Out of the Blackness (4 page)
But then Sam arrived, bigger and badder than Tommy Blevins ever hoped to be. Sam had been in the system a long time, but hadn’t made it to our group home before. He’s never said what made him drag Tommy off me that day, but most of the thrashings stopped with Sam’s arrival. Once in a while, Tommy or one of his boys would still manage to get to me. When that happened, the boys responsible were punished with Sam’s own fists.
Sam was once moved to a different house. It was the longest two weeks of my life. During that time, Tommy unleashed a year’s worth of beatings he’d been saving since Sam showed up. Somehow Sam was able to get back to our group home. He’s never said what stunts he pulled or what whistles he blew, but I’d never been so glad to see someone in my life.
When he got back and found me bruised and bloodied with yet another broken arm, Sam had marched right past the caregiver and dialed 911. Tommy was taken away that very afternoon. It was a strangely anticlimactic ending to three long torturous years. The caregivers were quietly replaced and life at the group home slowly improved. I didn’t see Tommy again for almost ten years.
I finally tell Sam why I never fought back against Tommy and his gang. Sam never knew about my mother’s boyfriend, Carl, and how often he and his sons beat me. He only knew that mom had dropped me off at a firehouse one day and the hell I’d gone through at the group home. But finally, I allow myself to share everything.
I tell him about the time I dropped and shattered a plate while drying dishes. Without even thinking about it, I repeated the word I’d heard so often around the house. I had no idea what it meant, but it was the first time my mother slapped me. I was five. Carl had seen the slap and it had opened the floodgates. That very night was my first experience with physical abuse. Of course, for as long as I could remember, the whole lot of them—mom, Carl and his two boys, Junior and Darrell—had been telling me what a worthless excuse for a boy I was. Aside from the physical pain they inflicted, I still think the worst part was being forced to look Carl in the eye as he beat me. He demanded it. If I couldn’t do it on my own, he would yank my head around until my eyes met his of their own accord. And then it would get worse. Once I tried to block a blow with my left arm. Carl had wailed on it until he broke it, swearing that if I ever raised a hand to him again, he’d break my neck. There was never a doubt in my mind that he would make good on that threat.
So, as traumatizing as it was, it was somewhat of a relief the day my mother marched me into a firehouse and told them she never wanted to see me again. She told them in front of me—as she had told me so many times—that I was an abortion that didn’t work and she’d finally grown tired of dealing with me. It’s hard to argue with a woman who hates her child before she’s even met him; much less spent his lifetime wishing aloud that he was dead.
I’ve never seen any of them again. The only regret I have about that is that I would like to have a picture of my father. The only good memories of my childhood are of him. It would be nice to be able to see his face.
Sam talks and talks, wheedles and cajoles until I finally give in out of exhaustion. This week, Sam will speak to someone at the department and find a therapist who specializes in cases like mine. I’m not sure I like being described as a “case,” but Sam is convinced he can find a therapist who will help me put to bed the living nightmare that is my past. I don’t share his optimism. He keeps telling me that none of the things that happened to me are my fault. I know he genuinely believes that, but I don’t. It’s impossible to think that way when I’ve been told over and over from practically my first memory—and by almost everyone but Sam—that I never should have been allowed to draw breath.
Sometimes I wish I had Joey’s strength. I’ve heard people rant and rave about how selfish and evil suicide is, but until those people have endured the physical and emotional living hell Joey and I have lived, they can’t possibly understand. What happens when the “temporary problem” they always talk about isn’t temporary? Try telling the seven-year-old me that the beatings would eventually come less frequently but never stop, because he would never be worthy of that, and see if he wouldn’t rather swing freely from the end of a rope. If only I were convinced I wouldn’t mess it up, I’d do it right now.
Of course, I know that would hurt Sam terribly and render all his years of protecting me pointless. And the last thing in the world I want to do is hurt Sam. Maybe that’s the real reason I haven’t followed Joey’s lead. Sam doesn’t deserve any more pain, and I’ve grown accustomed to it. I know it will win in the end, just not by my own hand. Probably not, anyway. Definitely not today.
