Authors: Laurie Jean Cannady
Crave (12 page)
Academy Park was so many things to me, but one of the things I valued most about that home was it was a place for things to slow down for us all. The year that we moved in, before I started second grade, all was calm. Every day was filled with peace because it was just us. There were no Pee Wees, no Carls, no walking nightmares, just us with Momma. Even though we weren't always the best of friends to each other, we were family.
Some days, we were mean kids. Many times, we intentionally hurt each other when we were already hurting. Now, I realize the fighting, the name calling, the jealousy was our way of dealing with the unpleasant realities and turning them into something palatable. The pain each of us felt under attack might have stung for the moment, but those moments always passed when someone else was in the hot seat. Our momentary pains blocked the real, unnerving, gut-wrenching pain that surrounded our lives. We were each other's tormentors because we had to be each other's saviors. We were united in survival, a band of brothers and sisters that could not be broken.
Every Christmas we lived in Academy Park the five of us would sit in our rooms and rehearse for hours, timing our steps perfectly, practicing our part of “The Song.” After we had our performance as perfect as we could get it, we lined up in front of Momma, from the oldest to the youngest. We don't know how the tradition started or who first suggested it, but every year we knew we had to do it.
There we stood in front of Momma: Champ, eight; me, seven; Dathan, six; Mary, four; and Tom-Tom, three. Side by side, we created the illusion of steps. We stood still in our places, waiting for Champ's “One, two, three.” The room erupted with The Temptations' soulful version of “Silent Night” as we swayed from side to side like we'd seen them do on television. Our rehearsals
made our performance and our voices perfect. I sang the first verse high, and Champ sang the second verse low. His voice was filled with bass, as he imitated Melvin Franklin. Dathan, Mary, and Tom-Tom sang the chorus. We snapped our fingers as we swayed, being overly careful not to bump into each other. Then came the finale. We interlocked fingers, raised our hands over our heads, and in our loud, harmonious voices ended with “Merry Christmas from the Carter Kids.” We did this every year without fail, knowing it was the only gift we could give Momma. There was never applause at the end of our performances, only Momma's thin, tired face, laced with tears.
Restarting from Scratch
Restarting from Scratch
Early in life, I learned peace is short-lived. A phone call, a knock on the door could be the rock shattering the calm. At nine, I studied my body, counted breaths, tasted each one, and told myself, “You must remember this moment, when nothing hurts, when everything feels just right. You must remember for when it doesn't.”
When I was in the middle of a bronchitis attack and my lungs felt like balloons resisting expansion, I remembered the days oxygen effortlessly entered and exited my body. Or after having a meeting with the leather fly, I traveled to moments when stinging lines on skin never existed. And when years past infected years present, when blinking hard, running hard, crying hard could not suppress heavy breathing, hot sweat, panting in ears, I remembered air only I owned, space that crowded me alone, free of sweat, free of pressure, protecting the part of me that was still me.
Thankfully, I'd mastered this remembering when we moved from Academy Park. I don't know why we left that house on Dorset. Maybe the rent hadn't been paid. Maybe the bills became too much for Momma alone to bear. I didn't ask questions. Momma was going, so we were too.
When we moved to Norfolk with Aunt Della's family, Mary and I went from sharing a room with our brothers to sleeping with my cousins, Yvonne and Nessa. Dathan, Champ, and Tom-Tom slept with Kentay and Anwar while Momma slept on the couch. Even though I didn't understand the circumstances of our moving, I was grateful that Aunt Della let us live with her. I knew it wasn't easy adding six bodies to a home meant for a family of four. But that was the Boone way. If a brother or sister was in need, a brother or sister offered help.
While that creed didn't apply in situations like the one that found Momma in that room with Pop, it seemed to apply to everything else. Knowing what I knew of Momma's rape confused me
as I worked to fit Momma's memories around my image of Aunt Della. To me, she was a sun-colored, jovial aunt, with freckles that danced around her face, and cheeks, typical of Boone girls, that hid her eyes when she smiled. I couldn't imagine the aunt who doled out hugs as if they were pieces of candy, sitting silently in the next room, as her baby sister screamed for help. My heart knew my aunt could never do that, but my mind held the image of my older brother, who was ten to Momma's almost twenty-six, then I could understand that something wrong had happened. I always knew my aunts would kill anyone trying to hurt a sister, but I also knew they were raised in a world where girls had their “cherries popped” and they had to lose things, like virginities, in order to become women. Didn't matter if they were only girls. Didn't matter if they were taken. It was a rite of passage, the way it was done. I often wondered about generations of girls, having been ushered through that process, being told “You are a woman now,” even though they didn't feel like women; they just felt like girls who had been wronged in a way they could not name.
