I Left My Back Door Open (17 page)

“Sarita's on Prozac,” Phil said, as the couple's happy voices trailed off.

“I didn't know that,” I answered, surprised. “And I'm supposed to be one of her best friends.”

“I'm supposed to be her husband. And
I
didn't know, till I saw the pills.” Phil shook his manicured head. “When I confronted Sarita she said her depression had nothing to do with me.”

“You can be depressed all by yourself.” I finished off my drink. “I can testify to that.”

“Yeah, but how can you be depressed in a marriage and it have nothing to do with the person you're married to?” Phil pondered. “I mean, that is, if every other area of your life is humming along. There's something wrong with that picture.”

“We all have our pain, and some of it goes way back,” I said.

Phil stood up and stared at the seemingly endless water. “What's the point of being together, if we're alone with our pain?”

I stood alongside of him. “Maybe, it beats being alone and
still
being alone with your pain,” I suggested.

“Sometimes you can feel lonelier
with
somebody, than being alone.” Phil sighed.

“I need to remember that.”

“Dee Dee, I guess I just needed to talk.” He kicked at the ground with the toe of his business shoe. “Maybe I can go on another twenty-odd years now without saying squat.” Phil faced me and made eye contact in the moonlight. “Dee Dee, can you just give me a hug, let me know that you're there?”

“You need to hug Sarita.” I folded my arms against the breeze. “That's who you need to be hugging on.”

“Sarita don't come from a hugging set of people,” he said, taking off his sport coat and draping it around my shoulders. I felt like I was back in high school and a boy had offered me his school sweater.

“I need a
real
hug,” Phil said decisively. “Not the kind of half-assed hug Sarita would give.”

“Okay,” I finally consented. After all, I prided myself on my ability to give hugs. I hadn't always been good at them. But after participating in a few Black Women's Health Project workshops, I'd gotten good at hugging. I actually felt warm and secure, embracing Phil on the edge of the darkened pier. But then Phil's lips covered mine. Our tongues met for a tantalizing split second, before I pushed him away. Phil apologized, but I knew that I could've pushed him away sooner. And that disturbed me more than anything. I insisted on walking alone to my car.

I drove silently, without even the radio on, north along the outer drive and then Sheridan Road. Soon, I would be safe at home with my cat.

I wished Phil had never come to see me tonight. I wished he'd kept his feelings to himself. I wished he'd kept his lips and especially his tongue to himself. And most of all, I wished I hadn't enjoyed it for a fleeting second. My body had betrayed me. I could never let that happen again.

I remembered that I used to be able to leave my body when my stepfather came into my room at night and mess with me. I would watch what was going on like I was on the ceiling looking down. Learning how to leave my body had been a good trick to know when there was no place to go. Much of that time period was a blur; it was roughly during the months that my mother was pregnant with my baby sister.

It was like one day, I was a kindergartner skipping along, and the next day, I was living my life in a daze. My new stepfather told me to climb in his lap and tell him about my first day at school. What stood out most in my mind was that the bathroom walls were covered with the word “pussy.” I didn't know what that word meant. But I recognized it from the nursery-rhyme book that Mama was teaching me to read. In that book, “pussy” had referred to a cat. But I figured that it must mean something else on accounta it was scrawled on the bathroom walls.

“Daddy Sherman, what does the word P-U-S-S-Y mean?” I asked innocently. I was proud of myself for being able to spell it by heart. I was glad that Mama had taught me my ABCs.

At first, my stepfather didn't answer, and I wondered if I should've asked Mama or my brother instead. But I'd figured that my stepfather knew more about the world than they did. It wasn't like a word from the dictionary. If anybody knew what a word on the bathroom wall meant, it should be him. After all, he drove a truck for a living and went lots of places. And besides, Mama said we should let our stepfather get to know us. She'd smiled when she passed by us a minute ago on her way to the kitchen. I knew she was glad to see me up in Daddy Sherman's lap.

“Daddy Sherman, P-U-S-S-Y was written on the bathroom walls at school. What does it mean?” I asked impatiently. “Are they talking about a cat?”