I
return to work more than a little embarrassed. When Molly sees me, she extricates herself from a chatty customer and wraps me in a giant hug. We cling to each other for a moment before she remembers herself and steps back.
“No more reading in the stockroom,” she commands sternly, like she’s the boss. Then her black-lined lips part in a cheeky grin and she amends, “Unless it’s “
The New Joy of Gay Sex
.”
I grin half-heartedly after her as she moves off to field a new customer’s query. I head back to the stock room to complete yesterday’s task, but find it already finished
and
cleaned up. On one of the rolling carts, I see the book that started all the mess and glare at it. I know I shouldn’t. I know it could start the whole process all over again, but I’m compelled to open the book again.
“Oh, no…!” The wail is ripped from my soul as I see what I’ve done. Desperately, I flip through page after page. Each one shows the same thing. Somehow in my agitated state, I managed to draw in the margins of almost every page. Train cars and dog houses, over and over again. I don’t even remember doing it, but I know I did. I’m the only one here obsessive enough to bring my own pens to work. Walter supplies ones with black ink, but for some reason, I have to have blue. Tears slide down my cheeks as I confront the evidence of my madness.
Angrily, I dash the tears from my face and take the book out to the sales floor. I find Molly behind a cash register and wait silently until she’s finished with her customer. I toss the book on the counter and reach for my wallet.
“I ruined it,” I say in answer to her questioning look.
“What?”
“Yesterday. I drew in it. I don’t remember doing it, but I did. It’s all over the insides.” Still shaken by the discovery, I look at her through watery eyes. “Please just ring it up so I can throw it away and forget about it.”
Quietly, Molly scans the book into the register and places it in a bag as I slide my debit card through the reader. “Maybe you should hold on to it for a while,” she suggests, her expression showing her concern.
I nod silently, take the bag and walk away. I want to throw it away, but I can’t bring myself to do it. I’ve never thrown away a book in my life. Instead, I stow it in my backpack and wonder what possessed me to deface it like that in the first place. I haven’t drawn since I was a little kid. Back then it was the usual stuff, a bright yellow sun in one corner shining down on a house with a big green yard. Sometimes I would try to draw a little boy and a dog, hoping mom would take the hint and get us a puppy who could use the big dog house in the back yard, but she never did. After Carl came along, the sun was replaced with rain, the grassy yard became huge water puddles, and the puppy disappeared because the doghouse was really meant for me, until finally I came home from school one day to find my pictures had been taken off the refrigerator, torn up and thrown away. I never drew again. Until yesterday.
I force the thoughts from my head and go on about my day. Several stacks on the floor are in severe disarray, so I spend a few hours straightening, re-alphabetizing, and dusting them. Between customers, Molly entertains me with an ongoing narrative of yesterday’s high and low points. When she mentions Noah Yates, I start to fidget. Just the sound of his name in the air makes my blood pump a little faster. I recognize the sexual interest even through the innate fear, and it continues to confuse me.
Sure, some people would find him attractive. He’s obviously tall, muscular and good-looking, none of which bode well for me. He has only been kind in our two—three, if you count the alley—brief interactions, but those
were
brief, so who knows what sort of monster lurks beneath that placid façade. I’ve been fooled before, although not by someone so gigantic. Still, there is something about him that makes me want to step outside the fear box.
Molly mentions his name again, but I forestall the conversation I don’t want to have by telling her it’s time for my break. I grab the last Starbucks Mocha Frappuccino from the fridge in the break room, pull on my coat and slip out the backdoor—remembering to wedge it open this time.
I sit on the bench and sip the cold, sugary coffee drink. I’m still tired from the extended, emotionally draining conversations with Sam yesterday, so I lean my head against the brick wall and close my eyes, inhaling deeply to keep from falling asleep. It’s relaxing out here in the alley. We’re in the middle of the block, so the sound of traffic on the side streets is more rhythmic than overpowering. Luckily, there are no restaurants bordering this alley, so the trash rarely smells. Occasionally, I can hear the yells from the rambunctious furniture guys next door, but they seldom venture out here unless they’re loading a truck for delivery or receiving a new shipment of stock. When they are, I immediately go back inside. I may know my fate, but I feel no desire to tempt it.