Despite my confusion, I enjoyed living with Aunt Della and my cousins. While hanging with Nessa, I became a bit of a social caterpillar. Nessa was the butterfly. She had many friends, some of whom weren't kids. She was thirteen years old with legs that looked as if they grew longer when she walked. I followed her everywhere she went. Nessa was free to interact with adults in a way Momma never allowed me to. After I'd told her about Pee Wee, Momma monitored me closely around men. When a male cousin watched television with me or helped with my homework, it wouldn't be unusual for Momma's head to jut from behind the wall with a look of terror on her face. So, when Nessa suggested we go to her neighbor Mr. John's house and listen to records, I stuttered a bit, kicked at rocks on the street, and turned my eyes downward. Still, I followed.
The house across the street from Aunt Della's was a duplex with two floors on which tenants lived. The front was lined by rows of shrubs that had just begun to flower, and the porch was a flat gray that ran clear to the welcome mat nestled under the door's trestle.
Nessa skipped to the door and knocked, not softly as I would have done, but with confidence, as if she knew the occupant was waiting for her. A tall, butterscotch man with a 'fro answered the door. With a bushy mustache streaked gray, he looked like an old David Lewis, the lead singer of the R&B group Atlantic Starr.
“Hey, Nessa,” he said. His voice wasn't as heavy or scruffy as most men I'd encountered, and it almost seemed too airy to be coming out of a man's mouth.
“Hey, Mr. John,” she said, as she led me into the door. “This is my cousin, Laurie.”
“Hi, Laurie,” he said as he shook my hand.
“Watcha doin'?” Nessa asked with a smile across her face. She had already taken my hand and led me into the foyer.
“Just listening to some music. Y'all want to hear some?” he asked as he motioned toward the living room. I stood planted in the middle of the room as Nessa grabbed my hand again. My arm was traveling with her, but I couldn't get my feet to follow. Something about it all didn't seem right. He was a man that could take what he wanted, just as Pee Wee had, and there was no Momma, Aunt Della, or anybody else to remind him of what my boundaries were. Nessa seemed too excited to see my unwillingness.
“Come on, Laurie,” she said with a tug of my hand. I lost my balance and stumbled behind her. Brown colors enveloped the living room with a beige sofa, tan walls, and chocolate carpet. Magazines sat on the coffee table, spread out into the shape of a fan. Sheer, flowered curtains hung from the window, barely sweeping the floor, and there was a small wooden cabinet that held a record player. Next to it was the largest collection of records I'd ever seen.
“Y'all want something to drink?” he asked.
“Yeah, you got some more of that orange soda?” Nessa asked. Minutes later, he walked out balancing two glasses of Fanta in one hand and a bowl of pretzels in the other. He placed the refreshments on the table while Nessa plopped onto the floor and grabbed her soda.
“Sit down, Laurie,” she said as she patted the open space next to her. I stared back and forth between Nessa and Mr. John and only sat once he had seated himself in the chair next to the record player.
“How you like it here, Laurie?”
I nodded and replied, “It's good.”
“Your momma's Pretty, right?” I nodded quickly, wondering how he knew who Momma was. “Yeah, we go way back, your momma, Della, and me. We went to school together.” I tried to imagine him sitting in class with Momma, with those same grey streaks running through his mustache. I couldn't picture it.
Mr. John rose from his chair and quickly moved into the kneeling position. I flinched, my body remembering what my mind could not. I wanted out, away from him and the ambivalent brown of his home. As I began my retreat, he turned his body to the shelves of records next to the player, pulled one out, sat back in the chair, slid the large vinyl out of its cover, and placed it on the player. Music bounced off the walls.
