opening, I stepped back, hoping the air between me and the person that opened the door would be dense enough to protect me from harm. The door creaked and there stood relief. Tricia's smile greeted me and we embraced on the doorsill. “I'm so glad you came,” she said. I was glad too, but those simple words escaped me. I just cried in Tricia's arms, becoming the little cousin again, needing comfort, needing answers.

“Come on upstairs” she said as she grabbed my arm and pulled me behind her.

“Where's your momma?” I whispered, afraid the walls would hear and alert Aunt Vonne to my arrival.

“She's in bed asleep. It's okay.” I worried Tricia was wrong, but I, as I always did, followed her anyway.

We made it to safety behind the doors of Tricia's room. As soon as I saw the bed, I was reminded of the beating I'd received the night before. “Sit down, girl. I gotta tell you what happened with your momma,” she said as she tucked one of her legs under her and placed the pillow in the middle of her lap. “Girl, your Momma was pissed when she came over here.”

“For real, Tricia? I was scared that your momma was gonna fight my momma,” I laughed.

“Girl, please. Aunt Pretty wasn't playing. She told Ma she better not ever beat you like that again. They were about to go to blows.” We laughed together again.

Even though I was relieved Momma and Aunt Vonne hadn't “gone to blows,” I felt a growing sense of pride in Momma's willingness to fight for me when I couldn't fight for myself.

“Girl, they were arguing hard at first, but Momma calmed it all down. Can you believe my momma calmed it down?” Tricia asked as she pressed her fingers delicately against her chest. “Anyway, Momma apologized to Aunt Pretty. Laurie, she even cried a bit. Your Momma was so mad.” We giggled together like we were schoolgirls having bested a strict teacher. It was then I realized Momma wasn't just my hero. She was Tricia's, too.

We then began examining each other's wounds, assessing the damage done to our skin. My red welts had already begun to scar over and black scabs had situated themselves in the middle of some red lines. Tricia's cocoa skin obscured some of her scars, but if I looked closely enough, I could see the changing texture from flat, coffee-colored silk to coarse hills running in grooves. We were counting each other's welts when I heard a door creak open. By the slow heaviness of the squeal, I knew it was Aunt Vonne's door. On mornings I'd been there to protect Tricia from Jaw Baby, I'd heard it many times before. My heartbeat began to quicken and I held Tricia's hand tightly.

I knew what would come next. Tricia's door would be the next to squeal and prying eyes would cut through our conversation. That was the one time I wished Jaw Baby's eyes would be the ones peeking into Tricia's door.

Aunt Vonne's russet face, with eyes like Momma's and cheeks that bunched under her eyes even when she wasn't smiling, peered around the door. Tricia and I snapped into silence, waiting for what was to come.

“What did I tell you about closed doors in my house?” Aunt Vonne barked. Tricia responded with a quick roll of her eyes, too quick for Aunt Vonne to notice since she didn't chastise Tricia for her disrespect.

“Your momma know you here?” she asked, looking past Tricia directly at me.

“Yes, ma'am,” I replied.

“Let me see your arms,” she commanded. I shot up from the bed and began pulling at my sleeves.

“Hmm,” was her only reply as I pointed out what appeared to be dried, red worms slithering across my skin. She touched the marks as lightly as Momma had. One finger traced the lines, connecting them. I stood still, barely breathing. “They still hurt?” she asked.

I nodded.

“I'm sorry,” she said quickly. “You know I didn't mean to hurt you like that.”

If Momma would have told me Aunt Vonne said that the night before, even if Tricia had said her momma told her that, I wouldn't have believed Aunt Vonne hadn't meant to hurt me, but standing so close to her, seeing her eyes look heavier, redder, than I'd ever seen them before, I knew she was telling the truth.

“Damn girl, why didn't you tell me you was just trying to keep Tricia safe? I thought your hot ass was running away too.” Aunt Vonne laughed at the end of that statement, so Tricia and I laughed too. “I beat the hell out of y'all, didn't I?” she said. That time we all laughed together, not waiting for Aunt Vonne to cue the hilarity. “And Laurie, I was so damn scared you were going to start breathing all hard, I prayed the whole time I was beating your ass.”

By that time, a person walking past Tricia's door would have thought Aunt Vonne was hosting a comedy show. As a consolation for the whipping I'd received, Aunt Vonne said I could stay the night with Tricia if I wanted. Which, of course, I did.

Aunt Vonne hugged me, apologized again and said, “You know you are my baby. You and Tricia are my babies. I love both of you so much.” That too I believed. That night, while Tricia and I played Pitty Pat in her bedroom, while we heard Aunt Vonne and Jaw Baby downstairs singing songs only good, strong libation can bring, and when we later heard those songs turn into curse words, and signs of struggle, I knew more, but I understood less. I did not doubt Aunt Vonne's love for Tricia. She had shown that time and time again. Just as Momma had been to me, Aunt Vonne was her
children's provider, protector, their mother. I knew with certainty she would never knowingly allow anyone to hurt us.