I realize I’ve dozed off with a half-empty bottle in my clumsy hands when a softly called, “Hey,” jerks me awake. How is it that I already recognize that voice? I look for the man and see him leaning casually against the building on the opposite side of the narrow alley. He has one foot propped against the building and his thumbs are hooked in his pockets, leaving the rest of his fingers to nonchalantly outline the gift area in his jeans. I croak out a weak, “Hey,” and watch him nervously as I bring the frap bottle up to drink from it.
“I missed you at lunch yesterday,” Noah Yates says as he slides down the wall to sit on the ground, those long, thick legs stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankles. Even his feet are huge.
I nod, mumble, “Sorry,” and study the pattern on the soles of his boots through my lashes. I don’t have to remind myself to keep an eye on him. It’s instinct. I’ll need to move the instant he does if I hope to make it inside unscathed.
“Molly said you weren’t feeling well,” he says. “I hope you’re better today?”
I nod slightly and wish he would just go away.
“Good,” he says, sounding genuinely pleased. A strained silence enfolds us for forty heartbeats before he says, “I’ve already taken my lunch today, but when I saw you out here, I had to come say hi. I’m really glad you’re feeling better, Avery. I’m off tomorrow, but maybe we could have that lunch together on Friday. I mean, if you’re working.”
Although most of my usual complement of fear is still with me, I have to struggle to suppress a smile. He got all that out without pausing for breath. My eyes flick up to his muscular, plaid-encased chest before I force them down again and offer an almost imperceptible shake of my head.
“Oh,” he says with what I would swear is disappointment. But why would he be disappointed? “So you’re off Friday?”
Again, I signal no. It is so extraordinarily difficult to talk when I’m not in control of the situation, or at least can pretend I am. Books. I can talk about books and comics to my customers with very little trouble—unless they’re the size of Mt. Man-Everest over there. But these supposed “social” situations everyone seems to crave just freeze my vocal cords. It’s frustrating in times like this, when all I want to do is plead with Noah Yates to leave me alone. But I also know it’s a perfectly valid and necessary defense mechanism. The chances of being backhanded into next week are greatly diminished by my silence.
“Oh,” Noah Yates says, interrupting my train of thought. “Hey, if you’re working the evening shift, I could bring over some takeout from Nick’s. You like Italian, right?”
It’s all too much. Surprisingly, I’m neither shaking nor vibrating, but he’s coming at me nonstop and all I want is for him to slow down. “Please,” I plead, barely over a whisper, but it’s enough to grab his attention.
“Oh, hell,” I hear him groan. “I’m sorry, Avery. I’m coming on too strong, aren’t I?” He sighs and I shudder in relief. “Listen, I’m really sorry. I know this kind of thing is difficult for you and I understand; I really do. I don’t mean to frighten you. I’d just really like to get to know you. We’ll take it as slow as you like.”
His words, as much as the sincerity and remorse in them, catch me by surprise. How is it that in less than a handful of meetings this giant of a man has already figured out the force that drives me away from people like him? Just how much has Molly told him? And most importantly, what does that mean? Is he pretending to be nice so he can get close enough to do maximum damage? Or could he really be a nice guy? The thought startles me so much I don’t have time to stop it; I look into those hazel eyes of his for a split second and see the enormous grin that spreads across his face in the same instant.
“Win number three,” he says with a note of pure joy in his voice. I may not know facial expressions, but I know vocal tones. The happiness in his surprises me yet again.
I stare down at my feet and bite my lip to hide the smile. I notice the frap warming in my hands and drain the last of it in a quick gulp.
“Okay, buddy,” Noah Yates says softly, “my break is over, so if you want to be inside before I stand up, you better get a move on.”
Hurriedly, I twist the cap on the bottle and move to the door. Halfway through it, a thought crosses my mind and I turn back to him—where my gaze absolutely does not inadvertently land on his bulging crotch. Nope, not at all. “Three?” I question quietly, hoping he will follow my disjointed thoughts.