Nessa lay on her back, with her feet pulled close to her butt and her knees pointed to the ceiling. Mr. John rested his head against the wall and began following the notes of music with his finger, drawing them into the air. The singer's voice sounded familiar, but I couldn't name him until I heard the chorus, “That's why I'm easy/easy like Sunday morning,” wafting from inside of the speaker sitting in front of me. The music continued for five minutes without a word from Mr. John or Nessa. They both sat with their eyes closed. Mr. John's extended finger, bouncing with the beat of music, spoke for him and the rhythmic swaying of Nessa's knees spoke for her. When the song ended, all that was left was a silence that seemed too weighty with the words and music of the song. Mr. John opened his eyes and began moving the arm of the record player.
“That sounds like Lionel Richie,” I said. “You know the man that sings, âHello, is it me you're looking for?' That sounds like him.”
Mr. John slapped his leg and began laughing. Nessa sat up and laughed with him, but I'm not certain she knew why she was laughing.
“That is him,” Mr. John said. “Well, that's him with his band members. He was part of the Commodores before he went out on his own.” He handed the album jacket to me and there was a picture of Lionel Richie with five other men dressed in white pantsuits.
“I didn't know he was in a group,” I said, leaning closer to Mr. John and Nessa so we could look at the cover together.
“Yeah,” he said. A lot of people out there now were in groups. “Michael Jacksonâhe was with the Jackson Five. Patti Labelleâshe was with Labelle. Tina Turnerâshe used to be in a band with her husband, Ike.” His laugh punctuated the end of each sentence. “Girl, ain't nothing new under the sun. That's why I listen to these records, 'cause it's real music. Not all of that stuff y'all listen to now.” He and Nessa laughed again, but this time I laughed with them.
Mr. John moved the needle to another song on the record, one that I again didn't recognize, but that didn't matter because I could learn and explore it just as I was learning and exploring Nessa's friendship with Mr. John. We listened to music until Aunt Della yelled from across the street that it was time for lunch.
Whenever I listened to Mr. John's music after that day, I allowed the music to creep over my bones and settle like a warm blanket. He played song after song, giving impromptu lessons in between melodies, but I was learning more than histories of the groups and the songs he was playing. I was learning all men didn't do what Pee Wee had done when they were alone with little girls. All men didn't drunkenly spit murderous words through teeth or knock pregnant women down stairs. All men weren't “popping cherries” and finding virginities that had never been lost. Some carved melodies in the air with one finger and gave pretzels, sodas, and life's lessons without requiring anything in return. Some were just men, in the way I was just a girl.
The first time I saw Mr. Todd, Momma and I were hanging clothes on the line at our home in Academy Park. As she draped sheets over thin wire, I handed her clothespins, occasionally placing one or two on my earlobes. The bottoms of sheets, sleeves of shirts, and legs of pants were forced into the vertical position as wind beat through fabric. Mary and Tom-Tom were chasing each other in the backyard as Momma warned them to stay away from the clean clothes. Once the clothesbasket was emptied and only the dampness of before lined its bottom, Momma and I leaned against the chain-link fence, watching Mary and Tom-Tom playing. The wind whipped Momma's hair across her face, as she tilted her chin toward its kiss. I leaned into her, tasting the air as it ran across my tongue.
We lapped up that moment of peace until a large, shadowy figure appeared alongside the road next to our house. Momma and I both looked toward the footsteps, but I'm certain we didn't see the same thing. His skin was as dark as burning embers, and stains of sweat gathered along the creases of his crotch. He wore no shirt, so his nipples, which looked like black olives atop swollen pecs, glared at me, and he took strides that flexed his short legs and arms, which were littered with muscles that squirmed like hamsters, burrowing underneath his skin. His hair was closely shorn, with specks of white lining his hairline, and he had a mustache that neatly connected with his graying goatee. I immediately feared him, and what those muscles could do if mobilized by anger. As I contemplated the pain this powerhouse of a man could inflict on others, he stopped mid-run, stood in the middle of the street, and gazed at Momma.
With his back straight and hands swinging close to his hips, he wafted over to our fence and stood firmly on the other side. “Hello.”
Momma in her natural beauty, free of lipstick, mascara, and blush, curled the sides of her lips, straightened her curvy physique and said, “My name is Lois and this is my eldest daughter, Laurie.”
He looked down at me, and nodded a halfhearted “Hello,” as I stared at the broken blood vessels swimming in the whites of his eyes.
“Do you live in this area?” Momma asked.
“I live down the street,” he said as he pointed toward the end of the rock road.
“That's nice,” Momma said, as she rested a little more on the fence, a little closer to this man. Momma then turned toward me and with a mischievous smile said, “Laurie, go on over there and play with your brother and sister.”