But in our family there was a blind spot, one in which girls, like Tricia and myself, resided. Our mothers' biggest errors, assuming all drivers had remained in designated spaces on the road and forgetting objects often appear closer than they seem. If our mothers had been taught to always look over shoulders before changing lanes, collision could have been averted, but that is the nature of blind spots. Impending danger hides well, and with mothers, so focused on dodging potholes, swerving in and out of traffic in order to keep vehicles intact, it's no surprise the Pee Wees and Jaw Babys of our lives infiltrated and overtook, while obscuring violations from our mothers' views.

Yellow Peace
Yellow Peace

The rest of the summer unfolded like a crisp shirt. I began my seventh-grade year with a newfound excitement. Days were filled with classes taught by Miss Shumaker, a rather large woman of German descent who commanded attention during every second of class, and my nights were spent on Queen Street dancing, playing kickball, racing, and willfully getting caught in almost every game of hide-and-go-get. Mr. Tony often appeared and disappeared like most men and Momma decided our home on Constitution Avenue did not suit us anymore, so we moved to an upstairs duplex around the corner from our house. We moved ourselves, carrying bags of clothes and bed frames in the short trek from our old home to our new home.

The little yellow house looked like a square sun sitting in the middle of a forest of brown trees. We ran up the stairs, falling over each other, trying to be the first to claim the best corner in the one bedroom we five would share. There were windows on both sides of the room and the sun shone so brightly it looked as if we were all standing outside of the house. I got the spot next to the window that stared out to the highway and Champ got the window that stared into the neighbor's house. By process of elimination, and the fact that Mary and I were the only girls, Mary joined me in my bed. Dathan and Tom-Tom were stuck in the middle of the room.

The house was tiny, but the newness of it all made it feel like a mansion to us. The carpet resembled the bark of a tree. It had long been trampled from the point of fluffiness that would have distinguished it as a shag carpet. Momma's room was on the other side of the house and was as big as the room that held the five of us kids. The spacious living room separated our room from Momma's. We had no furniture, except for the new-to-us beds we'd gotten from Salvation Army. They were all full-sized and, once placed in
our bedroom, left little room for movement. In order to get out of the room, Champ had to crawl across Dathan and Tom-Tom's bed.

The living room remained empty except for the antique stereo Grandma Rachel had owned before she died. It stretched across the mantelpiece, covering the fake fireplace that had obviously been built to make the room look rich. It had not worked. The walls were a pale, weathered gold that had, over time, lost their luster. The house felt to me like an old soul waiting to be revived by our life and laughter. We had a lot of work to do.

Our first task in making the house our home was painting. I didn't want to paint because I loved the rugged look of the yellow paint waking me to its rays. I argued to keep the yellow, but was outvoted. We settled on a soft blue that made the
sun
look like sky. With the bark-colored carpet, the blueness was too much to bear. It lent itself to my fear the
sky
would gray as soon as the opportunity came.

After painting the
sun
blue, we worked on the bathroom. It was the most peculiar bathroom I'd ever seen. The toilet sat behind a wall that had been built for privacy. The claw bathtub sat diagonally in the corner. In the diagonal space behind the tub dwelled an antique wringer washer with a hose that ran into the tub. That made it impossible for us to take baths, so we stood as we washed ourselves.

Momma bought baby blue rugs to cover the canary-colored, cracked, linoleum floor. She hung curtains to match the rugs and to block out prying neighbors. We scrubbed the tub and sink until we saw our reflection in both. The bathroom remained yellow and I relished that fact. It would be the place I could enjoy the sun setting at every angle. Since we couldn't move the washing machine, it became a permanent fixture in the bathroom and we kids played with it by running clothes, food, and toys through the wringer.

The yellow house was far from perfect, but it was the happiest time I remember. It was fun with all of us sleeping in the same room again. Some nights we'd get in the same bed and have kick-fights. It would be the girls against the boys. Our heels would become
weapons where we would stab each other's legs and scratch each other with naturally pedicured toenails. Occasionally, one of us would connect, sending sharp pains up the thighs of the victim, and then we'd all erupt in laughter.

We'd wake in the morning to 1350 AM playing Run DMC's “My Adidas” and jump around beat-boxing and break-dancing while Momma sang the chorus. On weekends, Momma bundled us and walked us downtown to the Portsmouth waterfront. She'd buy one 7-11 Slurpee and two McDonald's cheeseburgers, which we five would share. We'd run up and down the waterfront, hanging on the rails and looking out at the Norfolk Waterside with all of its bright lights. We never had enough money to take the ferry to Norfolk Waterside, but it was nice to imagine what the people with money were buying over there. After Momma let us run ourselves to the point of exhaustion, we began our two-mile walk back to the sun with the sky on the inside.

One chilly morning, while I was getting dressed for school, Momma announced she had good news. We were moving to Lincoln Park. It was a housing project on the other side of Portsmouth. The rent would be low and we wouldn't have to pay utilities. Smiling, jumping around, and praising God, Momma was obviously excited.

“It has four bedrooms and a shower,” she said.

Everyone was cheering in a circle, taking turns hugging her. I went into the bathroom and closed the door. I didn't understand why they wanted to leave the best house we'd had since Wall Street. I wanted to protest, to demand we stay, but by the celebration going on in the other room, I knew I was outvoted. I sat in the middle of the floor and let the sunrays emanating from the walls overcome me. That weekend, we loaded Uncle Bruce's truck with our belongings and drove away from the yellow house. As I watched it disappear behind the horizon, I felt as if the sun were setting for the last time.