My stepfather shook his head. “Naw, they ain't talking 'bout no cat. It's a bad word. They talking 'bout what's in between a girl's legs,” he said quietly. I noticed a glazed look in Daddy Sherman's eyes. I got an icky feeling inside and something told me that there was something wrong with what was between my legs. Daddy Sherman had said pussy was a bad word and it was what was between a girl's legs. I was a girl. That was a fact. I had something bad between my legs, therefore a part of me was bad, too.

I began to feel something growing hard underneath my thigh. I jumped down from Daddy Sherman's lap instinctively. I left him with a drunk look on his face and a bulge inside his pants.

My brother rushed into the room and asked, “Dee Dee, wanna play marbles?”

“Boy, you quit that running!” Daddy Sherman yelled before I could answer.

He took his belt off and started whipping Wayne. My brother's screams got my mother's attention. She came into the living room and asked what was going on.

Daddy Sherman said, “I'm gonna break this boy from running, if it's the last thing I do.”

Mama tried to calm everybody down. She tried to smooth everything over, but it was too late. She was caught up in the daze.

I raided the refrigerator when I got home. I needed to eat badly.

After I stuffed myself, I went to the bathroom and threw up. I just needed to get some things out. And to feel in control again. I needed a fresh start.

twelve

On Sunday, I was in church with Phil, Sarita and Jason, just like old times. Everything was cool. It was like what happened between Phil and me had been a dream. After church I hung out with Sarita and Jace, while Phil went over to visit his mother.

I crossed my fists and held them out in front of Jason. Sarita stood nearby washing the dishes. “Which one has the rock?” I asked.

Jason tapped my left fist and was surprised to see that it revealed a rolled-up dollar bill. “Here,” I said, “you get to keep the dollar. I didn't have a rock.”

“What do you say, Jason?” his mother prompted.

“Thank you, Aunt Dee Dee.”

“You're welcome.”

“Now, I want you to put that dollar in church next week,” Sarita said.

Jason's smile was quickly replaced by a scowl. “In church!” he protested.

“Yes, in church.”

“But, Mama, I wanna buy something.”

“Sarita, I didn't put any strings on it,” I pointed out.

“Jason doesn't need to buy anything.” Sarita frowned. “He needs to learn the meaning of giving. It's time for him to make a few sacrifices.”

“But I wanna buy something,” Jason pleaded tearfully. Just then the music from the ice-cream truck sounded.

“I didn't know they still came around,” I said.

“I wanna buy ice-cream!” Jason shouted and bolted for the front door.

“Boy, you better not darken that door!” Sarita warned.

But Jason kept going, like he hadn't heard a word out of his mother's mouth. Sarita looked stunned. She shouted, “Jason, come back here!”

“He's gone,” I said matter-of-factly.

“I don't know what to do.” Sarita sighed. “No child of mine has openly defied me like that.” Suddenly, she looked tired to me. I noticed the wrinkle lines on her forehead.

“I know it's hard raising kids,” I said, sympathetically.

“I'm actually quivering, Dee Dee,” Sarita said, stretching her hand out in front of her. I nodded. Her hand did look a little bit shaky. “Jason's crossed a line that has never been crossed before.” She leaned against the stove for support. “Is this the beginning of the end?” She folded her arms tightly as if she were cold. “Now, I'm scared of what I might do.”

“Jason's probably scared, too.” I said. Damn, I was beginning to feel scared, myself. “I'm sorry I gave him that dollar now. I had no idea it would cause all this mess. Sarita, try not to be too hard on him.”

“Humph,” Sarita said, cutting her eyes at me. “I'm never too hard on him. Jason's lucky,” she insisted. “If either of us had pulled a stunt like that, our mamas would've chased us down and whupped our tails right out there in the street. Not just my mama or your mama, but Black Mama U.S.A., period.” Sarita put her hand on her hip and let her backbone slip.

“That might be true,” I conceded. “But when you know better, you can do better.” I hesitated. “With all due respect, I think you coulda said, ‘Jason, you can put fifty cents in church and spend fifty cents.' You could've compromised.” I fingered the bumpy glass of the salt and pepper shakers.