I didn't want to leave Momma with a stranger, but I also didn't want another meeting with the leather fly, so I ran over to Mary and Tom-Tom.
Mary asked, “Who's that man?”
“I don't know,” I replied.
“I don't like him,” she added as she stared at Momma and Mr. Todd with a scowl. “Why are his eyes so red?”
I had no answer, but I didn't like him either. It wasn't the graying skin, the pulsing muscles, or the red in his eyes. His presence had awakened a fear in me I thought had exited with Pee Wee.
Soon, Mr. Todd began taking Momma on dates and visiting her at the AAMCO. I'd see him walking to the gas station soon after Momma went to work. As much as I feared him, I loved the way stress seemed to wash off of Momma as she prepared for an evening with him and his family. She was experiencing a freeness I had never seen before, one she had probably owned before she became pregnant with Champ, with me. It reminded me that she was still young at twenty-five. I couldn't fault her for keeping a few moments for herself.
Mr. Todd tried to make us like him by bringing candy, and asking about school, but I couldn't release my worries about him, all of which were confirmed each time I looked into his red eyes.
I overheard Momma say he'd spent six years in prison for killing a man, but that man had been hurting a woman, and that had somehow justified his crime. News of his incarceration made me more anxious, more concerned about the man jogging his way into Momma's heart.
Despite my and Mary's apprehension, their relationship grew quickly. He never slept at our home since that type of living was meant for husbands and wives. After our move to Academy Park, Momma had joined a small church, Healing Temple, and dedicated herself to God, which meant no more premarital sex, and no giving up the best parts of herself for little return. I overheard Momma making this clear to Mr. Todd one night.
“Todd, I'm not having sex before I get married,” she said with a hesitation I hadn't often heard.
“I understand and I'm not asking you to,” he replied. “I just want to love you and the kids.”
“And, I'm not marrying a man that doesn't love the Lord. You're going to have to go to church with me. You're going to have to praise him with me.”
“I love the Lord too, so we can praise him together. He saved me from prison and he brought me you. I want to be with you. I want a life with you.” Then there was silence. Not complete silence, but a void in sound that let me know even though words weren't being spoken, a conversation was occurring.
I didn't know then I was witnessing the brokering of a deal, a proposal of life between us, Momma, and Mr. Todd. They were growing into one person, which meant I'd have to love him as I did Momma. I questioned her judgment and wondered if she knew all I'd imagined she did. I cried for her that night, for myself and my siblings, not because I feared her death as I had in the past, but because I was burying a part of her in me.
One day, Momma called a family meeting. Unlike our usual meetings where she admonished us for not cleaning our room or
chastised us for arguing all the time, her countenance wasn't stern. Mr. Todd sat quietly beside Momma on the loveseat while the rest of us looked on, waiting for the news that had lifted Momma so.
“Okay y'all, I called this meeting because I have something important to ask you.”
“Yes, ma'am,” we replied in unison.
“What y'all think about me and Mr. Todd getting married?” I tried to hide my disappointment, as I stared at the floor tracing the wood lines that ran along it.
Mary raised her hand like she was in a classroom and Momma, her teacher. With her tiny voice, she said, “I don't think that's a good idea.” Momma and Mr. Todd looked at each other and laughed.
I wanted to be as brave as Mary, to stand up and voice my opposition to their union, but I couldn't articulate how I knew that accepting him, maybe even loving him, would hurt. I wanted to say something, but Momma's smile, the way her eyes looked as if they'd shed years of loneliness, pled for my silence. Since my past had taught me to sacrifice my happiness for others, I laughed along with Momma and Mr. Todd. I allowed myself to hope Mr. Todd would be what Momma believed he was.
They married on a Sunday after church. Momma wore a white dress decorated with black leaves and vines that wrapped around her body. She stood tall at the altar while Reverend Savage spoke about the importance of marriage and God's plans for their union. We five sat in the front pew. The girls wore frilly pastel blue dresses with patent leather shoes that reflected the light from the ceiling, and the boys sported dark three-piece suits.
