Second House from the Corner (18 page)

“You were the one who needed me to be all pure white with no past.”

“Don't be here when I get back. Mark my words.”

“Where am I supposed to go?”

“You could take a long walk off of a short pier, for all I care.” With that he carries my baby girl out the front door, destroying our Kodak Picture Perfect family.

*   *   *

I trudge up the steps like I have sandbags in my shoes. My heart feels like it's shattering against my breastplate, and I have to hold on to the wall to keep from crashing. From the top of my closet I pull down my overnight bag. Preston has left me five one-hundred-dollar bills on the bed.

Whore.

I change out of my house clothes and into jeans. Fistfuls of clothes from my closet and drawers go into the bag without order. If I think about it, I won't do it. Then my mouth fills with tears as I realize the kids will think I've abandoned them. There are markers on the desk and I scribble them a quick note.

Rory, Twyla, and Liv. Mommy had to go on a little trip. I love you with all of my heart and I will call you very soon. Please be good and listen to Daddy and Juju.

Love, Mommy

*   *   *

I tape the note to their bedroom door and roll myself downstairs. Preston is gone and so is Liv, so the house is absolutely silent. The
damn voice
gets loud, thumping in my ear.

But this is what you've been wishing for. Drive until your car runs out of gas, then walk until you're tired, then crawl until your legs are bloody. Remember? Freedom? Run.

Bitch.

*   *   *

I'm driving in the slow lane heading south on the New Jersey Turnpike when my mobile rings. I fumble for my phone and answer the call, hoping like hell Preston has come to his senses.

“Felicia?”

“Yes?”

“Oh, you don't sound like yourself. It's Ashley at SEM&M. Can you get to an audition today?”

I pull over onto the side of the highway. “Where?” I worry. I'm heading away from New York City.

“It's at Johnson & Johnson on Route One in New Brunswick. I don't think it's far from you.”

“Yes, I can do it. What time?”

“An hour from now. Sorry for the short notice. I can e-mail you a copy.”

“I won't have time to read it I'm already in the car. I'll get the script when I get there. Thanks.” I sit and gather myself. My phone dings. A text message from Erica.

Is everything all right? Call me when you can chat.

I power down the phone.

Route 1 runs parallel to the turnpike. I find it with ease. In the parking lot, I powder my face and pinch my cheeks. When I pick up the script, I see that I'm playing a tired mom whose dog gets into the baby powder and covers the house with it. The part comes easy. I even manage a few tears, which I'm sure is overkill but I give the scene all of my pain.

Thirty minutes later, I'm back in my little Nissan, the bucket of a car that Preston and I bought the first year we moved to New Jersey together. I think about stopping for food, but the last thing my stomach wants is nourishment. As I go through the tollbooth I remember reading something in my women and religion college seminar where it said that there comes a time in every woman's life when she needs to return home.

I'm on Roosevelt Boulevard, riding in the center lane, when I see the red-and-white sign that says “Welcome to Philadelphia, the City of Brotherly Love.”

 

PART 2

Home is the place where, when you go there, they have to take you in.

—ROBERT FROST

 

TWENTY-THREE

The Incident

My body has tried to bury the memory, erase it, rewrite it, forget it. Still I remember it like it happened yesterday. My mother, Crystal, and I were in Gran's living room watching a rerun of
The Facts of Life
, that eighties TV show with the girls who went to a boarding school in Connecticut.
The Facts of Life
was my Saturday night must-see TV. I loved Ms. Garrett as the sweet-faced, bun-wearing housemother. I was obsessed with Tootie, played by Kim Fields, and imagined myself entering every room on roller skates, with short shorts and cute striped socks, flashing that innocent give-me-what-I-want smile. Saying her signature line, “We're in trouuu-ble!”

Every Saturday night, my mother brought me over to Gran's, my father's mother, so I could go to church the next morning. Mommy didn't go to service but wanted me to have God.