“But I didn't.” Sarita glared at me. She straightened herself and stood over me with her arms folded. “I said what I said,” she continued. “Why do I have to be perfect? Why can't parents make mistakes anymore? I remember all kinds of arbitrary things my mother said. ‘You can't wear this. You can't do this. You can't do that.' Sometimes she had a good reason, and sometimes she didn't. And you know what?” Sarita leaned forward and raised her eyebrows. “Sometimes she was wrong. But she was still my mama.” Sarita snapped her fingers. “So, why do I have to second-guess myself now?”

“Don't you remember how it felt, though, not to have a say in things?”

“A child can't have a say in everything,” Sarita said firmly. “Sometimes, a parent has to say, ‘Because I said so, and that's the end of it.'”

“You know Jason is going to be afraid to come back in here now.”

“I'm afraid for him to come back in here, too,” Sarita confessed, biting her bottom lip.

“What are you going to do?”

“Dee Dee, girl, I know you haven't raised nothing but a cat. But you've read a lot and observed things. So, let me ask you something.” Sarita sat across from me at the kitchen table. She folded her hands in front of her like we used to do at our desks back in grade school. “If I go for what I know, you know I'm gonna tear Jason's butt up, and that's just a fact.”

“Yeah, that would be my guess,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Now, tell me something I don't already know.”

“Okay.” Sarita nodded, sucking her bottom lip. “I'm willing to consider other options. I'm not so rigid that I can't grow. But I will not have a child that I can't do anything with. I'd sooner have you pack his bags now.”

“What if he stays outside too long?” I asked nervously. “Somethin' could happen to him. It's not like when we ran the streets,” I reminded Sarita. “He might be too scared to come home.” I remembered the frightened feelings I'd grown up with. Anticipating a whipping was often worse than actually getting one.

“The longer he stays away, the worse it's gonna be for him,” Sarita warned. “He knows that.”

“Yeah, but he might stay away just long enough to give you time to cool off.”

“He'd better come back when he's eighteen, then,” Sarita said, wiping up the salt and pepper that I'd spilled onto the table.

I fingered the smooth glass sugar bowl.

“In some ways you're just like a child, Dee Dee,” she continued. “You're always touching stuff. No wonder you can relate to kids so well.”

“I'm not hurting your sugar bowl, so hush. Anyway, I try to look at my life in terms of what the real bottom-line need is. In this case, I think the real need is for Jason to be safe. If he stays outside because of fear, anything could happen to him out there in the streets. These are serious times.”

“
My
bottom line is Jason did wrong, and I can't overlook that.”

“Maybe I should go out there and get him to make sure he's safe,” I offered. “You should just pack him a little bag and I can take him straight over to my house. That could be his punishment.”

“Dee Dee, you oughta quit. That's no kind of punishment. Jason would love that.”

“For some reason you're hesitant about giving him a whipping, though. I think you should pay attention to that.”

“That's only because I'm afraid that if I whup him this time, I'll really hurt him,” Sarita confided. “Neither of my girls ever defied me to my face.” She paused and traced a wrinkle near her mouth. “I don't know how I will react. I might just go off. And nowadays, you gotta be careful.” She lowered her voice. “You can't beat kids the way you used to and get away with it. You have to be very careful not to leave marks. It's not like the old days.”

I flashed on the welts my stepfather's belt often left on my brother. “You shouldn't leave marks,” I protested. “If you do, you're hitting too hard. You know I don't condone whippings. An occasional hand spanking, okay, but not whippings.”

“You haven't raised kids.” Sarita groaned. “Besides, I couldn't get through to Jason with a hand spanking at this late date. I would hurt my hand trying.”

“Why don't you put him on some kind of punishment?”

“He might rather get a whupping and get it over with.”

“Make sure the punishment fits the crime, though. I mean, Jason was wrong to defy you. But I can also understand where he was coming from.”

“There's no excuse for what he did,” Sarita replied angrily.