Momma and Mr. Todd were facing the front of the church, but I could see they were both crying as I watched their backs rise and fall in rhythm with their sniffles. From the front pew and with his back turned, Mr. Todd didn't look that bad. He wore a rustic brown suit and his hair was neatly cropped. He held Momma's hand tightly as Reverend Savage laid hands on them. I felt the weight of Reverend Savage's hands on Mr. Todd's head
and began to hope, began to believe the Reverend's healing power would mend whatever darkness I sensed in Mr. Todd, just as it had healed me once before.
The morning of my healing, my chest was filled with a cacophony of sounds ranging from the squeal of an untuned violin to the sputter of a dilapidated moped. I could not breathe in and I could not breathe out. With each respiration, my muscles contracted along my ribs, along my lungs, refusing to release poisonous air. My lungs itched and I wondered if mosquitoes were inside, filling themselves with my blood. I sat next to Momma, as close as I could, with my mouth open, gulping air. No matter how hard I breathed in or out, my respiratory system remained stagnant. I began to cry, which made it all worse because crying required oxygen and I had none to lend.
Once Reverend Savage finished his sermon and the choir had sung the last chorus of “I've Been Redeemed,” he began the altar call. Any saint or sinner who had a request from God was entreated to go to the altar and ask for forgiveness or healing. As soon as the Reverend said, “Come, come,” Momma pulled me from my seat and began walking me to the front.
Reverend Savage came from behind the pulpit and walked toward me. The room shook as the choir erupted into “Jesus is on the Mainline,” equipped with tambourines and drums played by Reverend Savage's twin sons. Momma held me so close I could feel tears vibrating through her body. I closed my eyes and put all of me, all of that moment, all of that noise into breathing.
It felt as if the entire congregation had descended upon us, screaming and squealing in a language I couldn't understand. As I tried to drown out the noise, I felt a large hand, riddled with calluses, touch my forehead. Reverend Savage asked Momma, “What's wrong with this girl, Sister Lois?”
Momma shakily replied, “She's having a hard time breathing, real hard, and it won't go away.” As Momma spoke, there was a belabored humming, almost moaning in the background accompanying her
words. I then smelled something greasy, similar to the oil Momma used to fry food. Reverend Savage, with one of his fingers, drew a cross in the middle of my forehead. The spot on which he placed the oil immediately began to cool and I closed my eyes even tighter, afraid of what I might see if I opened them.
The Reverend then palmed my forehead, held it tightly in his large hand and screamed, “Get out of this child, Devil. This is God's temple.” He said God's name as if gulping air. With each word, he held me tighter, so tightly I feared my skull would crush between his fingers. “God,” he squealed and the whole church erupted into a moan. There were screams, cries, as I fell limp in Momma's arms. Then he lowered his head to mine. I could taste his salty breath beating against my cheek. “Do you believe in God, Laurie?” My eyes were still clenched, with tears falling from them, so I just nodded my head.
“Do you believe you are healed?”
I nodded again. Reverend Savage recoiled from me so swiftly my body jolted. My eyes shot open and I saw his body, cocked back, his sweaty face contorted into an expression of pain. With arms outstretched and hands open, he screamed, “Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, she is healed.”
I was afraid. I was in pain. But Reverend Savage had me convinced. I had been healed.
As I sat at Momma's wedding, I prayed for that same type of healing for Mr. Todd. I prayed God would wash away the sickness I was certain resided inside him. I prayed we'd be good enough kids for him to become a good enough daddy. And I believed. I believed since I had faith and I had asked, those things would be done.
True, after my Healing Temple cure, I still had to go to the hospital and it was weeks before antibiotics controlled the spasms crippling my lungs, but I knew God had healed me and if he could heal me, he could heal Mr. Todd. Things were already getting better because he was there. We sat on the front pew with our pretty dresses, pressed suits, and shiny shoes because he'd bought them
or maybe Momma had bought them. Either way, we were wearing them because of him. We didn't even have to eat Navy Beans as much as before because he bought pizzas, hotdogs, and steaks from Murry's Steakhouse. And we were moving to a brick house closer to Momma's new job. Plus, Momma had changed. She wasn't as tired, she wasn't as angry, and the leather fly had all but been retired in the months we had known Mr. Todd. As I sat on that pew, I thought of those things, thought of how life had been different and how different it could be if God healed Mr. Todd into being a real daddy. So, as Momma took her vows, promised her love, loyalty, and self to Mr. Todd, I prayed for us kids, for Momma, and for Mr. Todd. I prayed God would provide a healing for us all.