My father's younger sister, Crystal, is only five years older than I, and stayed up under my mother when she came around. Probably because my mother was pretty and always smelled real good. She wouldn't leave the house without spritzing her skin with that dark purple bottle of Poison cologne she kept on her vanity. Her scent made me think I was eating a plum and plucking carnations at the same time. Mommy had just washed my hair. My Hello Kitty T-shirt was damp down my back from where the towel had slipped. I sat between her thighs while she parted my curls down the middle, slathered a gulp of Blue Magic on my scalp, and brushed my hair tangle-free.

We had finished dinner more than an hour ago, but the smell of fried chicken still clung to the fibers in the furniture. I knew when I woke up in the morning I'd still smell the grease, because Gran always left it out overnight to cool in an old spaghetti jar. Then in the morning, she'd stick it in the back of the fridge for the next time she fried. I was so caught up in my show, Mommy had to yank my ponytail a few times to keep me facing in the right direction. Jo, the tough girl, was arguing with Blair, the spoiled rich one, over tying up the telephone line, when Gran's front door opened and slammed back into place.

His key ring dangled from his finger, and my stomach curled and then loosened. Daddy filled the living room with the smell of tobacco, and I could tell by his unstable footing that something wasn't right.

“Where you goin' all dolled up?” He only had eyes for my mother.

“Daddy, Gran made fried chicken and biscuits,” I chirped, pinching my fingernails into my left thigh as hard as I could, distracting myself from that drowning sensation that happened whenever my parents were in the same room.

They were still legally married, but we had been living away from him for almost a year. Most times Daddy would forget that he had lost his claim on her. I could understand why. Mommy was a looker, with a pixie haircut, eyes big like saucers, small ankles, and mocha almond skin that stayed rich and creamy all winter long. Her hips were robust, like she had honeydews in her pockets. When we ran errands on Broad Street, men sitting in plastic chairs while playing checkers would sneak a peek at her behind. Smacking their greedy tongues like they had just eaten a juicy piece of fried croaker, and a bone got stuck in their teeth.

“Franklin, you take your meds?” Mommy looked up from my head, but her clever fingers didn't miss a beat.

“Heard you was sneaking down to the West Indian club with that yella nigga again.”

My mother clucked her tongue.

“Punchy said he saw you.”

“Punchy can't see with his glasses on.” She fastened the last barrette into my hair.

I was too big for ponytails, but my mother said that she didn't want Gran to have to do anything in the morning but get us off to church. So I had to wear two of them, even though, at twelve, I was ready for curls.

“Go on with that mess, Frankie.”

“Always knew you were a whore. Black-ass dirty whore,” he chanted, covering the length of the room quick as a cheetah cat. So close so fast that I didn't have time to scoot from between Mommy's legs before he gripped her neck like he was choking a chicken. It wasn't the first time I had seen Daddy snatch her up, but this time felt different.

It was his fishing knife, the sharp one he used to gut and clean the porgies he picked up on Friday nights from the Italian market on Ninth Street. And now it was the knife bouncing in and out of Mommy's chest, arms, mouth, throat, skin, life. Blood sprouted from Mommy like leaks in a faulty pipe.

My voice paused at the tip of my lips. The room spun as my mother pushed me out of the way and I moved, dizzy with confusion. Crystal shouted for Gran and then rushed toward my father.

“Frankie, stop!” She pulled on his arm, and his knife sliced her from the base of her ear down to her shoulder blade. It was the sight of Crystal's blood that made him stop. Not my mother's.

Gran wobbled down the stairs in her flowered housecoat, with one side of her hair rolled in pink sponge curlers and the other side flying wildly, a pad of grease oozing from the back of her hand.

“Franklin, dear God. Frankie. Sweet Jesus. Lord have mercy on this house.”

And all of a sudden, the television was too loud. Blair going on about the date she had for Saturday. Tootie rolling in on her roller skates. Mrs. Garrett pulling a roast out of the oven. Then silence. And next came the flashing lights of the ambulance, and my mother being taken away.

*   *   *

I'm standing in the middle of the one-way street looking at the brick row home. Gran lived in the second house from the corner. It was how she gave directions.

“Corner of Susquehanna and Sydenham Street. When you come down the block it's the house with the yella awning. Mmm hmm, second house from the corner, on the left-hand side. Can't miss it.”

On the day of the incident, my father stabbed my mother eighteen times. She didn't die, but she was never well enough to come back home. Since I was only twelve years old, I was moved to Gran's house, on one of those can-barely-get-your-car-down-the-block, one-way streets that Philadelphia is famous for. Almost as well known as our soft pretzels, hoagies, (which the rest of the world called subs), and cheesesteaks. Not with that Cheez Whiz mess you see on the Food Network. I'm talking about real cheesesteaks, with provolone or American cheese, fried onions, mayonnaise, ketchup, and hot sauce on a long Amoroso roll.

The white paint around the windows and door is badly chipped, and the railing slopes to the right side. I slip my key in and unlock the door. I know Gran's schedule as well as she knows mine. When I step into the living room, I know that dinner is ready.

The house is railroad style, with each room running into the next, and from the doorway I can see the entire narrow house. Gran is reading her Bible at the dining room table. She can see me too, and her face spreads into a smile as wide as the Mississippi River.

“Dinner's on the stove. Made your favorite. Roast beef and mashed potatoes.”

“How come you didn't have the chains on the door? You're always complaining about how dangerous it is around here.”

“Oh, gal, hush that fussing and go make us some plates. I'm hungry. Ain't had nothing in my stomach all day.” She grins, all gummy. She doesn't have her teeth in, which means she hasn't been out of the house today. I lean in for a hug. She reaches back from her chair.

“Go on now.” She pushes me away. Never been one for a lot of affection. “Don't put too much roast beef on my plate. Hard for me to chew.”

I walk back into the living room and put my purse on the side of the sofa. It's still covered in the plastic slipcover from my childhood. The kitchen is tiny. Only enough room for what's necessary. I rinse my hands at the old porcelain sink that has a deep rusty ring around it. I tighten the knob, but a slow drip still slips from the faucet. Two baby roaches scurry across the counter. I swat at them with my hand and rinse them down the drain. Welcome home.

*   *   *

The dining room table is covered with God knows what. I move a few piles onto the piano to make enough room for our plates.

“What is this stuff?”

Gran moves the potatoes around on her tongue. “Crystal's junk. She keep coming around dumping, talking 'bout she goin' to come back and get it. Never do. I gotta mind to toss all of her mess in the garbage, that girl causing me so much trouble. Got the feds talking about taking my little money to pay her debts.”

I fork the roast beef into my mouth and just let the meat rest on my tongue.

“Like butta, baby,” Gran teases me, and all I can do is nod my head. Gran's food is real soul food, and it does what it's supposed to do—make me forget my burdens and lighten my mood.

“Whatcha got to drink?”

“You can grab me a beer. There's one in there for you too.”

I open the refrigerator and Gran's got a four-pack of Schlitz Malt Liquor sitting there like Preston would have Stella Artois.

I carry two back into the dining room.

“You get me a straw?”

I take it from my pocket and put it with her beer.

We sip. It's some nasty shit, but I like the buzz I feel in my head and I sip some more.

“So why the wind done blown you to my doorstep?”

“Nothing worth talking about now.” I sip some more. “What's new around here?”

“You really want to know, hand me my cigarettes.” She points.

I have an urge to take one but Gran doesn't know I used to be a smoker, so I sit on my hands. She lights, puffs, cocks her head, and opens her mouth in an O. I watch her movements, longing.

“Done told you about Precious man stealing the washing machine. Well, the cops caught him trying to sell it to one of Precious' friends around the corner for ten dollars. Ten dollars! Can you believe that nonsense?”

I shake my head.

“And it wasn't one of those old machines. It's the new front loader. Blood red. Finer than anything I seen, even better than what Mr. Orbach had downtown when I worked for him. Nice. Ten dollars? That fool done gone stone crazy.”

I shake my head.

“I got some papers I need you to look over while you here. Important. Don't let me forget.”

The telephone rings.